Gila - Crazy - published by NWWQ

There was some comic by-play at the front desk where the young widower Irwan was the butt of the jokes. The standard of gila, crazy was tossed around. Who among us had the propensity? Who fell most prone? how? when? under what circumstances?

Mostly Irwan was fine and proper, the pleasant middle-aged woman who often partnered Irwan at reception testified. Truth be told, however, sometimes he could go a bit gila.

Possibly the fellow was prone to waywardness where perempuan, women were concerned, maybe.

This was let pass by the receptionist. Not something for her comment.

A chap behind seemed to appear from out of nowhere, thin air. From the rear access to the prayer room possibly.

Oh yes indeed. Certainly. Gila to the max our Irwan, take it from me. Flapping his arms and rolling shoulders.

The sign that followed left no room for doubt. With the fingers of both hands entwined the fellow impressed his point. Hands clasped as if in readiness for earnest prayer or beseeching, he started a rapid hammering of one palm onto the other. A kind of nut-cracker effect with the jaws in a frenzy of snapping.

SNAPSNAPSNAPSNAP

Some kind of voracious creature that had leapt from the paddy or jungle was evoked, one native to the region.

WhooWhooHoo. Big wide smiles; cackling. A little adolescent.

Poor darkly eye-bagged Irwan thirteen months widowed from his dear wife. Irwan was also one of those incessant screw-tight blinkers that one commonly found in the Tropics. A few days before he had given the name of his departed partner. In his wallet the dead woman’s ID was kept by her mourning husband. The document showed a plain-looking woman in dull orange-brown scarf on one side of the card and a larger image of her finger-print on the other.

A year now after the loss Irwan, a good Muslim, could marry.

— But not easy you know, these days…

Someone backstage needed Irwan.

The substance and depth of these superficially plain, unmade-up and scarfed women had been established over the twenty-five months in the region. Sitting at Starbucks again after the jollity at the lobby one watched the familiar fashion parade over the polished tiles, recalling Irwan’s wife and others like her. If Irwan now went a little gila where women were concerned it would only be grief involved.

The disaster had been more terrible still as the wife had perished in child-birth, the baby with her.

Irwan lived with his parents, his brother and family close-by in the compound, an hour out of central Jakarta—always depending on the traffic.

Hotel Kalisma stood a kilometre from the Bunderan, the chief roundabout in the city; perhaps two kilometres from Monas, the main square with the Soekarno-era Freedom monument. Irwan’s home was kampung, village country-side. If there were roosters and chooks behind Room 120 at Kalisma one kilometre from Plaza Indonesia and Bunderan—as there certainly were—more would be found where Irwan lived. In a car trip well within the inner circle of the city there had been a small herd of goats roadside, evidently for sale.

Irwan the young widower wanted to show the foreigner, the Bule, White something of a Javanese kampung. There was much to see in Jakarta, a “dynamic city”, according to Irwan. The city was one thing; the kampungs something entirely other, the man insisted.

It had been difficult to convince Irwan that this Bule knew kampungs; that he indeed hailed from one in Europe actually. That Europe even today was not all Champs Elysees and Westminster. Indeed goats, roosters and thatched housing was a common heritage.

A trip that promised much. Toil over the pages prevented it that afternoon after Irwin’s work-shift.

NB. Published in a longer sequence titled “Land of Brothers” by New World Writing Quarterly, Feb 2022

Wheelbarrow (Jalan Slipi)

Grand Indonesia Shopping Town. The West Mall holds Kinokuniya on lower ground. Entry-point from the street at the first corner: UOB tower right, Mad for Garlic, Coffee Bean next door (Sing’pore chain) and straight along the concourse to Arjuna Lobby, where the day before the rising political star was sighted. Along Jalan KS Tubun lots of street-stall holders pasted his picture. Jokowi! Thumbs up. The young widower Irwin at reception at Hotel Kalisma confirmed the same: a good man, works hard. Then Governor of the capital; since President. 

Without need of the Jak Post there would be no need for the mall. Coffee can be dispensed with; newspaper was harder, especially for a foreigner in need of pointers.  

The only other café in the quarter was on Jalan Slipi, not far up from Abraham’s Cyber, modelled closely on the American chains. The heat was the other factor. One could buy at Kinokuniya and take the sheets around to one of the warungs roadside. But the heat.  

