Ciggie-break at the Thieves'

The Thieves' could not be approached now without a certain amount of trepidation. Last part of the walk down, once the canal had been crossed and the first figures on the fringe sighted—the dark men in the gutters along the side-street and the others at the parked vans—a little wave of apprehension arrived. Irrational. A certain attuning and readying. Had the Thieves’ been banished from their place, sent packing overnight and no more about it? At the local by-laws office a ruling issued against the disorder, the litter, the unwelcome display for international visitors in the heart of the city? A stroke of the pen and no more about it.

The authorities lacked nothing in promptness. The market had been moved on a number of times; because of a re-development another removal was due shortly.

            Each time the canal was crossed and the entry approached an underlying panic.

            Once the turn was reached and the Thieves’ and their wares made visible another kind of concern took over. Earlier it had been mixed with the former; now when the position was clarified the other anxiety, reminiscent of that in younger days before a sporting contest, gripped and brought some queasiness.

            There could be no substantial surprises now at the Thieves'. What was in the offing at the Thieves' was well-known. Many of the figures had become familiar; one or two exchanged greetings and the sisters at the turn always smiling warmly.

            The same trepidation each time.

            One walked the gauntlet at the Thieves’ simply passing through the long upper passage. Pace was immediately adjusted and careful treading. The path was perhaps three and a half or four metres in width, the crowd forcing one to pick one's way. Bicycle riders came wheeling slowly, some mounted, elderly stumbling along. The goods heaped-up and scattered as often as arranged spilt onto the pathway.

            Since the first dozen visits there was not enough strength for a survey of the entire market; the main thoroughfare perhaps accounted for a third of the whole. The main thoroughfare was more than enough now.

            Coming again to those regulars and their wares flooded the brain. Too much to receive even in that shortened segment. 

            Neither the Kopi shops nor the buses or streets gathered such a concentration of this particular class and generation, this cast of characters. The past and its radically other ways were presented at the Thieves' Market, and even more ramifying fate and destiny.

           Recalling Tarkovsky through Geoff Dyer's new book on Stalker one wondered whether even the great man himself would have been able to capture what was on display at the Thieves’.

            This was the other side of the trepidation: how to possibly deliver some part of this mostly silent drama? It was a daunting challenge, one that could not be avoided. Inevitably one would fall short however the task was approached. Where to start? How to capture the smallest portion? A good deal of what was delivered here would have escaped even Tarkovsky's favourite cinematographer. Turning the camera on the Thieves and their wares would also ultimately be a film about God, as Dyer quotes Tarkovsky exclaiming on his pass through Monument Valley in the U.S., where he bemoaned the desecration of Westerns filmed in that location. (John Ford included presumably.)

            This afternoon's visit was bookended by a couple of karung guni. Just past the canal on the walk over the first was encountered at some bins along the iron fencing. Aluminium was being mined there. Later her counterpart on Jalan Besar at the other end searched paper. The pair were almost identical in age, size, gender, hair color and cut, both in orange safety vests as it happened, though it was unlikely any kind of co-operation existed between them. 

            Just before the latter was reached after the pass at the Thieves’ a profusely sweating chap was unloading newly washed boxes of green potatoes from the Netherlands. Not much bigger than shoe-size packages holding eight or nine potatoes. In the tropics the potato was a rare sight; that was part of the fascination. After the Thieves’ it was not possible to negligently pass this fellow too in the midst of his labour.

            No doubt the panama struck this man. Working on steadily, however, he didn't seem to mind the observation. Care was taken to ensure there was no overload or imbalance on his trolley. The man was a true son of the Thieves'. Potato-carter, the shapeless vegetable and the Thieves at their daily ritual—the karung guni too—represented the old Singapore that the new had fled as fast as its legs could carry. Famously break-neck speed. Such rapidity had been involved that living fossils still remained in the wake as objects of shame and barely suppressed disgust.

           At the main thoroughfare of the Thieves’ the familiar faces were found either side. The umbrellas in hand screened some of them. One old chap continued clutching his despite the fact that the sun had passed that point some time before. The first man on the entryway had not been sighted previously; there must have been a low stool beneath him as the squat was wrong. A single sheet of newspaper here held two or three rings and other small, uncertain objects. Late-seventies turning his head bird-like, it was not possible to linger.

