Monday, April 29, 2013
New Spelling Champ, Sing'pore
Spelling Championship Singapore
The RBH-Straits Times National Spelling Championship 2013—supported by the Ministry of Education and the National Library Board (snacks provided by Nestle).
Last year's final run-down of words that separated the sheep from the goats in the same Championship had been quite unknown to this native speaker. This year the selection seemed to have been less abstruse, at least for a university educated bibliophile.
Eponymous
Percolator
Zephyr
Would it be five percent of adult native speakers of English who would both know the meaning of the words and also their spelling? The winning, crucial word that proved decisive in this year's Championship was Pescatarian.
Those conversant in Latin, Italian and astrology would have a distinct advantage. This year's young winner here needed to challenge the judges on the admissible variant spelling not once, but twice. Both the OED and Cambridge Pronouncing Dictionary recorded "pescatarian". The lad however had a good memory. Politely requesting a further check with another authority, the American derivation in the Merriam-Webster vindicated the chappie. Young twelve year old still in Primary Six.
Friday, April 26, 2013
Batu Pahat (Malaysian Election)
.
Rather
a hare-brained flight yesterday out to Batu Pahat in south-western Johor State,
Malaysia. A particular Herbalist was the object, living ten or fifteen
kilometres out of town. It will not easily be believed, but truly the
orientation point was Lamp-post No. such-and-such, left at the main
intersection after the bus-stop and keep going it seemed. Everyone in the
vicinity of that particular lamp-post would know the man. Calls on the number
on his business card had always proved fruitless for Zainuddin, at least
ringing from Singapore. From the pay-phone at the bus-station however we
immediately raised the fellow's off-sider. The man himself was busy. Call back
in five minutes, Zainuddin was advised.
Seven o'clock gone, time of the Maghrib prayer arrived, an hour and a half to the last return bus—the project seemed doomed. Only time enough for chapatti and roti Chennai at the Indian place providentially opposite the bus bays. Fair chance we could get a teh halia there too. There had been a delay or two en route. Nothing else for it now.
It was only on the rear seat of the almost empty last bus on the return, above the engine that made conversation difficult, that Din revealed the reason for the panicked, ill-considered trek. Jokes about the Herbalist being a bomoh had caused some consternation in the days prior to departure. This chap was a regular, good and proper believer. No hocus-pocus, no spells or witchery. Herbal remedies pure and simple, derived from the old traditions which had since been validated by rigorous science. (Stones employed by the Herbalist with powerful, magnetic-like power notwithstanding.) This was simply the Malay form of TCM that figured in every region of the globe of course, before modern medicine and the pharmacological industry triumphed. Over the top of the engine grind Zainuddin revealed his son had been found to have "protein" in his urine. Some years ago the young man had overcome an episode of cancer. In the weeks ahead there would need to be another, second and more carefully planned expedition to Batu Pahat.
The bus window provided some kind of impression. There had been earlier trips across Johor, out east through Kota Tinggi to the small fishing town of Mersing; two trips due north to KL that traversed the State. Flat terrain, sparse settlement of concrete block housing predominating over the traditional raised wooden, greenery almost entirely in the form of the palm plantations. Rarely on any of the trips had there been any kind of human figure visible. Everyone was put to flight by the sun, along the road if not otherwise. The old-time Sunday drive would have provided little of attraction along this route.
What was as striking as anything else was the political banners stretching a good many kilometers. The ruling Barisan Party must have printed many hundreds of thousands, if Johor was anything to go by. There was little else to be seen. Small sky-blue and white flags featuring Libra-like measuring scales, perfectly aligned. Unsophisticated you might call it. Perhaps even a decade ago coconut, durian and much other produce had been weighted on such market scales, regularly checked by the responsible Government authority for accuracy. Occasional photographs of PM Najib could be seen hung on poles. The leader was not getting pride of place down here in Johor at least. Two years of reading the newspapers hereabouts one understood why.
Should one be surprised at the almost total absence of the Opposition? There was not a single recognizable example of the other ticket anywhere to be seen. A paltry few pale moons on green squares provided the only, minimal variety. A "so-called" Islamic Party, according to Zainuddin. Hundreds upon hundreds of metres of blue Libra scales at every intersection and for long stretches along the road-way. At the intersections the blue banners ran to the four points of the compass. Most of the flags were strung on some kind of twine, with posts hammered where there were no trees or poles. This had been a fair scale operation. In the tropics cheap paper would never do, not over a three week run-down to election day. From the perch high behind glass one could not judge the material. With no people anywhere to be seen, only the ghost-like houses and the more sinister palms, the effect was odd. Colourful flags flapping in the breeze for the benefit of passing motorists and children it seemed—a kind of Fair-ground promotion. An undivided, narrow highway. The kind of populace involved here was difficult to fathom. How did they figure in this democratic show? Could a political grouping entrenched the last half century and more be bested in this odd political arena? Media domination and saturation cover had been one of the complaints from the opposing coalition. Certainly borne out by this display. After such a length of term corruption could hardly come as any surprise.
