Battle Stations

Effective Interviewing and Interrogating Techniques

         Principles of Kinesic Interviews
         Investigative Interviewing
         Al-Qaeda perhaps. Annals of Guantanamo, renditions in Egypt, Bulgaria, Bahrain (was it? or was that unconfirmed?)? Kashmir?
         No dear Reader—the clean, orderly and whisper-quiet streets of Singapore still.
         Gobbledegook you think?... Not likely; not to this earnest mid-twenties lad with note-paper beside his pile, sharp pencil at the ready. The library doors have only been open an hour. Hardened types exclusively that time of day. Monday mornings usually graveyard quiet. 
         This is far from a quick, flying consultation; young chap settled for careful research. Lime-green thin white striped polo, blue jeans, white track-shoes possibly that morning creamed. (One should not judge from the cover—books aside!) The job interview late week or next perhaps; the first of the rounds in a highly competitive market. Never say die; try, try again; do your research, leave nothing to chance, any kind of advantage to be gleaned.

         U.S. publications of course, hardbacks in lurid violets and yellows. (Rather in the vein of some of the spirituality guides.) Chaps with PhD's from Harvard Biz School, Bristol and Manchester, in Management, Human Resources, Corporate Governance, Social Psychology, Behaviourialism, Bio-mechanics, Functional Economics and Eugenics. Heads of financial institutions, corporations, social policy units, the churches more than likely, penning their life experience in their twilight years in order to enlighten those just entering the race. Lads like this vying to get their first toe-hold on the bottom rung. Wouldn't matter too, too much if the surface of the earth wasn't shared. The titles up here on the Arts/Soc. Sciences shelves on the eighth floor enough to curl even Asian hair.

Ah-ChOO!...

Completed here yesterday Primary 6 Spelling Competition sponsored by banks and the English language Straits Times . Twelve year olds. The crucial five words that separated sheep from goats, in ascending order to the final elimination:

         Unequivocal

         Mausoleum

         Patois

         Espadrille

         And the last clincher that, after almost twelve full months in Asia, in a Chinese city-state that has no equivalent for the practice, the word that in written form completely bamboozled this writer:

         Gesundheit

         Early morning, the heat, lack of a start-up cafe, the supermarket delivery truck bulldozing sleep before seven (one could go on...), the word simply would not parse.

         How could this be foisted upon innocent young children, even Chinese schoolkids who had been cramming since kindergarten ( - not "garden" properly)? (A couple of pages back from the Spelling Comp. report an article on this "unnecessary" practice.)

         In English there is of course no equivalent to gesundheit, therefore rendering the eager-beaver Anglo-lovers here doubly disadvantaged (even those of lawyer fathers and Chinese Tiger mothers).

         Furthermore, in Chinese culture, refined Chinese culture as it is exhibited in Singapore, the sneeze itself does not exist. It has been outlawed by polite society.  

         Here among aspirant middle income classes the practice is at all costs to stifle and choke the sneeze. A free, full and unrestrained sneeze has not been heard here in nearly a full twelvemonth. The twisted contortions that endeavour to nip a sneeze in the bud here are frightful to behold. And dear lord the looks a chap will receive for the free-flowing at-liberty AHCHOO!...

         The poor down-trodden populace immediately apologetic even for the severely truncated form. A bus full of strangers, a cafe setting, the library study areas—in the midst of strangulation and gasping for breath croaking out the deep regret.

         Excuse me!

         During a time of dengue fever or flu epidemic did the English administration here possibly administer the rattan? One is forced to wonder.

         Ge - sund - heit and lieb to all readers and lovers of words.

         One can only imagine the global torture in the colonies had the Germans won the war! Gotterdamurung in the schoolroom far from the centre. Acres of minefelds.

