Ink in Penang

 

The parking attendant in Hutton Road was difficult to recognise out of context this afternoon. Mornings he trooped up and down the street issuing tickets. Instead of meters, in Georgetown ticket attendants were assigned particular streets and issued compliance tickets. Possibly they fined illegal parkers if any such got past them, which seemed unlikely. 

Almost two weeks now, morning greetings had been exchanged on the walk to the cafe. Beside the 7/Eleven on Penang Road this afternoon, it was difficult to be sure about the up-raised smiling face and nod. 

On the way out from the shop the checkerboard drew further attention, a flimsy particleboard one of the players must have brought from home. 

Second time round the man kept his head down. The game was at the crucial stage. 

It was not the board so much as the pieces that in fact drew attention here. At first the size seemed to show the usual disks of contrasting colours. A closer observation brought an abrupt stop. 

Rather than regulation local fifty cent-sized checkers, the men down on the footpath here were using bent and twisted beer bottle tops, green Carlsberg for the attendant and silver Tiger his opponent.

As was the case in Singapore, Carlsberg might not be especially expensive in Penang.

The usual gestures and postures for board-game players, perhaps of a particular cohort: forcefully driving the pieces; airily fingering possibilities at other times, forefinger flipped for anticipation of the opponent's responding move; clacketing the tin in place finally. 

(Historically, we are in the heartland of earliest industrial tin production after all: Kuala Lumpur, Ipoh & Taiping.) 

The parking attendant was in his late-sixties; partner same. The latter perhaps a sedentary occupation, judging from the fleshiness. 

Parking attendant displaying more prominent Malay features; the other Chinese. 

Barefoot both: attendant sitting on his footwear for softening; in fact the other the same, in his case the cushioning barely visible.  

With the panama before him the Parking attendant had clear advantage. Likely he had raised his eyes while the street was still being crossed and was therefore ready for the greeting at the shop.  

Green Kangol hat his case, which may or may not have been his usual wear on his Hutton Street rounds. Small black figures of kangaroos spotted the surface rather like flies a plate of food. 

Wide peak made corroboration of identity difficult and it was a long time until the man raised his head a second time.  

What put the matter beyond doubt was the shirt, a light yellow nylon sleeveless that was hardly adequate in these parts.  

The shirt was part of his daily wear on his beat. Around the pocket, above the pocket and on the outside beside the buttons, as well as the bottom of the pocket itself, dots, blobs and strokes of the pen which the parking attendant deployed six days a week on Hutton.  

As down in Singapore, it was a National holiday in Malaysia. Deepavali, the Hindu commemoration of the victory of light over darkness, if that has been gotten right. Post Office closed, quiet streets, the backpackers still counting sheep—or more likely beer bottle-tops, if the evidence of Chulia Street could be taken as guide.  

Eatery tables were much less crowded. Took a while to realise what was going on. 

As down in Geylang Serai, the game here had the additional spice of a few ringgit at stake. Looked to be in the favour of our guy, two or three notes slotted into that streaky shirt pocket.