Chrissy in the Monsoon

The first monsoon Christmas two years ago provided a larger deluge than this current. After revisiting and revising the piece written at the time it seemed worth re-posting here.

Really poured on the eve in two or three passages. These rains are something. Thunders too. A little while ago the Straits Times quoted someone or other, a meteorologist it may have been, who declared Singapore the thunder capital of the world. At the outdoor tables when the thunder-claps sound in the near distance no one bats an eye-lid. Not the slightest sign given. It is the rain that is most affecting. That has even the locals casting their eyes out into the thicket.
         In an effort to seize something of the Christmas festival a turn out to Raffles City for licorice and chilli flavoured dark chocolate from Marks & Spencer seemed appropriate. Raffles City is a large shopping complex that reflects the glory of the famous hotel on the opposite corner. On the first level of the tower not far from the escalator, Marks & Spencer was doing a fair trade. As usual, most of the shoppers were gathered in the confectionary department. In a small area at the bottom left corner, beside ladies lingerie, stood the racks of chocolate, biscuit and lollies. As far as the eye could see the remainder of the store comprised clothing apparel, middle of the road budget wear, floral prints and lace. At first acquaintance lingerie and sweets seemed an odd arrangement. 
         The crush in the plaza of the tower was not so bad. Not much more than brisk trade. The practiced shoppers had got in early. Bargain hunters naturally awaited the dawn after the manger dawn. (Like back home, the doors of the stores were due to open at five AM on Boxing Day—a de facto rather than designated holiday here.) British India had drawn some custom, when there had never been seen a soul there on previous visits. One could never pass through that first corridor off North Bridge without a side-long look at the shop-front. It remained a surprise here being reminded of British India. There were all manner of trading concerns in Singapore with strange names. British India should not have come as any kind of surprise. The difference was today on the return, nearly seven months into the stay in Singapore, the store would finally be entered. What better time than Christmas. 
         One or two of the other boutiques on the ground floor of Raffles City had collected last minute shoppers. Both Raoul and Love & Co, opposite each other in the same first passage off North Bridge, again appeared vacant. In the case of fashion and jewelry respectively, it could be understood at Christmas. On the walk up and also the return, the cluster under the veranda beside the back entry of Raffles Hotel showed not a single customer: Elliott & Carmen, Irene’s Creation, the antique store beside the circular drive. (The smaller entry; the main entrance to Raffles Hotel is on the other side of the block, where you find the full, sweeping circular drive.) None of these stores held a single, solitary shopper. But then so far as that was concerned, on any other day it was the same. Christmas merely reinforced the impression. Volume was not what it was about in those shaded Raffles nooks. Understood. They may have possibly traded by appointment there. On this occasion in the walk along the Raffles veranda on North Bridge Road on Christmas Eve the thought arose whether there might be some kind of subtle subterfuge at work along this row. An idle thought in passing. Nonetheless there it was. It made one wonder. Are these stores there within the famous old hotel truly functional commercial enterprises, as they appear to the street? Do they indeed operate as shops at all, Elliot, Irene and the rest? An illustrious old boutique hotel such as this might easily create mock-up store-fronts in order to deliver a desired effect, add another layer to the aura of exclusivity and charm. Without Cartier and Rolex under those arches more than half the allure of old Sir Stamford's pile might be lost. Occasionally a figure flitted behind the windows. Everything suggested a real shop-keeper of that particular station—collars and ties, glasses on chains, shaped coiffures. The fixed, ordered wares in the interiors had the aspect of a stage-set, one where actors were redundant. The mind could play tricks on a journeyman, and the rain may have been a factor. Uncharitable thoughts at this time of year.
         A great deal of dark wood-paneling once inside the door at British India. The timber floor had not registered earlier. Inside the entry the incense and burning oil needed fording almost like a river. The staff had clearly overloaded trying to attract the attention of the passers-by out in the passage. In the men's shirts the pastels of the familiar kind seemed to be a colour representation of the rich perfume. The Indian lads in Geylang wore similar shades in the cheaper articles from the discount stores. Surprisingly the staff here held off. Possibly they could immediately detect a sight-seer. Within the ramparts there was generous space allotment; one was not crowded in British India like in Marks & Spencer. Linen fabrics an important line. Without too close an inspection, fairly casual most of the wear. In the open shelves opposite the men’s shirts the polos were sorted in fine gradations of colour. One had seen the range elsewhere in the city. Here there was the surprise of a new, entirely unexpected breast emblem. Instead of the Ferrari stallion, the Giordano prancing English lion up on its hind-quarters, the popular mounted polo player of an unknown brand, here in British India the ceremonial elephant in a range of livery was the specially chosen motif. Again, the surprise shouldn't have been. Prancing steed