NB. And "patois" very briefly. This author is not prepared to join the sneering chorus arrayed against the populace here for their altogether interesting, inventive and highly entertaining S'inglish. Ney, non and nyet most emphatically. Far more deserving of ridicule are those at the top of the greasy pole here, grandsons and daughters of poor indigent long-suffering coolie navies, flouncing around the place in their Ox-bridge corkscrew-up-the-rear-passage Queen's Ascot, Windsor and Balmoral contortions. Now come now I beg you most kindly.

                                                                                                                     April 2012, Singapore

Sleeping Rough in SG (2)

The old, deeply, thoroughly skin-blotched Chin-Malay man taking his seat here by virtue of the cup he has purchased. Moving to the seat he passed a young, thick-bodied lass who looked up at him with recognition and familiarity. While the man sought his table the woman held her look, head uplifted, bright-eyed and very fixed. Just at the point before he began slowly and deliberately lowering himself into his chair, the man returned her look, thrust out his hand and pointed downward.

         In a flash the woman had risen to her feet, fairly leapt up. Just this sign she had looked and hoped for. Previously she had been seated on the parapet wall here alongside the eatery, beside the tables by the stairway directly across from the Joo Chiat Road intersection. The large lidded barefoot hobo who usually sleeps nights out at the Haig Road bus-stop is presently stretched there on the other side of the plantings. Mornings he can usually be found here a hundred metres away at Geylang Serai. No doubt the early commuter traffic drives him from Haig Road.
         The Chin-Malay might be in his late sixties, if not passed beyond. Short, stocky, often with a money-belt strapped over his belly. There is not much salted away there you can be sure. This is Struggletown the precinct around Geylang Serai. Still, with food cheap, a roof over the head, the battle cannot overwhelm hardy old-timers like himself.
         The mixed features in the case of this Chin-Malay man are fairly plain, though this ang moh is far from any kind of reliable expert of course. The skin condition can be seen quite commonly around this bottom end of Geylang, usually on the men. The women had perhaps taken better precaution against the sun, if that is the genesis of the condition. Like the others, this man's skin is fairer, with the strips and blotches that appear to have been peeled away in rosy, porcine pink. Two symmetrical patches have been taken from above each eye-brow; as if a thick band-aid had been pulled there. The rest of it was uneven, irregular splotches over the cheeks and possibly chin. Of course one could not peer too closely.
         The man always shows a gruff exterior. Every right granted. This might have been the reason why the woman on the parapet was completely uncertain whether the sign would come. Until the finger had pointed the only movement was with her eyes, upraised and carefully tracking. The man might have inclined his head and nodded; instead of which the heavy hand raised high, finger showing, Here. The allowance involved could hardly be read in the gesture — only in the woman's attitude and reaction.
         Almost certainly the woman is a Malay, or more distant Indonesian, who has made it across to Batam, from where she awaits her periodic opportunities here. It is a twenty dollar ferry ride to Singapura and usually takes a number of hundred to flash in the wallet at Customs for means of support — in the case of Malays or Indons. Early - mid-thirties. Most of the Malay-Indons gals who gather here at these Geylang Serai eatery tables are of that range; a minor group younger.
         — Revision upward of the old man: he had gotten up to purchase something and now rounded back with his bag of goodies. No doubt whatever he has cleared his sixties. Might even be nearing mid seventies possibly. The further raw pink patches are all around his mouth, large blotches across his cheeks and showing through sparse white moustache and goatee.
