Chow Kit, KL Meeting

A Japanese painter unfamiliar with the quarter was given a brief tour of Chow Kit yesterday afternoon and evening—the market, back streets in Kampung Baru and a Pakistani eatery whose heavy, oily food tested a lass raised on rather different fare. Like many of her compatriots, women in particular, Kie needed to flee her homeland in order to pursue her art, the hills of Ubud, Bali, currently providing refuge. End of week bound for Yangon for a fortnight's Vipassana retreat: no speech, ciggies, cell-phone; &etc. Looked a fair chance, with the Fukuoka upbringing in her favour.

Prior to that encounter an unusual gathering was stumbled upon under an alcove on a sunken walkway immediately off busy Jalan Raja Laut. Schoolchildren they should have been quietly awaiting a bus, squatting many of them and the remainder sitting with their legs drawn close. A score at least as tightly bunched as infants at Story-time in kinder. 

Up close the range was a minority of late teens through to early and premature middle-aged, chaffed and raw from the hard city streets. Males unshaven; women pinched and with the grey showing through (uncommon on both counts in these parts). 

Only almost past did the silver of the chain become visible, strung through the massed body along the three lines, glinting bright with large, heavy links in all that gathered darkness. A few of the lads on their feet roundabout must have been plainclothes. Not that any real supervision was needed here—a chain-gang from the cotton fields; coolies in these parts. 

Out of sight in our cities there must be the same recourse taken for security and public order. All the old TV movies of escapees fleeing over dale and hill bound to a joint fate. Here among the two dozen without exception all the faces shadowy and dark.

 

Korban Eve

A protection racket operating for the lucrative taxi stand at Geylang Serai Market on Changi Road? 

One of the locals suggested it was highly likely, even in contemporary Singapore. 

With Korban following, Hari Raya Hajji, the lads had certainly turned a rapid dollar that morning, the queue never falling below twenty and shoppers passing along the aisle having to squeeze through the gap. 

Strapping chaps the pair of them in their mid-fifties, lifting the shopping bags into boots and opening doors. One was an Indo-something and the other Malay, lively and possessed of the chat both. 

A good number of lavender twos among the coin went straight into the pockets without a look. No difficulty judging the denominations by touch alone.

Upstairs the old Chinese flute-player was echoing through the hall. As much as the piercing rhythm, his stance attracted attention. Propped on one side by some kind of make-shift crutch, an old backwoods staff fashioned from bent and knotty wood, the man spread his feet and leant forward onto his support. Early sixties at the upper range, the rounded shoulders suggesting a hump purely from music-making. (Worse than a scribbler.)

The blow was hard and forceful; man gave it all he's got. A few days ago at the head of the Bugis tourist strip, out beside the bus-stop, the fellow had to wipe his brow after the exertion. In a quarter hour he must have had twenty dollars dropped into the bag hanging from his shoulder. Mainlander likely. Most of the appreciative audience at Bugis were Chinese. Here at Geylang Serai of course, they were Malay. 

With the commemoration—marking Ibrahim's demonstration of faith—the large crowd was clearly the draw. Any day of the week, however, the flute-player would do better out Bugis and any other Chinese centres. Even the porters here clearly surpassed the musician, at least on that particular morning. 

For some reason lower Geylang drew the man. A week ago he could be found around the Haig Road stalls. The flute-player was performer more than beggar, seeking an audience as much as alms. There was only ever the one, single tune. Given the kind of heart with which the piece was delivered that did not matter. From a distance one would swear there was amplification. The exertion was not apparent in the man’s figure; indeed, bent as he was on his staff, the volume and power was all contradictory.

Wak Tanjong Madrassa was not hosting the ritual slaughter this year. The new Australian regulations, together with the steep price hike, has resulted in far fewer sheep this year. (Around SG$465 per head by the time they landed.) Initially for viewing Zainuddin suggested the drug rehabilitation Half-way house in upper Geylang, where the recovering addicts would be helping. Later in the morning Din thought again and decided that a viewing was not appropriate; the slaughter was not meant to be a public spectacle. 

