Another Fair Maid

 

The two women roughly the same age, height, colouration. Moderately plump, pear-shaped both. The unusual in-step walk was what drew attention. 

This was a definite, striking lock-step, almost military in precision, despite the fact the woman on the outside was swivelled around half-facing the other. It was a kind of unity of being that marked out the pair in the midst of numerous others passing along the concourse. 

The similarity in size and feature came as the secondary observation. And only after that, lagging behind the other impressions, the notes of racial difference.

In fact the woman on the inside might have been four or five years older, perhaps early thirties. So much else was in accord that this distinction too took some time to register. 

The younger had a slightly darker skin tone, freckles, something of the Pacific in her aspect. Both were dressed in cheap, non-descript, washed-out clothes of the same unflattering dun colour. Shorts, printed tees and thongs. That was an added part of the unity; even the colours the same, as if they shared clothes indiscriminately.

The elder carried the strapped baby of two or three months high on her chest, facing. In order to engage the baby and have it in focus, the woman needed to retract her head. With head pulled back a little like a rooster, arching her spine, on she marched in-step with her companion. The baby sat comfortably, wisps of dark hair and eyes that blinked only a little, tiny and soundless.

A late afternoon constitutional underneath the HDB block. Dinner would follow upstairs. The lifts were in the central hub where most of the shops were clustered. Like at the base of any other HDB, food stalls stood ready as an option. On North Bridge here the cluster was somewhat unusual for all the stationery and printing shops. Across the road there was more than one Art supply outlet. Old grannies often sat along the ledges looking out onto the traffic on North Bridge Road. Incongruously, Raffles Hotel sat directly opposite, its presence inconsequential for this other side of the street. Often it was a surprise to be reminded of the incongruity.

The pair of women walked slowly, yet there was a rapidity in their motion at the same time. This impression came from the younger, darker, freckled woman, who walked half side-on, holding a fan in her hand which she directed at the baby. 

The girl was right-handed. From such close range shoulder-to-shoulder, she could not have fanned the child with her left even if she was able. Swivelling half-round, she battered with the fan from the right in rapid strokes. Keeping step, perhaps swinging her legs in a wider arc, she kept up with the fanning. 

Such energy in her action. An odd look of earnestness she gave the baby, who sat on contentedly, clearly in perfect comfort. 

There had been a couple of downpours through the afternoon, one just five minutes earlier. The heat and steaminess had quickly descended again. But this was almost November now; the oppressive sting of mid-year was long gone. 

The younger, darker, freckled woman beat a rapid time at this baby of such a charmed life, channeling at the child carefully. The most doting aunt could not have fulfilled the role as well.

Even the lower middle-class in Singapore, even renters in the HDB blocks, could afford cheap Filipina, Indonesian and Myanmar maids. For as little as three hundred and fifty Singaporean dollars a month a young mother could have such a girl living in the spare room, minding the baby, washing, cooking, cleaning, fetching the groceries. 

Many of the maids were the care-givers for the elderly, whose children prefer to undertake employment. Many have left their own children with their mothers and husbands back home and don't see them for two, three or more years. It was only in recent years that a mandated free day a month, and then weekly, was given these young women. In earlier years more than one had been encountered who had not had a free day in two or three years of employment. Cases of beatings are not uncommon. Trouble with the Sir usually takes the other, predictable form. Surveillance cameras regularly capture maids slapping their elderly charges because there had been trouble over medication and the like—the newspapers providing coverage. A dozen or more maids have fallen from the high towers to their deaths.

       Two hundred thousand maids in the country, in a native population the size of Melbourne.

 