Lots of stall-holders read their newspapers undisturbed. Much harder for the new-comer.  

Starbucks was one level up from the bookshop. You needed to pass it on the way out. Sometimes pretty smiling girls all in a row at the tables. Checkmate in not so many moves.  

Irwan at Kalisma did say an alternative purchase point for the Jak Post was any “drugstore” attached to one of the five star hotels. (Kalisma was two star.) 

On the back street coming along that morning a woman walking in the gutter against the traffic held up two fingers at the approaching cars. On the footpath half-concealed her little boy skipping carelessly. 

— Mister. Mister, his mother prompted. 

Too late. The quarry had passed. 

Children of course were more effective beggars.  

The elderly, the aged and senescent could stab even more deeply. The night before after the Cyber a chap was met wheeling what could only have been his mother, a deaf-mute it seemed. When the woman opened her mouth a voiceless plea was signed by pink tongue and palate. The shape produced was wrong somehow. This woman only used her mouth for feeding. That was how it appeared in the dark gutter of Jalan Slipi. Mid-late fifties, but prematurely aged, commonly noticeable on the streets of Tanah Abang. 

The lad half her age. With his hands on the arms of the narrow wooden cart the palm could not be presented. It was not needed on this occasion. Mister had stopped of his own accord.  

It was the cart itself more than anything. Elderly blind men and women were commonly led along for begging; deformed and misshapen elderly sometimes. This style of cartage had not been seen previously.  

The woman would not get a coffin when her time came; or if it happened by some fluke it would not be more commodious than this cart. The sides meant she needed to tuck her elbows and joining her hands together resulted. Legs may have over-hung at the end.  

At the upper end below her son her head rested on the slats. The barrow took a thirty degree angle at the handle end; impossible to guess its original purpose. It suited this pair well enough.  

Mother was not good on her pins; luckily she had her dutiful son.  

All the girls and lads in Tanah Abang appeared dutiful. As well as the communitarianism and brotherhood in Tanah Abang—Land of Brothers—filial and other relationships showed firm. How could hardship be endured otherwise? 

The mother extended her hand. A fiver for her. More than enough for a street-stall dinner for that night at least. In that of course the lad’s hands now off the handles. If she was deserving, the lad was equally so for active pity. 

A two. Understandably received less graciously. 

Conversion found a measly sixty cents. Alms of that level had been returned in Singapore, and certainly Melbourne. Partly it was a matter of still struggling with the outsized figures. Two or three noughts could always be comfortably deleted in the third world.

Starbucks three days running. No special vouchers offered as yet. The lass at Kinokuniya suggested the day’s JakPost ought to be in at lunchtime. Few tables across young early twenties Indon lad taking a shot of his and his gal’s donuts. The market penetration was phenomenal. 