Last night over dinner Zainuddin added some concern at conditions at the various locales designated for slaughter. In the Qur'an the greatest care was outlined for the beast coming under the knife. For example, Din said, the animals awaiting their turn should not be placed within hearing distance of those being slaughtered, much less within the line of vision. 

If only Din were the chief mufti of Singapore!

       ....YOU'RE A

            FREAK                                                           

         JUST LIKE

               ME

later during lunch on a lad going up the stairs to the vocational school run by Jamiyah above Labu Labi. Tattoos, piercings, teenage boy-girl affections, almost non-existent in the Malay community congregating in this area. 

The tee reminded of Emily's Nobody poem, similarly sighted some while ago now on a tee. Doubtful it could have been here; not even a tourist.

 

[I'm nobody! Who are you?

Are you nobody, too?

Then there's a pair of us – don't tell!

They'd banish us, you know.

 

How dreary to be somebody!

How public, like a frog

To tell your name the livelong day

To an admiring bog!

 

                                        Emily Dickinson]

High Stakes

Returning yesterday a crowd of a score or more found around a dam board by the Converts'. Just the other day Ahmad the Money-changer had sketched the history of the Chinese Converts. The Chinese Converts were now the wealthiest Islamic association in Singapore. A sale of a large land-holding some years ago had realised a handsome profit that funded the construction of the present hall and left over a tidy few million of reserves. Some appreciable proportion of the converts to Islam in Singapore include those female Chinese who had been given to Malay families for adoption. Even their children, invariably the product of marriages with Malays, are not difficult to pick. Once, and that just recently, a Chinese face was found under an Indian wrapping up at the bus-stop beside Sri Manmatha on Kallang Road. Malays themselves never gave up children it seems, at least historically. The Orphanages now may tell another story. A long footnote, and no disrespect intended to the Chinese.

These gatherings over the dam boards—Chinese Checkers—are common beside the Converts. It is unclear why the place has been chosen. To an outsider it seems to have little to recommend it. First count there were eighteen men on their feet; plus the two seated. A second count found twenty. Tail end of the game by then, the resolution fairly clear it must have been to those in the know. The board had been largely cleared. Aquamarine and white disks sat along the edge of the board, in many cases mounted. It might have been two moves each before the final surrender. There was little doubt remaining. One could tell from the particular kind of concentration. The concentration was keen and close, but not riveted as on previous occasions. Perhaps there remained the remote chance of a slip-up right at the death.

It was about ten minutes the dwelling on the last phase, the final four moves. Fingers hovered over pieces; fingers fell on pieces without the move resulting immediately. One of the middle moves came instantly, hot on the heels of the one before. Another drive to a square was forceful, a decent push moving the disk an inch and a half.

In fact the winner proved to be the old chap who had received a vigorous massage from a pal six or so months ago on the side-lines of an earlier Championship contest one Sunday afternoon. This was a Friday. The winner in his usual shorts and sandals. It may be possible the man does not attend the Friday prayers at the local mosque. Opposite his opponent wore the more formal attire, as did the majority of spectators. The winner had come off second best recently in some matter. On the centre of his forehead he wore a wide bandage that had been carefully fixed. The men were of a similar age—the fact masked somewhat by the variance in dress. Mid-seventies; loser a bit flabby and less resourceful it somehow seemed. Winner was tight coiled, spare, elastic. One often saw him in his seat against the wall of the Discount store opposite the Converts with his feet drawn up on his chair. Sometimes he wore glasses sitting there.; for the board he had an inner sight no doubt.

