Thursday, January 31, 2013

All Bases Covered


Unending steel birds one after another coming down at the Paya Lebar military airport, twenty soon after breakfast. Population of 5.5m in the latest figures, which includes all the foreigners (nearly one and a half mil.) and the PR holders. Yet seemingly a larger air-force than the one that carried out the Allied bombing of the German cities in the last year of the war. The Saudis might not be better equipped. Even with the US and Britain included - assuming Regional HQ for their operations - remarkable. On Taiwan the Chinese would kick up a stink; Downunder a land too far, even for speed-of-sound breakers. Singapore perfectly positioned. The new hotel sits directly beneath the flight path. Walking back from the bus an enthusiast can count the riveting on the under-carriages. The newscasts of the Vietnam War recalled sipping your morning teh large B52-type big-bellied craft; troop transports with the propellers front and rear; the migs are from a later time: Panama, Gulf War, Yugoslavia, Afghanistan & Iraq. Numerous benefits to the local economy of course; better that Singapore gets it than someone else. Even the Vietnamese are trying to lure US bases back to their territory for the cash injection as much as insurance against the Chinese. Pity the forests are gone for those historic camouflage colours.

Kopi


Coffee (from the Portuguese); then on top lime (not the fruit, the paste) and gambir (a medicinal plant, in processed form used for tanning & dyeing).
         There you have standard, pre-prepared kopi that looks like cough syrup, served at Kopitiam outlets.
         This newcomer has only recently been informed of the full ingredients by a reliable source. In Geylang there are Kopitiams without number. (Tiam is not a corruption of "time": Malay for shop.)
         To muddy the picture further, Kopitiams are mostly misnomers for beer joints, at least at the Chinese end of Geylang. Almost twenty months in, never passed these lips.
         Varieties as everywhere else:

         kopi O - no milk

         kopi C - condensed milk added

         kopi kurang manis—easy on the sugar. (You better not forget this if you wanna get up off the floor. A standard kopi or teh gets about two and one-half tablespoons. The sugar buckets stand a metre high on the counter; sweet-tooths abound. Kurang manis. Even better: kosong. None thanks.

         Don't imagine the waiter or waitress goes up to the work-station to hit the menu screen for the order. That takes place at Bugis and Orchard. Yes, Sir. Of course, Sir. Our pleasure…. Here in Geylang more often than not the bent and arthritic  old Auntie has the voice of a garroted canary: — Copy OooH!
         Rarely does one ever lay eyes on the maker in the corner. If they're peeing in your beverage in revenge at the gross inequity–you sitting high in your chair like a Lord while they slave in back–the froth over the evidence covers and best not dwell on the matter.

         Milo does a big trade. (Somehow ignorance led one to believe this was an Australian product.) Comes in regular and dinosaur. Hokkien and Bahasa speakers without a word of English to save themselves know dinosaur. The latter treat carries scoops added on top.
         The Kopitiams do teh of course too, in all the above forms for kopi, with two more added: teh lemun and teh halia (ginger). 
         A Melbourne sophisticate pays $4.50 for good Euro-style cafe at Geisha in the Burlington tower. For a bigger, quieter table with fewer Arts' students brainstorming at your elbow—Arts administrators worse still!—(Geisha is located opposite Lasalle College of Arts, an adjunct of the famous Goldsmiths, London operation), Dome at the other end of the Arts' precinct trades tall glasses for $5.20 (add 52 cents Service Charge and 40c GST brings it to $6.12. Well over five dollars Australian.) The Shanghai lads at Geisha offer a range of exotica $10 and upwards. Fukushima Miho chose top-of-the-range Panama Finca Esmeralda at $15 a pop at Geisha on the weekend without blinking an eye. (On freelance Translator wages).

         "Coffee-shop talk" is a common pejorative used by the Chinese business-class. (Naturally. Well, they are often not wrong!)

         Malays are famous for lepak (soft "k"): hanging out at the Kopitiams doin' nuthin'. Lazy. Not rats enough for the race. Wouldn't work in an iron lung &etc &etc. Soul-cousins of our blackfellas.

Love and Madness (The Boyanese)


How does a marriage break down? Indescribable no doubt, ultimately. 