Kinokuniya Reads

Thur. 27 October 2011 Top shelf of Essential Reads (immediately beside Fresh Reads), adjacent to the chief Cashier station, A: The Secret Garden Black Beauty Emma - It keeps the books alive (the bright new editions), the chap stacking responded smilingly when the roll-call was remarked upon. Anywhere other than Singapore? Fraid it will be the very same the world over. While we burn and drown and war. Kinokuniya. Takashimaya building, on the entry behind Orchard Road. (There is a second store in Singapore, in the Bugis Complex, the less said about which the better.) The junction outside Takashimaya needs to be seen to be believed: the lolly-colous of the gigantic screen there and its babble washing over the shoppers below with their shopping-store bags hooked on their arms. Space and time travel cannot offer anything more extraordinary even in the galaxies outside the range of Hubble. Space-walks going cheap.... Therefore the titles face-up in pretty covers to tempt on the shelves. King of the Badgers - one along on the same row within Fresh Reads. - No guffawing permitted. This aint playfulness! Not a jot of make-believe. ....Reassuring cuppa on the cover in good china. No need the Bex in that receptacle. The soothing all in pure design. Marco Polo's Silk Road. Derby Day. Under the Sun (Chatwin). And last but not least: Why be Happy When You Could be Normal (Winterson; pale English child on the sand holding a retro parti-coloured beach-ball to camera). Titles, covers and banner names far more important than content. Every bit sufficient to blot any hint of sexual politics too, even in Singapore. Close by Orchard MRT there is Somerset, Red Hill, Clarke Quay, Farrer Park - a certain cache in the author tags goes down a treat here more than anywhere else perhaps on the globe we inhabit - by a smidgeon. Winterson. Chatwin. Almost a touch of royalty purely in the construction of the compounds here on offer. Win, winter & son. Chat and win. Like soft garnished pastry in the mouth. You couldn't go wrong following your nose with those alluring hints. Horsey love story in Singapore!?... (Good a read as it is for teenage girls.) An enchanting secluded health-giving garden for the blighted of spirit?... Sorely needed here as anywhere else. Vicarages, visits, slow romance under the tropical heat??.... Ten thousand times better than Borders notwithstanding. Picked up the other Murakami's Sixty Nine to see how that marker went down with the first post-war generation in old-new Nippon.

Deepavali

The young fellow reeked a bit, but it was his smile that first suggested the state of elation. On taking the seat he had knocked the table and eventually offered a delayed apology. It took him a short while to realise someone else was seated opposite. During busy times at Tasvee the patrons will approach a spare seat and politely enquire for sharing. A free and relaxed locale; rarely does anyone plonk themselves down uninvited. When this chap first dropped into the chair the seat was straddled somehow sideways so that his back had jolted the table. The lad was pissed, nicely, happily and contentedly so. Tasvee didn't sell alcohol. Throughout the almost five months no more than a couple of drunks have been sighted the length and breath of Geylang Road. It's always harder to tell with an unfamiliar foreigner, someone outside your cultural range.

         The congratulations offered this fellow were taken in stride. It was his New Year, he explained, as if a white man was unlikely to have known this additional piece of information. Apologies came for his English. In his head he had what he wanted to say, he explained, but it didn't come out of his mouth right. This was regardless of his present state: it was his usual problem—it seemed clear this is what was meant. This was confirmed when he went on to say the same thing happened to him in the case of his native Tamil. The lad had assumed a peculiar, personal problem of his own. Cricket came up. He liked cricket; not football. India's position as Number One nation in the world he mentioned proudly, but at the same time with some part modesty introduced into his smile. It was a clear adjustment. Then Tendulkar. The little maestro this lad had not in his brain: he had him in his heart. To be sure he was understood, a second time he said the same thing again. All India felt the same, he said.
         Earlier the young man had indeed visited the temple, one off one of the Lorongs down the road where he pointed. As if to confirm the observance he gave the number of the Lorong and the name of the temple. Presumably the alcohol had been taken subsequently. Were they new clothes he wore? They were. A mechanical engineer three years in Singapore. Likely he had been forced to celebrate Deepavali three years running away from home. Other jobs he did in addition to his regular—construction, driving. Some fine courtesy was offered on parting, a small, limp, overly aged hand for a chap of his years.
         Tasvee is halal Muslim, but they get many of their Hindu compatriots there. It was full-house tonight. The rain had prevented a trip out to one of the temples to observe the scene. Three or four hour-long falls through the course of the day, all dead vertical and large droplets at the peak. Thunder again at maximum effect in the near distance at midnight. (This global thunder capital, as the Straits Times touts.)

Khadafi in Batam

The Batam Post carried the same pictures and headlines as everywhere else.

         KHADAFI

           TEWAS

         The unavailing pleading for life was quoted: Don't shoot, don't shoot.

         The main picture was from the files of the chieftain of former times, in the rich robes when he would pitch his famous tents in foreign capitals. Finally, in the end, the deposed leader was caught in a sewer. 

         That picture too featured in the Batam Post, the wall of the drain scrawled with graffiti celebrating the event. 

         One of the English newspapers made capital of the circumstance, turning the tyrant into a rodent.

         The feature photograph was of the corpse. The dreadful tyrant brought to account for all his crimes: bloodied, shaggy-haired carcass with twisted mouth. 

         In Indonesia—in the local newspaper on the island of Batam at least—there was a variant cropping of the photograph, one that helped set the scene on the outskirts of Sirte where Gaddafi was cornered. 

         In the earlier publications there was a close focus on the dead man, the figure of the torso, the head and rictus of the face tightly framed. 

