Sign

Establishing the position with the dining companion diagonally across took a little while. On first assuming his seat there was no indication, as there could not have been. 

Motioning toward the vacant place, one of three, the usual out-sweeping open hand shown. Of course. Be my guest. Words to the effect may have come simultaneously. 

Diagonally opposite, not in each other's way, not even with the bag, pens, book and papers. Plenty room. Saved a couple taking up, or even a threesome. Three young chaps had eyed the possibility a few minutes earlier. That was the reason the bag was lifted from the chair and plonked on the table.

Despite having assumed the chair fifteen minutes later, there appeared a teh tarik in front of the chap immediately, seemingly without an order having been placed. 

Not especially remarkable, but relevant to what follows. 

Somehow too a quart of the drink had been consumed before the glass itself was noticed. As the next few minutes would prove, cat was the impatient sort. 

Shortly the watch on his wrist was indicated, then twice more for good measure. 

Many of the Indian and Bangla lads did not wear watches. Watches were redundant nowadays. Not in this case. 

Desker - Serangoon corner, Usman Restaurant, heart of Little India.  

Pakistani and North Indian predominating hereabout. A large mosque on the other side of the road up toward Mustafa, the locally famous department store that was truly a wonder, for those unused to the Sub-Continent especially. 

Bangla Park was the first side street behind (Lembu Road). A park of trees and paving, without grass. 

Opposite on Serangoon Road an open field awaiting development offered greenery and often drew the lads. Bangla Park, as the little square was informally called, drew many more, largely because of the provisions stores on the other side. Most of the Bangladeshi lads gathered beneath the trees; another long row formed along the pavement on Lembu Road to watch the TV serials and music videos from home that the shop screens turned outward to the park.

Rather surprising how overwhelmingly Sub-Continental. Chinese passersby were very sporadic, almost out numbered by Westerners. At Usman on the corner delightful naan and vegetable dips, four dollars. Throw in teh makes five.

For no apparent reason, after a few more sips of his tea, the chap opposite took the opportunity at a moment of eye-catch to state the position:

Mouth, tongue—zipped.

The hand may have passed over his ears too. 

This latter needed to be established presently. All very rapid. Flash, slash, chop—like a practiced fencer.

There had been no real attempt at communication beyond the initial offer of the table when the enquiry had been put. Perhaps there had been a casting of glance once or twice. Nothing specific. As usual, pen and paper preoccupied. 

For some unknown reason the man had thought it necessary to state his case, make a clean breast of it. The abruptness more than anything caused imbalance. 

Nevertheless, position could be comprehended without difficulty.

— Oh, I see. Understood. Never you mind.

Man had turned aside after the first part of the response. Anything further was pointless. 

The question whether there was any hearing hung uncertainly. Something might have been ventured, something found in the case of hearing. A pen tap at one point on the table pretty much established the case. 

The matter hung a little longer, until the chap enquired with a different gesture at the mouth for drink. 

There he sat over his teh, arrived well after his companion. Half through himself, and still nothing on the other side.

....It's OK. Fine. No hurry. Occupied with this pen and paper.

Lip reading probably useless in this instance. Within another minute or minute and half—more jitter of leg—another gesture in the same direction, this time indicating the watch. Time gone by.

The leg jittering was never actually at any point visible. More the referred up through the torso. Under the table it was hammer and tong.

Still no service.

Now there came an attempt to hail the waiter. This led to the direct enquiry: — The ear, give anything?

If there had been hearing something more might have been managed, some lip-rounded pouting. Something comradely found.

Rapid, flashing strokes. Zip again for the mouth. Ears: nothing there either. Thumbs down for full-stop.

All rapid. 

Effective communication. 

Again the concentration had been on the face. The waving hands only imperfectly sighted. Rising, swinging elbows, when normally the elbows played no role in conventional discourse.

It was the universal Bummer that did it, that established the case conclusively. 

Thumb down. Deaf as well as mute. 

The face had shown something, but it passed too quickly. A kind of momentary blanching. Everything too rapid. All the eye contact slid rapidly too. 

The chap was not seeking any kind of communication. The position was unavailing however you looked at it. A white man had freely granted a seat at table. The disability had been passed over without flinching. Unlikely that could be topped with anything further or better.

Waiter successfully drawn without words. Arm sweeping across the diagonal. 

No problem. Easily done. Don't mention it. Small service performed. 

The watch again now, tapped this time. Without calling them here, without insisting, especially during evening rush, you could whistle for your supper.

Didn't want anything himself, thanks all the same. Anticipated he might be asked. 

(At the Muslim eateries particularly one did not sit before another, even a stranger, even one at the next table who has caught your eye, without the polite invitation. Awkward Westerners could be hopelessly caught out.)

More than half through his teh. Only stopped for that, must away directly.

As good as his word, quick as a flash and leaving no time or opportunity for goodbye. Inch at the bottom of his cup. Perhaps he had cut the air again in single strike.

A Disobedient Maid

Page B7 of the "Home" section today in the Straits Times. B8 immediately following is the first page of the "Money" section. The two sections of the newspaper are now within the one sheaf of pages, with Obituaries/Sport beginning on pp. B14 - 15. The brief news item on p. B7 reports yet another death of a maid from an upper storey fall. On this occasion a 13th floor in Sembawang, an outlying enclave in the outer north-west of the island. Last week was the most recent previous case; up to that point the running toll had always been given in the newspaper. In this current calendar year the death toll of maids falling from the housing towers was running at slightly more than two per month. This morning's report involved a Myanmar twenty-four year old. Most of the earlier cases had been Indonesians, who number around one hundred thousand in the Singapore domestic helper sector. Presumably the suggestion of suicide is the reason the Straits Times omitted including the present case in the annual toll. Evidently there had been some kind of prolonged dispute with the employer, a mother of three with a wheelchair-bound father, who was the maid's chief responsibility. According to the employer, problems with the maid centred on defiance and wilful ignorance of instructions. Told to clean something or other, the young woman pretended not to have heard and walked off, according to Madame. The night before the maid was discovered at the base of the tower all had seemed well, even general Good night offered to the household by the woman. The employer had already asked the Maid Agency to take the young woman back. Until another could be arranged the maid had agreed to remain. No mention of window cleaning. It has been exterior window cleaning perched on thin ledges that have led to these dozen deaths of young women in service here in the last year. Window cleaning and hanging out the washing on the poles mounted outside the windows. In this case, when the maid was found absent the employer suspected she had absconded. Using the thirteen storey window for her escape, rather than the front door and gate (keys in her possession). The employer is quoted ruing the fact the young woman had not used the latter. Police are investigating the unnatural death.