The men played under the shade of a tall tree on the central greenery between the two pathways up toward the rear of the Haig blocks. Earlier in the afternoon the show retreated to the wall of the Converts, where a larger tree provided cover. Out of the way like that, buried in a corner, was less congenial than either the central grass, or otherwise against the wall of the Discount store. Around them the spectators were tightly clustered, each with a bead on the board. No one spoke. What was more surprising, there was no smoking. There may have been a slight collective catch of breath when the Winner hesitated with his fingers on an aquamarine piece. The way the man reached for the piece implied a drive in the offing. Instead, under his fingers the disk shuddered on the board like the cars at the F1 starting line.

One of the spectators the old Malay man often found in a songkok despite the signs of make-shift rough-living, a heavy smoker, operator type, well-known in the area though never stopping for a seat at one of the eateries, never a single teh in all these months. Usually when he passes he gives greetings without stopping. Once or twice he had been seen to pull up, offer his hand and exchange a few hard won words before moving on again. Never was he without a cigarette, usually carried in his mouth. Thin and one would guess a drinker in another environment. If the man did indeed sleep rough it was not on the concrete benches beside the Haig bus-stop that always drew two or three. For all that evidently a reliable sort, as was proved yesterday afternoon.

Once again there was almost no stopping him. The man seemed to know the precise moment of climax of the game. Right at the death he appeared from thin air, standing a little to the side, a lazy eye on the board enough. Possibly he may have stood stock still for a full half minute. When the vanquished surrendered, threw his arms and passed some remark which seemed to bemoan an error he had made in one corner of the square, the Songkok stepped close to throw down a bundle of notes on the vacant board. The action almost forceful enough for a gauntlet’s challenge. An unexpected rock in a placid pool. Coming from this particular man the scale of the intervention was exaggerated.

A couple of minutes prior another chap had turned in surprise at the foreigner's interest. This man had seen enough and was about to set off. But before he did so he gave the information that was clearly bubbling inside. More than half Chinese lines the fellow bore. Some path of conversion was strongly suggested in his person; the remainder of the men were clearly Malay.

— Four hundred dollars!

As the wad seemed to confirm when it slapped the board. 

The wounded victor no doubt had little cause for distrust. Nevertheless, as the Serbs say, Money was for counting. (The bad-guy Magyars to the north have the same saying, in their case with the addition, And woman for beating.)

Regulation fifties in three or four pairs. But then two fawn coloured notes within. Malay ringgit possibily, a high denomination by the size of the note. Possibly Brunei dollar, which occasionally appeared here. Four hundred plus; the earlier chap may not have had the whole of it.

One guessed a knockout championship; locals since voiced the same opinion. One dissenter suggested it was possible two bulls had simply decided to lock horns by themselves.

Most of that generation of retirees would be on four or five hundred dollars a month, if that.

A final thought from another local: the side-holding of the dosh may in fact have been a preventative measure to out-fox the cops. State sanctioned gambling was one thing in Singapore; informal illegal something else. (The authorities here gave into the lure of a casino a couple of years ago and have instituted interesting measures to quarantine the damage.

Fine Show

                     

