HDB Tales of the Maid

The girl Wendy likes plain water for her drink; not the boy Darren. He likes sweetened barley. Very particular. The drinks cannot be confused. Must be careful to avoid trouble.

         Brown doll! Brown doll!
         They are thirsty. Not surprising in the heat. Still, picking them up from school the rule is never to buy them drinks outside. No matter how they pester.
         Brown doll! Brown doll!
         They can't wait, sitting at the table kicking their feet at each other. Good children in the main like any other. They are never any trouble. Very fond of Auntie. Sometimes Brown doll, Brown doll.
         Well behaved. They can be a little cheeky when the others are around, Mummy and Ah-ma. Ah-ma especially. When their real auntie Winnie is around they never do it. Ah-ma more than any one. Ah-ma particularly.
         Confusing the two drinks would cause trouble at the table at the best of times. Having Ah-ma there makes it a disaster.
         Auntie; Brown doll never confuses the two drinks. Careful and deliberate. Right hand water; left barley. They don't even look the same. How could one confuse them? The boy however can be a little devil. A good boy. But nevertheless. A dash of his heavily sugared drink in his sister's water can cause all hell to break loose. The girl tosses her drink onto the table. YUK!
         Grandma over in a flash. What? How?... Ah, the telltale sweetness in the wrong glass.

         — Vashti!... All the maid's fault... Roundly she is berated.
         Getting the kid to own up is difficult.
         — Look into my eyes Darren. Did you put your barley in Wendy's glass? Tell me the truth. Do you want Auntie to go back home?... Tell us now...
         Minor triviality; heart-break the result for the maid.
         The damn old Serangoon witch can be a nasty bitch far worse than this too. Into her sixties, a stupid old vain cow.
         — This facial of mine, you know how much it cost? Girly, you know how much?... Preening herself if you can believe it before her make-up compact-mirror. At her age!
          — ... You wouldn't know it's three months of your salary.
         Old grandpa hasn't given her a touch how long. The fat old cow.
         The maid is skinny and ugly as well as brown. Her grandchildren are fond of her. Somehow she has wormed her way into their affections. God knows how. They call her Brown doll.
         — She's not a doll! How can she be a doll, ugly and skinny and black like that? Yuck!
         Deserves to have her head put in the oven with the duck, just to singe her tattooed eyebrows. Silly old fuck.
         Someone's "spoilt" the toilet. (The language used by these daughters of coolies!)... It could not have been one of the grandchildren. Could only be the maid! They shit in the bamboo where they come from.

         — VASHTI!....
        They are all Christians in the house, by odd chance maid included. The old bitch's sisters attend regularly and donate. Prayers before meals, thanks for what they are about to receive, Lord save us, guide and protect us.
         Always scolds the maid. Never can do anything right.
         Poor girl is confined to cheap, labelless clothes. Look at mine! This is a blouse. You couldn't dream of something like this, not if you lived for a hundred years.
         (Yes, bought in the market, the maid knows. Haven't you dragged me along five hundred times on your shopping expeditions? Scared and lonely going alone... They are scared of the smallest cockroaches in Singapore.)
         They buy the maid all her clothes, underwear, her toiletries, tampons. It's the usual arrangement here. If it weren't for them she'd be back in the dirt where she was born, hungry and dirty and forlorn. A begging bowl.
         The old witch suspects her son-in-law's having it off with the girl possibly. You never can trust a man, right enough. Where did she get that pink hand phone, an eye one? Some bullshit story... The younger daughter is gay. The old witch knows like all the rest of them. Can't hide anything from her. She might be in love with the maid like the rest of them. Is she putting something in the food! She's taught her herself to cook.

         The maid Vashti thinks it’s because of poison and charms. That’s why the rule about outside drinks. Still sometimes she relents. Sometimes she can’t refuse them.

          The old witch rarely berates her in front of her daughters. Usually when they are alone with the children. Other times she’ll buy her little gifts or treats. The devil only knows how it goes.

                 

NB. HDB are Housing Development Board government flats; lower end of the housing market.

