Language
lessons:
Papi Ayam. Ayam is
chicken in Bahasa. (Bahasa Malay chiefly under consideration here; Bahasa
Indonesia varies somewhat, though much is common.)
Nasi Ayam is Chicken Rice; Briyani
in Tamil, the long grain basmati, invariably comes with chicken—ayam.
Nasi Goreng is known. Goreng
Pisang, Fried Banana, hugely popular as a snack and often in place of a
real meal. At Mr. Teh Tarik and the other Indian-Malay Eateries the Fries
stands do goreng pisang, goreng kentang (chips) and goreng cempedak
(jackfruit).
Diet a serious problem in the Malay
community, as in many others.
One doesn't know bananas in the South—nor
in the North of course. In these middle parts, these are bananas like they were
in the old days in the Garden of Eden. The size of them at Har Yassin on
Changi Road lately something to send a shooting shiver up and down a cheeky
lass's spine. Cheeky Lia—from Dahlia; syllable extracted from her Indonesian
name—made the inevitable joke about receiving one that satisfied all her
hunger, no need for anything more, thanks all the same. Little slip of a girl
like that, yet no blushing.
Lia's Chinese boyfriend—husband she
sometimes called him when he put the claim of proprietorship on her—didn't know
one of his friends was a Papi Ayam. Sightings of the man first of all by
Lia on Batam. Suspicions raised. Soon enough word got out the man was
recruiting—a Papi Ayam.
Wasn't really ethical trying to hook
Lia knowing the boyfriend; a friend of the boyfriend. But no harm done, nothing
came of it. Lia didn't tell either. Later the boyfriend found out about his
friend's line of business, but not from Lia.
Knowing
the scene down in Lorongs ---- and ----, the Indon beats, Lia wasn't at all
interested. Lia wasn't naive in any case. Big money, holidays, new clothes—not
even a kampung girl from the far distant rice-paddies fell for any of
that blarney.
Instead Lia got by here on house-cleaning
when there was work. Camped out in a room in Jurong—not exactly cheap at $15
per night on the floor, shared with four others, one shower and WC. In Nagoya
City, Batam, it was $100 per month in a private room, shared kitchen and other
amenities with about a dozen others.
Word of Era in the carpark beside the
hotel surprised Lia. At first the pointing finger had her assuming a room in
the hotel. How did she afford it? she wanted to know. When the carpark was
established the surprise was the police. How?... Naturally Lia could guess the
police would do regular rounds of carparks in Singapore. Street smarts were
important when your livelihood depended upon it. The on-side Security Guard at
the car-park Lia couldn't have guessed. Old Malay chap not on the make; did it out
of simple kindness. He gave the word when the rounds were done; when it was all
clear; usually eleven o'clock. The police were otherwise occupied by that hour.
(Lovely horse-headed old fellow closing seventy; something of the traditional
law-man in the face he turned toward the table when he was hailed.)
The JB Malay lads working as shop
assistants in the Complex slept upstairs at Geylang Serai. Another security
guard sympathetic to his fellows, no doubt. (The foreign workers carting the
long cardboard sheeting over their shoulders months past had been guessed
right—good for softening hard, unforgiving surfaces such as the concrete at
Geylang Serai.)
Lia doesn't possess Era's
"little-little biznis" capacity. When called Era cleaned houses too;
cleaned aircon elements for a tech when he called. But on top of that one could
do a bit extra if a sharp eye-out was kept. Era and a pal, a biznis partner
male, came over on the ferry together with large bags stuffed with kachang
garuda—peanut snack-packs. On Batam 40c per item. One of the stall-holders
here, a hawker up at Geylang Serai, finally negotiated with the pair 3 x $5.
Not much. Little-little. Something. A pair of shoes at Lion City Plaza carrying
a $40 price tag Era knew she could off-load in Batam for $60. Not a big profit;
not to be sneezed at either.
For Lia, Era and all the Indon gals
the same pestering at Immigration each time:
— You working in Singapore?
— No, shopping.
— Shopping? What with?
Flashing five hundred did it. Not a
problem, worked like a charm. Risk-free for the authorities: either a good for
the retail sector; or otherwise the labour market.
The local shark provided the cash, 10%
per 24 hours. The day before departure see the man to collect the moola. Once
Customs was cleared in Sing’ same-day
returned. (These fees naturally added by the Papi Ayam for the girls to
work off. Oftentimes the Chicken-Daddy and the Shark were feeding from the same
trough. Fact, could be Jaws and Papi-O hadn't been separated at birth.)
Cleaning a flat brought $50—
seven/eight hours, depending. (The nice Filipino lad at the Net place who turned
a blind eye to the printing charge, collected not 10. Not 9, nor 8 or 7 an
hour. No. Four flat. Good English, moderate IT skills. Ten/twelve hour days,
depending.)
Even so, Era, Lia and such girls would
not stoop to the chicken-yard. They would rather go without. They are used to
that. Survivors.
The Malay man out nights in front of
the Islamic Converts building opposite Geylang Serai wasn't difficult to pick.
The fold-up stretcher in the bag beside him rather a give-away.
General cleanliness, frank smile and
good nature raised the doubt. But no, after midnight there somewhere near-by he
had a possie away from the traffic and the lights.
No dew in Singapore and the rainy
season, the so-called monsoon, lasted no more than a fortnight this year. The
surprise was that the man was an ex-cop, on a pension of $1300.
Like so many others, in a spirit of
full and frank disclosure, Mr Yousef gave the precise figure immediately and
unasked. Colleagues of his in the Sixties got lucky when Christmas Island,
where they had been posted, passed from Singaporean to Australian sovereignty.
Immigration, citizenship, passports all falling into their laps. Now excellent
pensions and large houses over there.
Twenty five years Yousef had been
separated from wife and family. That was the other surprise. Not all of it
living rough however. A second marriage in Indonesia provided a refuge in the
years of sere. (Jakarta in this case rather than Batam. Many men Yousef's age remarry,
or—Don't tell the authorities!—take a second wife on Batam, a forty-five minute
ferry ride away.)
Transferring pensions was the problem.
How can you trust the authorities? Yousef didn't explain which; perhaps and
likely both. Here in Sing’ citizenship was possibly put at hazard; there in
Indo money simply siphoned, go try get it back if you can.
To and fro then. The weather was on Mr
Yousef's side.
Geylang Serai,
Singapore 2011-2019
NB. This piece was written in the first year of the
acquaintance.
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