The spread of Batu Pahat was the other surprise. It must have been near three quarts of an hour from the outskirts to the bus station. An unlikely kind of suburbia under tropical skies and always the plantations interspersed. As the town centre was approached there seemed to be a good number of mosques. Some proportion of the population could walk for their daily prayers. An odd kind of suburbia in a traditional culture such as this on the Peninsular; the housing all squared off toward the road, nothing like any kind of kampung clustering apparent.
On the return peering into the darkness there was some minor filling of chairs at the outdoor Eatery tables. A middle-aged chap playing football with half a dozen urchins in a front yard was caught in a pose of sporting tension watching the ball at an opponent's feet. One large three or four storey mall featuring a bowling alley and Western fast foods had collected cars in its forecourt.
How far was agri-business to blame for this post-war, post-independence arrangement of people and customs, controlled by the political elite who were now under serious threat for the first time despite the advertising being all one way?
The British had radically altered the composition of the population on the Peninsular. No doubt tin mining and rubber plantations had radically altered the landscape and physical habitation. Early independence had seen further development along the same lines for the newer products, which in contemporary Johor meant above all else palm oil. The FELDA system involved some kind of agricultural program of readjustment, taking in rubber initially and subsequently the palm oil. Malaysia still produced something like a third of global supplies, the state of Johor the greater proportion of that sum. Stake-holders in the government instituted FELDA system were provided accommodation in purpose built housing on the plantations. Ownership of property however did not follow. Each principal was assigned an allotment where tending the palm, harvesting and related activity was specified. Uprooting of former traditional and independent ways of life was one of the serious consequences. Even a cursory look outside the train and bus windows at the straight lines made by the plantations throughout Johor said enough.
In-bound on the bus one of the human figures who had been visible in the darkening landscape on the long approach to Batu Pahat sat on the seat of a back-hoe at the head of one of the palm rows. Prior to this appearance there had been the surprise of channels of what looked like fetid bright lime green between numerous rows. By that stage the shadows had closed under the trees, but here the colour of the water seemed to shine all the more powerfully and with an iridescent glow. It could not have been anything other than water channels, some kind of simple irrigation system that captured run-off. It was the colouring that presented a puzzle. In a natural state such a colour hardly existed. Perhaps in the plumage of exotic birds of the forests and jungles such as had been here before the palms. Almost nothing whatever else in nature. Such channels had not been seen during previous trips. This author has little agricultural knowledge. Possibly the slime lime-green consisted of nothing toxic. It was certainly not a reflection of the dark, military green foliage. Experts in the field have written about the dangers and damage done by big agri-business. There could be little doubt even on these quick passes on the buses and trains what this kind of mono-culture farming on such a scale might deliver of unintended consequences. A huge industrial operation of this order appeared as a terrible blight on the landscape.
From an ecological and environmental perspective the comparable blight down on the island of Singapura could be nothing other than the concrete, steel and glass condo towers infesting the landscape. A hard, harsh judgment of course. Simple unavoidable truth on the other hand. Reversing the damage would be a difficult matter indeed in either case; possibly on the Peninsular there may be more hope.
Seven o'clock gone, time of the Maghrib prayer arrived, an hour and a half to the last return bus—the project seemed doomed. Only time enough for chapatti and roti Chennai at the Indian place providentially opposite the bus bays. Fair chance we could get a teh halia there too. There had been a delay or two en route. Nothing else for it now.
It was only on the rear seat of the almost empty last bus on the return, above the engine that made conversation difficult, that Din revealed the reason for the panicked, ill-considered trek. Jokes about the Herbalist being a bomoh had caused some consternation in the days prior to departure. This chap was a regular, good and proper believer. No hocus-pocus, no spells or witchery. Herbal remedies pure and simple, derived from the old traditions which had since been validated by rigorous science. (Stones employed by the Herbalist with powerful, magnetic-like power notwithstanding.) This was simply the Malay form of TCM that figured in every region of the globe of course, before modern medicine and the pharmacological industry triumphed. Over the top of the engine grind Zainuddin revealed his son had been found to have "protein" in his urine. Some years ago the young man had overcome an episode of cancer. In the weeks ahead there would need to be another, second and more carefully planned expedition to Batu Pahat.
The bus window provided some kind of impression. There had been earlier trips across Johor, out east through Kota Tinggi to the small fishing town of Mersing; two trips due north to KL that traversed the State. Flat terrain, sparse settlement of concrete block housing predominating over the traditional raised wooden, greenery almost entirely in the form of the palm plantations. Rarely on any of the trips had there been any kind of human figure visible. Everyone was put to flight by the sun, along the road if not otherwise. The old-time Sunday drive would have provided little of attraction along this route.
