Clocks en route for a cuppa at the Chinese place in
the shadow of the OCBC bank showed half noon. The slow No. 170
responsible. It must have taken a full one and three quarter hours from
the bus-stop outside the hotel door, little of waiting at the stops and nothing
of queues either side at Immigration. Shows you how captivating the scene
outside the bus window along Bukhit Timah Road all the way to the Singapore
Turf Club, strategically located at Kranji on the outer edge of the island.
Endless fascination.
Without an Employment Pass, local spouse or the like, a visa run required every ninety days in Singapore and most other places. Luckily the spit of rock sits seven-eight hundred metres off the southern point of the Malaysian Peninsular. Johor Bahru, the southern-most point of the Asian continental land-mass. People from foreign parts in a similar position, riff-raff writers and the like, living here ten and twenty years, have been doing this regular run all the while. Best not to leave it too close to the cut-off date the advice. Intrusive enquiries from the Immigration desk best fobbed off with “research”, one has been tutored. Hardly a lie the Lord above knows. Government monitors do not get to the plethora of blogs thankfully, so small-fry junior authors still with their L-plates on after a quarter century can get by without a hiccup. A panama, white skin, dollars in the bank, who’s going to deny you? Yes sir. How can we help you sir? Have a nice day. Poor and dark-skinned watch out.
The Singapore Turf Club. Why not? Not out of the bounds of possibility. One could brazenly out-face the Indian guards done up like the sepoys of old. Even murderous-looking Sikhs like when Will and Kate graced the former dominion. With luck one day one might inspect the clubroom at the track, the stables, the mounting yard. One would certainly need some kind of specially stamped pass in order to get through the heavy fortification at the main gate. Highly impressive. Even the mujahedeen might have trouble there. Within the valuable horse-flesh must get the most carefully regulated aircon, meeting all the standards of the most picky Animal Lib. inspectors. As reported in earlier pages, races in the tropics are now run at night.
Without an Employment Pass, local spouse or the like, a visa run required every ninety days in Singapore and most other places. Luckily the spit of rock sits seven-eight hundred metres off the southern point of the Malaysian Peninsular. Johor Bahru, the southern-most point of the Asian continental land-mass. People from foreign parts in a similar position, riff-raff writers and the like, living here ten and twenty years, have been doing this regular run all the while. Best not to leave it too close to the cut-off date the advice. Intrusive enquiries from the Immigration desk best fobbed off with “research”, one has been tutored. Hardly a lie the Lord above knows. Government monitors do not get to the plethora of blogs thankfully, so small-fry junior authors still with their L-plates on after a quarter century can get by without a hiccup. A panama, white skin, dollars in the bank, who’s going to deny you? Yes sir. How can we help you sir? Have a nice day. Poor and dark-skinned watch out.
The Singapore Turf Club. Why not? Not out of the bounds of possibility. One could brazenly out-face the Indian guards done up like the sepoys of old. Even murderous-looking Sikhs like when Will and Kate graced the former dominion. With luck one day one might inspect the clubroom at the track, the stables, the mounting yard. One would certainly need some kind of specially stamped pass in order to get through the heavy fortification at the main gate. Highly impressive. Even the mujahedeen might have trouble there. Within the valuable horse-flesh must get the most carefully regulated aircon, meeting all the standards of the most picky Animal Lib. inspectors. As reported in earlier pages, races in the tropics are now run at night.
Easier for the punters too, the men of the track. Would
get hot even under fans cheering your nag onto the winning post under this sun.
Over in Sing' in the last week or two either another report of a young athlete
dropping dead in the heat, or else an inquest in progress from an earlier
incident. Army recruits are another at-risk group; school children too at their
physical recreation. This last might have been a young teenager in fact during
a routine school sports day, no prior warning, dead on the spot.
Once again the thought returning on the bus this morning during this most recent run, mooning at the slowly passing landscape on the 170, casting over the remnant forest fringe decorating the roadway, the tall Condo towers carrying the alluring tags of places far distant in the temperate zones: this place here on the equator was never meant to be. Certainly not in this present form. Most certainly. Impossible thoughts. Offensive to a well-to-do, impressive and highly successful global good citizen weighting in the world far above its vanishing thin point on the map…. What to do? These thought have a life of their own.
