Che, Jimi and Bob

Phil telling last night of a Descartes tee in Thailand somewhere, one of the bars in BK or the resort beaches he and Marko passed through. For him too it prompted an approach and enquiry. Of course the wearer—uncertain whether a Thai or one of the Western back-packers doing the circuit up there—completely ignorant of the old rationalist with the look of a musketeer. The design was the thing; the iconic name somehow instinctively apprehended from the aether. A certain ring to it; another kind of Louis Vuitton or YSL.
         Phil liked the counterpart here of the Husserl. Fewer than ten thousand people on the planet had ever heard the name; the designer flipping a compendium of fonts and tags however likes what he sees. The odd structure, sibilant swirl and unexpected curl.... down along the line to the Malay lad working in one of the manchester outlets at the foot of Joo Chiat Complex. Lad had no English and German forget. Baby-blue Kyoto tees, the Chinese and Thai scripts in tattooing. 
         In a bar in Batam on the final night we had a drink while listening to a kind of glam-punk performance by young Indonesian musicians going for it. Half comprehensible English lyrics shrieked into the microphone by the various vocalists pacing the stage, using the full width and depth. Mike high in the air, arm fully out-stretched; swing back on the beat. Ground level with the singer screaming at the floor, wide left-right. 
         The young male vocalist shared numbers with two heavily made-up vamps in torn denim and stockings, boots, chains and ear-rings the size of leg irons. Under the lights more than a little sweat. When the lead removed his top it wasn't for pure effect. Last number got his all, nothing held back. In the lingo of the footy coaches and commentators, he would take nothing back to the dressing-room. Without losing his step flinging around the stage, flabby and heavy smoker not exactly Olympic acrobatics. At the end the band members applauded along with the rest of us, just over a half dozen. It was the least we could do. Slow Tuesday night, lad turning it on as if before delirious masses. The delirium he and his pals provided all on their own. The keyboard player came over to thank us for our appreciation. We too had done our best.
         The place was one of the usual cave fit-outs. Cigarette smoke enough to fill a football stadium even from a dozen patrons. Most of us lit one cigarette after another. The male vocalist had half a packet in the short hour, the tossing of each integrated into the routine.
         The bar girls concentrated on a table where two or three middle-aged men knocked back stiff shot glasses and took the mike occasionally. There were couches in one corner, high and low tables as well as the bar seats. Somehow we got stuck on the uncomfortable high chairs, Suratmi in heels having to climb like mounting a ladder. The bar girls couldn't devote any attention to us because of our company. At another bar later Suratmi got daggers from the sidelined girls.
         The other men in the audience were Singaporean, Suratmi said, eyeing them obliquely without turning her head. Earlier one of the men had stuffed some notes into one of the singer’s denim pockets. There was no real pawing. The night must have been more of an ordeal for Suratmi and the even younger Rianti than we appreciated at the time.
         Above on opposite pillars a pair of framed portraits were hanging. A pinched male tightly cropped, dark hollow vacant eyes. The brow knotted. Someone had once described particular features appearing like the blade of a knife. This was the face for such dagger looks.
         The painful musical mimicry was sharpened by the portraits hanging over our heads. Dead iconic eyes looking out, but not of the kind the decorator of the bar here in Batam had intended. Someone had sourced the icons for the boss, a tech-savy youngster.
         The Che tee was common in Singapore like everywhere else, almost always worn by the Malay boys around Joo Chiat. The Indian lads around Tasvee up in Geylang sometimes sported him too. In these cases of course the classic handsome face under the beret, black with red lettering. One rarely saw the Chinese carrying Che, not even the ex-offenders. The Chinese had other heroes. Colour came into it too: Che could almost pass as Malay or Indian. The mestizo.
         The portrait on the pillars in the punk den in Batam wasn't the classic Hollywood likeness. Not quite. After months on the run through the mountains of Bolivia, Che's youthful bloom had vanished. Hunger had done its part too.
         The infamous killed quarry photograph of Che was nothing like as well-known. The shot taken of him laid out on the table in the hut where the hunters had carried him has been buried in the historical record. In Cuba they know it of course. In the USSR and China perhaps. Even in Latin America they might be largely ignorant after half a century of military dictatorship across the continent.
         Ned Kelly n Australia. One man's terrorist another's freedom fighter, and all that. The command room for the Navy Seals knew what they were about in Abbottabad. No image. No record of any kind; anonymous burial at sea.
         Che's death mask up on facing pillars in a punk den in Batam, Indonesia.
         Marko wouldn't have it. He knew that face. Che he knew too of course
         —....That American guitarist from the sixties. Electric guitar.
         Yeah, Jimmy Hendrix.
         He wanted a bet. Or a bet was foisted on him.
         After the music the portrait.
         No use asking the girls of course. The bar owner was not in on a Tuesday. Chap at the till said he was the manager, he would have to do.
         — Neither of us is right, Marko came back. It's Bob Marley.
         The hell it was.