What was as striking as anything else was the political banners stretching a good many kilometers. The ruling Barisan Party must have printed many hundreds of thousands, if Johor was anything to go by. There was little else to be seen. Small sky-blue and white flags featuring Libra-like measuring scales, perfectly aligned. Unsophisticated you might call it. Perhaps even a decade ago coconut, durian and much other produce had been weighted on such market scales, regularly checked by the responsible Government authority for accuracy. Occasional photographs of PM Najib could be seen hung on poles. The leader was not getting pride of place down here in Johor at least. Two years of reading the newspapers hereabouts one understood why.
Should one be surprised at the almost total absence of the Opposition? There was not a single recognizable example of the other ticket anywhere to be seen. A paltry few pale moons on green squares provided the only, minimal variety. A "so-called" Islamic Party, according to Zainuddin. Hundreds upon hundreds of metres of blue Libra scales at every intersection and for long stretches along the road-way. At the intersections the blue banners ran to the four points of the compass. Most of the flags were strung on some kind of twine, with posts hammered where there were no trees or poles. This had been a fair scale operation. In the tropics cheap paper would never do, not over a three week run-down to election day. From the perch high behind glass one could not judge the material. With no people anywhere to be seen, only the ghost-like houses and the more sinister palms, the effect was odd. Colourful flags flapping in the breeze for the benefit of passing motorists and children it seemed—a kind of Fair-ground promotion. An undivided, narrow highway. The kind of populace involved here was difficult to fathom. How did they figure in this democratic show? Could a political grouping entrenched the last half century and more be bested in this odd political arena? Media domination and saturation cover had been one of the complaints from the opposing coalition. Certainly borne out by this display. After such a length of term corruption could hardly come as any surprise.
The spread of Batu Pahat was the other surprise. It must have been near three quarts of an hour from the outskirts to the bus station. An unlikely kind of suburbia under tropical skies and always the plantations interspersed. As the town centre was approached there seemed to be a good number of mosques. Some proportion of the population could walk for their daily prayers. An odd kind of suburbia in a traditional culture such as this on the Peninsular; the housing all squared off toward the road, nothing like any kind of kampung clustering apparent.
On the return peering into the darkness there was some minor filling of chairs at the outdoor Eatery tables. A middle-aged chap playing football with half a dozen urchins in a front yard was caught in a pose of sporting tension watching the ball at an opponent's feet. One large three or four storey mall featuring a bowling alley and Western fast foods had collected cars in its forecourt.
How far was agri-business to blame for this post-war, post-independence arrangement of people and customs, controlled by the political elite who were now under serious threat for the first time despite the advertising being all one way?
The British had radically altered the composition of the population on the Peninsular. No doubt tin mining and rubber plantations had radically altered the landscape and physical habitation. Early independence had seen further development along the same lines for the newer products, which in contemporary Johor meant above all else palm oil. The FELDA system involved some kind of agricultural program of readjustment, taking in rubber initially and subsequently the palm oil. Malaysia still produced something like a third of global supplies, the state of Johor the greater proportion of that sum. Stake-holders in the government instituted FELDA system were provided accommodation in purpose built housing on the plantations. Ownership of property however did not follow. Each principal was assigned an allotment where tending the palm, harvesting and related activity was specified. Uprooting of former traditional and independent ways of life was one of the serious consequences. Even a cursory look outside the train and bus windows at the straight lines made by the plantations throughout Johor said enough.
In-bound on the bus one of the human figures who had been visible in the darkening landscape on the long approach to Batu Pahat sat on the seat of a back-hoe at the head of one of the palm rows. Prior to this appearance there had been the surprise of channels of what looked like fetid bright lime green between numerous rows. By that stage the shadows had closed under the trees, but here the colour of the water seemed to shine all the more powerfully and with an iridescent glow. It could not have been anything other than water channels, some kind of simple irrigation system that captured run-off. It was the colouring that presented a puzzle. In a natural state such a colour hardly existed. Perhaps in the plumage of exotic birds of the forests and jungles such as had been here before the palms. Almost nothing whatever else in nature. Such channels had not been seen during previous trips. This author has little agricultural knowledge. Possibly the slime lime-green consisted of nothing toxic. It was certainly not a reflection of the dark, military green foliage. Experts in the field have written about the dangers and damage done by big agri-business. There could be little doubt even on these quick passes on the buses and trains what this kind of mono-culture farming on such a scale might deliver of unintended consequences. A huge industrial operation of this order appeared as a terrible blight on the landscape.
From an ecological and environmental perspective the comparable blight down on the island of Singapura could be nothing other than the concrete, steel and glass condo towers infesting the landscape. A hard, harsh judgment of course. Simple unavoidable truth on the other hand. Reversing the damage would be a difficult matter indeed in either case; possibly on the Peninsular there may be more hope.
.
