New Moon

In Indonesia religious authorities delayed the end of the Ramadan fast—putting back Idul-Fitr by twenty-four hours—because the moon was thought to lie too low in the sky on the thirtieth. The decision only made on the Monday, the twenty-ninth, when thousands upon thousands of people had already returned to their home towns for the great celebration. Much food of course wasted by the switch. Instant noodles we'll be feasting on, one frustrated house-wife complained in the newspaper.  
         A great deal of trouble and hardship. On the other hand, how utterly marvelous this restitution of the old cheesy moon to a place of primacy over the pitiless mechanical clock. The old lamp upstairs that guided all those who came before us. Late last night it had still not appeared in these Singaporean skies. Instead this morning in a late dream it arrived at about forty-five degrees, shining in a brilliant great orb behind fast moving clouds. In a revelatory moment before it disappeared, fantastic jewel shapes and colours were visible embedded within , gleaming and dazzling. A jewels of nature it seemed, a large spotted beetle carapace one side, and on the other hallucinogenically vibrant flower petals. More than enough to make up for spoilt food if the Indonesians could have been so lucky.
         Through the window of the hotel at Joo Chiat the bulk and lines of the five storey car-park that filled the frame reminded of the wonderful Korean photographer Hyang Seo. Cream coloured, with a couple of small slots of pink and green on a pillar. Some piping was hidden by the paint; high up in a corner rusty bars drain the sky. The horizontals and verticals making an unexpected unity, a strange ideogram of some kind almost beautiful.
         This place will be missed. With the ninety day visa up mid week departure planned for Tuesday, a bus to Malacca. The intention had been to stop at Johor Bahru first on the other side of the Causeway dividing the two countries—fifty years ago a single nation.
         This afternoon Kay was the last in a line of people cautioning against Malaysia. Singaporeans generally consider it risky, women particularly. Gangs mentioned: Malaysian tough-guys instantly recognise a Singaporean visitor. How much easier a "white-face"? Kay asked.
         Nevertheless. A Muslim country across the narrow water-way—have to see that.
         Malacca first, then onto KL. JB skipped; it is worse than KL for crime, Kay declared.

Idul-Fitr

One more sleep for the fasters tonight before they can celebrate their accomplishment in the morning. A big day tomorrow, but basically private. As for the election on Saturday, a public holiday scheduled. The Malay quarter in Joo Chiat will be very quiet, all the shops & eateries closed. At daybreak in the morning the practice is to visit one's neighbours first of all to offer congratulation and best wishes, hopes for peace and well-being. A feast within the home following. All who can manage have returned to their families for the last two weeks of Ramadan especially, tommorow's Idul-Fitr being the culmination. An invitation to a kind of picnic in a public garden in the west of Singapore has been kindly extended by a friend here, an Indonesian gal who will meet with other ex-pats unable to return home. Everyone will bring food of some sort which they will take under the shade of the trees in the park. Tempting. But perhaps best to avoid gate-crashing the lasses. Marko and Phil have taken the ferry this afternoon to Batam, thinking it will be vacant and unpromising around this quarter. The thought has just occurred that Batam will be even quieter.
         All the stalls hereabout will be packing up overnight. Good bargains to be had on this last night. Circling back home late afternoon some preliminary packing could be seen. That together with big reductions advertised on the improvised cardboard on the racks. The two lads selling the carpets—dozens of carpet outlets under the tarpaulins—at the Tanjong Katong opposite Lion City Plaza offered two minute portraits during the down-time. For a couple of bucks they will smooth out all wrinkles and blemishes. Both lads Indians, pacing over the stacks of carpets with their cartridge paper, calling out in various languages. 

         On a bench on the other side of the street outside the 7/Eleven an old Chinaman had seated himself amongst some aluminum can litter. His walking frame stood before him, carrying a half dozen carefully knotted plastic bags holding compressed cans. With his foot he reached for another. What a smile, what thanks, came with the aid offered. Such a gap-toothed smile one would trip miles. 