The Chinese greengrocer maintains he spends only ten dollars for his hair dyeing, no more. Fortnightly he has his nice thick thatch coloured jet black. It seems unusually cheap. Even the Indian pavement barbers working under make-shift lights charge their own work-mates a minimum of five dollars for a style cut. However the chap would not accept challenge nor contradiction. There was no shyness or embarrassment. A question had been put; the answer duly given. We have struck up a good acquaintance over the term.
            Seems the chap receives the treatment from a Malay out at Bedok, two stops further east toward Changi on the MRT line. For the last number of months the fellow has borne up manfully under the regular enquiries. No particular shame or awkwardness betrayed. The majority of men here do the same, follow the same practise, and all three races. Under the scarves the women, the Malay and Indian Muslim women at least, may feel less pressure. For the men it’s a standard grooming.
            The owner of the fruit shop concerned does the same. The pair are about the same age. Rarely does the latter allow the white strands to show through. His hired help possibly strings out the visits to the hairdresser out at Bedok. Both men, and the owner’s wife too, work exceedingly long shifts. The help here treks out from somewhere mid-way between Bedok and Geylang Serai an hour or sometimes two before dawn. Three AM rises have been mentioned. Usually not until eleven do the shutters on the shop come down. The restaurant and Eatery trade comprise the chief line; sales to passers-by incidental. Mercs and other polished steel honk from the roadway for orders, always resulting in a trotting attendance from one of the trio indoors. Chop-chop, look lively.
            The help is first cousin to the owner’s wife, a dependable, no-complaints sort, dad of a couple of kids still in high school. A level ten hundred a month drawn in wages, depending on the trade possibly. The fellow would not be the first encountered here who readily accepts an allowance of this kind. First hand he can judge how the business goes.
            Twenty dollars a month not excessive in order to keep up appearances. The man is in his late forties. Though missed out on other than basic schooling, he has picked up a good Malay. Living and working in this eastern quarter it comes with the territory.
            Neither of these lads from the shop have an eye for the ladies, neither those passing nor their customers. You can discount vanity. It seems the practice is widespread in the region, across the whole of South-east Asia. Just think of the Chinese leadership groups. Then the Indonesian and Malay. One can only connect it to the superstitions over the ghosts and the underworld. A warding-off. Not in essence frivolous.

Gunny

.

                             

SWEET
IDYLL
ENJOY in large print down the China lad's tee. The fellow thought a food stain or the like was being pointed out in the congratulation on his style. In his case it seemed likely not one of the words would have been comprehensible. Through the course of his life the young man may have seen loads of Coca Cola advertisements, but perhaps in a different form from our own.
         Earlier over lunch an older Chinese local, a mechanical engineer, was reading a biography of LKY by an Australian author, a priest. For insight into Singapore the engineer recommended LKY's own From Third to First World - Singapore 1970 – 2000. The enthusiasm and generosity such that the man suggested a visit to the nearby Secondhand bookshop where he thought he had seen the volume recently. Quickly found, the tome weighed in at around three or four kilogram. No danger of racing off the shelf too quickly. A condensed version might have been tempting, though little chance of that while the old man remained alive. Tampering with holy writ delivered by the father of the nation not easily countenanced. (Rumours of Lee's death spread rapidly here a month or two ago.) The engineer admitted costs to the progress. Remembering the mud of the kampungs, the overcrowding, lack of sanitation, the onerous forms of labour associated with the economy of the time, led to only one possible conclusion.  While still at the lunch table the engineer suggested a trip up the peninsular through Malaysia, taking the eastern coast rather than the exposed western that had brought the various colonial powers: up over the Thai border, Bangkok, and around to Myanmar. Along there one could follow a "time tunnel", re-tracing the route travelled to present-day Singapore, the man quietly challenged.
         The blissful tee was early evening back in Geylang again for supper, a vegetarian place beside Aljunied MRT. This was roast duck, that liver, that pork — all very nicely suggestive for those Buddhist carnivores struggling toward the last part of proper observance. Almost entirely Chinese there at Upper Geylang, mostly the early settlers, most with very little English. The mainland staff, cleaners, waitresses, counter-hands, had none whatever. The time capsule, the Engineers' time tunnel, was available within the confines of the island itself, in these remnant people of Geylang, both Chinese and Malay, in their manner and behavior, their relationships and the community that was daily on display on the streets after sun-down.
         Right on cue the man delivering the spuds pulled up in his truck. You don't often see any more a twenty-five kilo lumpy hessian sack, a gunny (from Sanskrit, which also gives the still contemporary karung guni, who collect aluminum and cardboard from the streets here), carted in the old style, seated on one shoulder and leaning against the cheek, no hands required. Easy as pie, weight-lifter style in three separate movements to seat it. Tatters from both the shape and weight; carrots possibly. Numerous, spectacular vegetables of other kinds abound in these parts. Even after more than sixteen months a non-foodie can name only a few of them. Innumerable food writers perform that line of duty here.
          The delivery man had brought down from the rear of his truck, an old Bedford lookalike with slatted wooden rails on the tray that had disgorged khaki soldiers in years gone by. Smooth and easy passage despite the slighting listing. The fella could have putt a shot outta sight had he been given an opportunity at one of the elite sports academies where he comes from. Too late now for that, and the recent London glory that might have been his. Hard yakka. Honest toil. The kind of street theatre that is common here and still makes one stop and stare. But well away from the deadly, poisonous business district that is a leader of globalized best practise. In those precincts is to be found the make-over of the human and his environment for which Mr LKY and his circle must be given the credit and held responsible. Hopefully the kids will never be ashamed of their old dad, the delivery man.

