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 tomorrow. The Malay quarter here in Joo Chiat will be very quiet, all the shops and eateries closed. At day break 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 who have been 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 girls. 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 around here 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 already. 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 plastic bags of compressed cans carefully knotted. With his foot he reached for another just beyond him. 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 namele—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

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 narrowly victorious. Post Offices and 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 drew 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 doctor at his appearance was understandable. (She had chosen paediatrics over geriatrics—against the demographic here as anywhere else in the First World.)

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

Three months he had been on the program. The 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 additionally, administered over two sessions. (The law here stipulated twelve strokes maximum at a time, in the presence of a doctor.) 

Manslaughter it had been 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 fist down onto craned neck from a height.

Yes, a Geylang lad. A few weeks before he had been sighted flitting under the balconies, 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 from left to right; a backhanded sweep for a right-hand 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 cafe tables listened and often reached for their wallets. 

By coincidence a copy of The Unfettered Mind was picked up at Kinokuniya the day prior. 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. 

Batam, Indonesia

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

         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 ghastly 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 in the open lobby echoed through the night on the second storey. 

         Foot-long rats scampered in the better garden eatery of 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 altogether left a tight turning circle, cheeky old gal smoothing over the awkwardness by offering a share of her abode. A developer 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 had seen the video hits even on Batam. Approving Westerners gave them 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 motor-bikes too. Many of them scoffed at the rebuff of jalan-jalan—walking, walking. Girls were often on offer from both bikes and 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 man. Two or three times further down the road he came back 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 and markets. Naturally hearing a word or two of their own language brought immediate delight to the locals. Children as young as five pestered for money. Caught in traffic one even experienced 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.

         With Ramadan still having a week to run, lunch on the second day took some searching. Eventually we found a likely place beside an oddly fashioned church. A giant cross which provided a beacon at night when illuminated was mounted on a bell-tower that took the form of a fire look-out. The church proper had a half-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 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 terminal. Half dozen at the tables. The concourse outside in front of the shop seemed to offer better air. With the menus from inside we headed for the tables. 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 two bob's worth. Once back inside an embarrassed Suratmi translated the man's 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 on the hop. 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. You meet people. Everyone is nice. The night before she had been made sad when the age difference was put as an insuperable 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 within. Considering the hopes of life and the realities, Suratmi spoke about accepting what one 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 these matters, 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 never to return. The man himself would readily reunite, she said, even after four years of separation. For four years Suratmi had not seen her son. Every day she spoke to him on the telephone. 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 has helped found on the island 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.

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

.