or lion—why not the more august pachyderm for those of another cast of mind? There were twenty different tones and combinations. Orchard Road and the arts precinct had chosen the same highly enameled wise old figure for the dominant motif in the street sculpture this year. No exaggeration, there must be in existence fifty thousand snaps of children and family propped beside the dazzling baby elephants of the streets of Singapore in the run-down to Christmas alone. No more natural extension of the motif could be found than the one inside the doors of British India. It really did bring a smile seeing the racks. Touching design development across the cultural spectrum over this vast globe. Stallions, lions, rearing steeds and faithful elephants joined together in a contemporary ark that served the brotherhood of man, all his tribes and peoples everywhere. A cow would have been inappropriate here, a profanity. The great dependable old thick-skinned Ellie a much more comforting, conciliatory totem; more Eastern. The visit to British India had been delayed too long. How had this particular line been missed on the streets of the city?
         To draw out the Eve a little further, in order to linger a little longer, some refreshment at one of the bars or cafes seemed an idea. Ind was not due until four. Plenty of time to gather the Christmas omens. There was no point rushing back to Geylang. At Geylang there was no mark of the day of any kind. One or two churches had been found off in the side lorongs of Geylang too. Worshippers would wend their way quietly there from the HDB's. Six or seven per cent might be the statistics for Christians in Singapore. Perhaps a little above. Certainly nothing like enough to produce any kind of festive spirit, in Geylang especially. As one of the older men remarked the other day, Geylang was the real Chinatown in Singapore. The advertised one near the river was—like the large temple there—a tourist mock-up. 
         Tokyo Deli Cafe didn't offer allure this afternoon. On the entry French windows and tired looking salads displayed. Even though there remained a corner of the pit empty after lunch, Tokyo had to be passed on this occasion. Another look at O'Gambino’s failed to inspire. Irish-Italo the sign said. This had to be a well-known chain, especially with that name. But in Singapore one couldn't be quite sure. From the print on the awning an old-time Chicago god-father looked down his nose. The advertising and the branding here kept one on one's toes. However the case may be, O'Gambino's seemed excessive for Chrissy eve. Some other time. A short way around the base of the tower found Double Bay boarded up. A couple of months ago a fair crowd had been drawn there, ex-pats and locals mixed. The high Oz $ possibly responsible for the closure. 
         By default more than anything, Brotzeit back a bit had to be it if it was going to be anywhere this Christmas. The tall ornamental fir stood directly in front. Brotzeit was a chain. One could pretty easily tell. Possibly not the only outlet in Singapore either. The fit-out could be plonked as required in any kind of space. It was no good being critical. Brotzeit had to do. Being picky would get you nowhere fast in Singapore. What did it matter? A few days before they had Beatles covers going, a fair John impersonator delivering a hits medley. It had been forgotten until the seat was taken. No cause for alarm. Today was another playlist. When the waiter opened the door to come out to the patio smoking area there was no John. Whatever they had on inside was muted, turned right down in honour of the season. Yet this was neither hymns nor carols. Didn't sound like. 
         Brotzeit wasn't so bad, looking out at the corner of Bras Basah and North Bridge Roads. Facing the street you didn't see the interior. Grey slate ran down to the traffic lights and seemed to continue upward diagonally opposite on the Carlton tower. On the near corner stood Chijmes, an impressive nineteenth century ecclesiastical cluster now devoted to boutique shops and bars. Unfortunately from North Bridge one faced the rear end. The cross on the chief building—it must have been the church—was retained at Chijmes. It might have been a special arrangement with Rome. (Could it be possible that on the Sunday the church function reverted, with a split of profits? The Chinese were nothing if not practical.) From across the way the Carlton appeared as offices. It must in fact be a three or four star hotel, with what looked like from the street an Arabian tailor off the foyer. High season in the luxury hotels here sets you back two or three thousand a night—plus for Emperor suites and the like. Having the old hotel across the road must have been a great boon for business at the Carlton, the shopping tower, the Chijmes bars and the church too. A better Chrissy than at this crossroads couldn't be found elsewhere in Singapore.
         The festooned holly through the gate on the side of Raffles was clearly visible. The trishaws waited under the alcoves. Around Raffles was the only place one saw the trishaws. Christmas Eve seemed an unlikely occasion for them. The chaps no doubt knew better. They seemed to be out in force. Perhaps there was an evening market, a little turn after supper through the lighted streets and down by the river. Three storeys high Raffles rose. Of course in former days it had been a landmark. Coming up from the river it would have stood as a beacon beside the spire of the church at Chijmes. (Pronounced chimes, deriving from the former Catholic Convent of the Holy Infant Jesus.) Raffles gleamed in what might have been the original white and forest green trim.