         The women here, the Sumatran and Javanese Batam women, pick up work at the market and hawker stalls. The local old men pick up the women when the fancy strikes. Many of the women sleep rough, here in the dark corners of the market, nearby car-parks and similar nooks. An invitation to one of the HDB flats is a godsend. Though Indonesian administered, Batam is in fact an outpost of Singapore, full of industrial estates and drawing cheap labour from throughout the region. More than a dozen have gathered here now, all with large shoulder bags. The rates in the kitchens and helping in the stalls is around $50 per day, eight or ten hours, sometimes twelve. Better than in Batam and far better than what is on offer in their native kampungs.
         On the old Chin-Malay's thinning scalp the same sharp pink showing through. The skin must be tender to the touch. Perhaps because it is morning there is no hat. The old man would need careful loving. Another woman has joined the table in his absence and he has pulled up a seat in the aisle, holding court a little.
         There are three or four Malay-Indon lads amongst the women, younger labouring men who are not sexual partners, or not of any limiting kind. Often these young men are darker than the women, who likely use the ubiquitous whitening creams. (An $11.5m industry in Singapore on 2007 figures. Oh for the fair alabaster of Ameri-Euro film and advertising!)
         The other, older hobo who possibly collects aluminum and cardboard like the karung guni, though in his case casually and erratically, came over for a word with the sleeper on the parapet. This man is ten or fifteen years older, well into his sixties. Carefully, almost on tip-toe and with a smile on the approach, he padded across. Gently, in some quiet way that was mostly screened by the ferns, he had awoken the youngster. Words were exchanged, the elder maintaining throughout a warm, avuncular smile. Lately this chap has begun chalking messages in block letters on the pavements at traffic lights around the place, a local Eternity man. One fellow who was asked suggested it might be his own name the man was penning for the by-passers.
         A remarkable baby-face the younger hobo always shows stretched out this bottom end of Geylang, broad and wide lids large enough to carry the largest coin perfect for shuttering out the busy street. In peaceful repose on one of his campaigns, the battle-hardened Roman Senator. A handsome face, especially closed-eyed, carrying strong hints of the vulnerable boy beneath. Once or twice the man has been bought teh tariks unbidden. Never does the man seem to beg. The busy places of congregation draw him like many hobos. In the heat of the later afternoon he sits on the edge of the footpath in front of the supermarket taking advantage of the cool blast streaming from the doorway. Later with the sun further down he takes up a post around the rear of Joo Chiat Complex in front of the jeweler. Unlike the Chinese, he is not down on his haunches: flat on his bottom propped on an arm, legs curled around him.
         The first time he was bought the t. t. he was unexpectedly found up at the Tasvee tables in the middle of Geylang Road, well outside his usual orbit. When the drink first landed in front of him he shook his head — he had made no such order. Earlier he must have bought something himself as otherwise he would certainly have been moved on. Like anywhere else, you don't win a place at table without purchase here. Following the waiter's pointer the sighting of his benefactor brought no sign of surprise; nothing to suggest recognition from a kilometre or two down the road. All taken perfectly in stride. A raised forefinger and nod quite sufficient acknowledgement, duly given. It was the beginning of the relationship. A month or two later closer to home he had been offered another teh that was declined. Again in the same form:  No thanks. Thank you. Others buy him drinks and food of course. The Malay community do not let their people starve. If all else fails the local mosque up Joo Chiat Road puts on lunches. We get on roaringly now, confirmed allies and friends. No great shows needed, words and a shared language immaterial. Almost never is it possible to get by the Roman without the salutation being raised, the unique and impressive greeting: the forefinger upright, perfectly perpendicular, chin-high and fully extended, in tandem with the double nod — once and the shorter second. The Chairman of the committee within the chamber beautifully channeled: We will get to you presently, sir. Just a moment if you will.