Why would a person volunteer an account to a complete stranger, a passing acquaintance? A foreigner at that. Stranger on the train perhaps; the instinct to voice. 

Again in recent days on the streets here the repeated sighting of people, young, old, male, female, foreign workers and locals, muttering to themselves; mumbling as they went. Had the city made them mad? In some strange way the sight was not troubling, the sign of the inner cogitation somehow reassuring. There was always so much needed pondering.

For some odd reason the Boyanese had long been confused with the Sulawesi here. In fact the two islands are very different. One of the problems was the variant terminology over the course of a long history. The Indonesian archipelago has had some strong Hindu past; a strong Arab infusion of course. Chinese. Thai seemingly. Dutch of course, and Portuguese. The Anglo-American bite of the cherry in more recent history. 

The island of Bawean, Pulau Bawean, home of the Boyanese, lies off the north-east coast of Java. (Sulawesi was the third largest island in the archipelago, after Java and Sumatra.) 

A number of Boyanese had been encountered in Singapore. Travel between the islands went back many years. It seems during the English colonial period a good number of Boyanese set sail for the opportunities in Singapura. 

One local Boyanese identity strongly recalled the old Montenegrins from the leading hill clans. How the pride pulsed in the chap! No-one in Singapore possessed a more extensive collection of kris. (A kind of samurai sword.) On the phone there were photographs with dignitaries and royals in Malaysia. Dr. Mahathir had made an offer for some prize possession. A certain community standing had been obtained by the fellow because of his interest in ancient Islamic manuscripts. If you wanted to see precious books, give him a ring some time. 

Sentosa address on the card. (Doubters revealed shoe-box offices in Sentosa—prime real estate in Singapore—could be bought for seven or eight hundred a month. Easily parleyed into useful prestige.) 

That was one kind of Boyanese. 

Watch out for the Boyanese, you were told. You wouldn't want to mess with a Boyanese girl for example, one would never get away with a fling. 

The fixation with the ceremonial kris was an aid to memory; another strong reminder of the Montenegrins in their stony wastes.

A mild-mannered, quiet, avuncular and uncomplaining man on the road, as he called himself without much self-pity, Mr Yousef. Not a Boyanese himself, nor remotely connected to one. Under no circumstances would Mr Yousef have had anything to do with any Boyanese, you could tell, even before the trouble with his wife. 

It was the Boyanese who had brought Mr Yousef to grief, to this current and long-standing predicament of his on the road.

On all sides at lower Geylang Mr Yousef was greeted. Elderly upright old men and the younger generation too clearly held him in the same esteem. The respect accorded immediately apparent. 

More often than not Mr Yousef sat alone; ate alone. The lot of a retired policeman, perhaps, even one esteemed. 

Smoked his cigarettes legally off away from the tables. 

Rough-sleepers in Singapore can be Mr Yousef's age and older. Something of a surprise. The comment had been made more than once. Many of the homeless around the place had chosen that course rather than return to estranged family. Social workers would tell you the situation was common all over. 

Three adult children from his first marriage; eldest daughter forty-four. Twenty-three years Mr Yousef had been out of the family home at Woodlands, over by the Causeway that separated from Malaysia. 

The girl was in her early twenties at the time of the blow-up. Every year Mr Yousef tracked the ages of the children from his first marriage. 

At sixty-eight Mr Yousef had two younger children with his second wife in Medan, Sumatra, sixteen year old and five. The second wife called Mr Yousef Papi

A house and land bought in Medan, where the young wife had declared she would bury Papi within the family compound.

— Don't, Mr Yousef told her. The respect and honour was well and good. But what about the decrease in land value? At some time in the future when the property might be sold, who would want some stranger's bones into the bargain?

As a Singaporean, Mr Yousef received only a thirty day visa for Indonesia, the same as an Australian. Even after nearly twenty years of living on the territory. 

More importantly, the Singaporean pension called Mr Yousef back to his homeland. One could transfer to an overseas pension, but that depended on all going well with the authorities and all the channels. Better return in person. 

This also put some air into the second marriage; release-valve. 