A van just outside the Checkpoint on the Johor side caused more than a momentary confusion on the way to the cuppa at the nice Chin corner place that always gathers an interesting crowd. Small, light two tonner at most. The advertising on the side, what was that?
A few steps needed re-tracing.
FOG MASTER
Fog master? Not steam. Fog.
As mystifying as the Condo labels earlier: Balmoral Plaza, Coronation Plaza, Goodwood Residence, Honolulu Tower, Madison, Rich Mansion, Sixth Avenue, The Legend, The Legacy, The Linear. —Oh Bless their dear hearts all... (A photographic memory in this line of work is always a great aid. The real estate pages on-line don't hurt either.) Trumpet-call like that enough to make one roll onto one's back and kick one's legs into the air like a puppy on an English lawn. The Sterling.... Once begun it is not easy to stop. Jardin for Gallic balance might have been on Dunearn corner on the return. (Counterpart of Versailles nearer to home at Geylang Serai.) Then of course there are the schools on the same stretch, often set behind front lawns like castle estates and manor houses from times of yore. (From which they naturally derived.) There will be readers doubtful and dubious. The author owns we can often cross over to fiction and invention proper, dear reader. Soon ‘twill be the case. So far as the Condo roll-call here is concerned however, all true and verifiable. Google away for yourselves. Not a false one among them. What need striving for invention and fairy-tales on the equator? No need for narcotics either. Where were we?... Heading toward Johor Bahru, crossed over the narrow water-way in fact, passed through Immigration. Selamat pagi and terima kasih winning broad smiles from the scarf manning the desk. Always a pleasure returning to Malaysia. Such reminders of our humanity. Avoiding the mechanical walking-track, the escalators. Out onto the roadway, crossing, almost the first van passed, parked kerb-side presenting the mystery. FOG MASTER.
Actually prompting a retracing of a few steps in the rising noon-day heat. One knew this terrain. This was not the first visit to JB. Fog master?
Local eyes would have twigged immediately of course. Even non-English speakers; illiterates probably too.
Insects are a problem hereabouts, in the Condos particularly. Nasty many-legged creepy-crawlies that need control. Pest control. The Buddhist consciousness has been shucked off in these parts with all the rest. Shallow remnants remaining. When the spray teams pass through a neighbourhood gassing the poor bugs, watch out! One can see the cloud from a kilometre off. Causes itches in the nasal passages. If time allows get on your bike first sign.
Gives the poor in the region who can’t afford to travel some sense of the atmospherics in other parts. In addition to the Discovery channel. And London of course. It was fog from which Jack the Ripper emerged. In Singapore especially any reference to the Old Dart brings a little tug on the heart. Company in question likely based on the other side of the Causeway. (Too lazy to google again.)
A news-stand headline finally showed the election date has been set here in Malaysia, for later this month, if that was got right. Again, re-traced a couple of steps in order to verify. Unlike Jules down south, PM Najib going for the shortest possible lead-time. Many months now the unofficial campaign has been running. Fair chance the Opposition can turn the tables completely on this occasion, more than fifty years after Merdeka — Freedom. (From the Brits.) Independence.
Last night at the usual locale back on the adopted home-turf an interesting new encounter. A poet, and trader in contraband combined no less. Modern-day Rimbaud. No need to tell you what brings in the dosh. Within a half hour sit half a dozen customers, one or two buying a couple of packs. In an effort to curtail the trade in illegal ciggies, the Sing' authorities recently added another measure. A stamp no longer confined to the pack—too easy to counter that—but at the base of the cigarette itself, just above the filter. Two-three weeks later all taken care of by the lads. In the back lorongs of Geylang $5 a pack formerly (against ten/twelve for Government weed). This fella under-cutting by twenty percent. A roaring trade. Customers lining up beside our table. Thank you very much. Marlboro Reds. During proper office hours there was probably the range. This was just in passing; happened to have a few loose in his bag. Screw-driver in the back pocket should the cops get nasty. Pen in shirt pocket could do some damage too. This was a poet from the period of the Third Republic. Fuck with him at your peril. Chap recalled 196...? What was it, 63-4?.... The riots in the back streets just there over our shoulders. Chin went down at his hands. When he was thirteen turning fourteen, counting back from the age he gave.... Would have been a treat reading that in verse form with all the rhetorical flourishes.