The Indian Security man stopped the author in his tracks here yesterday with an unexpected challenge. Nothing could have come as more of a surprise. Back home probing of this kind, well it had never happened, not even in intimate friendship. Being Singapore, guards stand the entrance to the three floors of the Reference sections at the Singapore National Library on Victoria / North Bridge corner. Possibly they man every entry and exit point on all sixteen floors. (Some interesting locales within the library building as yet remain unexplored: The Pod; something by the name of the Possibility Room; and then too the one to give a real frisson, the Imagination Room. Invention and irony zero here, please note. These are actual bona fide names, written on directories and large signboards. Creativity enough to make the walls melt at the SNL, the floors buckle....) Security guards cheaper than tagging each and every volume. At the same time one can never overdo the policing presence in a well-ordered, smoothly functioning polis, let's face it.
         A warm, sociable sort the Indian man. With a little encouragement the somewhat dour look quickly lightening. The man is a near contemporary; nothing in that lacklustre visage to be daunted by. Far cry.
         Some background. As a general rule, the Indians here have been in the country a shorter time than the Hokkien and Cantonese Chinese, or the Malays of course. The history is of transported convicts and coolie labour for the British plantations. According to official statistics, the Indians represent less than ten per cent of the population. For disadvantage and social problems the numbers run in the other direction.
         As has been the case in a number of instances, the panama provided the opportunity for some witticism. (An impulse purchase that has provided some secondary benefit beyond the much needed protection against the tropical sun.)
         — It follows you, the Indian fired off first-up after a couple of previous encounters.
         It wasn't difficult to develop the play from there. Without the hat he passed the test: confident positive identification. Left at the library table, his task was to secure the exits. (Even with the caning in Sing. there are thieves apparently. The newspaper features such events: a maid’s grab for the household jewelry; a bag snatching; etc.)
         The relationship at the Arts & Social Sciences Security Desk developed nice and smoothly. A week ago the man had mentioned his favourite author. Get ready! What might you possibly guess, all you well-read English speaking Westerners? A hint: the author concerned is not exactly contemporary. Let's say he fetches back a couple of hundred years.           A clue that can be liberally offered, without danger to the tease. Off you go then. Another clue too: not a household name. Not for the last century and a half, and not now. Neither Wordsworth, nor Scott, nor Tennyson or Austen. Another clue piled on: male; from the generation before these. Excuse the mounting delirium. Yet one more, the last and unhelpful clue — Beware. Earlier still the man, the Indian Security Guard, mentioned an author to whom he has returned over the years: Deepak Chopra. It had been a faux pas to remark on the fact Chopra was an Indian. (A case of thinking out loud that has brought embarrassment before.)
         For the answer go to the final paragraphs.
         What stopped this author in his tracks was the challenge one afternoon during a longer chat. A direct and forthright question. It came after explaining the reason for the surprise at the favourite author. On the other side surprise was likewise elicited. What, no one in Australia knows this name? Can that truly be?
         Immediately upon that without further ado the Security Guard's stabbing question like a knife produced in a dark alley.
         — What is literature to you?... Or: What is the importance of literature to you?...
         Squaring shoulders in his library uniform. Lifting his chin.
         Please understand: no exaggeration whatsoever in the account before you. Everything straight as a die.
         The security guard stood straight, almost a soldiery pose. (Nat. Service compulsory here for those without pull, same as everywhere else. A candidate in this current Presidential campaign—Saturday the big spectacle—or the General election earlier in the year—striking a sticky patch having to explain his son's avoidance some years ago. George Bush senior/junior all over again. A quickly buried story, as in that earlier case.) Soldierly and firm. The man served the full term and perhaps stayed on extra. Hardly a casual interrogation. There was no joke involved. The man pulled his head back awaiting the reply.
         Literature's meaning?.... A question without notice from an unlikely source. Bang.
         A number of Indians encountered here have been Christians. Somehow this coloured the present encounter. The earnestness of the man associated with an implied Christianity.
The answer that was returned reflected this. It became integral to the response.
         —….Well, ahmmm…. Without religion one finds other resources, looks elsewhere….
         Something like that blushingly given back to the former Indian sepoy.
         A doubtful long bow drawn, the man possibly thought. A pause, a little impasse resulting. But that might be exaggerating the matter. Circumstances prevented anything further. The biz card with the dozen and a half favourite authors on the rear presented by way of exchange, to meet the man halfway.
         Does the name Oliver Goldsmith ring any bells?
         Eighteenth century was guessed right. But a poet as well as a novelist. The particular favourite work which he named was set for the man's O levels—only a short thirty years ago, something like that. Returned to since over the years, not merely a fond memory. Almost certainly.

.

Singapore and Singaporeans

Nance doesn't want to meet younger people. There is nothing to talk about with them. People her own age on the other hand, her women friends, have children, with whom they are preoccupied. Having studied overseas Nance has no friends here from university days. One friend from schooldays who makes an effort to accommodate her is Dorothy. Dorothy understands and sympathizes with Nancy. Once a fortnight or so Dorothy and Nancy catch up. Dorothy has two young children who usually remain with their grannie when Dorothy and Nancy meet. Had Nance been in luck in her marriage she would now be in a position like Dorothy. 
         This weekend she and Dorothy are going over the Causeway to have their haircut at Johor Bahru. It's little more than an half hour's drive and everything is so much cheaper in Malaysia. A former best friend, Angel, is too preoccupied now with her children to make time for Nancy. Angel had a bad first marriage too, with affairs on both sides. She did though have a child. Second time round she found better luck and now has two children. In earlier days the two friends had much to share.