At the same time relations with extended family could be maintained; births, weddings and deaths observed. There over the water the divide was decisive; even at the close proximity.

Twenty-three years to and fro between Medan and Singapore. A homeless rough-sleeper flying in an aeroplane a dozen times a year. The irony was far from lost on Mr Yousef. 

People chattered about it no doubt, safe to assume. Sleeps rough. Takes to the air. Got a stash.

The family home in Woodlands was sold some years past. Mr Yousef signed the papers. His fifth share of nearly eighty thousand dollars at the time never came through. The daughter had probably seen to that. When he went out to her house to enquire she closed the door in his face; told him she didn't want to see him. 

The daughter would doubtless have her own story to tell. This is Mr. Yousef's side of it.

Three kids, twenty and down back in the early 80's. A cop's wage moderate; enough to get by on. Five-room flat in Woodlands could be bought outright before the boom.

A good Muslim does not drink, does not gamble. Back then Mr Yousef did not even smoke. 

The sense was that Mr Yousef never played around. Twenty three years later it might be difficult to tell, a man in his late sixties. You would guess there were no additional darlings on the side. No reason for suspicion.

One day out of the blue, Mr Yousef finds his wife of more than twenty years in tears. Head down on the kitchen table, wailing.

What's wrong?

Wailing. Grief and guilt.

What's wrong?

— I passed you dirty water, Mrs Yousef confesses.
You did what?

She had passed her husband dirty water.
Mr Yousef was nothing short of aghast. 

After work chasing crooks and keeping the city safe, out of the blue confronting this at home. 

There had been no reason. Mr Yousef had given his wife no reason. Had there been a reason the disaster following could not have taken the form it did, you would think.

Mr Yousef had no inkling. An innocent victim.

It was done now. 

Usually as well as spells and invocations, there was a bit of this and that added to the brew: steeping leaves, dash of urine, stirred by a feather, that kind of thing. 

Sometimes the Holy Book was desecrated in these black rites. 

You paid for it all of course too. The bomoh didn't provide service gratis. 

A Boyanese had got into Mrs Yousef's head. 

If you wanted a bomoh, if you were desperate and sought first-rate, it was best to consult the Boyanese.

Actually the wife, Mrs Yousef, loved her husband. Mr Yousef, Man on the Road, knew that then the same as he knew it twenty-three years later. 

Trouble was he was the wrong man to try that on. 

Just as one does not see the former philanderer in Mr Yousef, nor the thug-cop, one neither sees a man capable of mountainous rage and soaring anger. Disgust and disenchantment did not need such operatic emotion. 

Run-away train. All brakes failing. Barriers none, nor useful interventions from any side. 

Sometimes these types of disasters might be averted by a wise, measured intercession. Some respected mutual friend or relative. Thought directed toward the children. Deeply regretted error fully and voluntarily explained. A reckless, desperate action arising from love alone. 

Mr Yousef well knew his wife had acted out of love and nothing else. 

The intervention had been meant to keep him from straying; fears and wild premonitions clouding judgment.

Happy, regular marriage, turned overnight into irretrievable disaster. 

A life, a family, undone at the hands of the Boyanese.
         Around one AM as the staff at Labu Labi opposite Geylang Serai lock-up shop, Mr Yousef and a young Malay family begin arranging the red and orange plastic chairs. The veranda provided shelter. Currently it was monsoon season. Blankets fetched from a cupboard in the adjacent corridor. The Malay couple have a three-year-old; Mr Yousef surrogate Gramps. In the next few months the Malay couple expect housing placement. Saturday the man is back on the road for Medan.


Tuesday, January 29, 2013

Room-Hunting, Singapore

.