         The Chrissy tree on the corner this side was the largest in these parts, rising about twenty metres. It had been scaled to the Raffles upper storey and the spire. The faux-fir was precisely trimmed and shaped into a perfect elongated cone. Alternate red and gold mushroom-like discs ran in a couple of stripes across, with spherical gold baubles interspersed. The spots of colour compensated for what was a lackluster, brittle green. At the pinnacle a larger gold disc of the same form, only enlarged, created a crown. After the rain the colours gave a jewel-like sparkle.
         At the adjoining table at Brotzeit a little gathering of real Deutschers was found. Even before the big beefy Bavarian or Schwabian opposite the two ladies gave a salutation, the indication was strong. While speaking the man kept his Roman coin visage erect and raised. The identification was made spontaneously. This had to be a German chain. The beers were the usual mix, but in the case of wine German reds and whites predominated. A home away from home for the lucky Germans; their ringing tones and laughter as a consequence. It seemed a little touch of Christmas. The group were old friends. One of the women might have been the man's wife. It seemed the ladies politely took turns going for a cigarette. First one went off with a cigarette in hand ready for lighting, then the other. Their laughter came regularly. They had come down from one of the hotel towers in the neighbourhood between the rain storms. Perhaps the tree had drawn them and only afterward had they found the bar. A week or two ago a Christmas tree in the city had mysteriously gone up in flames. The brief mention and the lack of any follow-up in subsequent days suggested some kind of foul play. Drawing notice to the matter must have been judged unwise. There were numerous alerts here for anything suspicious, baggage and parcels, unusual behaviour. The race riots back in the early sixties had not been forgotten; after 9/11 some kind of planned attack on Changi airport had been nipped in the bud. Ten minutes away on the bus was Malaysia; Indonesia an hour on the ferry. When news of the arson was first heard naturally the tall cone at Raffles City was recalled. Given the fact that the fire had occurred more than a fortnight out, there may have been no connection with Christmas, no racial or religious undertone. Knowing the promptness of the civic authorities, a search for the burnt tree was not entertained. Knowing the promptness of the authorities, it was highly likely the tree that had been destroyed, whether here at Raffles City or elsewhere, would have been rapidly replaced. At any rate there was no need to spoil the scene beneath the tall, dressed fir out front of Brotzeit, the shoppers passing this way and that, Raffles one side and Chijmes the other, while the Deutschers chattered adjacent. The glasses on their table were full again. An impressive freedom the Deutschers displayed. They had bought their gifts on the way through customs perhaps. Comfortably they sat in the plush leather. A traditional dinner awaited them at their hotel. If the group was a little larger staff would put on traditional carols in German. With the relief from the rain this was a fine Christmas in shirt sleeves and blouses. No doubt many northerners came down to Singapore this time of year. Possibly the trio may have been able to fit together into one of the trishaws. A merry Christmas to them.
         As arranged, In arrived at the hotel shortly after 4. It was a good thing the Germans and the street Christmas had not detained longer. The usual Christmas Eve church attendance In had decided to forgo this year. Though a keen church-goer and regular in attendance, this Christmas Eve In was perfectly ready to make the concession. She had proposed the meeting herself. The formalities of church service seemed not especially important to In. Recently the pastor at her church had asked her to lead some hymn singing. It seemed ordinarily In hung back a little in church. At night she regularly prayed. When there was some trouble at work she cried at night and the prayers must have helped. Overall In managed her responsibilities well. How much of a concession was In's decision this Christmas Eve wasn't entirely clear.
         Ind's warmth and ardour rise rapidly. A hint of her passion might be guessed from her alertness and quick movement. Having herself slowed and restrained Ind easily accommodates; like a good, practiced dance partner, Ind adjusts and adapts. Words are entirely unnecessary, all is understood and accepted. Ind presses forcefully, she clings tight; plunging deep from the outset, Ind never lets up. Nonetheless, Ind always waits on her lover. Like her compatriots, Ind never disrobes herself; Ind will only oblige and aid the disrobing. Never a demand voiced or hinted. Delay, playfulness and withholding bring Ind delight, perhaps unexpectedly. At the moment when the union is about to be fulfilled Ind swells in her body and gives her tongue. Something like the bracing an athlete prepares prior to a critical response flexes Ind's small, neat frame, expectant and keen.
        Indri could not have anticipated the clamp on her tongue. Without warning suddenly, a hard, tight clenching and pinching. On the first occasion the surprise had clearly caught Ind completely unaware; in the months since it is possible Ind awaited the action. The trap sprung, Ind is held fast, hard and fast. Ind may intuit the move as a response to her own, move and counter. Then the second of Ind's shifts comes more remarkable again than the first. All at once Indri is completely paralyzed, completely transfixed; a single pin has rendered the woman entirely and utterly motionless. In the first moments of this rigid arrest, this sudden turning to stone under the assault, Ind's vertiginous stillness leaves her lover groping, hurrying to keep up.

