Still short of ten even after a round at the market. The red tee forgotten this morning—a Chinese chap passing reminded. One year ago tonight the Carpenter encountered down at Tasvee in middle Geylang; at the table he had commented on the appareil. Such a time seems far, far longer back. Up on Tanjong Katong corner a Bangla or Tamil lad on the walk up was charmed by the topi. Smiles, raised finger, then bringing it over his head in a short halo sketch. Recognises a man of style and probably concludes substance too. (The story of the travels of the panama in the Straits region is a separate tale all its own.)
A long jalan kaki last night all the way out to the National Library, only finally turning at Middle Road corner. Two, three blocks of First World inertia and affluence at candle-lit tables, wicker-work chairs, large china plates well-spread. A subtle alteration of blood pressure taken in stride. Almost two full hours in all, the vault of heaven surprisingly clear over-head and, remarkably, small sprays of stars.
Opposite the Hindu temple on Kalang Road where the widening works are progressing, down on the turn of the path before CHEW Interior Design, lads from the sub-continent sat behind the coloured water barriers a dozen or more, grease-proof parcels of food and drink between their legs. The building sites do in fact close for a four day break now. Naturally this is not to give the labourers rest. The local supervisors, engineers and contractors require time with their families.
A long-weekend, leisure, money in the pocket. Most of the workers here receive a red envelope hangbao—in appreciation of service. $20 – 50 - 100 and more from the more generous employers. The foreign maids employed by the Chinese are beneficiaries. Whether the large Chinese construction firms extend the practice to their workforce is a question. Because of large numbers of Mainlanders on the sites one would expect so. The last couple of nights there were twenty metre queues at the bank on Sims Avenue at Aljunied, mostly Chinese, but Indians too. The queues stretched across the muddy grass right to the outer footpath. The ATM cash lines held only a few. All the men were waiting at the Deposit machines. Like Christmas, CNY has become expensive—repatriation money for families back home. At the PC terminals at the Net places the Skype would have been getting a workout. Even ordinarily, many workers take their dinner in front of the screens with their wives and families Friday, Saturday and Sunday nights. No chance for a writer there hoping to get some work done.
A dozen, perhaps a score of dark young faces sitting close on the Chew Interior Design corner. Some porous, sloping pavement had been chosen to overcome the damp of the ground. Over the course of the long working day they had been dispersed at various sites. On this eve of a long break they had come together. The red and white barriers had been closed off behind them, encircling the tight group. Back home in boyhood they had not had much chance for childhood play in groups such as this. Or perhaps that is wrong and it was the responsibilities of adulthood that had severely curtailed all such opportunities, certainly far from home on a foreign shore. Some lads stood outside the corral in a number of pairs, close with arms linked or over the shoulders while they talked quietly, intently, the words passing with purpose and deliberation. Almost never has one seen such sights on the great Southern continent. One needs to recall one's own migrant workers coming together like this in the early period before suburban distance and separation intervened.
The hard back Lorongs made the author grimace again last night on what he thought was the Eve of the Chinese New Year. Some of the knots of by-standers may have seen a shaking of the head and mumbling. One of the girls asked in passing, Why so rapid? Giggles were sounded at what looked a man in flight. The uneven paving caused some stumbles. A drunken flight it might have looked. There are a good number of beer-drinking ang moh putting up at the cheap hotels in upper Geylang. Before the turn into the last Lorong a Chinese illegal cigarette seller was spied at the precise moment of his give to someone going by. A couple of whispered words and the gesture of the two fingers at his lips. One cannot elaborate too far on these matters. A single glimpse in order to deliver the circus artistry involved. The elaborate chain of operation in one of the lanes has been witnessed by the author extending to a high second storey window. There is no balconey here. The lad stands on what might be the folded drying posts, waiting to receive from someone within the room doubtless reacting to a phone call. Perched like that, in the first instant the lad appeared a trapeze artist awaiting his moment. Below in the alley a young lad stood ready to catch the goods. Hold on, he is told from above with a slow hand-press, One and Two. Further along the line, everywhere, milling, coming and going, toe-tapping. No cop, no matter how eagle-eyed, stands a hope in hell. Fat chance. The government makes money on the trade. Why not the boys who are within the circle of dependency?
The young girls along the lorong were all of an age and size. A good number could not have been more than sixteen. A good number under. As in the case of the trade with the maids, false papers are not difficult to procure. Friday night, long weekend, the young lads with money in their pockets stood on all sides. Middle-aged and older pot-bellied men pressed close against girls in the dark by the cyclone fence. What has been witnessed numerous times before, a particular chosen Pretty stood with three or four lads of the same size as herself on either side—six, seven, eight in all. There was hardly room to breathe. They pressed. With lowered eyes she answered. Their unity could have only a single meaning. Violent, vicious rapes back home. Here there is none of that; rather an informal regulation. Perhaps we can thank PAP on that score.