         The election produced the expected result yesterday, Tony Tan the new Pres. elect. The figures though were unexpected. In the end Tone only gathered low 30s%, beating his chief rival, a figure more independent of the ruling PAP government, by seven thousand votes - point O three per cent. A wise old eagle-eyed birdie in the neighbourhood here—who should remain nameless—gave the needed gloss. The PAP split the dissident vote by allowing the two minor candidates to run, despite some questionable qualification at the Electoral Commission level. Thereby Tony T. squeaking through. Nobody needs to teach Chinese the shenanigans of political manipulation. Immediate calls for unity post-election. 

Samurai (update Mar25)

 

A downpour that didn't arrive, sporadic drops only. Foreign skies remained difficult to read for a new-comer.

The election too surprised in this one-party city-state, the expected new President only narrowly victorious. Post Offices & shops were closed. 

A young, contained, neat-as-a-pin doctor named Ing was met at the library cafe. While the library itself was closed, the cafe had drawn a large crowd. 

Boning up on paediatric specialisation, Ing was busy. During the chat the former tough-boy ex-offender happened along. 

Alone today the man on his usual run that combined confession and raising of funds with key-rings for sale. The slight tremor of the young doc at his appearance was understandable. (Ing had chosen paediatrics over geriatrics—against the demographic here as elsewhere in the First World.)

Shortly after the chap was caught again at the corner traffic light. 

Three months he had been on the program.

Man immediately understood the unspoken question, the real question behind the one that was voiced. With the rehab likely he had the compulsion to confess his sins at every opportunity. 

Without hesitation he volunteered the eight year term. There had been twenty-four strokes of the cane in addition, administered over two sessions. (The law here now stipulated twelve strokes maximum at a time, in the presence of a doctor.) 

Manslaughter in the course of a fight; victim got the knife in the neck.

Quickly the whole burden was divulged. 

As he must have done many times previously, the chap re-enacted the event, bringing his grasping right hand down from a height onto a craned neck.

Yes, a Geylang lad. A few weeks before he had been sighted flitting under the verandas, with the same rapid movement as in his hawking among the library cafe tables. 

The victim had wielded a samurai sword. (Eight years ago the same as today, it was easy to believe such weapons were brought out in the back blocks of Geylang. There had been two deaths there recently after Saturday night brawling.) 

Lifting the back of his tee as pedestrians circled proved these were no idle tales.

On his lower back the long arc of a healed wound showed a descending slash left to right; a backhanded sweep for a right-handed opponent. 

Late-twenties, unmarried and tattooed like the girl-friend who was on the scene earlier. The cost of living in Singapore made it difficult; there had been no sales that day.

Hopefully there had been some good hearings; usually the people at the library tables listened and often reached for their wallets. 

By coincidence, a copy of The Unfettered Mind was picked up at Kinokuniya the day before. Seventeenth century letters from an old Zen master offering tuition on how to inhabit the moment, the untrammeled Zen moment. The ultimate state from which to meet one's opponent, his sword, its swing. Life itself. 

 

 

 

                                                                                                         Singapore 2011-25

Batam, Indonesia 11/May25

 

 

Forty-five minute ferry ride and a world away. There was nothing like the architecturally playful towers opposite Sentosa on the other shore. In fact there were no towers at all on Batam. For housing two or three storeys was about the limit. Having seen India, Marko was less surprised.

We stayed on the fringe of Nagoya central. Large sci-fi inspired mosque one corner of the intersection and opposite the hotel a more modest senior college. The Golden Virgo like all the other hotels carried English names, while the staff battled apologetically with the language. The Virgo was reminiscent of the Yugoslav hotels built in the same era of the long forgotten Non-Aligned Movement—down to the couches, doilies and large ashtrays on the coffee tables in the lobby. The gushing fountain by Reception at GV echoed upstairs through the night. 