Young Kennedy in Jakarta

Banville at Kinokuniya Jakarta was always going to be a tough. The situation had been anticipated. Strictness in luggage was the reason for not picking up the volume in Singapore. Sophisticated Euro Lit. while traveling Asia was another consideration. It seemed inappropriate. The Rilke packed from home did not read readily here, the same as a couple of other volumes. Plato's Trial of Socrates fitted; the locally prompted of course—the Hadith, the Analects. Despite all the NYRB holds up well, even the recent Alfred Brendel on the piano. Difficult to comprehend. The recent J.B. release promised the usual signature hi-jinks: good sex, intrigue, no doubt again inevitably worked in the concerns of an older consciousness (premonitions of stroke, heart failure, locked in syndrome and the like). 
         After consulting her screen for holdings the girl at the Kinokuniya desk informed the only volume by Banville was Dubliners. (An intro for a new edition published a few years ago.) Not to be. No wifi in the room. After every page of the NYRB piece one needed to dress, circle out past the prayer-room round to the lobby in order to reload and get the next page. Return, strip, close the bathroom door again (it opens with the slightest draft when the main door is opened). For all the precautions last night a dreaded mozzie entered, which meant the aircon, fan switched on, to persuade the devil to decamp. Dengue fever is the worry here, especially without health insurance.
         A more direct route this morning to the Mall. Day by day it all becomes more familiar. Yesterday's Jakarta Post again the best on offer. Otherwise the ABC. The Age can be completely abandoned after the outrageous call for Labour to ditch Gillard. For the good of democracy; enable the arguments to be heard.... Disgusting. No more.
         Here Starbucks has claimed an innocent victim. Heart and soul cried Nay! Not again. Not two days running. Nevertheless, modulated tones: In a glass please. No muffin, thanks all the same. 
         Five dollars Australian near enough for the coffee and bikkie—41,000 Rupiah—when the people are hungry on the streets, asleep leaning against the mirrors of motor-cycles, Grannies on the broken dirty pavement too beat even to raise their hands in plea.
         C&W; contemporary funk subsequently. Frankie's love and champagne came an hour later, fixed rotation. Central table offering a view of the Security desk. Larger bags inspected. On the approach the women, practiced shoppers familiar with the Grand, knew the routine. Over-sized $US1,000 hand-bags given over to the uniformed lads to check for semtex.
         Nearly a dozen lads around the desk and more pacing beyond; indoors more again. None in evidence the day before. Couple of Mercs half hour ago assumed to be the reason. Down on the turn yesterday near-by a real convoy of black tinted chariots hurtling up the narrow roadway. One of the middle vehicles was garlanded somehow on the bonnet or grill. There may have been flowers behind. All-black fleet different shapes and sizes—vans, 4WD’s, luxury vehicles—one or two sirens wailing. The briefest glimpse suggested the figure of newly widowed Siti Soekarno Putri.
         — Politicos? to a tubby fellow behind looking on from his stall like the rest.
         — Aahh!... Politicos, rising inflection showing surprise at the foreigner’s ability to cotton on so rapidly.
         It could have been a mogul, possibly. They kept private security details in Indonesia. All the grotesque mansions around the diplomatic quarter in Pondok Indah a few days ago had Security pill-boxes at the entryways.
         No clocks in the Malls. Twelve said the gal in the corner seat after much embarrassment, not having the number and having to enlist the aid of her girlfriend. A great many bags presented to the security lads at entry. Frankie’s double came on with love and champagne. Easy to slide slowly from the soft couch at Stars onto the floor. Some of the hairdos on the bag-ladies were eye-popping, took one back to Frankie's forties and fifties. Perms in the heat. Explosive.
         The Post revealed yesterday was the 486th anniversary of the “big kampong”—Jakarta no less. The museum in old Batavia had been visited with Omar, chauffeured by Mr. Budi. Nothing in particular. Old carved river-stones that went back many hundreds of years the most interesting items.
         The paper was produced in association with the International Herald Tribune. Intelligent articles by well-credentialed writers was unexpected. Within a Mall like that.
         Late morning uneventful. There had been a thought to complain about something just for the heck of it. Tell the lads the green plastic stirrer had disappeared in the coffee. Only just noticed. Feeling queasy. Where was the Comments Box?
         In the first instant the group quick-stepping from the right by the escalator out front of SEIBU seemed perfectly non-descript. A dozen perhaps. A large group, certainly the largest of the morning. Compact; not shoulder to shoulder but clearly a body. As far as well-heeled shoppers went mediocre. All male medium stature. No gorillas or muscle; no arms of any kind. Rapido march like that in the Tropics was rare. Weekend attire; nothing fancy; there might not have been a single gold ticker among the party.
         Door-man raising his white gloves. On the marble outside under the portico business-like handshakes left and right. Likely it was not good security practice to provide a stationary target. Car doors flung. Not the limousines from the day before.
         — Jokowi?
         The affirmative was eventually fished up.
         The rising star had come to notice the year before. The contraction had only been learned in the last day or two.
         Early fifties Governor of Jakarta. Typing up the notes from the morning in Mr. Abraham’s Net joint on Jalan Slipi later one of the screens was showing TV comedy, the show-man with the repetoire lead the audience to unending laughter and merriment, almost certainly not canned. Through the course Jokowi was mentioned forty dozen times. JokowiJokowiJokowiJokowi X 120.
         It was impossible to tell which of the men in the scrum was the up-coming star Presidential candidate.
         Joko Widowo properly. Memorable for a Serb. Joko was our contraction for George; innumerable George/Djokos in Montenegro.
         Royalty up close looks ordinary humanity no matter the get-up. And there was no get-up here on the Sunday morning. A man of the people, as it was said, seemed about right.
         It needed to be confirmed with the young Doorman just in case. Yes indeed. Yes. The same. He’s gone now, the lad waving his gloved hand smiling.
         The local young Kennedy. Age and new mood in the nation, the sense of expectation comparable. A few days ago seeing a large group of youth in orange tees arriving in a convoy of lorries at the textile market Omar gave the info it was Jokowi, one of his initiatives to clean up the town, put the unemployed youth to work.
         A change from big business perhaps possible. (Hudoyono had just been knighted by Kissinger with some kind of Humanitarian award.) The common good man might have more of a chance in such a polis. Good luck to the young colt.