Fellow been living in JB over thirty years now, more comfy and cheaper of course. Originally a teacher, Junior School. Near fifty years a choofer. Just a small number enough to tide him over each night. In the trade of that product a little more care needed. But no fear. Good gear. Nothing of hydroponics. Sharp as one would expect of the double whammy poet-Contrabando.
— Did Najib and his wife kill the Mongolian girl?
Within short order frank exchanges and straight-shooting instilled confidence. Nothing out of bounds, unable to be asked.
— Of course. Eliminating opponents in pol. the same the world over. What can one expect?
Difficult to argue the contra case.
What about Mahathir? The poor boy from the wrong side of the tracks, twenty how many years at the helm of the transformation on the Peninsular? One of the richest of global citizens? (As was put to the author during his belated Pol. Ed. up in Georgetown, Penang. Forbes had the former Doctor briefly No. 2 in the all-time high earner-accumulator, sticky-fingers, brown paper bags in the bottom drawer kind of national leader league, outpacing recognized such athletes as Suharto, Marcos, the bunga-bunga rapster. Well, well above evil Saddam—daylight between the pair. Mahathir could have put Rainer of Monaco, Grace Kelly's Daddy-O, to cleaning and polishing his boots. A cool forty four billion. That is forty-four billion U.S. dollaro. Check. Forty-four ringgit forget it. Gee hey!...)
Contrabando-versifier wasn't going to blink at anything whatever put to him that evening, try as you might. Ordinarily the Malays love Mahathir. Stood up to the Yanks during 9/11 blow-back, staunch Palestinian supporter, respected Islamist, built the Petronas towers famous all over the globe. Tell the Malays Mahathir was on the take like nobody’s business can bring the temperature down quick-smart even in the steamy tropics. Dense fog. Not the case in the present instance. Says the porky—or at least beefy—curly-haired cowboy with a straight stare through steel-rims that encompassed a world of understanding: — How was he supposed to resist?
Once again the thought returning on the bus this morning during this most recent run, mooning at the slowly passing landscape on the 170, casting over the remnant forest fringe decorating the roadway, the tall Condo towers carrying the alluring tags of places far distant in the temperate zones: this place here on the equator was never meant to be. Certainly not in this present form. Most certainly. Impossible thoughts. Offensive to a well-to-do, impressive and highly successful global good citizen weighting in the world far above its vanishing thin point on the map…. What to do? These thought have a life of their own.
A van just outside the Checkpoint on the Johor side caused more than a momentary confusion on the way to the cuppa at the nice Chin corner place that always gathers an interesting crowd. Small, light two tonner at most. The advertising on the side, what was that?
A few steps needed re-tracing.
FOG MASTER
Fog master? Not steam. Fog.
As mystifying as the Condo labels earlier: Balmoral Plaza, Coronation Plaza, Goodwood Residence, Honolulu Tower, Madison, Rich Mansion, Sixth Avenue, The Legend, The Legacy, The Linear. —Oh Bless their dear hearts all... (A photographic memory in this line of work is always a great aid. The real estate pages on-line don't hurt either.) Trumpet-call like that enough to make one roll onto one's back and kick one's legs into the air like a puppy on an English lawn. The Sterling.... Once begun it is not easy to stop. Jardin for Gallic balance might have been on Dunearn corner on the return. (Counterpart of Versailles nearer to home at Geylang Serai.) Then of course there are the schools on the same stretch, often set behind front lawns like castle estates and manor houses from times of yore. (From which they naturally derived.) There will be readers doubtful and dubious. The author owns we can often cross over to fiction and invention proper, dear reader. Soon ‘twill be the case. So far as the Condo roll-call here is concerned however, all true and verifiable. Google away for yourselves. Not a false one among them. What need striving for invention and fairy-tales on the equator? No need for narcotics either. Where were we?... Heading toward Johor Bahru, crossed over the narrow water-way in fact, passed through Immigration. Selamat pagi and terima kasih winning broad smiles from the scarf manning the desk. Always a pleasure returning to Malaysia. Such reminders of our humanity. Avoiding the mechanical walking-track, the escalators. Out onto the roadway, crossing, almost the first van passed, parked kerb-side presenting the mystery. FOG MASTER.
Actually prompting a retracing of a few steps in the rising noon-day heat. One knew this terrain. This was not the first visit to JB. Fog master?