Night Raiders

The trishaws often get a run around Raffles and the business quarter from the guests staying in the area. Within the shadows outside the Carlton on the opposite corner from the famous old hotel the men sprawl in their polished chariots awaiting the trade. Parading the panama before them immediately gives the fellows false hope. Most of the pedallers are middle-aged and some more advanced. How at their age they can push in the heat is a question; and a more serious one how the tourists can sit comfortably behind while they do so. One decent fatty a few weeks ago was overheard thoughtfully asking a struggling driver on an incline whether he and his partner ought alight.
         The karung guni—gunny sack men & women—can be seen pushing heavy loads of cardboard and aluminum day and night. Foreign workers, old aunties and uncles — rarely youth — mount the iron horse. Lycra lads and ladies flit around occasionally weekends, mostly along the more scenic and dedicated bicycle tracks; around Geylang aluminum and titanium frames are rare. Heavy, dark, squeaking iron is preferred in that quarter; oldies pushing through those streets wouldn't know themselves on the bright newer models. Helmets are unknown in Geylang and lighting rare. Warning bells on the other hand are essential. Some of the oldsters have been frightened off the busy roadways and need to navigate through pedestrians on the pavement.
         Perched atop the seat the granddad in his shirt-sleeves serenely sails by, erect and firm on his twenty-eight incher, a picture perfectly suiting the age and station. It is a posture that has not been seen on our own roads in many a long year. Grannies pedal harder; they have work waiting. There is never a pair, these are not scenic outings.
         One other common and unexpected pushie here rises out of the night shadows bringing a slight shock when he appears. In this case the conveyance is a newer model, somewhere near the midpoint between lycra and shirt-sleeves. On our shores the shrunken BMX-er carries cheeky young feather-weight rascals who hunt in packs and seek out hi-jinks. A different kettle of fish in the back-end of Singapore. Around Geylang the slight, diminutive figure riding the shadows close to the ground seems a familiar and recognized form. Sometimes here too the specter is out of his seat and thrusting hard on the pedals, reminiscent of the jockey approaching the post. On emerging into the light, however, one is confronted by creases and lines, jowls and sunken eyes, a Halloween mask of horror. It takes some getting used to even now, twelve months (almost) along the track. These are the sons of the karung guni or granddads in shirt-sleeves, getting on in years themselves, following the patterns of the elders at a short remove. The postures of the fathers and forefathers cannot be maintained on these wheels.

Union Bosses

Fifty dollar monthly pay rise for low income earners touted by the National Wages Council (NWC) here, following recommendations presented by the National Trades Union Council (NTUC). The increase proposed for those earning less than one thousand dollars per month. In Singapore there are nearly 300,00 workers who fall into this income bracket according to official figures. Cleaners and security guards, bus drivers and cooks, commonly earn around six hundred dollars a month. In some cases 12 hour days and six day weeks involved. These figures have been put before in earlier pages. On top of this proposed fifty dollar increase, an additional percentage increase would follow. 

         Front page news in the Straits Times yesterday, Sunday 20 May 2012.
         A good deal of attention focused on the low wage earners recently. Some commentators are concerned about possible social consequences a little further down the track unless the massive disparities in income here are not addressed. The Arab Spring brought up in the context.
         One further detail was interesting to note. It is deserving of highlight. 
         This is the first NWC recommendation for a wage rise since the year the Mighty Bombers won the first of its premierships under Kevin Sheedy; Bob Hawke elected Labour Leader and then PM the year prior; Ronald Reagan mid-term of his major acting role and Margaret Thatcher similar in her longer reign. Seventeen years before 9/11; twenty-two after the moon landing was the last year the National Wages Council in Singapore suggested a rise in the remuneration rate of the toilers.
         In that year of nineteen hundred and eighty four $27 was accorded, with 4 - 8% additional. A short quarter century ago plus (as they say here).
         In March of this year — the month, not the quarter — inflation rose 5.2%. (Ibid the same news report.) What was the figure for all the Marches since 1984 wasn't mentioned.