Foot-long rats scampered in the better garden eatery on the first night, as they did in the street beside the hawker stalls and in the canals. The street kiosks looked something like the Western wagons from old American cowboy films. In the cramped space within a vendor near the hotel watched a tiny black and white screen mounted in a corner among the wares. The woman within a little shack opposite the street stalls near Nagoya Mall slept in back in some kind of annexe that she promptly showed the curious Bule—the Westerners. Sliding the door back behind her, she revealed a little table holding an over-sized TV, couch-bed and bar fridge, which left a tight turning circle. The cheeky old gal smoothed over the awkwardness by offering a share of her abode. 

A construction Tzar who was no doubt responsible for the mall and the adjoining tilt-up concrete shops on Nagoya Hill apparently saw correspondences with the Japanese city.

After dinner on the first night we stumbled on an open air concert. The young musicians on Batam had seen all the video hits. Approving Westerners gave them some reassurance. We sat with the young hipsters in baseball caps smoking. Low coffee tables on green matting over a large concrete area—a dozen or more. Suratmi managed our drinks’ order, helped by a keen middle-aged woman at the next table, whose English was surprisingly good. The woman sat with her three early-teen daughters. It seems she had misinterpreted some of Marko's smiles. After her warm farewell she stopped beside Suratmi to explain her position frankly: she was a widow with three young girls to raise. The task was hard. Sister, she called her compatriot in appeal. In the brief visit to the island we didn't happen on her again.

As well as the official and unofficial taxis that ceaselessly touted for service on every outing, there were also motor-bikes. Many of them scoffed at the rebuff of jalan-jalan—walking, walking. Girls were often on offer from both bikes & taxis. One of the initial hand signals to aid the communication was incomprehensible—a rocking open hand, palm down. When the chap put his fore-finger into the slot between thumb and fore-finger of the other hand, he knew he had conveyed his message. Rejection seemed to surprise the fellow. Two or three times further down the road he returned to it, on the last round with a car-full of young lasses picked up between times.

Effendi, a nice thin boy in mid-teens, provided escort for a short while on the second day, finally getting out his wish for makan—we had eaten earlier—had he the money.

Ready smiles were offered to any greeting along the streets, at the stalls & markets. Naturally hearing a word or two of their own language brought immediate pleasure to the locals. Children as young as five pestered for money. Caught in traffic once there came the filmic moment of the child pressing her face against the tinted glass of the cab. Somehow she had spotted the Bule within. 

On the walks other Westerners were unsighted. In the Bule bars—as young Rianti called them, using the common reference—there were many being entertained by the local girls, as well as others from Sumatra, Flores and Java.

Ramadan still had a week to run and lunch on the second day took some searching. Eventually we found a place beside an oddly fashioned church. A giant cross illumination at night provided a beacon, its bell-tower taking the form of a fire station look-out. The church proper showed a pagoda aspect and stood in the middle of wide waste ground. 

A Chinese woman with her young daughters ran the adjacent eatery. The food and the interior were familiar from the Sing example. A white piece of cloth stretched over poles at the entry had somehow been missed when we entered. Screening off the dust and traffic noise, Marko later guessed.

It was only at the ferry terminal for the return that we learned better. We found an eatery on the second level of the building. Half a dozen people sat at the tables. The concourse outside in front of the shop seemed to offer better air. Armed with the menus, we headed out. This brought the owner scurrying in a flap. The confusion was impossible to read. A chap at one of the tables on the concourse added his comment. Once back inside an embarrassed Suratmi translated the aside. 

Girl, not where people are fasting. 

No doubt Suratmi removed some of the sharpness. 

It was only then we noticed the butcher's paper plastered on the window and door of the shop. Somehow Suratmi had been caught unawares. For a number of years she had "bluffed" her parents over her Ramadan observance.

On the last morning Suratmi had asked to hear one more time why she was thought to be nice. 

Having listened she replied, — You lucky. You travel where you like. Meet people. Everyone nice. 

The night before she had been saddened when the age difference was put as an obstacle. 