The day swallowed by it. On-line, the newspaper and then some foot-slog tried for posters and informally quizzing the security guards at apartment blocks and the like. (The latter often know the ins and outs of their towers and receive a commission from owners in the event of landing a tenant.) Some urgency over the matter arrived when the reclusive Mr. Tan—the Manager of the hotel still not sighted twenty months later—brought the vacate date at Joo Chiat Hotel forward. Twelve noon on the 30th. The Fuck would wouldn't he!
          In near-by Carpmael Road the week before Mr. Tan—another one presumably —had been contacted. Naturally he remembered the voice. Sorry Mr. Tan I didn't get back to you. Urgent business in Malaysia. Everyone did some business over the Causeway, where labour and produce was cheap. People went over to fill their fuel tanks (now regulated), for lunch and haircuts. Twenty minutes, upped to twenty-five before he hung up, Mr. Tan would be waiting out front of the house. Clearly punctuality required. On the phone Mr. Tan sounded like a substantial businessman: well-to-do, middle-aged, busy with lots on; solid type. A few minutes needed to find the place still left time. There he was getting out of a new big-size Merc.          Knickerbocker jeans, black tee, expensive slip-on athletic shoes. Jewelry not over-done. There were no tattoos on the former gangster. Some while ago now the money had been laundered. Triple storey house, newly renovated. Five rooms per floor each bringing in over a thousand a month. They were all friends at this establishment of Mr. Tan's, you could be assured. A couple of them who were home nodded agreement. Mr. Tan was a Chicken, a year younger. A boxer. No trouble believing that, no need to sight the gloves behind the driver's seat. You could see the hard-body before the chummy pats and squeezes.
         The fella was a player without a shadow of doubt. A swap interested him. Malayu girls your preference? Mr. Tan had just the thing in his stable. Twenty-four, a good Pakistani girl, passionate alright. In exchange a Euro. You got one?....
         Gee, Mr. T. You're putting me on the spot. Have to tell you, you wouldn't be their type. These are girls with brains.... Mr. T. would do tandem if you fancied. Clearly a fancy taken to his prospective tenant. Not a gay thing. Exuberance. Melissa was got on the line in a flash. Poor girl had no warning of course. Sounded like she had just woken, three in the afternoon. English on the phone difficult here at the best of times. When Mr. Tan phoned you perked up. At least Melissa did. Which Lorongs did your girls work buddy? Come on.... Wasn't telling. Where could he be found, where did he drink his kopi? In answer Mr. Tan gave his kitchen supply business up in Joo Chiat Road. How many wives you got Mr. Tan? Come on, come clean! No hesitation there: one wife; three darlings. Lots of latitude would be given by the wife. Kept in fine style, what more did she want?
         The rooms fanned off a central foyer/sitting room where a large TV was mounted on the wall of the prospective room. Filipina on the couch with the sound up. Not a working girl. Lived in the adjacent room with her husband. Not all day did she sit there watching TV with the sound off the dial. In their room they had their own set. Mr. T. sensed the drift. We would be friends regardless of the tenancy. Doesn't matter. Eleven hundred a month was neither here nor there for Mr. T. Friendship was of course more important in any case. Call me. Call me.
         Nice fella. Not many opponents had laid a glove on Mr. Tan. Face unmarked. For a moment it looked as if the tattoos had been removed from the shins. No, he was a clean-skin. Perhaps an athlete. Perhaps there was no trafficking. There were Mercs aplenty even in Geylang. Plenty. The girls could have come with the success; not earned the success. Nice dye job; nice thatch. A Monkey and Chicken: almost brothers. The hint for a bend in the price remained buried in the raucous exchange.