Geylang Serai

Over-flowing abundance again this morning within the halls of Geylang Serai. For the Saturday crowd the traders stock up especially and overload the shelves, benches and hanging rails, thereby shortening even further the narrow passageways. This has the welcome effect of concentrating the powerful aromas and vivid sights. The green leafy bunches in all the various forms hung like thick, luscious curtains screening the diminutive traders within. One chap seems to specialize exclusively in garlic, with a lesser line in boxed ginger. In another row toward the front a woman usually sits on a low stool patiently peeling garlic into a tub with one arm of a pair of scissors. In the crowd this morning she was no-where to be seen. Sighting the stallholder within his little pen surrounded by all the produce, hanging above and pressing from all sides, was like making a discovery in a sudden forest glen in ages past. Almost always a welcome discovery when the individual concerned notes the keen interest. In this glorious cornucopia inevitably more than half the produce remains entirely nameless; in a great many cases even differentiating the fruit from vegetables was not possible. A woman offering something that sounded like "okra" explained with gestures that the small, ovoid potato-like fruit it must have been simply needed peeling before being consumed. (Certainly not "okra".) Confusing matters for this particular observer, a younger Chinese housewife with good English — most were older Malays — wore a classic Eastern European peasant blouse of the sort sported by the former Ukrainian folk-politician Tymoshenko, before the hard men assumed control and jailed her: white with a high necklace spray of bright leaves and flowers, and ties for the high sleeves (bought in this case in a London department store). A curling spiral of green beans hanging on an outer rail, the husk blackening along the stalk where the pods had ripened, had no counterpart in our own temperate climes — the snake and this tube of nourishment came from the same celestial workshop. The man who dozed a week ago on the short dividing wall at his stall beside the delivery bays was at it again at about the same time late in the morning. On this occasion he was found a half metre back from the wall, slumped over one of his seafood freezers. A large cardboard piece had been unfolded and spread on the frosted glass top. In the heat of the rising day a thick layer of paper was perfect for receiving some cool for a hot, weary head. Once again his boy was up in a high chair against the adjacent shelf, games screen in hand; wife attending to customers. As it happened, standing there rooted to the spot and passing into a slight, heady trance, on this occasion the observer had come under observation. Further along the passage-way a short distance off, Mr. Rahim the street busker and troubadour hailed his friend "Harry". Usually the mat salleh in this area of Geylang becomes the default "John". (A staple item on the menu of the Indian food stalls is Roti John.) For his friend Rahim chooses something a little more fitting, a touch more elevated perhaps. And somehow what was perfectly and immediately understood was now confirmed by Rahim. Unasked, as if Rahim had guessed the interest and fascination, the sleepy-head was specifically fingered by the busker and troubadour and pronounced, OK, Good, thumbs up, a definitive nod. The sleepy-head was a bona fide good guy, a fine, estimable man. Coming from the street songster, a music man with a generous spirit who performed not so much for needed coin as to spread the joy, the judgment was completely trustworthy. If any confirmation was needed, the short, slight Chinaman — if there was any of the Malay there it was by personal choice — lightly tattooed under the sleeves of his shirt, a fine head of pepper and salt, warm, accepting smile, worn out these days after a life-time of toil before noon, the man was A - OK. Clear, decisive and assured judgment in such a matter from Rahim was all one needed; more than needed. Good to receive independently nonetheless. In another corner of the world they say for such-like men, Good like bread. Here they will have something of their own.

Matahari - Sun

Couple of ladies utterly out to it, collapsed on the Mr. T. T. table diagonally opposite each other in order to give themselves maximum surface. New umbrella still within its plastic sheath between them like a broad-sword of safety. One bag each on the table-top, another larger seated in a chair hard-up against the table. Unlikely that any thief would get away with something here despite the weariness and lack of vigilance. (Ladies, not a worry in the world, here in the Malay quarter particularly. Theft quite unknown. Saudi Arabia could not be safer.) Cheeks flat on the table-top and arms encircling, the colourful prints and scarves producing a picture of heaped fabric like in many of the shops in the quarter. When on one side the one elder raises her head the darkness of the skin tone surprises. The bright, vivid prints had kept this well hidden. A weary, bleary face, barely able to open her eyes. One blink does for her. On her palm, propped on her elbow, once more closes down. Seat beneath the fan mounted on the pillar beside the servery. In all that clobber, in the middle and hottest part of the day, good ventilation. Where they are from it is likewise hot, but there doubtless better arrangements are found against the matahari, the unforgiving sun. Indonesians from Batam most likely; there was very little sleep wherever it had been that night had found them. Corpulence and age against them; thorough practice in hardship. Disturbed by an adjacent table they are roused now, the siesta done. A finger pointing has the youngster digging a note from the purse within the bag on her side. Elder fetching from the goreng pisang stand — fried bananas, cheap fill for travelers. Off then to find somewhere less crowded to eat in peace. Busy here now and likely they're in the way.

Whole Fish

Difficult not to be abashed receiving a large whole fish, four veg., rice and curry on a heaped plate, same deal as always — three Sing. dollars. A blush impossible to hide. Dear Lord above, had to be ten at a pinch even at an out of the way, unfashionable street Eatery. (As the reader will recall from a couple of posts ago, some camouflage prudent for the Eatery and the personalities concerned here. And keeping in mind the conversion — approx. seventy cents Australian = $S1.)
         It was only when the plate was passed across the counter that the choice Iqbal had made was apparent. A whopper lovely from the deep briny depths.

         In small steps to proper vegetarianism, chicken and beef has been omitted here in Singapore — as Iqbal well knows. (Being halal there is no pork at this nameless Eatery.) Fish has been the weakness. Back on the Montenegrin coast fish was allowed on fast days, the "vegetarian" alternative.
         Iqbal well knew the standard order. There was never any need for directions: light-on with the bitter gourd; more of tatters; caulie and greens please. Usually the fish at the nameless Eatery was a small, stout fillet, quite enough with all the rest. Tonight from some unknown holt-hole Iqbal had produced a ten or twelve inch whole fish that needed to be laid diagonally on the plate. The orange-red glazed fishie straddling the beans one side and cabbage the other, staring mouth agape still from its last seizure. As usual the bed of rice was a bit over-done. No surprise there. Proceeding slowly to the table one hand might heft it all with care.
         After an apple and nut-bar for lunch in order to remain light for the exertion at the work-table, on this occasion the load was welcome. Still, Gee! Never before had a whole fish been landed at this (necessarily nameless) Eatery. Didn't know they did them. A paprika kind of glaze covering. Taragon perhaps, or curcumin. (All the culinary experts will know, if any such be reading these pages.) Underneath, sweet, soft flesh. But that was once it had been hoicked to the table.
         The plate always gets a good looking and estimation here from the other diners seated at their tables. No different on this occasion and an added cause of embarrassment. Who else would get so high a plate without asking specially.
         At the counter the plate got eye-balled by Ahmed before anyone else had a chance. Raised an eyebrow.
         — Easy does it. The fella can afford it, we can be sure. Out the side of his mouth in Tamil or Bahassa Malay more like to Iqbal.
         Iqbal would have none of it. The tone alone sufficient, clear as day.
         — Nah. Nah. They're OK these Australzi don't you worry.
         Green five, mauve two returned for the red tenner. Easy for Ahmed to see.
In the presence of another customer sometimes Iqbal surreptitiously folds the notes returned. No one is going to tick him off, not even the manager here. Perhaps the big-bear franchisee if he got wind of it. Around at the drinks counter there was a camera mounted beside the till. Strange that there had been an omission here.
         Standing to one side, Ahmed could see clearly. (The plate itself might have been made out from across the street.)
         Immediately prior Ahmed himself had let a couple of Africans off with five a pop for much less on their plates. Ten for two plates.
         While the plates were still sitting on the counter the African had asked how much. Quite likely he would have loaded up with more had not such a high figure been racked up all ready. And these were likely co-religionists.
         What was Iqbal thinking? Put his mate to shame for one thing. Abdul usually charges four for a less well stacked plate, let alone a whole fish. The fish alone had to go for five itself any time of day, customer happy to get it.
         Not so far as Iqbal was concerned.