           At the crossing the sisters were found in their usual place, the one on her high chair smiling broadly. Close by the old man who chewed his gums. If the chap smoked no longer he certainly had done in the past. Finding this man in his place gave a start on each occasion. 

The tall young special girl with her parents appeared like a character on a stage after a change of scene. That group was in the middle spectrum of half-Chinese/half-Malay, with skin tone according. Opposite the woman who bore the features of the maternal paradigm of the late-fifties found in many corners of the globe among numerous racial groups. Salt and pepper hair pinned in front and hanging to the shoulders, the former beauty plain to see. The panama no doubt aided the woman's recall, her short smile and nod completely uncanny.

           Once the main thoroughfare had been crossed, forty-five metres perhaps, the drink vendor's trishaw stood off the corner. Likely the man’s trade was elsewhere and the Thieves’ a social stop, friends and acquaintances the only patrons there. 

Ten metres further toward Jalan Besar—Big Road—on this particular afternoon, first the potatoes, followed by the second karung guni in the gutter. Immediately behind at the end, the wizened old jockey-sized bicycle vendor was screened by his wheels. Along his portion of the gutter and fence one could cast over the assembled scavenging. An acknowledgement on one of the earlier afternoons suggested the man was not irritated by the attention.

           On his feet that day the Bicycle-man was preoccupied with one of his items behind a parked van. Green cyclone fencing with netting screened heavy pounding machinery; a truck entry manned by a young Indian with a whistle around his neck ten metres on. Voluminous orange-painted cylinders rose high behind. Being after four the shade had descended on the bikes; on earlier visits the rigging of plastic sheeting against the sun was a wonder to behold, here at the Bike-man's station as elsewhere at the Thieves’.

         The bike was the usual old hack destined for one of the foreign workers travelling from dorm to work-site, temple to provision store. A carry-rack on the rear was a welcome addition. (For some reason front baskets were not common in Geylang.) On this particular item of Bike-man's stable a couple of improvised timber pieces had been lashed to the rack and for reasons best known to himself, Bike-man wanted the wood removed. Bright pink twine had been used to tie the slats down. The pieces protruded a foot either side of the rear wheel—dangerous possibly in the bus lanes.

           Knotting tight. A knife had not come to hand. Initially it was unclear what the man was about with his thick, steel cigarette lighter. Was it to soften rubber under the seat, again for reasons best known to himself?

            What was going on behind the van couldn't be made out from a distance. Eventually the striking of the flame and then pulling at the pink twine revealed the intention. 

The lighter was flicked again and again. Hardened fingers were not easily scorched. One needed to move closer to get a proper view. 

            Another observer had witnessed the struggle. The scene had been so gripping that there had been no thought to come to the man's aid. The best one could do was stand and gawk.

            A grey-haired youngster coming up from behind went straight to the trouble and began pulling on the pink ribbon, jerking. The ribbon had been loosened; earlier the flame had done a good part of the work. 

            Even before the first strand of pink came away the old man had pulled at his pocket after replacing his lighter. One of his hands held the bike for his helper. The old man had moved to one side, free hand into his pocket and from a packet presumably somehow a single fag fished out. 

            Only half of the action had been caught; even the white tube of paper was visible in only a glimpse. 

            Just as adeptly as it had been produced from the trousers and slipped into the youngster's hand, the latter collected the cigarette without pausing at his task. Somehow the cigarette was received in the palm while the fingers kept at the knot. 

            How the cigarette appeared and then disappeared from view was impossible to guess; none of the action seemed physically possible. One palm had passed quickly over another; the old had briefly touched the young. Three or four units of action that would have had unpracticed hands fumbling at each point. Card-sharps had not developed better mastery than this pair. 

            The taking of the cigarette and the first loosening of the pink strand followed in quick succession. Once the main knot was undone the rest soon followed, mostly managed by the Bike-man again. The youngster was not needed further. 

            Again the lighter appeared. The youngster came away puffing with a little look of accomplishment on his face. Wordless throughout. The pair certainly knew each other; if anything had been whispered it was inconsequential. One fine gesture met immediately by another equally fine and all executed with exceptional grace and ease. A meeting of men something like a desert encounter at an oasis. Captivating. No camera-man of Tarkovsky's wildest dreams could have captured the event; training a camera there too closely would give a viewer the wrong impression.