Dayak Head-hunter

.... Eleven something it seemed from the chap on the parapet wall outside Enak, Enak—Tasty, Tasty—this morning. Two upraised forefingers chosen after a momentary shuffling of the hands, something like a goal-umpire’s signal. From four or five metres it was a wise decision. The more or less that followed left some doubt: might have been three or thirteen minutes either side. Roundabout all that was needed, Terima kasih. Thumbs up…. The word of Malay had been unexpected. (Similarly finding himself in the ascendant position with the wrist-watch.) Shortly afterward when the man comes over to try a witticism, with all the gaps in the mouth the English again problematic.... A single fang it looked like on the upper row, wide and to one side. We missed each other there. Evidently the man was left disconsolate at the failure himself. Rounding back one more time on his way out, in a slightly more intelligible articulation for farewell, chap lets it be known, keeping a firm, hard face all the while: — My name not Bye-bye.... A couple of repetitions were sufficient. Got it! You cheeky old devil, playing the head-hunter from Borneo…. Smiles for miles and miles across those broad features, man well into his seventies, the latter reaches almost certainly. How can one fail to love these Malayu?

Diamond Jubilee—Singapore

Rather exciting this afternoon passing the fine old Raffles Hotel where Will and Kate rested their heads last night after their long flight. Tonight again in the very same place once their duties are done at the War Memorial out at Kranji.

         Yesterday prior to the State dinner and reception there was a visit to the new iconic Gardens By the Bay in the shadows of the Supertrees and the MBS hotel/casino. Indoors under one of the temperature controlled cool-houses the pair were presented with an orchid named in their honour. Previously there had been another named after the Prince’s mother, Lady Diana, which the unfortunate woman had not lived to see.

            Mid-afternoon a circuit of the entire hotel block was managed without raising suspicions. The front gardens might have been newly clipped and the leaves of the trees dusted. With the Bay Gardens Domes about as fine a presentation of the tropics as any young Prince could ever hope to receive. (His grandma had told the young man he would enjoy Singapore, the newspaper reported his speech at the State reception, as she had done on her three visits over the course of her reign.)

         Red carpet under the portico at the front entry fluffed. Two tall Sikhs in white tunics, epaulettes and turbans, pacing very tight circles at the end of the brass railing made a sketch of tame lions not likely to bite.

         Nothing really to hint at the special VIP’s. It was only at the very end of the stroll, with a visit to both ArtFriend and Popular stationery at Bras Basah opposite the hotel that the surest telltale sign was stumbled upon.

         Around at SAM—the Singapore Art Museum, where possibly as a precaution the inflatable bunny had been removed from the lawn — along the footpath directly out front a small platoon of khaki camouflaged red berets who could only be Gurkhas came on slung with heavy bazookas. Half a dozen lads peeking under cars and looking left and right.

         Beefy young lads who most certainly conveyed the impression they weren’t kidding. (The Gurkhas still serve the Chinese notables here, bred for duty of course since the time of the earliest forays of E. India Co.)

            A few more migs than usual through the course of the afternoon. The co-incidence of 9/11 must have been accidental. The anniversary posed a question. More than likely Malaysia would have been unable to host the pair. That might have been a stretch even for Najib, especially in the run-up to the election.

         Wrong in fact as it shortly proved. Were he still in office would Mahathir have welcomed the young Royals? Would he have bowed and scraped before them?

         On the Wednesday the Straits Times reported nothing of the disturbances in Cairo at the U.S. Embassy. As the conflagration widened it became too big to ignore.

          Just the other night in the anticipation of the visit the Mount Eye Metho (former) entertained the dinner table with the story of his encounter with the Royals near the beginning of Liz’s reign. The Brits must have had some substantial stake in the mining operation in Isa. Therefore the young Queen’s trek with her Consort Philo the Greek into the dusty wastes of central Queensland.

           Coming from good, certifiable Methodist stock (a couple of uncles in the Ministry), young as he was at the time, the Mt. Eye boy was entrusted with over-sight of the conveyance that transported the Royals down to the floor of the mine. An honour and responsibility thrust on young shoulders.

            The young angel Gabriel sat ready at the controls. No doubt there were more senior and trusted servants supervising, but no need spoil a good story.