         Is it the newspaper left each night after supper, Sports pages for him and the main for Faisal for his English learning program? (The latter has been counseled: just an item or two that interests regularly each day. The Dr. Khan Paki nuclear benefactor — side-lined briefly for the sake of the foreign backlash — about to now make a run for head of government. That was yesterday. Today the prostitution ring in England organized by the south Asian immigrants. Slow, careful and thorough, with a dictionary. Keep up the vocab. list. An IELTs test is a waste of money for Faisal at present. Even six months ahead is too soon.) Iqbal makes do with the EPL photographs and some of the names of the stars and goal-scorers. The local Malaysian League secondarily. Iqbal is not dreaming of Australia or Canada. Never could he pass the test for one thing.
         On the basis of that small courtesy of the newspaper giving this concession more than six months now entirely off his own bat? Does not stand to reason. It's not as if a line of communication has been opened with Iqbal. All transactions and interactions on the basis of a dozen shared words. One packet of cigarettes presented (perhaps guessed as the baksheesh he declared, rather than the story of a friend's leaving behind in the hotel). Likely too Iqbal has been informed the Australian has been holed up in a hotel room all by himself, more than eleven months now. Hardly a need of charity. Iqbal makes his own decisions, by his own lights.
         The poor African lad had returned to the counter wanting serviettes. The curry makes them essential. Surprised when Iqbal sent him across to the Cheers shop. The guess is the embargo island-wide on serviettes in the street Eateries is a PAP - LKY initiative. On the one hand it keeps the city clean. Give-away tissue would only be blown through the town and clog up the water-ways and drains. At the same time, a little industry created for the ancients, the cripples, the deaf mutes. With a bit of enterprise, sizing up the market, buying in bulk and selling individually (usually three for one dollar), these misfortunates which the government would otherwise need to support, become almost self-sufficient. If some aluminum and cardboard was fossicked on top of that they could live on clover pretty much. As Lansell here is brought to conclude occasionally, there is something to be said for a benevolent dictatorship (dynastic oligarchy more like).
         Thank you Iqbal and all the boys. (No hard feelings Ahmed.)

Briyani

Breaking a vow not to write about food in this survey of Sing'pore, necessary brevity. Couple of Indian lads, nice looking boys, mid-twenties. Same baby-blue company polos, same skin tone and fine, thin tracery of beard. Hailing from the same village back home, or else close. Here they sit at the Mr. T. T. table bent forward over the single dinner plate set between them, taking care not to encroach on the other's portion. Two hands working forks; turns taken gesturing with the others. Smiles, touch on a wrist, warmth and ease. The pair don't have many opportunities to pause like this. One on the right quickly pulled up, passing the plate over. Enough, he’s had his fill; neatly cleared his side. — Saffron-yellow Briyani easy to tell from a distance. Colour is the key here: the blue, yellow, the rich, glowing young nut tone. Left could be a year or two younger; perhaps the one that has followed here. An illumination from the pair as if a lamp sat on their table. Nightly many of the tables here at Mr. Teh Tarik set aglow by the people’s circle of inner light running around the gathering, all the members across the generations. Lads away quickly, no time to dally, only a few crumbs left behind. Briskly marching along the aisle, the youngster with a hand resting on his shoulder. Brothers in arms. A quick bite. No doubt they have other tasks to perform, the working day still ticking. It’s only eight after all. The construction crews and road-work gangs here can be commonly found in the trenches and up on the scaffolds under arc lights, mainland Chinese, Indians, Banglars. A brief, striking scene in its simplicity. A reminder of the past for the dispossessed. One fears one cannot be easily understood.
         Cinnamon, cardamon, saffron (or tumeric), Basmati rice... there are many varieties and supplements possible.

Carnivale

The Saturday throng multiplying all the captivating colours and aromas at Geylang Serai this morning. Tight passageways and halls barely containing the whirl of ceaseless movement. Even the old women in their robes and scarves know the most delicate dance steps that enable them to dodge toe-trodding. A Chinese chap pushing an unloaded trolley across the main entryway by the lifts carried a song in his heart. Out loud it was given, for himself first of all and then incidentally to all around. As so often at the market here, the sense of having intruded on the most fabulous, miraculously choreographed movie-set. A fellow at a back stall that traded in refrigerated seafood used the white-tiled partition, perfect height for a shorty, for some serious shut-eye. Noon ticked over, perhaps he had been on his feet since four in order to reach the market on time. Overnight how much sleep did he get? not benefited with aircon this chap, one can be sure. At the rear by the fridges stood his wife packing; their boy in a high-chair at the bench doodling. No customers in their back corner beside the delivery bays. That there was no faking one knew from the start the sleepy-head gave when one of his knees buckled, causing chin to knock on tile. A jolt almost audible, rattled his teeth for sure. Still, the weariness was more powerful. Shut-down directly again, lid closing like a clam. The trolley-pushing carouser had stuck on the catchy refrain, — Da da da, Da da di, repeated, easy to discern even for a foreigner. The smile was undirected, arisen entirely from the uplift of song. In Montenegro they have a nice saying for the purity of song. Ko pjeva zlo ne misli; Who sings has no mind for evil. The karaoke-loving Malays would agree entirely. One occasional wheelchair busker aside, any kind of amplified music rare at the market.