Jakarta Mall

Saturday. For a moment it seemed the days had slid somehow. But no, it was a Saturday. For some reason the paper picked up at Kinokuniya mid-morning was the Friday edition. There was certainly no Jakarta Post available anywhere in Tanah Abang. There was no-one to read it there. This was the second Post picked up in the week here. Unusual for a confirmed addict. After an hour’s walk airconned Starbucks next door to the bookstore meant all principles had to be thrown out the window. Hello plastic green stirrer, white mug, Frankie on the sound system. And you paid top dollar for the privilege there of course. How not in such enviable luxury! Thankfully this was only the Grand Plaza. Massimo Dutti opposite; Seibu the other side. A supermarket one level down. Likely no Cartier, LV and the rest here. These would be found within Plaza Indonesia, the out and out top of the crop. Pat downs there as at Hotel Millenium, where lunch was taken with Omar a few days before. The lumpy shoulder bag had looked suspicious at the entryway.
         The young door-man here at Grand yawning. Long caramel fitted jacket and pants, some kind of batik-like shirt beneath overhanging for the native touch. Perched on his head a cross between the bell-hop's traditional tight cap and a songkok, also caramel. White gloves. Automatic doors are for the inferior places where the dark and sweaty shop. This is high-end marble stair territory, polished hourly. A white face looks like class no matter the track shoes and faded tee. Might be a faded old rock star from Miami for all this lad would know. Government here reduced the petrol subsidy a whopping 44% the other day. Price per litre now $0.70. By far the cheapest in south-east Asia, and globally outside the source countries one would guess. After even a brief survey of Tanah Abang one can easily understand the widespread resistance, demonstrations and general sense of threat. Last night a dozen large blue military wagons hurtling down Jalan KS Tubun with escort vehicles flashing and honking. Headed for the petrol station likely. Photos on-line this morning showed hundreds of bikers milling at bowsers the night before the price hike. As well as make-shift food trolleys, tyre repair stalls, drinks and tropical fruit vendors and all the others, common along Jalan KS Tubun in Tanah Abang are petrol trolleys selling from plastic containers, funnels employed for smaller measure glass bottles. One or two of the vendors wears old-style grey mechanic half-length coats. The urine colour seemed odd; perhaps the glass. A good trade. One might buy a half litre there to get a biker home. 
         Yawns earlier and now knee-bends from the Doorman when no-one is watching. Frankie is in love, champagne going with his dreaminess. An unexpected rush suddenly sees the lad open one wing of the double doors and leave it open until the stream passes. Three half squats, running his hands down his shins. Smiles and greetings part of his task of course.
         Girl being photographed against a pillar wrapped with advertising for some kind of watch—BERING (from the Strait; or useful in all weathers) — where a seemingly crumbling ice-berg shows above her head. The Poles now tourist destinations along with everything else for high-end shoppers.
         Yesterday late morning was odd coming upon hitchhikers at the foot of Plaza Indonesia, a dozen or more strung along the curving roadway. Women more than men; young more than old, one bearing a small child in her front sling. More than a couple in traditional attire, scarf and body cover. But all presumably ready to enter a vehicle with a strange, unknown male driver. On the approach of the cars each raised not a thumb, but finger, either one or two for single or pair. 
         Taking a turn around the neighbourhood with Omar before his return to Singapore he pointed out the Chinese behind desks and counters. According to Omar they run the place, Jakarta and Indonesia more broadly. Coming from Singapore the sudden absence of the Chinese was noticeable. Disappeared all of a sudden, the same as in Johor Bahru over the Causeway. Elements within the Malay lines and contours here and there, but hardly a true Han anywhere to be seen. The malls have restored the balance. Nothing but at the Starbucks chairs and lounges.
         Hopefully the Sumatran fires will ease presently to bring relief to the Little Red Dot and the friends there. Hazardous smog levels last couple of days; a suspicion too Sin'pore agribuisness might bear a substantial part of the responsibility for the slash-and-burn practices in the infamous palm oil industry.