            From on high the angel-in-the-making hears the carriage descending.

            Here Comes Our Gracious Queen piping through the teenager’s head whether or not the record had been placed on the turn-table that stage. Naturally.

            The anticipation made the young knight hot under the collar—as hot as he would ever be in subsequent years wearing the tighter collar of his calling.

            A fever so many hundred feet down in the bowels of the earth where rich minerals were to be cheaply had to gladden stockbroker and investor hearts.

            Here She Comes, Here She Comes. A long overture.

            Interminable. There were no electronic games then as the current generation favoured fir killing waiting and travel-time on the trains and buses.

            Waiting. Waiting. A good Metho boy had been well trained, but even so. It fairly seemed our gracious Queen was coming from a height up in the heavens.

            Impulsively the lad born and bred in the Isa fingered the levers. On came the Queen, yet to be a mother that stage. A long bow perhaps, but who’s to say the future lineage wasn’t given a spurt that day in the cavernous depths of Queensland: Philo eyeing the earthworks; the young Queen falling like flying. A certain kind of frisson later at the hotel between feathers and down.

            Down she comes. Any sec. now. The boy’s eyes scanning.

            Here she be, lo and behold. A sight to see.

            Early in the reign the young Princess now-newly-installed-Queen hadn’t got down pat all the finer aspects of posture and bearing. Perfect deportment in all conditions still being practised.

            For all the precautionary oiling and maintenance, the lift in the shaft shuddered and jerked. (There might have been hell to pay had the corgis been aboard and set up yelping.)

            The young Angel arrived at his reward. Come into his own. There be the Queen.

            Later the lad could not say with certainty whether Phil was in the same carriage.

            Within the wire compartment, all the bright-eyed lad could vision was smoothly glistening legs and knees.

            The more recognizable portions of the Royal figure followed in a blur.

            Blinded above all the boy by the flashing signal of snow-white knickers.

            Biblical times that would shortly form the lad’s chief study, witnesses of such-like events have been struck deaf and dumb and reduced to idiocy. (The Lady of the Queen’s chamber had provided a freshly laundered pair that same morning.)

            Clearly the very royal Lady Queen found it difficult to keep steady in the jolting conveyance.

            Glued knees inevitably become unstuck.

            Here was the young courtier’s unforgettable life-long moment indelibly imprinted: the essence of the royal line.

            The Diamond Jubilee and all the rest following, God save our noble Queen.

            There was no profile, admitted young Gabriel when he was quizzed about his day’s adventure, though it had certainly always remained to the boy to embroider the tale as and when he was inclined.

            More diamonds and pearls in the pipeline is the whisper here too. The contours of young Kate’s form given as close an inspection in Singapore by the traveling journalists as was the case all those years ago in the bowels of the Isa to her grandma-in-law’s.

            A toast and best wishes to the royal pair.

Final Gleanings from Kuala Lumpur

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Getting out to the bus on Jalan Imbi the traffic cop at the thoroughfare handling the last of the morning peak cut an interesting figure. On the taller side, smart navy uniform, with over-sized operatic white gloves. There may have been motor-cycle boots, though the bike was no-where visible. Somehow the fellow seemed too much of a nice guy standing there against the traffic. Possibly the chap had positioned himself less than ideally between the right-turn lane and the oncoming rockets darting past menacingly. The sudden acceleration and switching taking place had one concerned for his safety. As the light was changing to red he raised his glove slowly in the usual way and turned the palm outward more slowly still, giving everyone more than a fair chance to get by him. The big wide mitt stood high and prominent, but to little purpose. The cars continued to dart through regardless. Pushing the glove Stop, Stop failed to help. Of course there was no camera, just as there was no off-sider backing up. Big red. Blood red. Still opportunity was taken by the drivers to get through. Who the fuck was this jerk anyway?
         After more than a dozen got through on beaming red the poor man raised his other hand and extended his forefinger, stabbing at the overhead. Red, red, red!
         On the man's face a kind of bashful plea. Possibly he had spied the mat salleh in the panama trying to cross on the little green man (jogging here).
         Needless to say, could never happen in Sing'. They have the rattan in Malaysia too, but in Sing' they would use it. Old man Lee would send an Aide out to make sure the full force of the law—as stipulated in the statutes—was used on the first half dozen offenders. End of problem. Something to be said for clear lines of authority; something else for a modicum of liberty and freedom.
         — Eleven motor-cycle deaths per day alone on the roads in the past six months