Melaka Town

Having the hennaed beard of Sheik Mokhtar, the haberdasher, look you in the eye from close-range was different to the screen presence. In life, within the walls of the heavily-stocked shop, you were the freak and oddity. You could see it in the Sheik's fixed stare. Even seated he looked you straight in the eye, an uncannily tall man. Possibly he was expecting some haggling from the likes of you. The Sheik stood all of seven foot tall. Your request of size 44 was nothing to him; it might have turned the heads of the middle-aged saucy wenches back on the island who extrapolated proportions; not in the shop of the Sheik. A day or two ago on the first visit the Sheik had been between colourings. Suddenly, when he returned to close the deal on the sandals (as feared, the sole coming unstuck third day back), the horse head turned chestnut. Five ringgit reduction was the best that could be got from the Sheik.

The first reconnoitre of the old town the other side of the river near the Backpacker had been less than promising. Most of the old shop-houses were closed and looked to have given up the ghost. Those that were trading catered to tourists, of which there were a great number, either rock 'n roll or classical/opera luring from the street. On the other side of the river it was another story. 

The city had not won its UNESCO Heritage award for architecture alone. On this side of the river Melaka town was a living museum of shopkeepers continuing the line inherited from their grandfathers and beyond. Despite the seeming numbers on the street, the wash of tourists was not such as to encourage restoration and modernisation. If that was coming it was not yet; not on a scale to seriously concern. On this side of the river the various enterprises still served the local population: carpets, clothing, food, footwear and repair, stationery supplies.

There were two stationers along Laksamana Street, both miracle exhibits. In other circumstances and other locales one would need to pay to enter behind such doors. In the first establishment, signed Henry Waugh, the old Indian woman said the owner had run the shop for seventy years, going to be. The cupboard, the desk, the shelving provided confirmation, if any was needed. 

A woman of her sort might have run a tea and cake stall somewhere up in the alpine country back home two or three generations ago. The reflex to give her a peck on the cheek created an awkward stand-off. On the near side of the desk her friend helping her pass the time had just emerged from her parlour with her whitened face and coloured hair. 

A theatre piece: one needed to deliver one's own lines impromptu somehow. Within a church one moved with less restraint and awe. 

The second stationer actually traded and ran a business. A rep. from KL had landed on him, two or three customers thronged, the telephone rang ceaselessly (allowed to ring off more than once). The piles, the stacks—you needed to pogo-jump at a couple of passes—the serried ranks. People sandwiched in-between was too much. The heaps, the masses and bundles, all in a perfect order of arrangement. The poor Malay lad—the owner was Chinese, as were the majority in the precinct—needed to be told firmly but not unkindly to look out back again. It was there. This—showing the article again; not that—showing the comparison. 

The man knew every last corner of his shop. Boxed board games filled the highest shelf near the register, one facing out for identification. Computer accessories were studded in-between the exotica. A young Indian girl with her father had managed to find some art materials. The hurricane that seemed to have blown through had in fact done no damage. Everything in its place. For all the recent additions, grand-dad coming back would not take long to find his feet here. 

Around his entry-way an old tin-smith in the street behind kept a variety of caged birds. Four or five high cages in which a bird flitted around and sang a little. The floor of the shop was earthen, a little loose on top from carting the brassieres, the storage racks and shelving that had been made. These items stood inside the door-way; the cages hung without. Bent at his work the man would have heard the movement of the birds as well as their occasional calls. There was no sign of the chap, though the traces were clear. 

At the end of the street, thirty metres from the smith, a giant tree had drawn birds of the air, large black crows and a brightly coloured parrot that immediately hid itself within the foliage. One of these birds filled the street calling from on high. A few doors down a general store kept its birds in crowded cages, chooks of various kinds, doves, pigeons and parrots. An old turkey had the largest cage to itself; nothing like large enough for comfort however. The big bird bent its head onto its red neck one side and on the other the tail protruded through the wire. It could not have been economical to keep the creature cramped like that. The man looked to know his business. A young Malay couple was getting short shrift attempting bargaining over some chickens.

One can get lucky occasionally. The last evening an open back-kitchen a way off from the Friday night tourist stalls on Jonker Street drew attention. In fact the only entry-way here was through this back kitchen, where three or four cooks worked. This was a family business which must have been operating another seventy years, going to be. Here old granddad sat cross-legged on two red plastic chairs mounted one on top of the other, showing the smiling Buddha countenance to no one in particular. On the shelf beside the door-way was mounted a large snow scene of reindeer and bare overhanging tree branches. For balance on the other wall something native to the region: geese under a waterfall, the first flowers of spring bloom on the trees. Fruit, vegetables, fish on ice lay in containers on all sides. The tightness of space made for a furnishing with the materials for the meals. 

Up on his feet the old man paced slowly a few steps one way and another, hands clasped behind his back, radiant, enquiring more by gesture than words. One of the women of the house came out to adore the young baby at the largest table. There a proud, younger granddad held court. Over the years he had been a regular at the place and told the juniors a little of the history. There had been seven daughters in the house. This liability had been overcome by all appearances. The smooth functioning proved it. In front the chaps at the fires had been sons-in-law; the boys serving brothers and cousins. The latter alone had the English. 