                                              

Traffic-watch — Jakarta

Minor flesh wound returning after lunch with the newspaper from the malls. Certainly finding the Jakarta Post in Tanah Abang you can forget. As previously disclosed, only yesterday's paper available around noon here. Possibly it was not a morning edition.
         Slight graze was not from a collision with a bike or car. Rather one of the lads wheeling goods on a trolley. Scores and scores of these young men around the textile market transporting large, tightly sealed bundles to and fro; some on trolleys, others shoulders and heads. The African head-carrying is fairly common here, men as well as women. In the tight lanes and alleys it affords easier passage for one thing. Chaps with wide baggage on their trolley often get caught unable to move. Two hundred porters in a crowded space would not be an exaggeration. It might be three hundred. Some wear the green or orange tees of their particular trading house. All wear the common slip-on sandals. A sudden move engaging a tiny Primary Schooler in uniform with sweat-matted hair caused the glancing blow, the chap calling out having his load shaken.
         Up on the slope on Jalan KS Tubun—a hero from history, Irwan at the hotel desk informed—a couple of carters working in tandem raised a gulp in the throat. The old chap, early-aged fifties, coming downhill with the heavy pile wheeled behind was taking the brunt of the load, digging his heels in, sandals slipping, jerkily pacing. It could only have been the son behind, young lad still mid-teens following and striving to keep the trolley upright. At the same time and as part of that function, trying to restrain the headlong careering. A couple of expertly tied ropes had left the lad loops on either side. One of these in each hand like reins on a steer, the boy attempting to save dad in front. Tugging and grimacing as his mount was getting away from him. An impossible mission. How was he to brake the speed when his feet were flying beneath him. The faces of dad and the boy caught in the instant of passing: strain, sweat, anguish. There was no help for it. Half-way down the steep descent they were met.
         A shower was needed immediately on return. An hour's stroll into town. Sit first at Starbucks, then lunch at Gado Gado within Thamrin tower, before facing the mid-day traffic back. The Saturday had not lessened it any. Only a matter of time one would think before a more serious accident. No health insurance; that ran out fourteen months ago. It is difficult trading the old rooster out behind the bathroom at Kalisma for Frankie in the mall singing of love and champagne.
         Reading the remainder of the paper in the room later saw the traffic problem in the immediate neighbourhood given page 9 treatment: Traffic Chaos. Tanah Abang traffic to be addressed.
         The area around the textile market seems to be one of the most significant bottle-necks in the famously grid-locked city, on-street parking identified as one of the chief factors. Rates currently stand at Rp 4,000 ($US 40cents) per hour for vehicles and half for motor-bikes.

Hope and Faith in Jakarta

Could a city of this size and character possibly exist without Islam or some firm faith? The scale, poverty and remarkable density. Five prayers a day, the muezzin's call. Before 5 a.m. the neighbourhood is awoken by the azan, followed a short time later, by the prayer proper. Allahu-akbar!.... As in the case of the Chow Kit Pakistani in Kuala Lumpur, the muezzin in Tanah Abang, five hundred metres from Plaza Indonesia where they fear radical Islam almost as much as in New York and London, is an outstanding talent. How the rhythm and tone would unsettle and unnerve people back home. Many Westerners would flee without a shadow of doubt, and nothing to do with the mujahidin or fear of mugging. The earnest, wholehearted plea, the petition to the ultimate power, would shake many. Presumably in the high-end shopping quarter where cars entering entryways have their under-carriage checked for hidden bombs, the call to prayer and the prayer itself is muted somewhat. (Though mosques are certainly visible around Thamrin City and Ascott towers.) Presumably the Christians and Buddhists in the community would be forced by the earnest example of the Muslims to respond in kind: wholehearted, deep devotion and no wishy-washy. Perhaps even the Chinese Buddhists might not be able to get away as in Singapore with some light and uncommitted form of the faith of their ancestors. They would feel too exposed in Jakarta and Indonesia generally. Can Christianity still be holding up in Rio; the faiths of Mumbai, Bangkok and Johannesburg? In all those places where movies, TV, sport, food, get-aways and Facebook provide less consolation?

