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.