The sign showed a Teochew establishment. (Chaozhou in contemporary form, eastern Guangdong. There were large Teochew Clan Associations down in Singapore, a recent spat between different branches giving unwanted publicity.) 

Before the meal was done one of the sons-in-law had been called in for the telephone and must have spoken the dialect into the receiver. It was clear the man did all his telephone communication with the fixed line; the hand-phone was not for him. In the films of Spencer Tracey, or perhaps Jimmy Cagney in the decade before, men and women held the telephone receiver like the Teochew son-in-law that evening in Malacca, looking up into the corner of the room smilingly, the beam radiating, lifted chin showing a long polished jaw-bone.

Train: Johor Bahru - Malacca

How narrow the gauge became clear at Kulai where we had to wait for the south bound KL train to pass before we could proceed. Less than an hour out, second stop. Three or four minutes of reversing and backing into a siding.
         The standard gauge was known from boyhood by the line at the end of the street: too widely spaced to achieve the standing leap from one rail to another no matter how you bent your spine and lurched.
         Here, even the mature man, even a short-legged Malay, could manage effortlessly.
         It brought back the Balkans too, where the colonial powers—both Ottoman and Austrian—only built narrow. Sufficient to get the raw material out quickly and cheaply.
         Yellow painted country stations with ticket offices built to local scale, fringed by colourful shrubs and flowers. Whistles and green and red flags employed by dark men in smart sky-blue uniforms.
         By some luck of seating, on every stop the small, nuggety dark man stood directly outside the window with his flags resting on his shoulder, a momentary smile raised when the guard in the rear gave his answering whistle.
         The train’s whistle came at the crossings where other dark and blue men manned gates that had halted traffic.
         At the first three or four stops the driver and crew, including the ticket inspector, dismounted and sought a bench for a leisurely smoke. Older men and younger together like in a silent film in a couple of places, the flowering smiles given from each to each like the proverbial nosegay.
         The dark skin, black hair, the deeply coloured uniforms made the smiles blaze.
         Even at the first stop, not twenty minutes out from J.B., the men all came out and disported on the benches. Given the interval, there was not a great deal to say to each other, but the pleasure in company again was evident.
         Palm oil plantations endlessly. In preparation for the trip an earlier traveller had mentioned the palms. News reports had of course come over many years.

         The tree-rows seemed an assault upon the land, like a Napoleonic order of forces; a virulent pestilence. Agribusiness writ large. Remnant jungle showed itself only here and there against small cultivated fields.
         Almost nothing of houses and certainly no kampungs. At one clearing suddenly, interrupting the jungle and the palms, a golf course of what might have been only one or two holes. After so many months in Geylang Serai, and then the two trips to Johor Bahru, it was not possible to figure a Malay golfer; this was something that defied imagination.
         At a work-site along the track one of the men had covered his motor-cycle with palm fronds. On the ride home the metal wouldfail to sting.
         The housing must have been further out. The traditional Malay kampung houses in maroon colouring only appeared in numbers from the bus along the last stretch from Tampin to Malacca. The flow of air underneath no doubt gave relief from the heat and storage from the rains was afforded.
         Apart from palms and jungle the short, squat, broad-leaved trees may have been rubber, with hessian sacks strung up in the branches.
         It took a time to recognize the durians. As far as one could judge there were no plantations, just the odd tall, slender trees here and there hung with small clusters high up against the trunk. In the first instance the impression was of some kind of wild bee-hives.
         Around Tampin the first livestock in a twelvemonth almost, scaled-down, mostly humped young cows. In Singapore these were the breed mounted on the walls encircling the Hindu temples—not mythic creatures after all.
         One common building repeated numerous times along the rail-line stood out from the green.

         No-where was there evidence of churches, mosques or temples. Christians, Muslims and Buddhists had not left an impression along the line. What one saw was Hindu temples, perhaps a dozen stretching from the further outskirts of J.B. and on northward.
         Some were ornate and elaborate, with the sci-fi like figures in pastel tones. At one place there stood in a small clearing close by the track a kind of dolls-house size shelter, roughly constructed and covered with what looked loose corrugated iron on top. The structure had been raised on four posts; a kind of farmer’s out-building. Under the roof there were two animal figures at either end, the larger with the appearance of a horse, when it must have been a cow or elephant. The other smaller couldn't be made out at all. Wall-less shelter; almost certainly the statuary was inanimate. Within worshipers could do little more than prostrate themselves in that space.

         The train ran less than rapidly; indeed, in the first hour and half it seemed no more than jogging pace.

At minimum one dozen small temples for the ghosts of the rail-line and the earlier plantations. The Chinese coolies had been employed in the tin mines.

Supertrees Wonderland

Another item which cannot possibly be allowed to pass. If one may be able to save a single, solitary soul, the effort must not under any circumstances be spared.

Yesterday an opening for the media at the Supertree Grove here, the chief feature of the new public garden development called "Gardens by the Bay", within the premier Marina Bay precinct, which is crowned by the Marina Bay Sands iconic tower formation designed by the world class architect, Moshe Safdie. (For an earlier blog last month on these Gardens see "Super-nature in Singapore". The MBS Integrated Resort has of course mesmerised this author and his many readers a number of times previously.)

Media people can be seen in the photograph accompanying the report in this morning's paper taking pictures of themselves on the twenty-two metre high Skywalk bridge linking two of the tallest Supertrees. The latter are now more or less revealed as thin concrete towers— champagne flutes had been uppermost in the designers’ imagination—clad in vivid grape-coloured vine-type netting that gives the impression even in the picture of branches, tendrils, vines of course, spider-webs and nautical ropes. Perhaps the tone is more violet than grape, the lighting naturally significant.

No sign of an escalator as yet (as at the Fort Canning Gardens — see again "Super-nature in SG" and the reference to the photograph on the web). Likely within the stem of one or two of the Super-trees lifts have been fitted on this occasion; and within more than one or two tree-towers given the projected five million visitors expected in this nature reserve.