in Malaysia
         — Palm oil and rubber still make up around 15% of GDP. An industry honcho pooh-poohing Western influenced enviro and dietary concerns. With the popularity of KFC and Maccas it may in fact be a lesser problem.
         — The Bronze Olympic diving medalist from London—who was also the Malaysian team's flag-bearer at the Games—prominently hailed in the media for her feat. Possibly the fact she was a Sabah girl added to the marketability. The ruling party of Najib, shortly up for re-election, has its electoral stronghold in fact in that outlying province on Borneo. Much contention there over immigrants from the peninsular—a mini Tibetan scenario. There was no thought in Malaysia to put their less than gold-bright Olympic competitors onto a leaky boat out at sea.
         — Interesting glimpses of history in the museums. During the Emergency here in the forties and fifties the British overlords moved 500,000 Chinese into barracks accommodation behind barbed wire in order to deal with the communist menace, inspired by the nations to the north of course, uncle Ho and Mao. Ten years the Emergency lasted—ten years of camps behind wire, roll-calls, strict rations. Helps put in perspective the anointment of LKY in the island province to the south. All democratic naturally.
         And on the very cusp of departure, the last afternoon, an accidental stumble led to the discovery of the remarkable wet market of Chow Kit, at fifty or sixty years old—clearly untouched in that time—the oldest in Malaysia. A young Chinese stall-holder who gave the information offered an implicit apology for the ramshackle conditions. Two or three dozen passes along the stalls on the roadway had led to the presumption that that was Chow Kit Market. Fruit had been bought at various points on a number of sides. Over the fortnight there had seemed no reason to venture further.
         Late afternoon on Sunday a glimpse of activity beyond the outer stalls led to a further foray. Once inside under the low, sunken ceilings the aisles stretched as far as the eye could see. In a downpour it would certainly be action-stations pretty quick-smart among the stall-holders. The place had a subterranean aspect from the sagging overhead and the dimly lit interior. The lights that there were seemed to be ad hoc, strung up by the stall-holders themselves individually. Other light came through prospects to the outdoors and overhead where the roofing terminated. Under-foot the floor was all uneven, with channels, drains and pools creating hazards.
         Yet somehow much of the vegetables seemed to glow brightly, of themselves it seemed, from their own vibrant colour and freshness. Even plates of garlic and ginger presented spotted highlights from the plates laid out. Brilliant red chilli of course. Fish of all varieties and sizes were presented on bench-tops on beds of ice and swimming in shallow tubs. A man stood hanging a long, twitching, elongated fish over a block, slicing away a short fin while he straightened out the terms with an African woman ordering. Chinese sold packets of noodles. There seemed to be a complete absence of Indians, either buyers or sellers, whereas on the streets of Chow Kit there were many. Some of the dark-skinned Malays carting and wheeling various produce in the aisles carried their own perfection of form as a counterpart to the goods on display.
         The array was all pleasantly and comfortably bewitching until the first large calf's head appeared all at once on a counter almost at one's elbow. In the shock the misplacing of a hunter’s trophy scrambled in the brain. The rictus of raised lips and clenched teeth gave one something further with which to contend. With the innocent approach and lack of warning the shock was substantial. There were a number more heads further on. It appeared the calves’ heads had been skinned. This was not the case for the smaller goats' heads closely bunched further along. A few hides were hung, some offal and innards on trays. Stout but short calf legs hung from a rod in a dense cluster, the hooves losing the impression of hardness. Possibly the heads were smoked after skinning, or washed with some kind of resin, in order to produce the unusual latex-like yellow tone. There was some kind of standard treatment involved that was different for goats. In the company of the men and women who stood by these remnants from morning to night it was certainly not possible to blanch and feel queasy. Under no circumstances.