JB Lottery

Hardship back on these JB streets over the Causeway here everywhere you look. The Indian girl at the eatery opposite the old, decommissioned railway station more than a little incredulous at the sixty cent tip. (About 20c Australian.)
— Are you sure?
To the other waiter who has come up behind her the girl raises the three silver coins, using a word similar to "baksheesh" to explain herself. The owner or manager possibly by his bright eagerness.
A Muslim Indian. English more than serviceable; then Bahasa Malay, Hindi and Urdu (she must not take undue credit here: there is little difference between these two, she informs) and "Chinese". In descending order of competency it seemed. The kind of girl from a county town back home possibly, if they still exist — dairy or tatters — who never got out much, shy stay-at-home with large, rounded limbs. Back over the Causeway the Malays wear a great deal of make-up, lip-stick, long, extended lashes beneath their scarves; not the Indian Muslims, this girl here the same. Nothing shy about this lass however. Perfectly firm and settled, clear-minded. Not far off there will be an arranged marriage; as in the case of Yuan back home, that decision assumed by the parents relieves the anxiety over the daunting matter.
A second chap appears selling little leaflets that he makes flap in his waving hand, rather like a street poet in aspect. The first fellow, the one who preceded him, had more ginger, was more infused with his mission. Still, like the inspired poet, this fellow too is keen to find his audience. And there are plenty interested. These sheets however hold numbers of some kind rather than verses, in a grid arrangement. Some boldly marked; a series below in smaller font.
The guess was mathematical odds for the lottery numbers. Or else some kind of necromancy-numerology in the same vein. Largely a Chinese clientele was involved. You don't have to guess about a casino in Muslim majority Malaysia. Not likely.
McDonalds ads in Bahasa blaring from the screen at the back near the counter; then later the surprise of Gillard reaffirming the national interest in Afghanistan. (The Malays might have their own thoughts on that matter, Madame PM.)
This second chap's selling technique is simply perching on the pillar at the head of the pedestrian crossing and jitter-bugging the hand holding the sheaf of papers, B5, printed cheaply over in here. (A writer friend from back over the Causeway has all his work printed in JB.) In some poses it almost looks like the fellow's catching a non-existent breeze: fully stretched long arm with elbow pivoting from the knee. Highly practiced. The chap earlier, shorter, same age (early sixties) dashed across the paving here from one likely Chinese customer to another. Both of the vendors were likewise Chinese; the same as two more later on the walk back nearer hotel Meldrum.
Across on the other side of the road could only be working girls under the veranda of the bank on the corner — prime position likewise and good, soft lighting. A second and then a third joined over the hour or so. There was definitely no beat there three months ago. And even though they can't be made out from a distance, you can bet the ladies concerned will only be Chinese; not Malay. Indians work a little further along, about a dozen closely bunched.
As it turns out, the guesswork was slightly askew. These street pedlars are in fact selling advance notice of the day's lottery results. In the morning the lucky numbers will be printed in the newspaper. Cost: RM1.30. If you want to know the night before: 50c. from these chaps on the corners. (The ringgit yesterday was around $Aust0.30.)
Someone in the ...."underground" of the government regulated lottery lets the cat out of the bag a few hours early. Ten cents the informant — an obliging Chinese stall-holder selling leather goods — estimates for paper and printing costs. About three cents Australian. Possibly slightly inflated. It's a living of some kind no doubt for at least four men on Jalan Tun Abdul Razak here in Johor Bahru.
... Opposite two of the working girls had perhaps hooked. The one remaining, the first, the tall, robust one who had appeared before the others, turned out a daunting lady-boy, raw and stubbled, with little masking or adornment apart from the dress. Impossible to intrude on her for details.

NB. Even with an Australian passport, only 90 day stays permitted in Singapura without a work pass or the like. This is second-time round in Johor Bahru; twice previously the exit point was Batam, Indonesia. The intention had been to take the bus early afternoon direct to Malacca. Unannounced, the bloody thing was canceled. Intending the train in the morning from here; almost double the time of the bus, but with scenery, kampungs and small country stations en route, perhaps worth it.

Season in Hell

Trickles under the tee well before eleven. Exhaust and hot air from the buses at the stop not helping.

The big-bellied Chennai waiter at Har Yassin was in full agreement, raising the subject himself.

Back home in the South of the Sub-Continent they had three-monthly seasons, the man explained leaning on the table.

Hot—sun in the form of his raised palm, fingers and thumb out-stretched and pointed. (Easily mistaken as sign for rain.)

Cold—shiver of hunched shoulders.

