Took some foot-slog to find Hotel Meldrum despite googling beforehand and sketching a map. Close to the Immigration Checkpoint, JB City Square & the waterfront. Reviews online turned out reliable. Four star seemed a bit rich; nevertheless, at RM100 it was $10 cheaper than Joo Chiat and double the size of room.
En route condo estates in the west of Singapore like encampments in acquired territory: Bukit Timah, Bukit Panjang—where Yati was holed up with three of Ma’am's kids in the room with her, while Ma’am sleeps peacefully with Sir—and Woodlands.
Astonishing the number of churches, strategically spaced liked the McDonalds, which might have been lesser in number. Attached to schools, free-standing on the highway with large parking allotments, one modernist example with a nautical flourish for the Latter Day Saints. Strange the motor car-dedicated ministry.
Second feature: along more than ten kilometres of heavy equipment roadworks, the dark labour gangs in clusters down on the grass in the shade, relieved of yellow boots and helmets. There must have been over a hundred young men staring out vacantly, the look of noonday cotton-fields in the States a couple of generations ago.
The No. 170 was a nice surprise, one of the rackety old things from which the Brits used to construct TV comedy.
There was ample evidence of a good bit of vacant land remaining on the west of the island for more condos and shopping complexes, another golf course and zoo if needed.
Confirmation too Singapore was the world-beater in the beautification of road-side verges. Neat, regular trimming over the length and breadth of the island.
Past the Sikh temple (a significant Indian community in this corner of JB). Right by the mosque loudspeaker. Under the shaded walk-way one glass-fronted shop—many of them beautiful old-style magazins—held a range of blonde wood coffins.
Nearby was the joss stick shop. It had been passed on the first round searching the hotel. Candles were available there, the smallest in their holders perfect for remembrance.
An hour in the afternoon the light burned beside the dead TV, and again bedside in the evening. A flame helped fix the mind: four years now that mother passed out of the world.
Supper was taken on Wong Ah Fook looking down the crossing to the old railway station. Around 6 a small rush-hour unfolded. Bus conductors called out beside old wagons in deep reds and oranges, even older than the 170. The rapid dusk softened features and accentuated colouring,
All the while the drama of an approaching downpour like the swelling sound-track beneath a film sequence.
Back a way the first beggar in his mid-sixties had both arms off at the elbows. There was a stump for a leg too. It was on the stump that he rested, while the other leg was crooked. A free-standing posture like no other.
The look in the eyes had prevented closer scrutiny. Once the man could be passed with mouth agape and pocket untouched; not on the return with the newspaper. A boy ahead showed how it was done.
There was no receptacle. It was the shirt pocket, already well stuffed. At home the man would get help; or else from the young chap from the stall where he waited.
In the evening in another case it was the adaptation of footwear that struck.
Footwear was a misnomer, as this second man had no feet. On one stump there was an over-size track-shoe fastened somehow back-to-front. The other limb was longer, its end encased in a sheep-skin that had been crafted for purpose, shaped in a kind of flute or ski form. The first gave the kick along, while this second slid over the wet roadway.
The man had been spotted crossing the intersection. Five minutes later he suddenly appeared at the side of the table after having somehow rounded from behind.
Both these men appeared at least part-Chinese. Earlier a few Chinese had appeared here and there. As evening fell there were none.
Walking up for dinner and then again through the course, the realisation struck more and more what an oddity Singapore was with its Han majority. How large was this Malay sea in which they were marooned, after not much more than a thirty minute bus ride.
Winding back slowly on the return, the night market was found. The girl said it opened every night, 7 - 2am. The snippets of bahasa Malay became useful; delivered with the right timing, the stallholders were charmed.
A downpour it proved indeed, just when something called the dry portion of the monsoon had been proclaimed down in the south.
January 2012
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