         The posture is maintained. It is as if Ind has arched her body to its limit, without any semblance of movement, without a muscle or tendon engaged. Indri doesn't breathe, doesn't make the slightest stir. Motionless and still, swelled and risen somehow imperceptibly, small, barely audible whimpers arrive instead of breaths; slight gasps as from a fire. Gasps and little small moans. The first afternoon the effect was overwhelming. Subsequent afternoon and morning meetings attempted a recapture.
         The thought had been to have the windows in the room opened wide this Christmas Eve, the curtains drawn and the crashing rain brought indoors. Usually the wind drives the rain in under the narrow eaves of the hotel and the window has to be closed. For this monsoon Christmas it would be alright. The curtains would soon dry. In any case in the new year the hotel was due for renovation and refurbishment. Through the teeming afternoon rains in the city, watching the falls from one shelter and then another, the thought had returned to Ind's breathless whimpers, the high elevation of her frozen stance. The last window at the bed-head would be opened wide, the curtain only part closed to allow some of the drops on the pillows. This needed to be prepared prior to Ind’s arrival. If you didn’t have a hay-stack in a stable with the doors open in front this would suffice. Dark chilli chocolate and fruit on a platter, the old Malay crooners from the karaoke stand beside the supermarket providing carols.

XXXXX

You might not be surprised there's nothing whatever of X here G. Last few days i've only been going betw Lt. Ind and Geylang Serai. Nada. No fairy lights, no bunting, socks, deer. FA. Have to laugh. An old Java man look-a-like from the schoolbooks in our day has taken a shine to me and my charity lately. Most mornings he bellows some kind of hunting call from behind my morning table at Mr. T. T., blindsiding on his approach. Ah, Mr. Indigenous. It's you is it? Hello you old rascal…. Pagi, morning. Pull up a pew…. Some little malarkey gets the ball rolling. Chap knows his pal's always busy, note-taking, circling items in the paper. The headshaking puzzles him. What the devil's that about?... Laughs. Always measures his ask, knows what he's about of course, geyser his age. Nothing straightaway.... When it comes it's the clutch at the parched throat and screwing up the eyes like desert scenes in the silent flicks. Always damn hot of course, even in December. Finger and thumb showing the measure of the glass. If only he could get one. The little zippered pouch on the table with the pens and papers holds the coin, he knows. Indicates with a finger. You gunna rescue a pal, or not? Most of the chat is mutually incomprehensible. Man camps out in Toa Payoh apparently, yet takes the 67 which doesn't go out there. Commun. breakdown. A heavy ring makes a clang on the table-top punctuating the halting conversation. HaHaHa. The approaching event he has been anticipating more than a week now. Jingle bells, Jingle bells.... Saya bulom pergi? You goin back when?... How you supposed to keep a straight face? Got the ol buzzard pegged at eighty two or three. Someone washes, shaves and cuts his hair, pares his nails. Probably best of the threads is the white BOY tee he sports every once in a while. Rip Curl surfer shorts if you can believe it. No $2 Chin-wear from the outlets up the road for this fella. Must be an educated daughter or grand loving him to bits. Decided he doesn't need the dosh so keeping it to fifty cents every second day. One morning a hoot tricking him with one of the new fifties. Smaller, close to the buck and about the same weight. The feel of it had him pretty satisfied. Look-see that followed however transformed the visage. Jowls dragged south, hang-dog miserable. What?!!... They don't give for that anywhere. Whadya think this is?

