Salute to the Man of Clay

In a proper downpour here the first shelter available. Previously the Indian prata place on Hutton Lane - Jalan Clarke corner was too close to the house for stopping, either out-bound or in. Coming back in the teeming rain last night changed all that. All very much usual and familiar: garish fluro lights from above and tiles below seemingly equally emitting; three or four stalls, twenty tables, backed chairs raising it above the common stool arrangement. The lad serving however can't recognize his own language no matter how the thing was turned, for all the care with the articulation from many years of practice.

         Classic Tamil. Unlikely there could have been any mistake.

         Short, boyish frame; mid-twenties at the outside. But with the Rudolph Valentino mo, neat cut with plenty of body straight from the Business pages and all the fortitude of his tribe, the emanation was of a man twice his age, settled and on top of the world.

         The final give-away head-loll that stamped the Southern Indian would have followed had the fellow comprehended. Tamils usually raise the wattage in the smile too. Even in the settled work-a-day countenance, it was easy to see it lurking close beneath the surface.

         — Eperi irke.

         Rising on the last syllable. Higher rolling on the first two. Lengthening slightly the second last.

         No dice. There was a barrier evident, difficult to surmount. Not the first time....

         Stretched out. Try for natural snap and ease. Same. All the encouragement to get the guy to ease up, relax, listen more and not allow his eyes to betray him, wasn't coming off.

         Ah! Nothing left for it but put the gun back in the holster. Not this time Partner. Never mind. Can't be helped.

         Move on.

         The order he gets straight-away. Teh tarik kurang manis.

         Some wanna tell you it's kula manis. Non-native speakers miss-hearing, the pedants say.

         Less sugar.

         With the generous dollop of condensed milk from the Carnation can, you don't need added.

         Six months of 2 - 3 daily one began wondering what was stacking on the fat rolls, love handles, the muffin contours. Care with the plate was cancelled out when one was sloshing teh tariks juiced up like that.

         Table-spoons usually from big ten litre tins that needed to be lifted onto the counter with knees bent.

         Chap returned five minutes later without the teh.

         The teh order had been conveyed to the drinks stand. Thirty-forty people outta the rain; there was a wait on orders.

         Leaning on the table-top—easy for him at that height—beaming.

         Leaning close.

         Still further added light from his fine row.

         — You say Eperi irke?...

         Ah ha! Chap from the near stall had been a keen observer. Given him the word subsequently back-stage.

         Fellow might not quite be believing.

         Confirmed, the young buck responds unapologetically:

         — You say wrong.

         He would say that.

         In fact the difference between the two renderings was utterly indistinguishable. Mozart's quarter tone discrimination could not have picked up the variation.

         All to do with the face before him; the expectation of the order.

         When was the last time a white guy here or back in Tamil Nadu had asked this young, forward bright spark or anyone of his tribe how he was doing?

         Never in all his born days, take it from me.

         Reader, a not insignificant first here on Hutton - Clarke corner, where the clientele would turn completely invisible should there be any power outage. A storm like that nothing to be wondered at, in Malaysia or anywhere else. Would have made it interesting.

         One excessively pale early-thirties Arab couple aside. Strange, unusual shade of pale, bred from generations of close wrapping under hammer-on-anvil sun.

         A single Chinaman very likely with some Malay cross-fertilization.

         One hard-arse early riser pure native, dead on his feet, still in his company livery work clobber, delivery or long-haul transport, getting fair shut-eye one hand on the table-top and the other arm across the neighbouring chair.

         What the heat can achieve in the matter of sleep posture has to be seen to be believed in the Tropics. Corpse-like figures throughout wherever you looked, every side. Concrete work-benches in the Fish Market after-hours after they've been hosed down. Tiled walkways, sometimes with a sheet of cardboard beneath. Sometimes another sheet improvised along the outer line of the walk-way—the famous Sir Stam Raffles five-foot walk-way—for privacy. Once a chained bicycle was seen used as the support for a ten inch high board stretched near three metres and angled flaps at both ends for stops.