Wednesday, April 24, 2013
Chinese Etiquette
Not long after seven pm the salmon pink and baby blue slashes out beyond the monstrosity of the Paya Lebar Post Office and further westward. Pointing it out to the Karaoke King here who lost his Cowboy brother to a stroke a few weeks ago finds a fair degree of appreciation, as one would expect from such a crooner and kampung boy. One could tell it struck him by the look on his face as he cast out in that direction and by the length of observation. That a Westerner was caught in that kind of way might have added to the surprise for the man. A good marriage the chap had you would guess by the way he drew his wife's attention in that direction and their brief sharing of the sight. Always marvelous intro-ing locals to the beauties of their own place.
Architecture in Singapore is a
subject in its own right. Since the famous leap of the last thirty odd years
that famously raised the city-state from Third to First World status, the
construction industry has called upon many of the so-called top global
architects—the starchitects—to do their darndest. What is routinely and
complacently considered the "iconic Singaporean sky-line" is the
result: a canoe or spear topping three clothes peg pillars has drawn most of
the attention in recent years (the Marina Bay Sands hotel-casino complex,
designed by a chap some distance from even the first rank of the conventional
top league table—Moshe Safdie); Liebeskind's curvy eye-trickery for upper
echelon Condo construction in the exclusive Sentosa strip (S$30-40m
apartments); Paul Rudolph's post-modern tiered wedding-cake on Beach Road
beside Little Thailand at the Golden Mile long-haul bus node. The PR and boosterism
involved in all these highly geared commercial projects attained no higher
pitch than for something tagged the “World Architecture Festival” hosted here
late last year, where stake-holders awarded each other garlands and trophies
for the various branches of the enterprise. Ah the blarney! Amazing little
Hollywood production, interviews, photographs, not a blush of shame to be seen
from the Friday night opening until everyone went home on the Sunday (in some
cases around the corner to their condo residences no doubt). One gets the
impression here behind the Can-do imperative the thinking of the masters of the
city-state might take the form, We can always tear down and build again if we
decide a new direction. (With the foreign labour so cheap and the carefully
managed market so hot, it stands to reason.)
The miserable folly of the Paya Lebar P. O. complex perhaps stands near the apex of sci-fi inspired build-and-be-damned outrageousness, doubtless completed in record time and with no second thoughts. Beyond it the arresting blush of dusk most evenings almost throughout the course of the entire year and the year before that too. What a scene it must have been taken through forest branches, the viewer's bare feet touching the soil and the rich humus filling the air. But who would willingly want to return to tigers in the jungle, squatting to defecate, no water on tap nor electricity? Ah me! Ah my!... So goes the conventional argument.
After a printing up on Aljunied Road supper was taken again at the wonderful vegetarian place around the corner beneath the raised MRT line. In the evenings Labu Labi and Mr. T. T. at lower Geylang run thin on their offerings and the usual recourse for months past now has been this vegetarian at Aljunied. Therefore a slightly early dinner in order to leave enough time for a teh halia on home turf facing the grandiose sky-show. The middle-aged Chinese couple who run the Vegetarian stall employ a young, energetic Malaysian cook who single-handedly produces all the dishes from two or three woks on high flame. For many a month the young chap was assumed to be a helper of some sort, with a back-kitchen out of sight behind. Hats off to the lad and three cheers! There are about a dozen dishes from which to choose, many of them presented in the form of meats to help strugglers along. Pork, chicken, mutton, the Servers will reference. Confusing in the beginning for a new-comer.
For some reason a Westerner choosing vegetarian can raise wonder and a question or two from fellow diners. For one thing Westerners are not so common in Geylang, and when they appear they usually flit past such outdoors Eateries. Are you vegetarian? Are you Buddhist? A certain kind of diffidence apparent in the questioner. One has to conclude the projection of cattle farming in the wild West may be responsible; close-up shots of juicy-looking burgers from the well-known villain chains too involved in the assumptions.
As mentioned previously in these pages, S$4.70—about $Aust3.50 currently—for steamed brown rice, three delicious veg. and a choice usually between lotus and water-cress soup. Six o'clock the heat subsided, commuters returning from town, impressive young uniformed school-children in company with their parents, the hardware shop adjacent picking up passing trade. Opposite a rude kind of park later gathers workers in boots down on the grass. (Take-away food in wax-paper being fifty or eighty cents cheaper than sit-down plates, the foreign working lads often take that option. One gets used to the sight. The camaraderie between the lads counter-acting any thoughts of unseemliness and lack of hygiene.) In their heels and low-cut floral dresses, often drawing on four or five inch cigarettes with long filters that might figure Empresses of the past, the more settled China girls can be found with their more dowdy partners at six o'clock at the tables. The old uncle serving the drinks there carries a decent diameter mole underneath his chin that looks initially like some kind of congealed food dribble. Before he barks out to relay the order to the drinks stall in the back corner it's wise to brace oneself, if not actually take cover under the table. TEH O!!! like a remorseless order to open fire. A less avuncular, less neat and orderly type, one who bustles rowdily between the tables—such daunting fellows are legion in these parts—one could understand it. Carrying the plate and bowl over to the wash buckets gets no acknowledgement whatever from the man, though he certainly knows. Occasionally one of the better, more thoughtful, less harried and considerate Buddhists remember to perform the same courtesy. Recently there was the beginning of a campaign here to encourage the practice in diners. The old uncles and aunties employed in the role are getting on and the younger generation of course feel disdain. As in everything else, there is a contrary viewpoint: Do away with these archaic arrangements; introduce ticketing and queuing; stream-line; modernize.