General garden entry here will be without cost. The aerial walkway on the other hand is scheduled to be $5 a pop—gantries at the lifts; or finally escalators again if numbers entirely overwhelm.

Conservatories, Children's garden, Heritage gardens—maintenance costs will not come cheap.

Light shows, fireworks, a mini-waterfall, a lily pond and a spring water system for the Kingfisher Lake (difficult not to drool), all cost. Sponsoring from a bank and Kikkoman soya sauce manufacturer thus far. Responsible community-minded corporations and businesses can be expected to follow the lead.

The chief exec. of Gardens by the Bay, a Dr. Tan — as is the current President of the Republic (a former Jesuit boy), together with all three other challengers that vied for the position late last year (the Tans clearly the number two family-clan in the country), Dr. Tan explained the need to off-set running costs.

Said the doctor (in the common phraseology of the Straits Times), quoted in this morning’s newspaper: "Our public demands colour and colour costs."

Never a truer word spoken Doc. Colour never has come cheap. Painters have been known to kill for a particular stone or soil giving inimitable colour. Factor in the digital age, the last generation on screens here immediately after the bottle. A demanding, discerning audience alert to fakery.

People of Singapore, tourists, casino high-flyer visitors, lovers of the arts, lovers of nature and colourful entertainment, perhaps you might try a lovely teh tarik and nasi g. at Mr. Teh Tarik in Geylang Road opposite old, soon to be demolished Malay Kampung possibly. Five star recommendation by this author. About the same price, $5. Ambience, the people parade, families, the fashion show of traditional Malay womenfolk, all free. Will satisfy more than your belly, I guarantee. Open 24 X 7. (The colours of the women’s scarves alone worth the price of admission.)

Restitution

This must be known. Real names cannot be divulged for reasons that will become obvious. The matter needs to be revealed for the sake of truth and proper honour, for due and fitting acknowledgement. Another, added measure of the place and people here, the community and its ways, provided by one more brief tale late in the piece.
         A pavement eatery here in lower Geylang, Geylang Serai more or less. Upper Geylang is the real, remnant Chinatown in this country (not the tourist mock-up closer to the biz district). This is lower Geylang, Malayu-land — the original, indigenous, native population of Malays more or less; now Singaporeans; displaced on their own ancestral territory by the canny Chinese. An accident of history of the usual sort. North, south, east and west is Malay land: Sumatra, Java, Borneo, the Malaysian peninsular. Two hundred odd million across the Indonesian archipelago; twenty plus mil. Malaysian. Ultimately there is little to distinguish the two groups in race, language, culture, religion. Islamic, conservative, lovers of song, full of laughter, strong family-community bonds. Head-scarves, facial hair for the men, dry (no alcohol), unofficial multiple wives here and there, madrassa schooling here and there, superficially patriarchal. Resistant to modernist pressures; thereby retaining some of the beauty of the former lost world. (Sad to report, the Chinese are mostly far-gone, just as in HK and Macau no doubt. Catastrophic birth-rate decline, loss of identity, ancestral language, culture, community. The very "success" done them in.)
         The chaps happening to serve and cook at this particular eatery in the middle of micro-Malayu land in contemporary arse-kicking Singapura, hail from Malaysia; ethnically and culturally Muslim Indians. Tamil one of the shared languages; Bahasa Malay otherwise; some Arabic. Little English. A wonderful motley crew. A full twelvemonth almost, nothing but good cheer witnessed amongst them in what one would ordinarily consider trying conditions: a hot kitchen in the tropics, twelve hour shifts in thirteen day fortnights, families far distant, wives and children. Some of them do not have Skype. (Thankfully phone calls no longer prohibitive, even for chaps on about $4 per hour.) Much of the detail is known by regular readers.
         Numerous, countless meals taken here over a twelvemonth (almost). In the early phase both lunch and dinner. Weekends often still both main meals. First name basis with the majority of the lads. The towns they hail from, composition of families, the various conditions and concerns shared and discussed. A comfortable, warm, understanding community. The lads bunk around the corner, literally a stone's throw from the hotel. They are in dorm accommodation, probably four or six to a room. Aircon unlikely.
         To underline: nothing but good cheer among themselves witnessed in the full (almost) twelvemonth. Jokes, covering for each other, tables of a dozen when a particularly enticing EPL game is being televised, very careful, circumspect, respectful and gleeful shared admiration of the fairer sex, smokos together in the corner (with the manager joining), back-patting-hugging-slapping.
         Pleasure to behold. Straight from the Workers' Solidarity manual, revised and updated edition.