I am from a small people. To me it is nothing. Not important, she said.

A lovely speech had come from Suratmi through the course of the night. The room was windowless, morning and night were undifferentiated. Considering the hopes of life and the realities, Suratmi spoke about accepting what was given, what Allah had provided. Being perfectly resolved to that, without complaint or discontent; better may come from what one had than from the wishing. 

Suratmi spoke in the sealed darkness without any undue emphasis. 

One would often come to see the truth of this, Suratmi held.

Suratmi seemed to speak with the authority of experience. She was the mother of a nine year old boy living with her former husband, to whom she had firmly resolved not to return. The man himself would readily reunite, she said, even after four years of separation.

Four years Suratmi had not seen her son. Every day she spoke to him on the phone. The husband was not willing to let the boy live with her parents. This she ruefully accepted.

You are the father. The son follows you, she reported her words to the former husband.

Once she was better settled in Batam and the Maid Agency which she had helped found was fully established, Suratmi hoped to bring her boy to live with her. 

What one was dealt was sufficient, Suratmi said. I am not sure you will come visit me again, she said later too in the darkness, repeating what she had previously said in the light.

 

 

 

 

                July 2011

 

 

 

 

 

Presidential Election

Election for the Pres. Saturday. One of the candidates came up the street off North Bridge couple of days ago waving from the passenger seat of a car. Usual bright sky-blue colours. Years ago blue was thought to be a cold colour; since the colour of reassurance. Dr. Tan. There are four candidates in the election here. Four Tans. A simple fact. Unrelated. A couple-three other prospective candidates who put their names forward failed to gain approval to run from the electoral commission. One or two of these falling over because they had not headed a corporation with an annual turnover of $100m. Pre-condition of candidacy. Corporate Singapore. How could a chap run a corporation without the experience. Fair enough.

         Scene set for Saturday, all the indicators clear. Tony Tan has ticked all the right boxes. A former Deputy PM, former PAP member (pledging independence in his new role). Endorsed by the large Tan Clan Association. Couple of big unions. All the right noises from Lee junior, the PM, and the other players and former players. Expect 60%, possibly seventy or more. The ruling government achieved mid-sixties in the poll earlier in the year. A wake-up call that one with six opposition members now in the parliament.

         A three and a half mil. speck island in this region hardly likely to produce politics of the received sort.

         May the best Tan win.

NB. In fact completely wrong: scraped in by 0.35%. Interesting. See the post four years on titled “The World’s Most Successful Society”, Jan 2016

Satan

The servant being served on a Sunday afternoon once or twice a month, nice. Lovely for these gals to have the plates of chips and mee goreng brought over to the table, plastic forks, gracious delivery. Mobile in the free hand, ear plugs for the tunes. Pale lavender one of the most popular for the phones lately. Last night a lass up at lower Geylang had a long pair of white bunny ears attached to the top of her creamy-white. All kinds of chains, plastic flower/jewels and other enhancements available at the stores.

         Large toothy smiles fast-talking the boys. Lion City Plaza a hive of activity. Two hundred and ten thousand maids in Singapore; approximately half of which are Indonesian.

         The Filipinas have settled on another shopping complex in the city centre, where churches sit near.

         Bags of course important. The most striking impression created. Elegant swing. Shift it from shoulder to shoulder. Finger under the strap like a safety cord. You can't have too many fittings, pendants and zippers. Glinting chrome. Positively talks with all its facets, movements and jingles. Not to mention treasure within. What can the gals not pull out of that hat when they have a mind? The boys wouldn't have a clue.

         Indian and Bangladeshi construction workers are the admirers on the Sunday at City Plaza.

         Long queues at the Remittance counters and lottery stalls. Many of the Indon housemaids send back half their wages to family back home. Still, with careful management, some remains for pampering, some personal pleasures.

         Phone links to parents, husbands and children.