By chance last night the chap opposite at the Aljunied table directly before the servery happened to have been born in Batu Pahat, two hours up the peninsular in Malaysia, the very town paid a short visit over the weekend. Not only was the man confronting a (fumbling) vegetarian Westerner with Buddhist—or at least Daoist—inclinations, but here was one who had also visited the modest little town in which the man was born. There was only one tourist attraction in Batu Pahat, the chap apologized.
Just turned sixty, the fellow sat with a woman only ten or so years his junior, her floral dress in muted tones and non-smoking. The woman’s scraps of English suggested she was not a Mainlander. A second, good marriage was the look of it. Possibly the pair had kept up this quiet, close understanding from earliest days. The pair was just finishing their meal. Not long into the meal on the other side, during small, friendly and well-disposed conversation, the guess proved correct when the woman began fishing in her hand-bag following something the fellow had said to her in an aside. Up came the tissue pack, handed to the man. From the pack the fellow withdrew a folded sheet and offered it across the table. Despite the usual good table manner, even in Geylang, where they slurp and draw up long hanging noodles from their plates, there must have been a smear of sauce at the corner of the mouth. No embarrassment being shown up like that. The blushing was for other reasons.
Mark you: Three or four minute conversation between complete strangers across an old, weather-beaten timber table almost a metre wide, three diners seated on generic outdoor plastic chairs. A little sticky still. Someone may have forgotten to switch on the outdoor fans. (Aspiring Buddhists-Daoists cope.) Another little hint for a foreigner living in other parts where perhaps such courtesy, such fine warmth and generosity, does not take place every other day—not to say never in a life-time and never in the future no matter the length of the span. A little, small and modest hint. (Not worth remarking upon some would hold, those in favour of stream-lining and automation perhaps).
In the newspaper here this morning, the dear old Straits Times, a brief six or seven column light feature of the usual sort that passes for news and event in these records of our times, concerning a Finishing School modeled on the famous Swiss examples. Always has legs a filler story like that. A perennial. All the more so in this case given the location in Beijing, where this particular school served the new wealthy classes keen to see the world and shy about making a spectacle of their uncouthness. Raking it in this particular institution, such being the demand, such the recognition of how far the Chinese fall short, Lord and all the holy angels help them in the fight ahead. This outfit providing the service knows what it is about too, one of the principals involved married to no less than a bona fide member of the English aristocracy. (The journalist reporting no doubt catching herself catching her breath at the revelation.) Fellow concerned would understand full-well the value of a pass among the tables of the paying customers every once in a while to give them a sight of how high the bar stands. (Only a week gone too since the former Grocer’s daughter, the Iron Lady, passed. Perfect topicality.)
The miserable folly of the Paya Lebar P. O. complex perhaps stands near the apex of sci-fi inspired build-and-be-damned outrageousness, doubtless completed in record time and with no second thoughts. Beyond it the arresting blush of dusk most evenings almost throughout the course of the entire year and the year before that too. What a scene it must have been taken through forest branches, the viewer's bare feet touching the soil and the rich humus filling the air. But who would willingly want to return to tigers in the jungle, squatting to defecate, no water on tap nor electricity? Ah me! Ah my!... So goes the conventional argument.
After a printing up on Aljunied Road supper was taken again at the wonderful vegetarian place around the corner beneath the raised MRT line. In the evenings Labu Labi and Mr. T. T. at lower Geylang run thin on their offerings and the usual recourse for months past now has been this vegetarian at Aljunied. Therefore a slightly early dinner in order to leave enough time for a teh halia on home turf facing the grandiose sky-show. The middle-aged Chinese couple who run the Vegetarian stall employ a young, energetic Malaysian cook who single-handedly produces all the dishes from two or three woks on high flame. For many a month the young chap was assumed to be a helper of some sort, with a back-kitchen out of sight behind. Hats off to the lad and three cheers! There are about a dozen dishes from which to choose, many of them presented in the form of meats to help strugglers along. Pork, chicken, mutton, the Servers will reference. Confusing in the beginning for a new-comer.
For some reason a Westerner choosing vegetarian can raise wonder and a question or two from fellow diners. For one thing Westerners are not so common in Geylang, and when they appear they usually flit past such outdoors Eateries. Are you vegetarian? Are you Buddhist? A certain kind of diffidence apparent in the questioner. One has to conclude the projection of cattle farming in the wild West may be responsible; close-up shots of juicy-looking burgers from the well-known villain chains too involved in the assumptions.