And Rain— a descending, tinkling veil dropping from on high. (Man was surprised the Malay hujan was within competence.)

Unaccounted for was the missing quarter. It seemed simplest to allow undefined transition between the other seasons for the remainder.

There was something rather different in Singapore. All year round here the fixed, bulb-like incendiary palm.

Fingers high and arrowing—once more the Chennai waiter gave the display.

There was no, What to do? accompanying. No agreeable head-loll. The onerousness here on this island could not be accepted with good grace. It was over-powering.

Mid-April. Locally the peak heat was taken at what was formerly the durian season. In more recent time durians arrived twice yearly—mid-year crop and then November-December.    

Like many corpulent men, the Chennai waiter walked with a hint of barrel-carting marking the progress: Steady as she goes, slowly in rhythm with the shifting load within. You wouldn’t want a spill.

The bulk was difficult to turn.

When the Chennai waiter was called from behind first came a craning round of the head. If full-turn was necessary the Chennai waiter made a complete stop, stilling the weight within, before pivoting his hips.

– Ya, whatsit?

Chap not grossly obese; not by the local standard. Hundred kilograms at one point seven two-three.

Like many corpulent men, in motion the Chennai waiter turned his arms inward showing soft, open palms behind. Rocking slowly along.

Twelve hours hanging on his feet under the unforgiving eye of the sun. Add the self-made eagle-eyed compatriot owner counting coin for the teas like the worst caricatured misers. Far from home, two year contracts—extended five times—occasional paid sex and in the midst of his native food more or less. (What with transport and refrigeration, nothing like as tasty as back home. Bland bryani & fries.)

Pitching into his fifties and mainly a good Muslim, no smoking or alcohol in the Chennai waiter's favor.

A level dozen large mounted fans indoors in the main eating area provided some relief there. More in the kitchens for the prata-maker and on the other side the rojak fries. Even cheap, easily replaced Indian labor could not endure otherwise.

Terming it arse-dragging would be unjust. Much of the circumlocution in Singapore is necessarily economical. Shirts & ties/heels & blouses hurried between offices and malls.

Blue-eyed Singapore

Another full page ad more of the same in the Straits Times. The pornography of palatial living in one of the towers being raised daily. (24/7 night and day in fact in the construction sector.) Certainly selling daily in the S.T. Just like back home in the broadsheets there in fact. The tabloids don't pick up that revenue stream. At a guess those papers here tout hair replacement and colouring, Viagra, $40,000 cars and coloured contact lenses. Meanwhile middle managers and wannbe entrepreneurs are herded to all things chic and shiny never mind the costs and torments.

Here an aspect of this particular kind of sell needs highlighting; specific to this corner of the globe.

Familiar the smoky blue and grey tones that have long denoted true style and splendour. The motifs would be the same in Paris, N.Y., Tokyo, Sydney and L.A.: faux industrial shades hanging over the kitchen display bench; mini-cacti; stencil art 1.5 x 750 on the wall in the kitchen nook. Stainless fridge and stove. Outsized Samsung screen one of a pair (the second would be mounted in the master bedroom, reigning over the inactive couple—fertility rate a concern). 

Nice irony the wooden sea-chest like the granddads hoicked from China on the passage out. Wickerwork baskets.

Tone, arrangement, added flourishes.

Kick off the heels and pour yourself a glass. You've deserved it.

The lass on the leather knees-up, legs folded, flicking a magazine ordinarily like the Bond vixens used to do were this still the sixties. Bond—James Bond. In this case lap-top. 

Caught watching cartoons while the hubby had been detained at the office and pleasantly surprised by the camera in her private domain.

         — Well, hell-Oh!

         Luckily the lass's done her hair, recently renewed colour, facial, lippy.... Just one thing. Odd. Why was the woman Australian? Or English? Or West Coast surfing U.S.A.?... French, if not Parisienne. Why?