         The drunken Indian last night in the back blocks of Geylang took the Viet girl's incomprehension as some kind of obstinacy or recalcitrance. English he kept hammering at her. Are you Chinese? he asked eventually. The lass had asked him to buy her a Red Bull, as she had Marko earlier, from the vendor in the van. (The vendor parks in the Lorong every night, an assistant needed for the trade with the girls and their thirsty customers.)

         Bull purchased. Swagger in delivery. A dollar or two for a chilled Bull, what was that to the lad?

         On the construction site the young Indian earns two K and more a month: twelve-fourteen hour days, six days a week. Saturday night he can sink a few.

         Girl's side twenty-five a trick, takeaway the pimp/trafficker.

         The can was thrust into her face.

         Accepting the gift was unavoidable once it had been bought.

         The straw he stabs into the can, somehow managing to find the slot.

         She must have taken a sip. No more. Abruptly he pulls the can from her grasp, collecting the straw with it in the grab.

         From the side her reaction can’t be seen.

         Again, remarkably, when the lad stabs the straw at her he somehow fixes it in her mouth. The plastic stuck in her mouth. There seemed to be no hand movement from her. The Indian walks off with his can.

         Not long after he returns. Are you Chinese? again.

         She's paying for her earlier forwardness and playfulness. Possibly she has touched him up in a way that he liked. (Marko thought on the first pass through the Lorong another lad who was being fondled with some vigour had his fly open and trousers unbuttoned. There on the footpath; girl leaning on a car and he onto her.) Touching up was a common enticements in the narrow passage-ways in a couple of places.

         Eventually the Bull brute moved on.

         Looks came from the Viet girl's friends either side. Shakes of uncomprehending heads.

         Earlier in the evening Yanti explained the scars at her temple and fainter ones on her neck. Five or so months she has been with the Malaysian family in the condominium on East Coast. Middle-class money. Gated communities; tall towers.

         Because these employers are Malaysian, Yanti's English learning has been restricted.

         The laki-laki, the Sir in the East Coast condo, is good. A Muslim who keeps his daily prayers. However the perempuan, wife is a Setan.

         A moment needed to understand her term.

         Yanti smiling. A little embarrassment at the victimhood.    

         Yanti didn't mean to divulge her story. The marks were more or less hidden by her hair. They only became visible late in the evening.

         There have been no sexual advances in the East Coast condo. This is of course one of the usual developments—the husband falling for the young housemaid.

         Here at East Coast in Yanti's case it had been simple dissatisfaction with the work performance.

        Yanti is new to housekeeping; to Singapore. Much she doesn't understand. The shared common language—Malay and Indonesian—still leaves lots of gaps.

         The girl had been knocked to the ground by the Setan. Only fingernails could have produced the gouges. The Malay women favour long coloured nails; long coloured eye-lashes and heavy make-up. Malays more than the other groups.

         Three twenty per month, two Sundays free.

         The wide smiles relating the beating suggest Yanti will survive, learn from mistakes, improve her English. A bright, quick and questioning girl. Three year old left with mother back home; divorced. Divorce was a common reason for leaving home. Children were cared for by mothers, sisters, sometimes grandparents.

Literature's Meaning (update Mar25)

 

 

The Indian Sec. stopped the author in his tracks yesterday with an unexpected challenge.

Nothing could have come as more of a surprise. Back home probing of this kind had never occurred, rarely even in intimate friendship.

Being Singapore, guards stood the entrance to the three floors of Reference at the National Library on Victoria Street. In fact they manned every entry & exit point on all sixteen floors. (Interesting locales within remained for exploration: The Pod; something called The Possibility Room and The Imagination Room.)

Security guards were cheaper than tagging each and every volume, presumably. At the same time you could never overdo policing in a well-ordered, smoothly functioning polis.

A warm, sociable sort the Sec. With a little encouragement the dour look soon lightened. Near contemporary—nothing daunting in those moustaches & jowls.

Some background is needed.