As mentioned previously in these pages, S$4.70—about $Aust3.50 currently—for steamed brown rice, three delicious veg. and a choice usually between lotus and water-cress soup. Six o'clock the heat subsided, commuters returning from town, impressive young uniformed school-children in company with their parents, the hardware shop adjacent picking up passing trade. Opposite a rude kind of park later gathers workers in boots down on the grass. (Take-away food in wax-paper being fifty or eighty cents cheaper than sit-down plates, the foreign working lads often take that option. One gets used to the sight. The camaraderie between the lads counter-acting any thoughts of unseemliness and lack of hygiene.) In their heels and low-cut floral dresses, often drawing on four or five inch cigarettes with long filters that might figure Empresses of the past, the more settled China girls can be found with their more dowdy partners at six o'clock at the tables. The old uncle serving the drinks there carries a decent diameter mole underneath his chin that looks initially like some kind of congealed food dribble. Before he barks out to relay the order to the drinks stall in the back corner it's wise to brace oneself, if not actually take cover under the table. TEH O!!! like a remorseless order to open fire. A less avuncular, less neat and orderly type, one who bustles rowdily between the tables—such daunting fellows are legion in these parts—one could understand it. Carrying the plate and bowl over to the wash buckets gets no acknowledgement whatever from the man, though he certainly knows. Occasionally one of the better, more thoughtful, less harried and considerate Buddhists remember to perform the same courtesy. Recently there was the beginning of a campaign here to encourage the practice in diners. The old uncles and aunties employed in the role are getting on and the younger generation of course feel disdain. As in everything else, there is a contrary viewpoint: Do away with these archaic arrangements; introduce ticketing and queuing; stream-line; modernize.
By chance last night the chap opposite at the Aljunied table directly before the servery happened to have been born in Batu Pahat, two hours up the peninsular in Malaysia, the very town paid a short visit over the weekend. Not only was the man confronting a (fumbling) vegetarian Westerner with Buddhist—or at least Daoist—inclinations, but here was one who had also visited the modest little town in which the man was born. There was only one tourist attraction in Batu Pahat, the chap apologized.
Just turned sixty, the fellow sat with a woman only ten or so years his junior, her floral dress in muted tones and non-smoking. The woman’s scraps of English suggested she was not a Mainlander. A second, good marriage was the look of it. Possibly the pair had kept up this quiet, close understanding from earliest days. The pair was just finishing their meal. Not long into the meal on the other side, during small, friendly and well-disposed conversation, the guess proved correct when the woman began fishing in her hand-bag following something the fellow had said to her in an aside. Up came the tissue pack, handed to the man. From the pack the fellow withdrew a folded sheet and offered it across the table. Despite the usual good table manner, even in Geylang, where they slurp and draw up long hanging noodles from their plates, there must have been a smear of sauce at the corner of the mouth. No embarrassment being shown up like that. The blushing was for other reasons.
Mark you: Three or four minute conversation between complete strangers across an old, weather-beaten timber table almost a metre wide, three diners seated on generic outdoor plastic chairs. A little sticky still. Someone may have forgotten to switch on the outdoor fans. (Aspiring Buddhists-Daoists cope.) Another little hint for a foreigner living in other parts where perhaps such courtesy, such fine warmth and generosity, does not take place every other day—not to say never in a life-time and never in the future no matter the length of the span. A little, small and modest hint. (Not worth remarking upon some would hold, those in favour of stream-lining and automation perhaps).
In the newspaper here this morning, the dear old Straits Times, a brief six or seven column light feature of the usual sort that passes for news and event in these records of our times, concerning a Finishing School modeled on the famous Swiss examples. Always has legs a filler story like that. A perennial. All the more so in this case given the location in Beijing, where this particular school served the new wealthy classes keen to see the world and shy about making a spectacle of their uncouthness. Raking it in this particular institution, such being the demand, such the recognition of how far the Chinese fall short, Lord and all the holy angels help them in the fight ahead. This outfit providing the service knows what it is about too, one of the principals involved married to no less than a bona fide member of the English aristocracy. (The journalist reporting no doubt catching herself catching her breath at the revelation.) Fellow concerned would understand full-well the value of a pass among the tables of the paying customers every once in a while to give them a sight of how high the bar stands. (Only a week gone too since the former Grocer’s daughter, the Iron Lady, passed. Perfect topicality.)
Tuesday, April 23, 2013
Wahhabism?
This morning Omar brought to the cafe the relevant Qur'anic verses to which he had referred the day before. These verses from Chapter 24: 30-31 outlined the required dress and deportment of women and also dealt with the male gaze. As we know it in the West, this latter is almost non-existent in the Islamic communities with which this author is familiar—East African in Melbourne and Indian-Malay-Arab here in Singapore. Ogling of the Latin sort, or even the less extravagant Western form, one never sees in these communities. It needs some while to comprehend the kind of discipline and strictness involved. If one looks carefully one might notice flitting eyes that are quickly lowered. In a group of lads at ease with each other there may be seen the ghost of a smile perhaps; certainly nothing like overt observation, not to mention wolf-whistling and the like. For the reception of beauty by the male you need to look very carefully indeed. These particular verses in question stipulate lowered gaze on both sides, and for the woman covering of the beauty of form and feature.