That's the extent of it here in my quarter. There've been carols in the supermarket that you have to duck, almost nothin else. You could easily forget the whole show.

Happy Merry your side. Y’ll enjoy the socks & hankies.

Cheers

P

P.S. Two virtual cards arrived early on the Eve now, from the same sender, Era the Minangkabau, Central Sumatra. Morning haney. Happy marry krestmas. And the correction quickly following: Morning honey happy merry crestmas

                                                                                                                                           Geylang Serai, SG Dec 2013

Translator

Another small trifle one hesitates to deliver. Negligible and slight. Such voluminous travel reports on every side from every region. Horrid to add to the store. Sights, adventures, misadventures, disappointments, hardships and delights. Incomprehension, blankness and failing on so many fronts. One hesitates to lay another load. The author has been back from Yogyakarta, Jogja, a full week now. Borobudur, Malioboro, the Kraton - the Sultan's Palace, following in the steps of many before him. One of the small tour buses joined for the trek to Borobudur with keen young and old photographer tourists documenting the sights for friends and family back home. It was too difficult trying to organize an independent excursion. Local buses were a possibility, the preferred option of course; but winging it without a guide and risking spending the entire day gadding about meant it was finally knocked on the head. A tour bus—van rather—not especially painful in the end. But, yes, following the well-plotted path. May as well have had a Lonely P in the knapsack like everyone else, flipping all the pictures in advance. Off Malioboro a delight eating at the push-carts on the weathered benches with the locals at a Sing dollar a go. Many got used to the No rice order. (The polished white constipating more than a little.) Gamelan at the Palace. An admission: prior to the visit this mature, educated, cultured traveler had the gamelan as the xylophone object one had seen in film clips. Wasn't that the gamelan? Whoever said the entire orchestra was gamelan? And one more while we're at it. Prior to departure from the great Southern land Borobudur had never once made it onto the radar. Angkor Wat perfectly clear; Stonehenge, Rheims and Notre D. No one in the circle sounded this other. Some of the recommended foods in Jogja were missed. In fact all. Foodie experiences No thanks. A nice girl was met in place of the one who had undertaken to come down from her kampung in the interior. (Mother disallowing in the end, after three dozen phone calls in the lead up, firm arrangements. Gal in her early thirties. Mother pressing her to marriage, but "not like this"....) Somehow still this memory returning; couldn't be shaken. No doubt the larger call of Jogja behind it: after two and one half years in Singapore a move now needed; the prospect of Java alluring, all those promising train lines up, down and across: Jogja—Semarang. East to Surakarta and Surabaya; West Purwokerto and across the central heartland to Bandung, Bogor and back up to the capital. In place of Montenegrin karst, Javanese volcanoes. Strangest of fates. How did this happen?
         Little English in Jogja. (Another of the traveler complaints regularly encountered.) Even on Malioboro, on the western side of the street amidst the tees and knick-knacks, little English, let alone the other side. Getting credit on the new sim card not straightforward, unfailingly nice and patient as the young lass at the counter always proved. In the case of checking credit before adding more another order of difficulty again. The best option was to find a school-age, alert looking youngster, university level preferably. Not much was required. It should not have been too difficult. All the kids, almost without fail, wanted a photograph in company. Tall white man in a panama was irresistible. Bingo at the first attempt here. Pair of friends skipping along; sisters it turned out. Fully covered in the traditional garb, scarved on top. Girls always the preference for reasons unnecessary to state. And, if that was where you were pointed, the fabulous theatrical Muslim appareil could not be bettered. You wanna be a movie star? Step this way into the rolling film-set. One, two. Action. Hello, Hello girls. A little startled. A little uncomprehending. Oh. Oh. Top-up credit? Well, they could try. The second taller, elder, a non-speaking part. Possibly not because she had lesser vocabulary. In Java and Malaysia you encountered traditional women especially like animated statues who offered words like Doges ducats to the riff-raff of the street. You thought at first they had not a word. But No. Words were offered like kisses behind columns here. One fine day when peace descended on earth and all the lord's creatures, certainly where observant, dutiful girls were concerned. The elder sister did not even raise her chin from her breastbone hardly.
         Top-up the man wants. Existing credit first. OKOKOK.... Amount to be added now?
         There. That wasn't hard was it? Good Oh. A trice. The girl behind the counter knew the drill in any case. She had added 10,000 R twice before. One dollar a time the man wants to come back every second day. OK.
         Another call to Sumiyatie presently. Thank you very much girls. A job well done. Excellent well.
         Not especially pretty either. Exceedingly thin under the habiliments. Sharp pointy features in the exposed rounds of the face, pale, pale hands protruding from wide satiny sleeves. Something of the aspect of plucked chickens in these unfailingly fetching costumes. Glazed young chickadees from some unknown kind of preparation. Quite unlike oven browning; boiling more like. Wing arms, little beaks, flitting eyes scared of the pot.
         Many thanks to you my dears, much obliged. Lavender ten thousand across the counter; and one for you too.
         Golly Gee how she started flapping those fledgling wings. OhOhOh.
         Touts, beggars, scammers, the blind, crippled, deformed and aged, so-so reformed junkie batik artists all attempting to extract a measly fifty rupiah would do if that's all you got on the other side of the street. Here this girl was overwhelmed. Not her. Flipped her perch. Flapping. Blushing without being able to raise any colour.
         What she spoke difficult to convey.
         Forget corny Holly- and Bollywood, all the homely country pie and curry. Forget English finishing school grads in historical dramas: Thank you kindly, I couldn't..... The well brought up lasses in the care of mothers, aunts and grans that one vaguely recalls from before the war. This was different. You never seen this on the screen. A kind of hot coal hopping.
         Said she, — But sir. No. Sir. Sir. This from my....
         Well she said heart actually. Jumping on the spot foot to foot, This from my heart. Below her satiny top that was met by the fall of her tudong, her scarf from her head, inside there beating was where she had drawn up her free offering of aid. Money absolutely not.
         But my dear, this is from my heart too…. A duet in tune. Oh. Oh. Oh. Tra la la.
         Hard to believe I know. The author apologizes. Take it as a small, small tiny hint of what we have become maybe, that's all.