         In this reproduction it was an odd kind of angle presented, as if the body had lain on a rise of ground. 

         In the Batam Post the slightly wider shot delivered the staging that had been involved. 

         Alongside the corpse here in the Batam Post, on the left, a man's jeans-clad leg was bent, the knee pointing at the camera. On the thigh of the jeans a blood smear, the same as on the waistband of his white t-shirt. 

         The dying Gaddafi had leaked over the man. 

         Framing the body on the other side, on the right, was the jeans man's left arm. 

         Eventually the picture becomes clear. Gaddafi's body was wedged against one of his captors, the man propping up the dead weight at an angle for the camera.

         The first, long anticipated photo, scoop for the news-services. Market price you would guess might be in the region of $US25k say. 

         One could not take a photograph of a dead man flat on the ground, even a horrible, detested tyrant. The image was wrong. It did not make a useable photograph. How to hold up the head for one thing. 

         The man in jeans and tee, from an opposing tribe no doubt, was found willing to cradle the old monster in his lap. 

         A tale to dine out on for the rest of your life, if not tell the grandkids.

         Seemed further film evidence was emerging on Gaddafi's final hour. 

         One of the news outlets back home reported prospects of cheaper petrol prices.

Geylang Evening

These medieval scenes of Indian and mainland labourers at the end of their work-shift in the back of the lorries. Transports of the condemned enroute to execution sites the image suggests. Men in their late thirties stiff and slow-moving back on the ground. At Tasvee eighty cent plain prata with tomato and chilly curry — five or six tablespoons in a small dish — inadequate for these workers. The Chinese will queue over the road at The Eastern for the more filling fare at around $3.50. On every side streaming across with bags slung over their shoulders. Watching them the hand twitches and half rises from the table as if they could be greeted, the returning soldiers saluted. Across at the corner Lorong, one arm hooked through the railing of a parked lorry, a marvelous long-haired vision in glowing, flowing white ballroom dress almost, illuminated by the headlights. Another lorry pulled up in front with a mix of Banglas, Indians and laughing mainlanders. These men always knew what they were in for. They have adjusted, found a way together. Like a bit player in a movie decked in his vaguely ridiculous uniform, the Malay parking inspector pacing as if in procession alongside the motorbikes. Every night cars and bikes park in front of Tasvee—the parking inspector never appeared previously. Within the shadows of the Lorong, beyond the lights at the back lane of the Eastern, another gal leaning on a pillar, the shine of sleek legs caught momentarily in swinging headlights. The lorries often stop there. After dropping their cargo the work contractors are able to afford some cheap relief at the end of the day. A roadwork gang for take-out, the truck having done a circuit of the block while a couple of the lads picked up. When the lorry rounds for them the wheels continue to roll as they climb aboard. Dense traffic. Though long gone, the figure of the inspector has them spooked tonight. Another lorry again the same. Making the crossing with his tools, the laden street-sweeper footing it over expertly between the lanes in his yellow vest and wellingtons: stiff brush-broom, plastic rake, pan on a handle and large yellow garbage bag. The only way it can be done is with the rake under the arm-pit. Still waiting the girl in the shadows; the other gone. White Aussie guy from the tones over the traffic exasperated by his young companion. The girl untrusting, reluctant to follow his lead to cross—she had hesitated and pulled back. Four busy lanes nothing like where she comes from in the Philippines. Tasty mutton soup last night at Mr. T. T. reminding of Slavo's revulsion — in his childhood it was the only meat they could afford. Three bowls on the table behind coming up grass-green with the diced vegetables. Pre-war scenes of smiling gals dinked on the rear of bicycles having to stiffen their legs against the motion; a laughing mother behind a son it had to be earlier. Others showered and changed crossing, turns taken fetching styrofoams three high in either hand. Endless panorama always more heartening than otherwise. On the return one last surprise waiting on Guillemard corner at the lights where a bicycle shop had traded earlier: the newly erected wooden stands this evening carry a long line of metre and a half green plastic Chrissie trees offered to the passing cars. Inside the shop all manner of colourful bunting and decorations, Santa hats and streamers. The season of cheer arrived every bit as early as back home. Has it all been set into swing a week after the footy finals along Swanston and Bourke Streets?

Dinner on Geylang

The Eastern Restaurant, corner Lorong 27 and Geylang Road.
Around 7 30pm.
The owner reckons it gets even busier in the early mornings before the work-shift.
The workers here are all foreign, mainland Chinese at this Eatery. Twelve hour days, six days a week are standard in the construction industry = approx. $S1500 per month.
Rice, meat/fish and veg at Eastern $3.50. Good tucker - sampled with the photographer Steve Black on the night.