An interesting addition was
appended in the last verse, 31, pertaining to anklets and footfall. Gold and
silver anklets are quite common among the Chinese fashionistas; subtle and
discrete tattoos on the foot or ankle likewise. The Muslim girls are the
exception—always excluding the rebels and outsiders of course, like in any
other community. Clacketing footfall however was an interesting added area of
concern. The focus here is the percussion of the female passage through the
public place. Just as the woman should not be seen, equally the allure of her
presence should not have notice drawn to it by any means. The tap-tap-tap-tap
of high and hard heels along the street, over hard surfaces—not in the desert
presumably—that can make such an impression on the weak and susceptible male
was well understood almost fifteen hundred years ago in the Prophet's time. As
everywhere else, here in Geylang one sees and hears that alarming signal of the
female from girls coming down bus stairs well in advance of their visible
person, under the shade of the famous Sir Stamford Raffles five-foot walk-way,
over the tiles of the malls—in each case altering the mood of the moment,
introducing an inevitable tension and element of drama into the scene. Outside
the cordon sanitaire down in lower
Geylang, the weak and floundering one can see on all sides of this town. Up
until the last week or two, on the busiest corner in the precinct, Geylang Road
and Sims Way, one of the Buddhist organizations had raised their billboard
warning against the scourge of lustfulness, “the root of all evil”, as it was
recorded there. Coming out of town at the top end of Little India on Rochor
Road, probably the worst traffic sewer on the island, the same billboard had
stood the better part of the whole of the last calendar year.
In outlining the position of women in Islam Omar gave the insight yesterday that man-to-man greetings and Howdeedoos? ought not include an enquiry after a man's wife. How are things? How's the family?.... Nothing however touching the wife, so to speak. The wife was confined in all her relations to inner family—husband, children and the elders on one side, and her community of women on the other.
It certainly sounded Wahhabi to this novice. (Omar is indeed of Arab, Yemeni descent.) As expected, when Zainuddin was quizzed on the matter that was his response. For Arabs that might be the case; not for the Malays, the Sufi suggested. Which fits with the author's impression twenty three months and counting in these parts. (Understandably, the East Africans, across the Red Sea from the Arab heart-land, fall into the conservative camp.)
In outlining the position of women in Islam Omar gave the insight yesterday that man-to-man greetings and Howdeedoos? ought not include an enquiry after a man's wife. How are things? How's the family?.... Nothing however touching the wife, so to speak. The wife was confined in all her relations to inner family—husband, children and the elders on one side, and her community of women on the other.
It certainly sounded Wahhabi to this novice. (Omar is indeed of Arab, Yemeni descent.) As expected, when Zainuddin was quizzed on the matter that was his response. For Arabs that might be the case; not for the Malays, the Sufi suggested. Which fits with the author's impression twenty three months and counting in these parts. (Understandably, the East Africans, across the Red Sea from the Arab heart-land, fall into the conservative camp.)
.
Thursday, April 11, 2013
Changi Road Beggar Re-appraised
This morning Omar
crest-fallen at the rebuff recently received from the Changi Road beggar. In relating
his tale Omar groped between the English terms "mendicant" and
"beggar" for a distinction that has been lost to English, if it ever
existed. In Islam a beggar must be treated with respect; must not be dismissed
out of hand, certainly not abruptly or contemptuously. The outcome from that
moral code has long been noticeable at the tables at Geylang Serai. Rarely in
fact does one strike beggars elsewhere in Singapore. Tissue-selling aunties and
uncles certainly; not outright beggars.
Omar has his favourites in the class like everyone else. What Omar finds objectionable in a beggar is importunity, forwardness, presumption and lack of humility. None of this is the way in Islam and certainly not in Omar's book. Further, for Omar an individual ought to make an attempt to improve themselves, rescue their position; an effort is required. The lack is frowned upon by a hard marker like Omar, a retired school-teacher, risen himself from a lowly position of privation, if not outright poverty.
Either the Qur'an or Mohammad in the Hadith has poverty close to ungodliness. Omar's gloss is that poverty exposes one to ungodly practices and the danger of conversion too. Consequently a duty to lift oneself from that state; at least attempt to do so and persevere in the attempt.
When Omar heard the common exclamation among the hill tribes in old Montenegro his reaction was predictable.
O sirotinjo, i Bogu si teska! Oh poor, even to God you are burdensome.
— Too harsh, said Omar.
Omar's thought was to offer a crutch he had at home to the Changi Road beggar. A crutch would mean the man would no longer need to pitifully hop about as he does; would save the strain on the knee and other joints; open the prospect of work ultimately. Illiteracy compounded the problem for the Changi Road beggar, that was true. Still, there might be some form of work available to a more mobile man.