Fair Go - updated July22

Rather a pickle now for Rina's employers this bother of the Indian diplomat treated so summarily in the U.S. over falsely declared payments to the maid. No laughing matter being hauled off like that, strip-searched and arraigned. The decision having been taken to school the children in England, Ma'me cannot cope without a maid over there. For that however, for an extended stay, Immigration formalities involving legal declarations, as in the case of the Indian diplomat. 

Specifically, the remuneration of the hired help you want to bring into the country needs to accord with minimum legislated labour rates. In the case of the Indian diplomat, the woman declared such-and-such, when in fact, wink-wink, nod-nod, actually a quarter of that would be more than fair in the Indian context. 

Not however in the States. They abolished actual and even virtual slavery there some while back. You declare, you pay. No shenanigans. Especially not with a keen, newly appointed DA patrolling the beat. (Of Indian ancestry, as it happens.)

Newspaper reports would have made Ma'me's ears prick. A High Commissioner’s daughter into the bargain, something of that sort. What would they care about a Chin tin-pot billionaire in England and America.

As a consequence the paperwork being prepared in Bukit Timah now shows maid accompanying to England will earn per month out on the green dales, two thousand Singapore dollars. Each month. The minimum permitted under those laws up there in the Queen’s kingdom.

After thirty months and counting on the island there has been found one maid here earning a staggering $SG1,200 per month from a generous Chinese spinster living alone without cats and dogs. Relating the matter to others produces glazed stares. Ah-ha. Really? She told you that? 