Mr. Teh Tarik

Over the course, around a hundred and fifty meals taken at Mr.T.T., with the same number in "stretched teas" (teh tarik) - $4/1.
Thank you Ishmael and Mr. Malacca, Lina and the boys.




Image Steve Black

Joo Chiat Hotel

Steve Black image

Putu Piring

Mr. Hasim's grandmother's recipie for Putu Piring always draws a crowd: rice flour, fresh coconut, brown sugar and padan leaf for aroma. One of Mr. Hasim's outlets sits within the halls of Mr. Teh Tarik; this second a short distance up Geylang Road.
The four women bent at their work-bench eye-catching on the way to and from the bus-stop.




Steve Black image

Marina Bay Sands Hotel

....A rocket-ship counting down on the launchpad... All systems go...

The turnover in the hotel industry in SG is likely a closely guarded state secret; the number of hotels perhaps unknown even to the state. Among them all the MBS is the crowning glory, an architectural icon amidst a cluster of icons on the artificially constructed bay. Fantasies a daily reality for the patrons swimming in the Skypool that has been plonked on top, 200 metres off the ground and spanning the three towers. (An intriguing story. A rush was on for the construction. At some point the planners, Chinese naturally, realised, Oh gee! Hang on a cotton-picking minute. We can't have this.... From distance look Joss-stick (funerary incense)! What about something on top... Perhaps malicious gossip. Someone said it was in the newspapers.) Impossible that a photograph can do the MBS justice given all the angles and the sinuous form. Stephen Black the photographer has done his darndest.

Two other blogs posted on the MBS:
150 / 200 MBS - Sept 2011 and MBS Mark II (Moshie Safdie) Jan 2012

Two Kampung Boys

The lads hailed from the same kampung up near the Thai border, just seven kilometres away. Kota Bahru—New Castle or Fort—was the nearest town. A decade or two ago the roofs in the kampungs were covered with mangrove leaves from the river; now everyone had aluminum.

         After five years working on the resort island of Rawa, a couple of years in KL and a short stint first time round in Singapore, Shai has had some of the kampung rubbed off. Rawa off the east coast of peninsular Malaysia Rawa drew a hipster surfing contingent, mainly German and French, with whom Shai had made a number of friends over the years. In the hotels and bars Shai had picked up drinking, smoking and loafing. When Shai sent money home to his family from Rawa he warned it should only be used on utilities and repairs—not food—as it had been earned in proximity to alcohol.

         Near fifteen years younger, Api was a different case. Api had come more or less directly from the past. Quietly watchful; straightened sharp looks; and the broadness of the smiles when they came were indicators. Not much more than a dozen words was the extent of Api's English, which understandably he was shy to use.
         Coming from the same kampung, about a hundred metres between their houses, in Singapore the lads were brothers. It was Api's suggestion to strike out for famous isle. Past his mid-thirties, Shai took the opportunity of a new direction. Berliners met on Rawa had called on Shai to visit. This was then Shai's plan: six months minimum in Singapore, earnest saving and a trip to Berlin to see a Western city. The Berliners had offered accommodation; every chance of a warm reception. Even so, Shai did not want to rely on that. And going up empty-handed was beneath his dignity. On his side Api wanted to save without any particular purpose in mind.

         Work, endure the regime, see where they were in six months.
         Even after a fortnight Shai sought an opinion on their prospects; an independent, respected and objective viewpoint.

         They had been observed; they were as they appeared. What chance of fulfilling their plan in Singapore?....
         Eleven hundred dollar earnings per month. A rough calculation of expenses that included food, travel, tobacco and phone came in conservatively at $400.Accommodation was provided by the company. Twelve hour days, every second Sunday free. Working Sundays without the Super present was a relaxation too—they could cover the essentials, linger over lunch and get a bit of kip in the afternoon.
         The work was hard, impossible to fulfill. Nineteen six storey condos on the beachfront, basements and pools, between three men. All the cleaning equipment of little avail. Floors, glass, patios, steam bath, walkways, over a hundred metres width in the block. As each day passed the Super got pickier. If he was unsatisfied the lads could be sacked on the spot and repatriated to Malaysia, no questions asked. For the first week he kept their passports as a precaution against absconding.
         Buying the lads a cigarette under the counter at the usual eatery brought a rapid reaction from the pair. Api blamed Shai for harping too much on money. The former wanted tailors; the latter the cheaper tabacci. Bought individually seventy cents apiece; a small pouch of 100 grams that made twenty-five or thirty rollies, two dollars eighty.
         Buying was one thing, bad enough. Striking the light for Api positively made the lad jump from his seat.
         Not just a twitch. A jolt and start.
         Shai offered a word, a calming hand. Finally prevailing on Api to take the light.
         In Malaysia, not just in the kampung but across the country, the Big Man, the rich Chinese businessman, always had his cigarette lighted by his First Man. The First Man was the Chinaman's shadow; part valet, part bodyguard. First Man was quick on the draw, getting his fingers on the light the moment the boss's hand reached for the pack. In the kampung you could bet an elder never struck light for a youngster; that would be against the natural order.