The beggar responded he had a crutch at home. Some time ago he had a job too, where he had fallen over. Omar had quizzed the Changi Road beggar. Fifty years old, living with a brother near Queenstown, about forty minutes away on the bus from Geylang Serai. Omar had the man's name, a fellow Arab by heritage it seemed. After the last exchange regarding the crutch and the possibility of work the Changi Road beggar avoids eye-contact with Omar. Early last year the Changi Road beggar had sat quietly on the footpath outside the SevenEleven, near the bus-stop, without any kind of appeal to passersby. Often he didn't even raise his eyes. For an outsider it took a number of days to notice the empty trouser leg. In recent months not only did the Changi Road beggar scrutinize passers-by, he even called out.
Omar has his favourites in the class like everyone else. What Omar finds objectionable in a beggar is importunity, forwardness, presumption and lack of humility. None of this is the way in Islam and certainly not in Omar's book. Further, for Omar an individual ought to make an attempt to improve themselves, rescue their position; an effort is required. The lack is frowned upon by a hard marker like Omar, a retired school-teacher, risen himself from a lowly position of privation, if not outright poverty.
Either the Qur'an or Mohammad in the Hadith has poverty close to ungodliness. Omar's gloss is that poverty exposes one to ungodly practices and the danger of conversion too. Consequently a duty to lift oneself from that state; at least attempt to do so and persevere in the attempt.
When Omar heard the common exclamation among the hill tribes in old Montenegro his reaction was predictable.
O sirotinjo, i Bogu si teska! Oh poor, even to God you are burdensome.
— Too harsh, said Omar.
Omar's thought was to offer a crutch he had at home to the Changi Road beggar. A crutch would mean the man would no longer need to pitifully hop about as he does; would save the strain on the knee and other joints; open the prospect of work ultimately. Illiteracy compounded the problem for the Changi Road beggar, that was true. Still, there might be some form of work available to a more mobile man.
The beggar responded he had a crutch at home. Some time ago he had a job too, where he had fallen over. Omar had quizzed the Changi Road beggar. Fifty years old, living with a brother near Queenstown, about forty minutes away on the bus from Geylang Serai. Omar had the man's name, a fellow Arab by heritage it seemed. After the last exchange regarding the crutch and the possibility of work the Changi Road beggar avoids eye-contact with Omar. Early last year the Changi Road beggar had sat quietly on the footpath outside the SevenEleven, near the bus-stop, without any kind of appeal to passersby. Often he didn't even raise his eyes. For an outsider it took a number of days to notice the empty trouser leg. In recent months not only did the Changi Road beggar scrutinize passers-by, he even called out.
Oligarchic Democracy Roundabouts
Numerous
reflexive smiles this morning across the island one can be sure reading the
chief Op-ed item in today's Straits Times
on the subject of Indonesia's "oligarchic democracy". Fie! Shame on
them!... Horrid to consider, especially during breakfast...Twelve or fifteen
hundred words. Perhaps seventeen or eighteen hundred. All without a single hint
of a glance to parts north-west less than two hours flying time. Writer a
former journalist at the same newspaper. Tremendous forbearance. Remarkable.
Oligarchic democracy? What oligarchic democracy? Where?...There was even
anticipation of a seat-warming, interim Presidential prospect between Yudhoyono
pere and fils. Outrageous. Those rude, manipulative Indon elites. With the
Malaysian election upcoming one could not help thinking of PM Najib and his dad
before him. Was it an insidious dig in that direction?
.
Stoning the Crows Too Good For Them
Even
at the petrol bowser presumably getting fuel the half militarized van was
daunting
CROW CULLING
STAND CLEAR
The chap was dressed in an overall type uniform, booted and burly. In the past in Singapore the authorities have invited gun clubs to deal with their crow problem. Noise seems to be the chief irritant. Occasionally one reads reports of HDB blocks besieged by great flocks of rackety birds. For many months the shop-keepers in boutique Orchard Road were suffering from the mynahs scrabbling and squabbling on their rented territory. No doubt it was difficult for shoppers to conduct their phone conversations with the background interference. There had been various schemes mooted for the problem in Orchard, introduced eagles or hawks being one and shooting another. There seems to be almost no sense whatever here in this community of ramifications from such attitudes and actions.
CROW CULLING
STAND CLEAR
The chap was dressed in an overall type uniform, booted and burly. In the past in Singapore the authorities have invited gun clubs to deal with their crow problem. Noise seems to be the chief irritant. Occasionally one reads reports of HDB blocks besieged by great flocks of rackety birds. For many months the shop-keepers in boutique Orchard Road were suffering from the mynahs scrabbling and squabbling on their rented territory. No doubt it was difficult for shoppers to conduct their phone conversations with the background interference. There had been various schemes mooted for the problem in Orchard, introduced eagles or hawks being one and shooting another. There seems to be almost no sense whatever here in this community of ramifications from such attitudes and actions.
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