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.