         Marvelous warmth in the salutations again this afternoon the length of the walk into the city centre. A vendor at one of the stalls trading in Muslim caps had not forgotten yesterday's prayer-mat carried under the arm. Told, pointing to the crown, that one was right for head-gear thanks all the same, the chap responded, — But a Muslim one!

Muslim Persona (Jakarta)

Somehow in the rush Omar had packed the hotel prayer mat in his luggage. In the taxi searching for something it turned up. Of course it needed to be returned. 

         — They will think you are a Muslim carrying it, the thought occurred to Omar.
         On leaving the patisserie at Thambrin City for the bus Omar thought to collect a plastic bag for the mat. What he was given was a bag for croissants and bread. The mat would need to be carried under-arm through the hard streets and lanes of Tanah Abang, no alternative. 
         With the original Ecuadorean straw panama an unusual sight stepping out narrow lanes and passageways where the harsh, testing conditions of life were laid bare. In three and one half days in Tanah Abang there had not been another Westerner sighted, much less one bearing a prayer mat and such head-cover. Between three and four the traffic had not really started. Nevertheless, for captivating entertainment the scramble of motor-bikes, mikrolets, cars and pedestrians at that hour could hardly be surpassed.

         There was a danger of not paying sufficient attention to the broken pavement, that was the only thing. The day before there had been a slight accident with our hired driver, Mr. Budi; this afternoon a light touch involving a 4-wheel drive and a young lad on a motor-cycle. Wisely, in this last case the daughter in the back seat of the car had carried the brief argument with the bike and a couple of other riders who had taken the young man's part. Luckily there was no harm done, no mark left on either conveyance.

         A car driver in Jakarta would not want to be involved in an accident in that particular part of town of all places. Land of Brothers—Tanah Abang.

         One of the older bikers in the immediate vicinity of the last incident had taken the young lad's part and for a brief instant it seemed some kind of altercation was imminent. The words fired either side, in the midst of which the old biker had lunged toward the passenger window where the Madam sat behind darkened glass. In the movement the helmeted old biker had lifted his front wheels like a Cowboy on a startled rearing steed—Roy Rogers more than John Wayne. The woman within sat head bowed. A momentary reflex; all well that ended well.
         The ride out to the airport bus in the taxi took twenty minutes; the same time needed to find a taxi in the first place. Cost: 30,000 rupiah—about four dollars. The Cabbie had been on the road since early morning and was still some way short of covering the day's costs, he said. After seeing Omar off and setting back toward the hotel again taxis were difficult to find. Two Westerners had exited cars and instructed the drivers to wait for them. Around Thamrin Tower, Hotel Indonesia and the Bunderan roundabout there were no shortage of Westerners. A driver having a smoke to the side laughed at the request that had been made.
         — Tanah Abang?... Well buddy, try shaking a leg.... Almost certainly something like that his gist. 
         As the chap tugged on his cigarette and blew, the distinctively Arabic form of Tanah Abang Blok A clothing emporium showed itself across a short distance. It was perfectly uncanny, as if a cloud had parted at precisely that moment. The structure opposite was none other than Tanah Abang Blok A. Care had been taken that morning to get the precise name. Omar had pointed out the sign. The six or seven storey tower, ornate and a little impressive, went by no other name. 
         In the cab out we had traveled twenty minutes at a pinch, part way racing along three lane highway. Omar had paid R30,000. Yet here within distance of a good flat punt stood the very building that we had explored for the third time just that morning.

         One of the lads in school good with his hands could have folded a paper aeroplane that might have covered the distance. No wonder the Cabbie's derision.

         Hotel Kalisma was five minutes further. Just keep the beacon more or less in sight; two tall communication towers painted red and white provided secondary reference. 

         While not exactly the 5 P.M. show, the traffic artistry was still first class. Brilliant manouvering, deftness, beautiful order and finesse in what looked at first sight hellish lunacy. Once the green and cream Blok A with its Arabesques was reached the police tent soon appeared; then the coffee shop where Omar had bought his Arabica that morning.

         Downhill to the fruit-stalls. The turn at Jati Bundar needed care.

         From that point greetings left and right from the people from the morning and others added. Hardly a beggar the whole stretch. 
         Cowboy, Boss, Mister, Sir. A marvelous fanfare.

         Children, mothers, men young and old; pretty girls, not shy some of them.