         Nance is often down. There is nothing to do when she gets home from work. After the failure of the marriage in Canada Nancy returned here to live with her parents, who don't get on. No one talks to the father, not Nance's mother, not Nance herself, nor her two brothers. (The older sister may do, as she is always left off the list.) 
         TV. The telephone, if Nance can find someone with whom to talk. Dinner arrangements. Before bed and the following day. 
         Virtually every night Nance wakes at four or four thirty and can't get back to sleep. Hopelessness is overtaking her. Next month she turns thirty seven. 
         Nance doesn't like Singaporean men. 
         - You may not know Singaporean men do not like Singaporean women, she says. It is well known, she says. 
         And apartment prices are always on the rise. A place of Nance’s own always seems far out of reach.

Three Black Marks

The shiner at Mr. Teh Tarik alarming. It was ghastly to behold; truly gruesome. A hard blow involved, not glancing. No possibility of covering, not that the woman tried. No avoiding her post either behind the counter serving the food. In the middle of Ramadan, the holiest month. Mr. T. T. has closed down his kitchen proper for the month and shifted to evening stalls out along the walkway. Other stalls stretched to Haig Road. Mostly food hawkers, certainly the first half. Large crowds from late afternoon, and then the evening groups at the tables. This woman wearing the ripe plum-blue shiner worked at the stall nearest Serai, right at the end. One might risk all tomorrow asking Ricky at that same counter there what it was all about. The Lenovo man, one year junior, with whom warm hail-fellow-well-met greetings had been quickly established. Big dollars willing to be wagered betting he wasn't the perpetrator. Hasn't got it in him. Early on he was in danger of losing the shirt from his back when he wanted to wager that he was the senior. Raised his Lenovo cap in acknowledgement when told. No, the oaf responsible was his burly friend, who Ricky was helping with the food stall these four weeks. (The Chinese computer software mob ordinarily, driver or some-such.) Burly a body-builder not long ago, tough guy barroom brawler. That was who swung the backhander. A punch would have killed the darling. To the wince signaled she merely gave a look of, There You Are! averted her face, turning side-on. Chatted shortly after with a friend, a woman behind the counter with her.  A little smile somewhere in the later interaction, before getting away with the food parcel. Actually giving a clear, direct smile. The second or third incidence in these ten weeks in the quarter. The one last week a much older woman, well into her fifties, scaved and fully covered. The upright head she immediately lowered, going on purposefully without breaking stride. That she had been observed was taken. A flash showed. Nothing of any consequence. No business of any one else's—that's what it seemed. Not as deep or dark as the younger. The first sighting was early on, numbers of weeks ago, much less obvious, smaller affair. Years and years in the past back home, or hidden in the suburbs. Nothing of the slightest kind giving indictaion otherwise in all the interactions here witnessed day after day, night after night amongst the people. Indeed every indication in the other direction: cohesive, contented families, often extended, taking simple joys together. Harmony, order, laughter—smiles and healthy laughter. A couple of fantastic fat scarved gals a few weeks ago at Mr. T. T. sitting across from each other and finding wonderful fun together. Heavily made-up faces fetchingly rimmed by their scarves. Not schoolgirls either; well into their thirties and too many goreng pisangs (fried bananas). The brightness and largeness of their pleasure needed acknowledgement and indeed congratulation. Reader, it was duly accorded, in the best fashion that could be managed.