         Expats made up a tiny percentage of the population in Singapore. Caucasian perhaps point 0 five per cent of home buyers. What was going on? True, the Straits Times was English language. But was Lianhe Wanbao carrying a substitute Asian face? Not likely.

         Put together with the whitening creams at every corner of every street; the surgeries for double lids. Add the elevators shoes. Rolex watches from the snow-capped Swiss heights. Polo and golf. They race horses in this climate, run at night as in HK. Add the ubiquitous reproductions of the Eiffel Tower, Big Ben and Westminster and the Union Jack. The blue contact lenses. Add the forcing of the colonial language.

Semiotics in Singapore

Another reminder here at the Mr. Teh Tarik tables Sunday afternoon: these lasses cannot wink to save themselves. It is simply beyond them and that's all there is to it. The men too possibly, come to think of it. Just a little tiny oddity, hardly worth remarking upon perhaps. Communication is rather different in Asia, understandably. And here in the global capital of signage surely to God—at least where government programming is concerned—the more subtle indicators and hints deserve attention.
       Some months ago now the wife of Stretch here who used to be the chief t. t. maker provided the first example of the double-eyed wink. A cheeky, quick lass from Johor Bahru over the Causeway, like her husband, the thought had been that it was an ironic, taunting piece of malarkey she was engaging in. Coming by with someone's dinner on the tray, preoccupied searching for them among the sea of tables, she signals big-eyed, Blink - Blink in passing, nice smile accompanying. Most certainly the gal wasn't on any kind of make of any kind. Rather the contrary, the double flash seeming to indicate: — Yeah, what? Or: — Ha! to you buster.
A short-arse, no-nonsense, all-on-her-own-terms gal who walked tall. Swung her elbows, chin upraised. Nothing to look at, but such a real good sort. Anything you wanna play she's got an answer. The sly hint aimed at her of something to surprise us this year maybe from the recently married pair—her nice rounding couldn't be missed—adroitly smacked back down the ground past mid-off for four. Well, good-O to you, you busy-bee nosey-body — a slap to go on with. Moon-face up-tilted even further and elbows powering locomotion.
       One evening she paused briefly in passing, perhaps having made the double blink on the approach, and suggested she might be taught some English when there was time.
       Definitely not on the make, no way. But what did she mean precisely? Did she really want to learn? Had Ishmail and Mohammed told her of the passing to them of the newspaper at the end of the day? The scribbling wasn't a secret. Everyone for miles around had seen the licking of pencil nub and scratching away staring into the treetops. 
       The double-eyed wink was more than a blink of course. A kind of owl's calculated shuttering. Once, and then it might have been again sometimes, slow and deliberate. There is a vague memory from back in childhood of people from the old country being similarly inept, unable to bring off the TV and movie wink of an eye. Someone in the circle had remarked upon it back then and the curious thing had been heard and stored. Something that had passed between adults; not meant for children. These people from the old country came from places where winks were not the order of the day. They used other signs. One of the signs of severity from childhood years was the slide of the eyes with no more than the hint of chin movement accompanying for Get off with you now. Away and no more. Mother had a mean look of gravity, inherited from the patriarch her father. Her mother was a push-over, get anything past her; not the father she loved so deeply. Granddad Rade lorded it with dagger looks of utmost authority. All the poor suitors of mother’s that followed could never achieve a presence to compare, not even the handsomest man in the village, rich men down on the coast, armed gendarmes in their resplendent uniforms. A long time ago. In many different ways Singapore recalls one to the past.
       The other Malay girl, a bit younger, out the back with Stretch's wife at the same stall, gives the same double wink. She's clearly unmarried, needs to tread carefully. Enjoys some by-play, but can't allow herself to get caught up in anything inappropriate. (Hasn't missed the various dining companions over the term.)