         Over the course there has been a little turn-over of the staff, re-rostering, change of shifts, new boys added and others relocated. In all cases fitting replacements with little sense of change. The culture remains if the individuals alternate.
         The recent lad serving has almost no English whatever; on a par with the chief character now needing introduction.
         Let's call him Iqbal. More than six months now Iqbal has been cooking and serving. At first the language limitation in his case seemed like it might present some sort of problem. A garrulous, joker type, suddenly unable to communicate with one of the locals, one of the fixtures. An Australian. (Not an American. Perhaps Iqbal and all the others could have coped even with an American of the less objectionable sort. Fair wager.)
         Nothing to worry about. Relations fine and dandy with Iqbal too all the while. Mother an Indian; father either Pakistani or Afghani. The English imperial-colonial cartography needs to be taken with more than a modicum of salt when entering this field. Careful treading in these descriptions. It helps if one understands these things.
         To add just a little dash of perhaps needed colour and spice: Iqbal is the husband of two wives, up in a town not far from KL. Two children with the former and another with the latter, no doubt younger. A good deal required to provide properly, and on $4 per hour.
         The men here spend next to nothing on themselves. Four dollars an hour with accommodation and tucker thrown in sounds a bit better. A smoker Iqbal. No alcohol, no entertainment other than that created by the men themselves. Foreign labour gangs far from home is a well-known contemporary story. This writer has the benefit of witnessing at close quarters the labouring migrants of the sixties and seventies back in the land of Oz, the meat-workers, assembly-liners, miners and the rest. An entree card into the circles of these Indian-Malay lads here, as well as the Banglar boys, the mainland Chinese and the rest.
         Someone of the earlier crew must needs have worded up Iqbal about the Australian. Alright he must have been designated. Not easy to comprehend, granted. One can get lucky sometimes. With the language limitation it had not been possible in Iqbal's case to achieve one of the better instances of rapport, ease and flowering confidence. Someone must have worded him up. How else to explain the generosity and keen, full, earnest consideration and concern? (There was nothing else to explain it. A single, solitary time a packet of cigarettes was presented to the man.... left behind in the hotel by a friend. A weak little gesture of thanks in the face of all the overwhelming, endless kindness and consideration.)
         The newer lad landed who had the same almost non-existent level of English as Iqbal was a little younger, perhaps early thirties. Like so many of these men, manner, hair-style, assurance, life experience gives them a great deal of maturity. A thirty-five year old Indian, Malay, Pakistani, Bangladeshi is something like fifty-five in the Western-affluent comparison. (No offence intended.)
         The new man had a slightly turned eye. In Australia such a misfortune might have the afflicted slink into corners, retard schooling, never a chance with the lasses. May as well hang himself near enough. Not here. Numerous, countless times, hunchbacks, cripples, the deformed, the sightless, not to mention the ugly, behave here as if they are god's children too, claiming their place in the sun, the inheritors of the earth no less and not shy about it.
         This chap not lacking in spunk like all the rest of his tribe. Wanted to joke and was not put off by the language barrier. You got machine-gun rat-a-tat bullets of Tamil at a guess straight in the face at the counter from this barrel-chested boy,  witticism by the look of it, ready or not. You couldn't cope? You needed translation? Well poor you. Look to it. See what you might manage.
         No need be unnerved. This sort was known too. Right-O buster. Give back as good as you get. Leave it up to him if he wants to try more Tamil or Urdu to cross this bridge. That's OK.
         The first few times serving he's had to ask the elders how to charge this fella, this regular and fixture in the fancy straw hat with the black ribbon. Didn't take him long to realize this wasn't any ordinary Joe. ("John", is the common designation by the Chinese stall-holders. A form of sweetened roti or prata is even given the name Roti John.) If he hadn't realized all this on his lonesome, someone had given him the word. This fella is OK. We don't charge him hammer rates.
         Three or four times at the counter he had turned to Iqbal or Mohammed. What do I do with this guy?
         Yesterday for some reason he had ventured all on his own. Indeed, when the choice was made at the display, the man had warned, fairly and openly, well before time, That squid is three dollars alone. You want? Up to you.
         Instead of the usual three dollars for fish, rice, three veg and gravy, here was a bill for Five Dollars.
         Fair enough. A red tenner handed over. Green five returned.
         Conversion: we are currently at approximately 75 cents to the Sing. dollar. For a full twelvemonth (almost) one has been shamelessly lunching and dining on $Aust2.25. Add another 75c for a t. t. (kurang manis - less sugar please).
         Coin presented; correct change given. Next.
         No further word. Not that any was necessary of course.
         Tasty meal. Mighty fine. Eaten without company on this occasion, none of the regulars happening along. The street and passers-by a drama better than any TV one can remember. Deluxe movie-going.
         Late in the piece, plate cleared and newspaper spread, unexpectedly Iqbal coming past. A robust muscle man, sometimes Iqbal is called upon to attend to something the other side of the counter. The awning; a delivery; help clearing after busy periods. Adaptable and willing, never a complaint from Iqbal, as with all the others. Where these lads come from there is no opportunity for complaint. Run along when called.
         Iqbal coming by. Not the usual Howdydo? On this occasion something particular.
         Not understood immediately.
         — Fight donor today????....
         Ah-hem... Smiles… Hmm… “Fight do…” Oh! Yes, finally. Gotcha my boy. Understood. Five dollars!
         —... New boy... No ... (understand was the gist).
         Oh dear me my good Iqbal, please, no need worry. All OK. Good. Cool bananas. Please think nothing of it.
         Shake of the head... Choked smile. Next time.... (something further).
         Next time was dinner the same day. Iqbal at the counter. Chicken, beef, mutton usually avoided this twelvemonth. The conditions of agricultural farming no better here than anywhere else. Sometimes wholly vegetarian the choice, which makes Iqbal wonder. Fish? he will ask. Always suggesting add-ons. Never taking sikit-sikit/little-little seriously; not for nasi or anything else. For no other reason than Iqbal's dishing up the grub seven days a week, 15 - 20 kms. walks have needed to be taken up in the evenings to burn off at least some of the carbs. Once it's on the plate it's gotta be eaten. Brought up right.
         This time a different fish, nasi, the three veg and curry. The other day, unasked, Iqbal had pressed Indian soup. Seemed to be onion and pepper mainly. Tasty. Delicious. Same as every day/night — Three dollaro.
         In an effort not to be presumptuous, usually a tenner is proffered at the counter. Almost in every single case at this Eatery a green five and mauve two rendered as change. Once or twice Ahmed (let's call another) has forgotten himself. Once after forgetting himself Ahmed actually apologized later.
         Making up for the faux pas committed earlier in the day by the new boy, the machine-gun, rat-a-tat Tamil guerilla, this time Iqbal clears out the register of mauve Twos: one, two, three and four.
         That's evened the ledger. Squared things up.
         The language limitation leaves a strangulating sense of grossly inadequate thanks and appreciation. Flabbergasted dismally. This is restitution. One has certainly not deserved such grace and consideration. How possibly?