Double Bay

Traveling one can still encounter the extraordinary, the fantastic and barely credible. Even in this age of globalization, uniformity and mimicry; even in one's own regional neighborhood. What follows can be accepted with complete confidence from a reliable source who received the information from her friend on the spot, an actual participant. Second-hand, but quite trustworthy.
         China Eastern is the largest airline in China. A big operation. Government enterprise with funds siphoned by the usual princelings and middle managers, captains, crew and ground staff, safe to assume. One can imagine the profits if proper fiduciary controls could be instituted. How large is the leakage is not indicated here.
         There is a Singapore China Eastern office of course, unlikely to be small. The witness did not say the practice takes place in all the China Eastern offices throughout the world; it might be a particular local or regional Manager behind it here. At least in the Singapore office this was how it went.
         Companies the world over undertake regular bonding exercises in order to lift productivity. Pressures on jobs, on profits; competition, new players with new ideas. Takes a great deal to maintain edge and precedence; team building, unity of purpose. An unending task to keep up to the mark. Must be innumerable ways and means devised across the globe. All the creative powers of the technocrats brought to bear.
         How do they manage at China Eastern Singapore? Sounds like something from a manual devised back on the mainland and dispatched to the various branch offices.
         Seven forty-five AM, before the herbal teas, a quart hour before the doors and phone lines open, a gathering in the Function Room. Fresh-eyed and bushy-tailed, all together now: chapter such-and-such, verse number so-and-so from the hymn book. A recitation quite likely. Inculcation was the point; the employees had to get it.
         The Di Zi Gui roughly translates as Standards for Being a Good Student and Child, written during the Qing dynasty (1661-1772). In three-character verse and based on the Analects of Confucius, memorizing would not be difficult even for Customer Service people with shaky Mandarin. (The level of Mandarin among the Singaporeans a cause for concern for the government. Business opportunities gone begging; other nations that aren't even of Chinese heritage getting a cut of the action above their own. Hokkien and Cantonese more common here.)
         Some lovely olde-world moral instruction delivered: dutifulness to parents; standards for younger brothers when away from home; cautiousness, reverence in daily life…. (Touching the glimmer of the past's treasure-house.) Trustworthiness; loving all equally; learning from people of virtue and compassion....
         Xi' an—Terracotta Army territory—Laverne, who told the tale she heard from her friend, was greatly surprised at the choice at China Eastern. The group chanting every morning prior to the commencement of work was one thing. But the Di Zi Gui?.... Back in Xi 'an Laverne had it at primary school.
         It was certainly a mark above Dale Carnegie and Donald Trump. The Self Enhancement shelves are well stocked here in the book-shops. Beside How to Win Friends...  another ten Carnegie titles can be found in many of the stores in Sin’pore.
         Girl-friend of Lav's had worked at China Eastern more than a year, Mainlander like Laverne. Understandably, the experience drove the girl half-crazy it seems.
         .... Last night beers at Double Bay at the base of Raffles City, a large shopping tower beside the quaint old hotel. High wicker chairs for the smoking area. Marko had landed from Prague where you can have a fag with your drink in the Palace of Culture should you desire. A few heavily leathered old ex-pats at the bar in boating shoes; Little Creatures stubbies (in Fosters holders) not five or even ten a pop. Earlier a wonderful Geylang supper at Shan Dong Seow Tu again—Shandong Little Kitchen. Lav had been keen to see the famous "paradise for men". Telling working girls from the others had Laverne stumped, and Marko not much better. Always nice to show natives their own towns. (Four years Lav had been living in Singapore.) Girl serving at Shan Dong a lively scamp, coming out with a little arithmetic puzzle she had written out on a bill stub. Chap sources goods at such-and-such a price; sells at such-and-such. But in this case given a fake $100 bill. What are his losses?... Laverne and Marko at a loss why a waitress would venture such a thing. And Lav further concerned and blushing when her compatriot started out with some unseemly berating.

NB. An earlier version of "Double Bay" was published in the Hong Kong based Asian Cha Literary Journal, Dec 2013, under the general title "Ancient China: Post- (Almost) LKY Singapore"