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.
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?
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?
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