Fireworks were inaudible as well as invisible. The author had assumed the bridge on Kallang Road would have provided a little glimpse against the famed iconic sky-line. Only in the morning did the news arrive: the date provided by a young Mainland chap up in Bugis was wrong. Last night the Snake was still slithering along the path. The ninth was the Eve. The moon had not been sighted; somehow it had completely slipped from mind.
A long jalan kaki last night all the way out to the National Library, only finally turning at Middle Road corner. Two, three blocks of First World inertia and affluence at candle-lit tables, wicker-work chairs, large china plates well-spread. A subtle alteration of blood pressure taken in stride. Almost two full hours in all, the vault of heaven surprisingly clear over-head and, remarkably, small sprays of stars.
Opposite the Hindu temple on Kalang Road where the widening works are progressing, down on the turn of the path before CHEW Interior Design, lads from the sub-continent sat behind the coloured water barriers a dozen or more, grease-proof parcels of food and drink between their legs. The building sites do in fact close for a four day break now. Naturally this is not to give the labourers rest. The local supervisors, engineers and contractors require time with their families.
A long-weekend, leisure, money in the pocket. Most of the workers here receive a red envelope hangbao—in appreciation of service. $20 – 50 - 100 and more from the more generous employers. The foreign maids employed by the Chinese are beneficiaries. Whether the large Chinese construction firms extend the practice to their workforce is a question. Because of large numbers of Mainlanders on the sites one would expect so. The last couple of nights there were twenty metre queues at the bank on Sims Avenue at Aljunied, mostly Chinese, but Indians too. The queues stretched across the muddy grass right to the outer footpath. The ATM cash lines held only a few. All the men were waiting at the Deposit machines. Like Christmas, CNY has become expensive—repatriation money for families back home. At the PC terminals at the Net places the Skype would have been getting a workout. Even ordinarily, many workers take their dinner in front of the screens with their wives and families Friday, Saturday and Sunday nights. No chance for a writer there hoping to get some work done.
A dozen, perhaps a score of dark young faces sitting close on the Chew Interior Design corner. Some porous, sloping pavement had been chosen to overcome the damp of the ground. Over the course of the long working day they had been dispersed at various sites. On this eve of a long break they had come together. The red and white barriers had been closed off behind them, encircling the tight group. Back home in boyhood they had not had much chance for childhood play in groups such as this. Or perhaps that is wrong and it was the responsibilities of adulthood that had severely curtailed all such opportunities, certainly far from home on a foreign shore. Some lads stood outside the corral in a number of pairs, close with arms linked or over the shoulders while they talked quietly, intently, the words passing with purpose and deliberation. Almost never has one seen such sights on the great Southern continent. One needs to recall one's own migrant workers coming together like this in the early period before suburban distance and separation intervened.
The hard back Lorongs made the author grimace again last night on what he thought was the Eve of the Chinese New Year. Some of the knots of by-standers may have seen a shaking of the head and mumbling. One of the girls asked in passing, Why so rapid? Giggles were sounded at what looked a man in flight. The uneven paving caused some stumbles. A drunken flight it might have looked. There are a good number of beer-drinking ang moh putting up at the cheap hotels in upper Geylang. Before the turn into the last Lorong a Chinese illegal cigarette seller was spied at the precise moment of his give to someone going by. A couple of whispered words and the gesture of the two fingers at his lips. One cannot elaborate too far on these matters. A single glimpse in order to deliver the circus artistry involved. The elaborate chain of operation in one of the lanes has been witnessed by the author extending to a high second storey window. There is no balconey here. The lad stands on what might be the folded drying posts, waiting to receive from someone within the room doubtless reacting to a phone call. Perched like that, in the first instant the lad appeared a trapeze artist awaiting his moment. Below in the alley a young lad stood ready to catch the goods. Hold on, he is told from above with a slow hand-press, One and Two. Further along the line, everywhere, milling, coming and going, toe-tapping. No cop, no matter how eagle-eyed, stands a hope in hell. Fat chance. The government makes money on the trade. Why not the boys who are within the circle of dependency?
The young girls along the lorong were all of an age and size. A good number could not have been more than sixteen. A good number under. As in the case of the trade with the maids, false papers are not difficult to procure. Friday night, long weekend, the young lads with money in their pockets stood on all sides. Middle-aged and older pot-bellied men pressed close against girls in the dark by the cyclone fence. What has been witnessed numerous times before, a particular chosen Pretty stood with three or four lads of the same size as herself on either side—six, seven, eight in all. There was hardly room to breathe. They pressed. With lowered eyes she answered. Their unity could have only a single meaning. Violent, vicious rapes back home. Here there is none of that; rather an informal regulation. Perhaps we can thank PAP on that score.
Fireworks were inaudible as well as invisible. The author had assumed the bridge on Kallang Road would have provided a little glimpse against the famed iconic sky-line. Only in the morning did the news arrive: the date provided by a young Mainland chap up in Bugis was wrong. Last night the Snake was still slithering along the path. The ninth was the Eve. The moon had not been sighted; somehow it had completely slipped from mind.
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