         Max around in Joo Chiat Terrace apologized for being a half hour late. Jam. They were bad that time of afternoon, true enough. Max had talked his business partner into waiving the usual insistence on a twelve month contract. OK, OK, OK. Can. No-one outdid Singaporeans for the Can-do spirit. Even Mainlander Singaporeans who somehow won precious residency in the country. Max and his partner were renovating three adjoining triple storey terraces spitting distance from the hotel. Nothing to recommend them. Basic rooms, shared bathroom, as in the case of Mr. Tan. Twelve hundred here. Add forty, fifty a month utilities. A meter above each door. Mr. Tan in Carpmael wore the utilities. He had reached the top of the mountain; Max and his partner were still climbing from base-camp.
         Another to view in the morning in the immediate neighbourhood. Same again: five rooms, free-standing in this case. Couple hundred cheaper, which means a Common room, tight, bathroom shared with three other rooms possibly. In the interim Four Chain View Hotel on the other side of Guillemard. A kilometre from Joo Chiat Hotel, but in fact a world away. Distinctly Chinese, no two ways about it. Nothing against the Chinese, don't get me wrong. Geylang Chinese are still the original kind. Not the running dogs of the British, as the Mainlanders refer to their uppity HK worshippers of the royal family and all things pale peach and carrot-topped. Nevertheless, it has been the Malays that have been the chief study these twenty months. It will mean a fifteen minute brisk walk to Mr. Teh Tarik and Labu Labi, the gravitational centre.
         Prices at Four Chain View the same as Joo Chiat: sixty Singaporean per diem; about forty-six Australian. Shockingly expensive for an indigent author, even a moderately secure rentier back in Melbourne.
         Perfect security assured at the desk at Four Chain. Belongings left in the room no problem; cameras throughout. Quiet at the back. A side door off Lorong 39 looked suspicious. No problem. Yes, there are working girls. But, rest assured, these are confined to floors one and two. Respectable customers are sequestered on three and four. Queen sized bed in this case (Joo Chiat reprised teenage years with a single), a bar fridge meaning cereal again. Magnifique! The manager still needs to be brought to the negotiating table on price. Like a lot of hotels in Geylang, Thursday - Sunday, play-up days, the rates rise. A hike of ten dollars.
         Something for the interim. Further decisions ahead. Jakarta and Bandung once the floods recede perhaps. Continue the investigation of this Malay archipelago. A preparation for the longer term return to the remnant Montenegrin tribes. Somehow.
         ..... During the typing Mr. Yousef the retired policeman slinking past. Almost half twelve, the thought occurs where is Mr. Yousef putting up nowadays. Last year he was camping on a stretcher out by the Converts' building. That swag has not reappeared. This round it turns out the camp is here at Labu Labi itself. Between twelve and one the place closes. Arrange the plastic orange chairs, back to the traffic and under the veranda some kind of shut-eye available. Twenty-three years it has been like that for Mr. Yousef. Readers may recall, Singaporean policemen colleagues who had been posted to Christmas Island back in the sixties now lived in palatial houses in Perth with full Australian pensions. Mr. Yousef not so lucky, with family likewise. Early Feb he hopes to be back in Medan, Sumatra with his new wife and young children. You can't trust the government to forward the pension to Sumatra. Coming to collect personally you know what you're getting. This fretting about a room from another perspective.

