Sunday Arvo

The upcoming election in Malaysia understandably getting a lot of coverage here. In this morning's Straits Times a report on the opposition party, headed now by Anwar Ibrahim's steadfast wife, promising to raise the minimum monthly wage to 1100 Ringgit = approx. $Aus350. A couple of days ago labour unrest and demonstrations in Batam, Indonesia, a 45 minute ferry ride from here. Batam is the chief of the Riau group of islands, a special economic zone with three hundred thousand workers employed by four thousand mainly foreign companies. The main attraction: plentiful cheap labour of course. The agitation was an effort to raise the minimum monthly wage on Batam to 1.18m rupiah = $Aus168.
         This either side of the little island fortress enclave of Singapore, where not long ago it was reported there lived the highest number of millionaires—or billionaires it might have been—per capita in the world.
         An inexhaustible cheap labour pool from the surrounding countries one of the chief of various blessings and advantages here in this protected paradise. Wage slaves is no exaggeration. More on that in the concrete shortly: Yati made the trek over from Bukit Panjang this afternoon.
         One of the features of the newspaper reporting here is the graphic coverage of crime and gore. No beg pardons and soft pedaling on these matters. Reminds one almost of the old Truth from back home years ago. Not quite "Billy—Sneddon, Opposition Leader—Died on the Job", but not leaving much to the imagination either. Direct and confronting reporting you would call it. And the Straits is a broadsheet; it would certainly not think of itself as in any way tabloid.
         Today a picture to make one wince of Little Baby Yue Yue, as the poor child has been dubbed, under the hands of a doctor's heavily engorged reddy gloves from the time of efforts to save her life. Here morning stomachs are made of strong stuff. The reddy blood all the way up to the wrists of the gloves received by newspaper readers with minimal squeamishness. No doubt the story has run at home of the little baby on the road in a small Chinese market town ignored by numerous—was it seventeen?—passersby, motorists and others, until finally an old stall-holder stopped to offer aid.
         During the course the baby had been run over a couple of times. Presumably she was crying. Everyone too busy to help, not wanting to involve themselves; etc.etc. What would also have been omitted in the newspapers back home was the unforgettable picture printed here a short while ago of the parents of the child down on their knees before the Good Samaritan, giving thanks for the act of charity.
         There had never been much hope for the child. At the time of the photograph this was clearly known. Yet still the mother and father of the infant were burying their faces in hessian sacks of what must have been rice, giving thanks. Likely on the Net the picture available, certainly Chinese sites.
         Another example of the distinctly different reportage can be seen in the case of a murder trial currently in process here. The preliminary history and then the night of wild mayhem last year in the small rented flat on the outskirts of the city has been evoked in startling detail. In a terrifyingly gruesome spree, the man concerned killed his lover and also a flat-mate and her daughter who happened to intrude. Another young female caught up in the rage was barely able to escape after she too was slashed numerous times. Shown in a large photograph in the paper was the shoulder to shoulder portrait of the lover tattooed on the back of the murderer.
         Photos of killer and victims too were prominent. Precise number of stab wounds for each victim we are now all familiar with in such reportage. In this case, what added extra weight, what really made one start, was the series of photographs of each of the kitchen utensils that were used in the killings. Three knives and a meat cleaver, each in a separate photograph at the foot of the report.
         These too were more than pictures that presented type, size and length of weapon. Each of these particular photographs had been taken by the investigators who first examined the murder scene. In each case the blades in the pictures printed in the newspaper were shown carrying the smears of blood. A clear congealed slick visible along the edge of each blade taken from the kitchen drawer and wielded that terrifying night. More than a double-take was needed.
         As part of the documentation, in the photographs these weapons were each set against a tape measure. Somehow it happened to turn out that all four implements used in the murders measured precisely the same length: thirty centimetres.
         Back home one was spared such graphic detailing. In the same way that we have been spared any kind of real sense of the mayhem in Afghanistan, Iraq, Bali and anywhere much else in the wider world.
         Finally, to complete the particulars of this love story gone terribly wrong, apparently the pair concerned had for a fair stretch shared an acquaintance and friendship, before they finally became lovers. When they met the woman had been married and only after a lag had an affair begun. Then numerous and various attempts to end it. Through the course, at one point the lovers had pledged their love in writing using their own blood.
         These documents were not in the papers only because they must have remained in mainland China, from where all concerned had traveled a short time before the dreadful denouement.
         Why the meat cleaver in addition to the three knives? someone might be wondering. No, there was no dismemberment. The man had gone for the cleaver because the second woman, the flat-mate, had tried to escape by climbing out the kitchen window. On a ledge outside the window so many storeys high the woman had clung vainly for dear life to the laundry pole.
         In the cheaper HDB flats where the working class and the foreign workers cram themselves in Singapore washing machines are an expensive luxury, and dryers even more so. Virtually every day the Naples effect here adds a touch of charm to this city. (The better class of condos disallow the practise.)