As a general rule, the Indians here have been in the country a shorter time than the Hokkien & Cantonese Chinese, or the Malays of course. The history is of transported coolies, "indentured labour”, for the British plantations and infrastructure. According to official statistics, the Indians represented less than ten per cent of the population. For disadvantage and social problems, the numbers ran in the other direction.

As has been the case in a number of instances, the panama provided the opportunity for exchange. (Much benefit beyond the needed against tropical sun and rain.)

It follows you… First-up after a couple of previous encounters.

There was no difficulty developing the play.

Without the cover man passed the test: confident, positive identification, for which congratulation was needed.

Left at table while going for a pee, the man’s task was to secure the exits; &etc.

(Despite the caning in Sing. there were thieves, the newspaper regularly featuring Maid grabs for the household jewellery, bag snatching, shoplifting.)

The relationship at the Arts & Social Sciences desk developed smoothly.

A week ago the Guard had mentioned his favourite author. It had been a new development.

What might a moderately well-read English litterateur guess?...

Hmm… Fave author. Everybody had at least one.

A hint for the present case at this SG Nat. Library Ref. Desk: the author concerned was not exactly contemporary.

Let's say fetches back couple hundred years. (A little tease.)

Three guesses... Even five might be allowed.

Another clue too: not a household name in this instance. Not for the last century and half. Neither Wordsworth, nor Scott; not Tennyson or Austen.

Male. And from the generation before the last.

(One more clue too and the last. Possibly unhelpful; depending. Earlier the man, the Indian Security Guard, had mentioned an author to whom he had returned over the years.

Deepak Chopra.

At the time it had been unfortunate replying that Chopra was an Indian. A case of thinking out loud that had brought embarrassment before.

Answer to the question shortly in the paragraph below.

What in fact stopped this author in his tracks one afternoon during a longer chat at the Sec. desk was the following sharp challenge. Direct and forthright, as if a question between close bookish friends.

The challenge came after an explanation was requested upon the evident surprise at the favourite stated author.

What! No one in Australia knows?… Truly?...

Problematic describing colouring here. A flushed tone certainly passed across the brow of the Indian.

No exaggeration: a sturdy, manly presence the Guard. Direct and forthright. Moustaches, &etc.

Immediately upon this and without further ado, the man’s stabbing question like a knife in a dark alley.

What is literature to you?...

Perhaps the phrasing had been: What is the importance of literature to you?

We hardly knew each other.

Squaring shoulders beneath the uniform, chin raised. Straight as a die without exaggeration.

Average sized guy suddenly giving soldiery pose. (Nat. Service was compulsory in Sing for those without pull.)

Shoulders. Piercing eyes. Truly. No exaggeration.

Lit’s meaning?... A question without notice from an unlikely source. Bang.

More than a few Indians encountered here have been Christians. Somehow this coloured the present encounter; back-lit the scene, kinda. The earnestness involved. Illogically of course, for anyone who knew the Hindus.

The flummoxed answer returned reflected this.

…Well. Ahm…You know...Ahh. Without religion one finds other resources. Look elsewhere…Difficult question my friend to answer standing here like this…

Something of the sort blushingly returned to the son of a long line of Sepoys.

Was that too long a bow? The man had pressed pause again. Impasse of some duration.

Circumstances prevented anything further. There may have been a queue formed.

The name-card was dealt into the game. The first that had ever been owned; one that had been prepared for extended travel. Everyone had a name-card now, certainly in SG.

On the rear the dozen and one half favourite authors had been recorded in a nice font. As chance would have it, the perfect item to meet this kind of man halfway. The Indian’s earnestness had called for nothing less.

...Does the name Oliver — Gold—Smith ring any bells?

Eighteenth century was guessed right. But a poet as well as novelist in fact. Man had appeared in Johnson’s Lives of the Poets.

The particular favourite work which the Sec. had named was set for the fellow's O Levels something like 35-40 years before.

Returned to those startling pages over the years this man; not merely a fond memory. Almost certainly.

The power of literature.