Monday, January 21, 2013

Cafe & Art




Slipped 4pm while still on the No.2 getting out for cafe. Not Geisha this afternoon where it was bursting full, a warehouse-like look out back with a new shipment of the paraphernalia that is a side-line of the business. As well as beans from North Africa, Indonesia and Malaysia, cups, flat stirrers, heavy stainless presses for the grounds, sitting in the higgledy-piggledy midst of which always turned out more congenial than all the usual décor. Not today however with a new consignment landed on the docks. Up through the crush of tourist-crammed Bugis Street unthinkingly, a gauntlet and a half dodging, weaving, lightest of brushes on the outside of pretty palms in passing just for the electric thrill, over Victoria brought up Starbucks. On God no! Impossible. All flesh and blood screamed out against it. A recent salonned blonde possible Oz Northern Beaches at the table knocked that on the head quick-smart. Bullet glance was enough. Boutique bags, arrived via Bali and off to Phuket; or the other way, full-moon party on Koh Phangan. No way, better go without, don't even think about it. The kids at Starbs counter chosen for dazzle, auditioning for bigger parts in sales down the track. Nooo. Hugging the shaded walk-way, past Bras Basah (Wet Rice) Complex, grand old Dame left. Preppy kids. Preppy kids all in a row. (Topshop, Abercrombie & Fitch, Hilfiger. Some of the YALE tops might not have been mainland Chinese sweat-shops.) Innocence. Patience. Prize-winning pavement greenery throughout. Brotzeit at the foot of Raffles tower opposite the famous old landmark stood beckoning. Faux Deutsch local bar-cafe with the feel of what would be a flag-ship McDonalds that probably exists somewhere in the American prairie heart-land (Milwaukee at a stab). Not today; not a lederhosen kind of spirit in the middle of the week. Loungers in the chairs out front were settled in for the afternoon with the air-con behind through the open doors, sausage and sauerkraut possibly at Brot., authentic as you can get. Was there a pic last time of the cathedral at Cologne? The Black Forest was notoriously difficult to get in the frame. Not today, nein, danke, another time when the alpine mood was right. Not when the good ol' Dome was 200m up the road. Skipping again across Victoria Street against the lights sends the usual tingle up the spine in Sin'pore. On the crossing on Middle Road at the National Library when a pair saw how it was done they emerged from the waiting scrum and bounded over giggling and throwing their heads about like wild brumbies on the high plains. Frolic and a half. An example provided, much can be achieved, even with the Preppiest kids. Handsome old room at Dome. Forget the behaviour at the tables, the dress and conversation. (The good table manners that spoil good food, as opined the Forward-Scout in Ipoh, Perak on the Peninsular not a month ago.) A new older gay Malay waiting might get lucky there one day, plenty opportunity. Former Jesuit pile, St. Joseph's Institution, alma mater of the current Pres. Little pint-sized Tony Tan, the Tan of the quartet of Tans who nosed the winner's tape in the race ahead of his clan competitors mid last year. Arts precinct now, the school long outgrown its quarters. ART IS CHIC bannered on a lamp-post. The little handkerchief lawn out front of SAM (Singapore Art Museum in the main admin building) usually hosts a chosen exhibit from the wealth of the chic on display inside the doors. This case a plaster-cast of Laocoon and his Sons transplanted to the tropics. A ruin of sculptural frieze—missing forearms, crumbling pediment, a nose or chin might have been scuffed. Famously world-wide, unlike anywhere else in this inner sanctum of Singapura, where, as previously disclosed, cheap foreign cleaning crews polish fronds of plants that fringe the entry-way of buildings, here in the special case of art for art's sake the crumbled rubble of the faux ruin of Laocoon and his Sons had been left to litter the lawn at the base of the statue. A sight to behold. Only lacking some bubble wrap blown among the debris and a butt or two. Clean rubble in this case, possibly vacuumed. Saving grace are the waiters at Dome, the usual fine specimens untainted at their bare-bones wage level. You need a lot of dosh to make-over in this town, to cross or pass they used to call it during segregation and apartheid. Yellow to white was a fair bit easier. Another banner for “The President's Young Talents”. Tony T.'s Arts Point-man has gathered together six of the local up-and-comers, soon-to-be best-sellers. No reason the HK and Shanghai markets can’t be overtaken by the original Asian tiger: logistics, pharmaceuticals, armaments, why not art? "Be the first to spot the next big thing here..." encouraged the weekly Art Guide, 22 - 27 January. But hurry. Ranking for the brew: Geisha was head and shoulders top of the pops on this island (Shanghai operation); followed by Brotzeit, Dome and the famed U.S. chain bringing up the rear. Almost six dollars the Jesuit cup. Geisha 4.5 in Burlington Square, opposite the new Arts College, Lasalle, in co-op with Goldsmiths London. A whole other task picturing that for a reader who doesn't know much about marketing architecture!