         Unintentionally turning up the colourful visual, a single large pisang had been bought at one of the stalls. There had been no time for lunch. A hurried croissant at the patisserie with the coffee did for lunch that day.

         Therefore from the top: panama covering the white scone; prayer mat under arm; in the other hand a long barreled yellow banana—the quick-draw Cowboy's gun out from its holster. 

         Along the narrow lane of tiny front rooms where figures sprawled half visible, people out on low benches and door-steps, wandering and staring children.
        — You going to take a bite outta that or is it something for your wife? one chap almost certainly.
         A memorable afternoon event for the denizens of Tanah Abang, Brothers and Sisters all. A privileged role to play for the audience, albeit false at its core. 
         As anticipated, a good many in the crowd had looked closely at the mat, rolled and folded, tassels flopping each step. No carpet that from the emporium.
         — Assalamu'alaikum!... Assalamu'alaikum!... every fifty metres. Assalamu’alaikum!
         Many diffidently sounding from the side once they had been passed. 
         More than enough to make a fellow blush.
         The greeting to a fellow Muslim, Peace be upon you, was more than well-known from two years among the Malays at Geylang Serai.

         There was a standard response: Laykum'salam. Back at Joo Chiat in Singapore the Chinese green-grocer mimicked the exchange a great many times, in the rejoinder mostly swallowing the final “m”. Once or twice the reflexive play with that rascal almost tumbled from the tongue in Jakarta.
         The Land of Brothers was a fascinating and daunting quarter. We passed through one of the slums off Jalan Tikus, Rat Alley, on the other side of the hotel on the second evening. The safety of the remove to the more heavily policed high-end sector around the swish hotels could not be entertained. (Online all the notices and reviews for hotels with "great location" meant a mall adjacent and down the road Dunkin Donuts.) Omar made the point earlier in the afternoon that all the numerous greetings on the streets these three days would mean good numbers of allies should a problem arise.

Respect

.

Odd the way the Chinese Johor beggar has desisted these many months after being told there was little coming in from the scratching of pen and paper. Once spoken was enough for the chap to accept the matter. For the first year or so this man was the single, fixed regular. One dollar a time for a full twelvemonth. Sometime afterward that had been revised to seventy and fifty cents dropped into his cup. Sometimes the cup was entirely empty and the man would have easily been able to judge the size of the alms. A practiced beggar such as himself could no doubt tell by weight and sound without looking. Some of the local Malays had a set against the chap. Unlike one or two of the other Chinese beggars, seemed he was not a convert. Word was he was far from destitute. In earlier time the chap had helped at his father’s food-stall up at the Haig Road market. Once or twice the man must have noticed the big eyes at his generous treating of lunches for the Batam girls. Cigarettes were also handed around the Labu Labi tables to the Indon and Malay workers awaiting a call from their contractors. Once, rather shamefully when the man had pulled up a chair at the author’s table, which he has done on three or four occasions, the remark was passed that he was earning more than his chief benefactor. No challenge had been returned.

         Now the beggar skirts around the author’s table on his rounds like most of the other beggars seeing a white-man, as he did a couple of nights ago at Labu Labi. From behind he had come up unnoticed and gave a light touch in passing, no words and without stopping. The chap is indeed a man of few words, almost like the deaf-mutes at Labu Labi who are capable of only a range of inarticulate sounds and exclamations. (With highly evocative sign and gesture, whistles and snorts, one of these chaps in particular is a great showman, regularly entertaining a dozen at table.) Somewhere in his forties, over the two year period the Chinese Johor beggar has thinned, his pace slowed and more stops become necessary along the vacant stretch before the Converts’ building. It is not lack of breath or weariness that overtakes the beggar. On these stops in the middle of the path the beggar’s heavily blotched face and eyes need vigorous rubbing. But for the raised skin, psoriasis it appears on one side of the face, the forehead and especially the flaccid cheek. On the man’s back a similar kind of welt stretches from his shoulder-blade down to his tail-bone. During one of the sits at table beside his chief benefactor—almost certainly chief mat salleh, white-man benefactor—a brief account of his woe was accompanied by a show of the evidence. A motor-cycle accident had caused the man to come to grief, common in this region for this class and age cohort. The man’s father, the former food-stall operator at Haig Road, has retired to Johor, over the Causeway, where the son visits every month or two, paying his own way clearly.