Local eyes would have twigged immediately of course. Even non-English speakers; illiterates probably too.
Insects are a problem hereabouts, in the Condos particularly. Nasty many-legged creepy-crawlies that need control. Pest control. The Buddhist consciousness has been shucked off in these parts with all the rest. Shallow remnants remaining. When the spray teams pass through a neighbourhood gassing the poor bugs, watch out! One can see the cloud from a kilometre off. Causes itches in the nasal passages. If time allows get on your bike first sign.
Gives the poor in the region who can’t afford to travel some sense of the atmospherics in other parts. In addition to the Discovery channel. And London of course. It was fog from which Jack the Ripper emerged. In Singapore especially any reference to the Old Dart brings a little tug on the heart. Company in question likely based on the other side of the Causeway. (Too lazy to google again.)
A news-stand headline finally showed the election date has been set here in Malaysia, for later this month, if that was got right. Again, re-traced a couple of steps in order to verify. Unlike Jules down south, PM Najib going for the shortest possible lead-time. Many months now the unofficial campaign has been running. Fair chance the Opposition can turn the tables completely on this occasion, more than fifty years after Merdeka — Freedom. (From the Brits.) Independence.
Last night at the usual locale back on the adopted home-turf an interesting new encounter. A poet, and trader in contraband combined no less. Modern-day Rimbaud. No need to tell you what brings in the dosh. Within a half hour sit half a dozen customers, one or two buying a couple of packs. In an effort to curtail the trade in illegal ciggies, the Sing' authorities recently added another measure. A stamp no longer confined to the pack—too easy to counter that—but at the base of the cigarette itself, just above the filter. Two-three weeks later all taken care of by the lads. In the back lorongs of Geylang $5 a pack formerly (against ten/twelve for Government weed). This fella under-cutting by twenty percent. A roaring trade. Customers lining up beside our table. Thank you very much. Marlboro Reds. During proper office hours there was probably the range. This was just in passing; happened to have a few loose in his bag. Screw-driver in the back pocket should the cops get nasty. Pen in shirt pocket could do some damage too. This was a poet from the period of the Third Republic. Fuck with him at your peril. Chap recalled 196...? What was it, 63-4?.... The riots in the back streets just there over our shoulders. Chin went down at his hands. When he was thirteen turning fourteen, counting back from the age he gave.... Would have been a treat reading that in verse form with all the rhetorical flourishes.
Fellow been living in JB over thirty years now, more comfy and cheaper of course. Originally a teacher, Junior School. Near fifty years a choofer. Just a small number enough to tide him over each night. In the trade of that product a little more care needed. But no fear. Good gear. Nothing of hydroponics. Sharp as one would expect of the double whammy poet-Contrabando.
— Did Najib and his wife kill the Mongolian girl?
Within short order frank exchanges and straight-shooting instilled confidence. Nothing out of bounds, unable to be asked.
— Of course. Eliminating opponents in pol. the same the world over. What can one expect?
Difficult to argue the contra case.
What about Mahathir? The poor boy from the wrong side of the tracks, twenty how many years at the helm of the transformation on the Peninsular? One of the richest of global citizens? (As was put to the author during his belated Pol. Ed. up in Georgetown, Penang. Forbes had the former Doctor briefly No. 2 in the all-time high earner-accumulator, sticky-fingers, brown paper bags in the bottom drawer kind of national leader league, outpacing recognized such athletes as Suharto, Marcos, the bunga-bunga rapster. Well, well above evil Saddam—daylight between the pair. Mahathir could have put Rainer of Monaco, Grace Kelly's Daddy-O, to cleaning and polishing his boots. A cool forty four billion. That is forty-four billion U.S. dollaro. Check. Forty-four ringgit forget it. Gee hey!...)
Contrabando-versifier wasn't going to blink at anything whatever put to him that evening, try as you might. Ordinarily the Malays love Mahathir. Stood up to the Yanks during 9/11 blow-back, staunch Palestinian supporter, respected Islamist, built the Petronas towers famous all over the globe. Tell the Malays Mahathir was on the take like nobody’s business can bring the temperature down quick-smart even in the steamy tropics. Dense fog. Not the case in the present instance. Says the porky—or at least beefy—curly-haired cowboy with a straight stare through steel-rims that encompassed a world of understanding: — How was he supposed to resist?
.
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