Heart

Yati couldn't drag herself away last night. She said as much. I don't want to go home. Or back she may have said. Back was to a bedroom she shared with three young boys under seven out in Kranji near Woodlands and the Causeway, at the far end of Singapore. 

Two years Yati had been in that household working as a live-in maid. After a break back home in Java, three hours out of Jogjakarta, Yati has recently returned for another two year contract. A very difficult, demanding job of course, for which Yati received SG$500 per month.

When Yati left to go back home her employers held back two months pay on some pretext to ensure Yati returned. Neighbours and other allies gave this explanation on the matter. Ma'am’s own sister, who had taken more than a little shine to Yati, offered the same. Ma'am’s sister has advanced stage breast cancer which has become untreatable. When Yati left to return to Java short of funds the sister leant her money. 

Out at Kranji they all like and respect Yati. Still, in the last week or two there had been something amiss. The adults in the house, Sir and Ma’am, had shown blank, unsmiling faces. In that situation the maid invariably assumed it was something she had done. 

Yati put up with the state of affairs a week or more, following the lead of the pair and responding in kind. OK. Yati said nothing. A few days ago it seemed after a week or more of the same, the weather turned of itself. The smiles re-appeared, the warmth and the little jokes and pleasantries. Just when Yati was on the point of saying to them, I see you are unhappy with me. You won't tell me why. I will return home. I want to go back. 

Had they said, We are unhappy with this or that you did wrong, Yati could have accepted it better. But nothing. Brooding. Somehow it lifted just when she was going to say. 

Ma'am works in the city; Sir at home in his room, on the computer it must be. Yati does not know details. Four weeks passed like four days back in June in the kampung. Yati's boy will be four in December, grown in the two years his mother had been away. Some maids are given yearly returns to their families by their employer. Yati does not have this luck. 

Before Singapore Yati had two years in Brunei. Here second time round she might do only the first year of the contract. Two years already seems impossible. 

Other maids have vastly better conditions and circumstances, Yati knows. Some worse. You would think she would at least explore the possibilities of another position, give it a try. One reason Yati returned was the boys, hard as it was looking after them. The attachment had developed. A very difficult job, but even so, heart was involved now. 

         — You know? Yati asked, pleading for her heart, pointing at her chest and looking away. 

The middle boy is her favourite, just nine months older than her own. Her heart called her back to the same position at Kranji. Of course there are little prospects back in the kampung, beautiful as it is there. Many foreigners come to visit the region and Yati’s kampung in particular. How though to make a living and raise a child there, as a single mother especially? 

Lawyers for the divorce have sucked money. Yati has returned to the house of her mother and father. A younger sister has just given birth to her first child. Luckily Yati was present for the event. Every two or three days Yati calls home to talk to her son, her parents, her sister and brothers. The phone is a major expense for all the maids in Singapore, for all foreign workers everywhere. Recently bathing the children Yati dropped her phone in the water. Luckily the sister dying of breast cancer sold Yati her old phone cheaply.

In December the family would likely go up to Kajang in Malaysia again. In Kajang they have a favourite hotel where they spend a week at the end of every year. Kajang is an hour out of KL. Yati went once to see the Petronas towers. Another time she and the boys went with the parents to a favourite restaurant up in the city. 