Tuesday, January 15, 2013

Home Away From Home

Same quiet low-level dusk magic out at the Mr Teh Tarik tables here at lower Geylang as three months ago, winging imperceptibly from the sides. The thin sliver of horizontal moon could not have been more than a day or two old, in one passage of light and dark the blades showing piercingly sharp. At the tables the steady low rhythm of families almost entirely soundless—cowed by the lamp behind one might think, though no-one seemed to give it any regard. An old man whistling soft and low to himself in passing startled slightly in that reigning stillness. The kids' shoes with the hidden wheel on the heel is cheap enough for the HDB dwellers to buy their children. Coming up to their parents at the tables the kids perform their easy ballet—fitting with the prevailing passage between day and night. There is no need for looking at the moon itself: everyone is most certainly under the sway. At the hot-end of the counter where the fruits are fried the Manager as usual takes his turn serving up the banana, jack-fruit and cempedak, sweating it out the same as the cheap foreign labour. Small wonder the fellow concerned has won hearts and minds on every side. The extended families provide the indispensable ballast in this community, the elderly Grandmas and Pa's crucial components of the order. Even in the wet season the heat's enforcement of shorts, sandals and tees obviates much of the attention to fashion and bestows a great leveling democratic spirit. After eighteen months too the absence of alcohol can be easily under-estimated—no-where on any side any waywardness apparent, any of the loose jollity rising and falling. Mid-teen daughters cart trays loaded with plates to the tables. Juniors patiently awaiting what they will be served (the deep pondering over food choice non-existent almost here, certainly where the young are concerned). Strange to report, at this end of Singapore one almost never sees the youngster compulsively fingering keypad. Lower Geylang is a very small portion of the social scene in this handkerchief-sized country. Struggle, vacancy, bewilderment, confusion no-where rearing its head. Mr. Najib the Chinese Muslim convert remains indefatigable at his peddling of his tissue packs and pens. Not through marriage has Mr. Najib converted; unfortunate bachelorhood is the lot here. For some unknown reason Mr. Najib experienced one unexplained episode of back-sliding: two times has he crossed from his Buddhist patrimony to Islam, the only one of his family. All the rich ceremony of family unity and respect is unavailable to Mr. Najib. Possibly he receives some pleasure second-hand from the witnessing. A chap no more than mid-forties stands before us receiving the courtly greeting from one youngster after another. More than a little surprising, somehow in this three-month the stiff-necked beggar with the blotchy bad skin has managed to find himself a wife. Judging by his own glinting gold band, set with numerous precious stones, the lady's must be a real pearler. Mr. Najib cannot have failed to hear. Something to give a little heart possibly. By comparison Mr. Najib stands tall and upright, wearing the complexion of a baby. The other he could put to school too so far as English proficiency is concerned. The touched lad who helps out at Labu Labi, even given to taking orders and serving tables, stumbles past. The greater proportion of diners would have travelled by bus—the great benefit of a small geographic unit with excellent public transport. (Car registration costs near $10k per annum here now.) As usual the wide branches of the pavement trees gather the first of the night to themselves, growing engorged slowly until night proper covers all. A home-coming of sorts.