       Sunday arvo the Indon gal was just being neighbourly two tables away. Not a youngster she. In order to get her friendly message across she repeated her slightly comical wink two or three times over the course. A little hinted nodding so as to be properly understood. Later when her friend rejoined her both in unison beaming. It's not yet clear whether Filipinas do the same. Likely under the influence of the Americans they can do the conventional like the rest of us. And it should be noted whilst on the matter, there has not been a Chinese wink either in these ten full months. Of course, the wink has long gone out of fashion back home too. It used to be very common. Almost certainly the Chinese have never had it in their repetoire.
       Always good to receive. Thank you my dear girl. A Bintan lass, over for a holiday she said, with some help from the Jakartan "sister". The Indonesian visitors here often have no English whatever. This pair had only just struck up together that afternoon. The Jakarta gal has worked here fourteen years, all with the one employer. A nice cuppa shared.
       One can't go past the Mr. Teh Tarik tables, the Malay quarter generally. The whole of Geylang really. These people welcome the newcomer as one of their own, especially if that newcomer meets them half-way. Interest, curiosity, patience and fit regard are rewarded handsomely with invitations to table where the most intimate personal stories will be divulged, all manner of things. The Malay cannot sit at table with a plate before him or her without immediately asking when you come up, Makan? Have you eaten? The Chinese in Geylang at least can sometimes reach back to the same etiquette. (Our expat poet and author Ouyang Yu revealed in a recent memoir the old standard greeting in the homeland before everything was up-turned: Ne chile ma? Have you eaten?) The tourist haunts highlighted in the guides are something different.
       The thumb-middle finger snap for Pronto is not on either here. Not in existence. They have chop-chop of course, Get on with it! But that doesn't seem to hinge on gesture.
       As previously remarked, amongst polite society—Singapore National Library patrons for example—sneezes are choked; nose-blowing avoided, certainly full trumpet. (Unfortunate snot-sucking there preferred.)
       Something that we on our side don't have in the repetoire is the signal flaring of nostrils. This one is a beauty, a sight to behold. Better than fine dining, adventure white-water rafting, parachuting onto Saharan sands, the lot. Only received it once or twice here, but Golly-gee! Unforgettable. Indonesians almost certainly. A little wide-eye with it, but nothing to remark upon. Clamp of jaw, tight mouth, in-take of breath required. And the remainder a couple of pumps for snorting. One, two... Man oh man! Not exactly beautiful. More like, Take me where you will, do what you must. To put it plainly, a Come-on. Whadaya got? You in or not? Part challenge; part provocation. Very effective. A very pretty gal probably would never employ it. But then a very pretty girl mostly never has the spirit of some of these bold, saucy ones. Amazing to recall. Circumstances hardly matter. There she was, got off for the bus. Perhaps we'll meet again; or not. Shame. You better believe it.
       How mightily was Baudelaire shaken on the roaring sidewalks of Paris by the encounter that never was, all in an irretrievable instant? And that was then.
       One last well-known sign. Down South at home perhaps not so well-known because of our comparatively small number of Indian immigrants and tourists, at least until recent years. Case in question is the Indian head roll-loll-swivel-bobble and shake. Stands for a range of responses: Yeah, sure. Indeed. Agree entirely. Very well, no need say more. A kind of sub-Continental comme ci, comme ca. Usually from the listener while the companion is hammering away at something or other. Needs reassurance to keep his head of steam. No point jabbering without the lights on across the table. Affirmative, unanimity, you got me in complete accord. The wide toothy smile accompanying more often than not; certainly the look of approbation. A good deal of what strikes an outsider as childishness involved, almost mental incapacity, imbecility. Takes some getting used to. The Indian component here — by far the smallest part of the demographic; but at the same time quite something to behold concentrated in their own quarter — only just beginning to come under notice. (Incidentally, it's possible this lolling is solely male. Thus far the only observed cases and instances.)