For Hari Raya Yati had donned the kerudong and the full body cover. In the photographs she looked unrecognisable. Yati enjoys dressing-up and jewellery. A pink skirt with black polka dots hasn’t made a re-appearance after some remarks were passed on it. 

The kerudong—or tudong in Bahassa Indonesian—is a serious undertaking for Yati. Some girls wear the scarf with a casual attitude. Without the inner truth the kerudong is a travesty, Yati says. 

Yati is wary of boy-friends. Once an Indonesian boy-friend had sworn to her he was unmarried. A true Muslim should not have sex outside of marriage, that was another thing. 

Her heart called Yati back to Kranji, where she sleeps in the top bunk above the youngest boy. Last year she had the boy in another bed with her, the only way he would settle. In the last year of her previous stint at Kranji Yati had voiced her own opinion when the possibility of a fourth child had been raised. How could they possibly manage with another? The maid did not hold back. 

         Understanding the pull of the heart was likely too much for an outsider to comprehend, Yati knew. Harder still for a male. You don't know, Yati said. 

         There are lots of love hearts in Singapore, far more than in Australia. Asia generally had more hearts than Australia, than Western countries generally, you would guess. Hearts are thought sloppy in Australia. They wouldn't sell anything like they do here. In turbo-capitalist Singapore they had lots, and not just on the ubiquitous tee promoting their patriotism. In Australia it was usually the flag or some other signifier attesting to the allegiance; not the heart. Tees, key-rings, napkins, curtains—big apple hearts are everywhere in SG. In Indonesia there might not be so many even with the much larger population.

Singlish

Endearing more than anything. The syntax the aunties and uncles have developed over a few short generations shows more than a little pizzazz. Creole often creates expressive flair and invention; Singlish is another example. Listening to earnest biz talk the rhythms and constructions, the emphases and unfolding, often seem productions of poorly concealed parody. In the steamy tropics even in the tearooms and air-conditioned malls one is always caught completely unawares by the elongations of Oxbridge—the kind of thing that got Dostojevsky's goat in the case of Parisienne Slavs. Even in the sixties in Australia there was little to compare to these perfections of Singapore when one came upon them. What we have here is an entirely immigrant city-state of three main language groups: Bahassa Malay, Tamil and the various Chinese forms (five or six markedly distinct from each other); then colonial English, foisted upon the population at large forty odd years ago. An unusual, not to say bizarre set of circumstances. The experiment continues to this day, with much understandable back-sliding and renewed government insistence. If there was a sizeable cultural disintegration resulting it remains a secondary concern, a year-long cycle of colourful festivals and celebrations denying the damage. 

Today was one of those rare examples that strike suddenly; a jab below the belt when least expected. Naturally idioms especially can leave a non-native speaker floundering. Daily one sees all manner of skewed usage in government sloganeering and advertising in particular. The ubiquitous billboard tees on the streets are always worth a look for the pronouncements—invariably only in English. 

This afternoon's example made one pity the poor girl concerned; pity the population at large caught in the no-man's land between languages and cultures. 

Young neat Senior High in fawn slacks, girl-next-door hair, dropping her chin and flexing eyes behind her lenses—the incongruity could not have been more stark. 

If her school friends visited the porn sites and engaged in sexting, not this dutiful daughter. 

Projecting from high on her chest, white upper-case on navy:

                                    WE'VE GOT THE BALLS

The Sports-master seemed the likeliest culprit; marathon-man or kick-boxer. It might even have been a Christian outfit, high-fee paying; many of the priests and ministers were native now rather than introduced.

The latest advertising blitz encouraged Sticky-notes for reinforcement of vocabulary and phrases. Write. Stick. Snap. Share.

Strange social laboratory. A Little Red Dot envied and copied for the perceived success of the model throughout the region.