         Slumping in chairs all over the town the same as in Singapura. Bottom steps of walk-ways more than once found adequate for a weary, resting head— a pillow of sorts.

         The famed Asian squat that is such a boon for posture (universal of course even three or four generations ago the world over), promoting suppleness and strengthening the lower back, can at the same time hold a weary bent head catching some serious shut-eye.

         Chap in his late-seventies, face heavily creased and lined, finding respite from the heat of the day for some precious down-time.

         Old timers back in the hills in the old country always had tales of the weary soldier on guard-duty, out on his feet no problem whatever. Not a figure of speech one can be sure.

         Tim, one of the hosts at the Artist's Residency here, thinks the Indian garbage collectors sift through the waste before it goes to landfill, or whatever. A longer term resident had it thus.

         Certainly the Garbos dive into the wheelie-bins to extract the rubbish by hand.

         On Penang Road the tall, mustachioed, big-bodied Indian employs a pair of tongs to empty the street bins. The refuse he transfers to large plastic bags before carting away.

         This Palace-guard-type Garbo on Penang Road was seen the other morning taking three or four bulging bags over to his motor-bike parked in front of the Police Station, starting up and steering one-handed down the road and around the corner.

         Four-lane Penang Road. Endless streaming and darting. Bikes making it trickier still.

         Older peds often rely on raised hands and eyes averted to get from one side of the road to the other.

         The overpass and the first traffic light at the northern end of Penang Road would be three hundred metres.

         One-handed, no helmet, three-four garbage bags in the left, not any kind of problem.

         Because Jalan Ceylon is so narrow the collector there comes along the street with an open trolley where he loads the bags from the household bins. These bins are the standard urban green wheelie bins. Here in Georgetown however, at least in this quarter abutting the Heritage precinct, the big compactor trucks for some reason are not in service. An ordinary flat-bed tray waits on Argyle corner.

         The drivers are mainly Indian too; otherwise Malay.

         A truck license is of course skilled work.

         Fellow behind the wheel probably has the radio on while he waits. Aircon unlikely.

         The other, the worker at the pointy-end, makes his way down Jalan Ceylon slowly, clearing both sides of the street at once.

         A daily operation. Still a good load every day by the time the Garbo reaches just past the mid-point, Numbers 22-25.

         No evidence of tongs.

         There might possibly have been one glove. Couldn't be sure. You couldn't risk too close a scrutiny. How could you?

         Up with the trolley to the truck and wheeling back empty.

         There is no re-cycling to speak of in Georgetown, Penang. Glass, paper, plastic—all indiscriminately in the bin.

         People take time to carefully enclose in a bag or paper. Everyone knows what awaits the Garbo.

         Chap in his late-twenties, rather handsome in a kind of deeply gouged, clay aspect. Long face and pointy chin. Beautiful row like most of his tribe. Very little sugar and sweeteners in traditional communities.

         Couldn't be sure about the South in his case; rather tall for one thing.

         Long arms a definite advantage.

         In Singapore it was invariably Mainland Chinese enticed into the lure of sweeping the streets. Here it Indian or Malay.

         Mainland Chinese Sweeps in Singapore not once in over seventeen months had ever raised their eyes to a well-meaning passer-by fully prepared to acknowledge his fellow man, never mind the grime and dirt.

         Someone had to do it. It was either that or join the rest of the crowd walking on by.

         Never happened; not once.

         Same might have applied for a local Chinese stung a bit by the whole damn thing; one who might recall his Coolie forebears who had built those streets in the first place.

         The Mainlanders might withhold from them just the same.

         In fact the average hard-working rat-race local Chinese might be to blame in Singapore for the distrust of their ancestral compatriots. Those especially with the shiniest cars who get their maids to clean them early each morning.

         Might be a harsh call maybe.

         In Malaysia Indian and Malay Sweeps and Garbos stand perfectly ready with a smile.

         No automatic chasm-gulf like the Grand Canyon impossible to traverse here.

         Do your part, the Garbo and Sweep in Malaysia will do his, take it from this Traveller.

         Unlikely the tip will be listed in Lonely Planet.