         Api had never seen such a thing.
         The bodily fright had passed. Api puffed and blew through his nose as if in hiding. 
         Api is "fire" in Bahasa Malay. The flame was visible underneath the lad’s skin.

         After a handshake Api reaches for his heart. You get used to that in Geylang Serai.
         At twenty three, only one girlfriend to date for Api. At the split Api cried. More fire; no surprise.
         The lads were not as disciplined as the Banglas and Indians. The Banglas and Indians bought 25 kg bags of rice and cooked at home. Shai and Api eat out every night. Two dollar fifty meals. Sundays after 6pm, prying security cameras looking the other way, the lads are millionaires doing laps in the pool at the condos, Api thrashing the water.
                                  Sentosa Cove
                 The most desirable address in the world
         The boys get a laugh hearing of the unfortunate cleaning crew at the National Library dusting and polishing the leaves in the pot plants.
         After makan Api was nervous sitting at table. Didn't they need to get off? Wouldn't the Indian be annoyed occupying the table half an hour later?

Toast Box - Bugis

Twenty minutes by bus from Joo Chiat Hotel. Warm barley and thick peanut butter floss toast goes down a treat about 10 30am - $S3.70. Ten years in Singapore, Steve Black the photographer was a Toast Box virgin until he was introduced; rather toey through the shoot, but managed to knuckle down to the task. Might have converted the Ohioan by the end. :-)

Singapore National Library

Many a long hour spent over these four months up at the tables on the 8th floor: Arts and Social Sciences reference—excellent dictionaries, atlases and other aids. (A wonderful French section which includes both Celine and also Genet, completely unbeknown to the powers that be without a doubt.) The usual hushing of students required, delightfully polite security personnel, cleanliness throughout goes without saying, the conscientiousness of the shelf-stackers loudly proclaims you are in Singapore.

 


















  Steve Black Image

Notice of publication (2)

Finally the Southerly story has been published back home, nearly a year after acceptance!
Southerly Volume 71 - Number 1 2011. Modern Mobilities: Australian - Transnational Writing.
It's a 4,000 worder concerning the years of caring for Baba, my dear elderly mother. A Montenegrin tale in an Aussie backyard.
Most bookstores carry this journal. Singapore National Library for example collects it.
Happy reading.
Cheers to all.
Still in SG. Hard to tear away. Before the end of the month Malaysia bound.

P.

Labour Rights: letter to Straits Times

Madame Chua Lai Keow's complacently self-serving letter regarding her maid's pregnancy (Tue. Oct. 4) requires a response.
Despite being married and a mother of four, Mme. Chua's maid fell pregnant, possibly on her first free day during her work stint in her employment in Singapore. While on one level understandable, the moral outrage implicit in Mme. Chua's account of the matter finally leaves this reader rather aghast. That a maid in a foreign country, who is confined to an apartment with a faux family whom it is her lot to serve like the coolie workers of two generations past, has on the first day of liberation from those conditions found comfort and release in some tender human contact, perhaps ought not completely astound. In place of condemnation, perhaps some understanding might be more charitable. Civilized countries across the world, for example, recognize the human right of sexual contact even for incarcerated prisoners. In Singapore, where prostitution is a legal and sizeable industry, the kind of mores Mme. Chua seeks to uphold might at least seem dubious.
But above all else, to suggest as does Mme. Chua, that one might paternalistically safeguard these foreign workers from their own baser instincts, for their own good, by limiting their freedom of movement and continuing to deny them the most basic right of relief from labour and toil on this account, is nothing short of outrageous. Singapore can only attract dismay and opprobrium in this unfortunate protracted saga involving legitimate human rights for the workforce of maids. There is the real cause for shame.

Mr Pavle Radonic
Joo Chiat Hotel
6344 1101





Mailed today to Straits Times in response to a letter to the editor published by them yesterday.
Madame Chua aint a figment of the author's imagination.
The guess is the acerbity is a bit too harsh for the ST. We shall see.