In fact the lass concerned can be believed. The dripping gold she wears Sundays testifies. Two new Smart phones. No-one has the kind of shiny cloth on her back like this chubby one. 

Nice gal, good luck to her. More usual was $500 & $600. Per month. Illegal 400s are still reported; 450s common as coconuts. Rina scores $600 after a dozen years in the employ at Bukit Timah.

The two maids don't get on. Rina is quiet, even tempered, careful in opening her trap. The other a busy-body, complaining and fault-finding. Twelve years together there in Bukit T., Rina having started a few months earlier. Pity about that.

But Rina was not bothered. Doesn't care. Her six hundred satisfies her. A request for some kind of parity given the circs. certainly will not be ventured by Rina. Should her employers decide to cough, she'll accept. Not otherwise.

Fact is Rina has had enough of working away from home. A dozen years here and a couple in Saudi prior. Two houses built back in the kampung in Java tengah, central Java. Extra salted away. Son, daughter and step-daughter all happily married. The kids are calling mum back to look after the grand. Rina would prefer to pull up stumps here. Time for some rest. In her mid thirties, Rina was tired. 

Horrifying prospect for Sir, Ma'me and Popo. After such service, proven trustworthiness, reliability, honesty, never a bad temper. After all this where would they ever find another maid to compare?

Popo, Ma'me's mother, has redoubled efforts to retain her maid. The other upstairs was charged with the care of the children. Rina takes Popo, the garden, cooking, cleaning, car washing. 

Popo depends on Rina. Genuinely likes the maid by the sound of it. The pair have been on numerous trips together—Shanghai, Beijing, HK, Macao (Vegas fell through—Popo likes mahjong and roulette). Closer to home KL, Melaka, Genting and Cameron Highlands, Ipoh, JB innumerable times. 

Ma'me can rest easy with Rina escorting her mother. 

Hard not to like Rina. Popo certainly fond of her. Recently a Chinese spinster had been in the news after leaving her Indonesian maid a million dollars. This after financing the building of a house in the kampung, among other generosities. 

Some months ago during the early alarm over Rina's position, Popo referred to this report in her pleas for Rina's loyalty. 

Look me I die Will leave money you.

Rina knows she has Popo in her corner. Good old stick, never a problem.

But Popo, you children, grandchildren. Other no. How?

It would happen, Popo promised.

Bukit Timah was prime bungalow territory in Sin'pore.. Tin Hill, that in reality denotes a much more precious metal. Let's say ten million conservatively for the triple storey alone. 

At his office in Orchard Sir's safe often holds bucket loads of bucks. (Rina cleans the shelves.) Big dollars. 

Rina and the second maid however continue to be granted only fortnightly days off; not the weekly mandated by law. (Ha! Yeah right.) 

….A change too in the thirteen year olds since the return from the rolling hills of England. (The first adopted, before Ma'me suddenly and unexpectedly finally fell pregnant.) Unruly now. They get upset if Rina is too tired to kick the ball with them. And they brazenly kick the ball directly at her on purpose.

 

Follow-up on the Riot

Almost two weeks later now 57 foreign workers have been deported following the December 8 incident, four more last night. All bar one Indian nationals (Bangladeshi the other).

         The minister for Law and Foreign Affairs Mr. K. Shanmugam explained a few days ago the repatriation decision could not be permitted to come under judicial oversight as that could mean that “every foreigner is entitled to stay here at taxpayers’ expense, housed here at taxpayers’ expense”, with cases taking possibly a year to conclude. Existing laws allow summary action at the discretion of the Minister.

         This particular Minister, of Indian descent, was caught on television a short time before the riot defending the death penalty in the usual TV studio round-table. Well-fed, heavily and prematurely jowled, collar and tie, the man made the familiar arguments for judicial killing with the usual sangfroid.

         A further 200 men await questioning on the riot, additional deportations not expected. This large group has been described as passive and incidental to the riot.

         Last Sunday a lock-down of sorts was imposed in an area of 1.1 square kilometers centred on the site of the disturbance. Sale and consumption of alcohol prohibited, recreational activities—cricket matches and movie screenings two mentioned.

         An academic from one of the universities suggested the public ought prepare for underlying anger and resentment within the foreign workforce as factors in the incident, but there is little prospect of this being given much play. Construction companies on the island will be struggling with tight schedules.