Friday, January 11, 2013

Hiatus




There are three particular stories I want to tell. At present the time is not for telling. Difficult to explain why. Not everything can be explained, or needs to be explained.
         One of the waiting pieces describes a rather classic family dinner set in Georgetown, Penang, with a sting in the tail of course. In the case of this particular piece, at the same time that it has called out for telling and the impulse remained strong over a number of weeks, there has also been an avoidance involved in this case that is somewhat larger than in the case of the other two waiting pieces. All tales and stories are more or less difficult to tell and can only be told, however well or successfully, when there is sufficient reason. This particular tale of the dinner has the sizable reason of anger and fury propelling the desire to tell. An incident had been witnessed at Georgetown; something was recalled by it, a feeling or a particular time. Despite this current inability, this current lethargy, or what you will, the impetus to tell the tale has not gone cold. Often this can happen: the initial sufficient reason and force can quickly be lost, sometimes overnight. Added to the usual difficulty in the case of this particular tale is the fact that it is a well-known tale; a familiar set of circumstances and behaviours. The order of difficulty delivering it, therefore, rises all the more substantially. There must be found an adequate and fitting means, often an entry and certain line of pursuit. Nevertheless, for all the repetition unavoidably involved, and the dangers therein, this is a tale that needs to be told. It will be told. It does not go away with time.
         Another, second tale, essentially derives from the luck of an interesting encounter; coming upon a forceful and captivating story-teller. All the vital force and energy of the man, sitting up in his seat, lunging forward to impress his points, his passion and insistence, forces itself upon the mind. The tale of injustice, of political fixing and skullduggery involved, gives the matter a weight and heft that it might not ordinarily carry. That is important. Vivid colour and shine, a bit of verve and élan, are often not enough. The energy must be directed at some particular matter; something must hang by the dramatics involved. In the case of this particular Turk the supposition is that the man's bursting intensity, the fullness of his bold spirit, embodies a good deal of the best of one's own tribe; more than likely many of those who were witnessed at large before they could be understood and duly appreciated spoke with an eruptive force and power like this Turk. Is it a trick of the mind this commonly recurring sense of vestigial presences peopling earliest consciousness and indeed accompanying the present moment? Is it possible? Memory and anecdote have become inextricably bound together now after a long period of searching and enquiry. The Turko, worst traditional enemy of the Montenegrin—the man seemed to know it too; a student of theology and history was unlikely to have that pass him by—added some pique.
         Lastly comes a tale of a simple gesture observed on the dirty Chow Kit street here in the back-end of Kuala Lumpur, caught from the corner of the eye more or less. A beggar sitting on the tiles in front of an ATM outlet received a particular kind of regard from a benefactor. In Malaysia often a favourite stake-out not merely for begging but also for camping out is the front of an ATM. The security under the lights one factor. However one suspects violent attacks on beggars and the homeless might be quite rare in this kind of community here. Indeed one would bet it may even be non-existent, even in the largest urban centres. Might this well-lit ATM stake-out be rather a tenacious clinging to one's fellows, one's community and group? Otherwise couldn't the beggar take himself off to a far, distant and safe corner to bed himself down? There beside Restoran Mehran a coin or note had a moment before passed to the beggar down on the tiles. What followed was even more precious than alms one wagers, even for a beggar. It is impossible to shake some impressions, some acts of witness.
         Instead of writing the last three weeks here in KL there has been the usual aimless wandering, mainly in the immediate neighbourhood. Only on a few occasions has the rail system been used. This morning, late in the morning, there was to be a venture out to the Borders store at Bukit Bintang, four of five stops from Chow Kit. The preference, Kinokuniya, was out at KLCC, within the Petronas Towers—a high-end consumer mall with all the familiar attractions of such places. In the end in fact it was the big mall it had to be—the Borders outlet, here as elsewhere in the last couple of years, had closed up shop. The Body Shop, British India, LV, Prada and all the other usual suspects; and on the fourth floor, Kinokuniya Books. An energetic office-worker who studied calligraphy and Chinese painting after-hours, walked an hour daily and devoted another hour to an exercise bicycle, escorted the foreigner the better part of the way, a short stroll when the disorienting tunnels and walkways were known.
         The time for this particular book in mind had arrived. There may have been an old copy on the shelf back home inherited from a friend. Nevertheless, the time was now for this reading; none better time and perhaps never again. Idries Shah's The Sufis was the purchase. There had been plenty of references to the Sufis and Sufism over the years. After meeting a confirmed adherent, if not a master himself, Zainuddin Ismail Mohammed, one felt a little and usefully prepared. In earlier years Din had had a master over in Batu Pahat who had clearly made a large impression on him. The tradition of direct teaching and example in the East had always been one of the strong draws to that tradition. Book learning was very much the lesser part of this Sufism. However, a famous book like Idries Shah's proclaimed by Graves, Lessing and others might be investigated as a little starter. At RM64 it did not come cheap. Thank god for the coal, copper and bauxite reserves in the Australian backyard: almost precisely $Aust20.
         The magazine section aside, Kinokuniya was more than tolerable that afternoon. There seemed to be a distinct lack of the usual high colour glitter loading up the tables and shelves. Murakami rows did not threaten decapitation. And that in a Japanese chain! Fifty Shades might not have sold more than a thousand volumes in the whole of Malaysia. Again, no-where to be spied. Where was Crime and True Crime at Kinokuniya KL? Even "Islam" itself was no more than five of six metres of shelf in total. It is a small store here in KL, much smaller than either Sydney or Singapore. The new Murray Bail was listed but unavailable. (On the shelf there was only Eucalyptus. Former wife Helen Garner probably does not translate in another culture, not an older one. Nothing.) Art and Design, with Architecture, was in this store consigned to the back corner upstairs. Even without Islam that was on the cards here in a developing industrial nation. The aisles in this particular Kinokuniya store produced almost no queasiness whatever. More than likely the gowns, scarves and caps were a part of the effect too. This was a consumer of an alien nature, the behaviour and deportment from a distant time.
         ....Coming soon, the features promised. After the return to Singapura and some indeterminate period of catching breath, renewing earlier acquaintances, taking stock and re-girding the loins.