         The newspaper had been read before Yati arrived in her girly pink highlights, equal parts cute and amusing. While she had been making the finishing touches in front of the mirror at home the middle boy of the three she cares for out in Bukit Panjang called his mother.
         — Mother come quick. Quick! Kaka's all in pink!
         (Kaka big sister in bahasa. To the children for whom the maids care, they are far more than servants.)
         Most of the maids go to town on their dress-up free Sundays. The transformation from the daily wear especially remarkable.
         Headband, sleeveless hoodie and sandals all in the same tone of pink. The remainder of Yati's outfit was cut-off jeans with pockets protruding on thighs, wide belt and slinky black tee. Dressed by Vamp she was this week. Yati varies the costume week to week.
         End of month there was three dollars in her pockets. At three eighty a month not much more than for phone calls back home to her son and parents, Yati joked wryly.
         Usually Yati spends about $40 weekly on phone top-ups. Last Hari Raya she sent money for her younger sister's wedding. By the time Yati returns home at the end of her contract in May next year she expects there will be a baby. More expense for Kaka. Either sixteen or eighteen Yati herself had married.
         The family with whom Yati is currently has already asked her to return for another term. Thus far she has pleaded her growing son back home. In fact she is thinking of another placement, with improved conditions and better wages.
         Last month Ma'me fell pregnant again. It made Yati very angry, she said. How would they possibly manage with a fourth? Eventually the decision was made for an abortion, Yati is very much part of the family, about the same age as Ma'me and best friends with the older sister who lives nearby.
         The dark "panda" (as she called it) bag under her right eye was there to stay now, Yati thinks. It comes from the time of Ma'me's last pregnancy, when the little baby was immediately given to her to manage. Ma'me was utterly exhausted after the birth. There was no sleep at all for the maid in that stretch. The bag won't go away. The youngest lad who was taken with the pink transformation sleeps in Yati's bed; older two in bunks in the same room. At about $AUS320 monthly.
         How to put on weight? Yati asked without jest. The other month she had paid forty dollars for some kind of concoction that was both supposed to provide nutritional supplement and also promote appetite. Nothing on the latter front. At home at table no sooner does she get a spoon into her mouth than the little one starts screaming. Then the second set off. Yati is always tired. Sleeplessness on top of lack of appetite.
         This afternoon Yati needed to get off early again in order to meet her friend Anna. Anna was free once a month and had no other friends. At City Plaza she had her eye on some kind of purchase where Yati was needed. It must be hire-purchase or a contract of some kind—wiring money home or a new phone contract perhaps. Problem being Anna is without documentation. In her case her employer insists on retaining both passport and other ID. Occasionally foreign workers run off here (another reminder of the days of slavery).
         Before foreign workers can be hired in Singapore the prospective employer needs to lodge a sizable bond, refundable when the employee has exited the country at the end of the work term. Stringent border protection always.
         Yati doesn't easily accept whispered endearments. Not difficult to understand. Honey and Sugar she corrects with something that wasn't intelligible.
         — Bitter girl?... Butter grade?...
         No. Bitter gourd.
         A regular ingredient among the vegetables at Mr. T.T., always artfully masked by Ishmail and the boys.
         — Is there any sayang there Yati dear? A little small bit?
         If there was no sayang she wouldn't be there, Yati answers.
         (A week now the Malay community has had their public karaoke erected by the entrance to the supermarket at Joo Chiat Complex, three dollars buying access to the stage for a blast of the favourite song, which is followed closely by the appreciative audience. A great deal of sayang, sayang, sayang nightly.)
         Through dinner, while the thinnest sliver of new moon hung bright in the western sky, the old Muslim Indian beggar with the walking stick did his rounds. This chap has only appeared in the last couple of weeks. There have been fair pickings evidently, because he was turning into a regular, especially weekends. The old granddad’s method was simple: being so tall he stoops a over the table with a faint shudder in his shoulders, hand out and fingers wriggling. What it was he briefly muttered can only be guessed. Something from the Koran perhaps. Quickly a coin from what looked like a Chinaman with a Malay scarfed wife. Immediately after a young lad with what must have been his mother took his time producing his wallet....
         Waiting. Waiting.  It wasn't the coins the young man was sorting. It was the notes. Not a two or five either. A red tenner, just like that. It was completely unexpected, though the old man took it very much in stride. No reaction of any kind. Not the merest flicker. No more than his due; perfectly appropriate. A fifty or hundred would have been met the same. This was much better than any profuse thanks.
         As usual the ang moh (Mandarin), the bule (Bahasa Indonesian) and also the matsellah (Bahasa Malay), receives no notice whatever on these occasions. Straight past the old Indian went. A half hour later a return round and the same thing again. (A Japanese friend reports that in Japan it was the reverse: it is only the foreigners who are approached by beggars. There is nothing to expect from the natives.)