Super-nature in Singapore

Nature: how to get some when your greatest and primary triumph is the conquest of the inhospitable jungle you have tamed (not to say devastated and replaced with concrete); when in the oppressive conditions of your climate your chief battle always remains against the prevailing forces of heat, humidity, flooding and water scarcity? (For understandable and forgivable reasons, the former PM nation-builder, Emeritus Senior Minister hovering-in-the-wings still, Mr. Lee Kwan Yew, identified air-con as the pinnacle of human ingenuity.)

Like everywhere else in the first world, nature was missing in the state of Singapore. Here the clawing back of some modest portion arrives with an ambitious government project whose first phase alone has cost a billion dollars.

In the opening paragraph of the chief story on page one this morning the Straits Times blows fanfare for the government initiative:

"Curtains go up on the first phase of Gardens by the Bay..."

The follow-up detailing on page 8 with larger graphic was headed: Oh, what an oasis.

Further swelling pitch follows:

"... (the Gardens are) expected to pull in five million visitors a year — (and) will debut with two cooled conservatories among its highlights..."

"... the Gardens complex will add lustre to the menu of attractions in Marina Bay" (where a huge, two year old casino complex that is already out-stripping the whole of Macau is the outstanding landmark).

"Entry will be free, but admission fees will apply at... the 128m aerial walkway that wends through the Supertree Grove."

A bucolic paradise in the making that promised to be far superior to the steamy original.

The gardens were being constructed in stages on reclaimed land near the artificial bay that was created as part of the casino development a few years earlier, the chief features the cool-houses and the twelve "..."Supertrees", concrete-and-metal structures resembling trees". 

In the graphic the small forest of Supertrees stand in the form of marbled champagne flutes with the hint of pink bubbly within. 

The tallest of the structures, at fifty metres, would house within the branches "a casual dining space at the top (that) can seat 450 people" — a kind of tree-house eyrie from which real arboreal canopy below could be viewed; and on the other side the Marina Bay Sands straddled by the Skypool. (Architecture has been let fly in Singapore well and truly, caution and humility to the winds. Dan Liebeskind was responsible for some snaky, optically leaning condo towers out at Sentosa, behind Marina Bay, that would split opinion along the Dali-Gaudi-absurdity faultline.)

Super-nature no holds barred. Within the two cooled conservatories, named the Flower Dome and Cloud Forestrespectively, botanical specimens from other, more fortunate locales and climates cultivated and displayed. This was presented as the conservation part of the project.

Beside tourist spin-offs, recreation, conservation and education for the locals from the new park, the government included in its ambitions the hope that the younger generation might be weaned from their screens and games by the establishment of such a reserve. Nature full-bodied, in contrast to the false colours and graphics of software engineers.

One recalled here mention of the 200 year old trees from various parts of the world that Sir Stamford Raffles himself planted up at Fort Canning Park. Possibly these trees do not stretch fully fifty metres and it would be only invisible bird nests housed. Impressive and spectacular giants by all reports nonetheless. In the interests of full and frank disclosure, this writer has not paid his respects as yet. The trees themselves are not alone the draw at Fort Canning. Fort Canning is situated on a little rise not far from Raffles Hotel, in the heart of the city. It seems the rise cannot be an artificial mound created by excavation fill. Rather, the elevation at Fort Canning seems to be a true and genuine hillock. In order to make the viewing of the famous old fort and the trees less arduous and taxing for both locals and tourists something like a thirty metre escalator has been built into the mound at Fort Canning. 

The first time word of this was received there was a suspicion of leg-pull. Not the case. 

A pass on Sir Stam’s specimens perhaps, but this implant at least cried out for investigation. Photographs online suggested quite something.

Google Escalator @ Fort Canning Park. Gleaming stainless steel well maintained, riding a hill of luscious green. Two pairs of Victorian street lamps light the passage for nocturnal visitation. (The argument at the Mr. Teh Tarik tables has been made for elderly and disabled access. Well, if it wasn’t for the shopping mall echoes, maybe.) 

Only a hop, step and jump from the library.

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