Beatlesmania in the Tropics

For obvious reasons one failed to gather the introduction in any way at all. It seemed some kind of lame joke had been offered initially, scrambled and bumbled somehow. In fact no, the man had actually changed his name legally, formally by Deed Poll. A teacher of English at some kind of "Institute" where they ran one of the Oxford ESL programs. Through the course of a long career some innovative strategies had been adopted: English by way of pop songs for example. Much to be said for it. Being a man in his middle sixties now, that meant the new music from the source country: The Beatles and later Lennon singly.
         The first time he gave his name the little play seemed transparent and familiar. After all, it was you who had long been the John in these parts, the standard one they named the particular roti after—Roti John, available at all the prata shops here, in Malaysia and no doubt coastal India, especially the south-east. Hello John. John! Men approached and took one by the arm as if a classmate had been found from kindergarten. Johnno! Back in the great southern land one had not met a John since schooldays. Thirty or forty years ago the name had fallen out of favour down there in the cooler clime. Only older hookers might give a passerby that moniker. Indeed that was the reminder on the streets of Singapore for this re-christening. No room for complaint. John—as good a name as any. After a time whenever the call was heard one answered automatically.
         Eventually, once the man explained himself again, the simple fact of the matter needed to be taken on board.
         — Pleased to meet you Mr. John Lennon.
         Why not? What was so surprising about that after all? This chap would not be the only reincarnated John Lennon walking the streets of the world; not even the only one in the Malay world. Take it in stride. Deep breath. O.K then. No need for invention of colour and event tracing the life of these parts. A chap of little imagination could merely wander the streets here, stick a microphone under a nose, find a cheap typist and Bob's your uncle. Stories by the bucket load running the gamut, no trouble at all. Characters galore. Cards all over the place. Vaudeville become valid post-modernism.
         Crowned with a fine bouffant still this John, with the dye job producing a very close replica of the plastic Beatle wigs they used to sell at the Royal Melbourne Agricultural Show in the late '60's and early '70's. No doubt in earlier days the fellow had let it grow out more and fall onto his shoulders. A businessman now, the venturesomeness of full-blown youth had been curbed. Could he play the guitar? No doubt whatever he could sing you any of the hits on demand, B sides and all. One of them he gave in a couple of verses, more Tony Bennett than John in the rendition, if one wanted to be harsh. A proper devotee went whole hog. It was a wonder Islam was still retained in fact. It seemed to be the case.
         The man, John Lennon, had been settled  over thirty years in Tanjung Pinang, a two hour ferry ride from Singapore, as was well-known by this author for many a long month now. Numerous Malays in Geylang Serai have connections to that large island, often middle-aged and older men with second or even third wives. A trip out on the ferry has long been on the wish list. Yes indeed, real kampung still functioning on Tanjung Pinang by all reports, true Malay culture, untainted, as it was before this long tsunami still rolling over the globe. Photographs of the island, its people and festivities have been shown the author. Insha'allah one day soon.
         John Lennon had hesitantly approached the table where the foreigner sat. Going by the first time round the neck craned and provisional smiles backward cast. Twenty minutes later on the return the stop to give it a tentative try. Above all else the man wanted to know the foreigner's impression of Indonesia, of Jakarta, Indonesian people in the broad.
         Wrinkled brow waiting to hear the verdict.
         At first mention of Tanah Abang there was definite consternation. John knew Tanh Abang himself. Crowded, busy, he suggested apprehensively, conceding the worst preemptively.
         Once he had been reassured such pleasure setting the man aglow. Smiles and radiance. Another Westerner here who had arrived at a just and true estimation of his people; no discernible Islamophobia; rather on the contrary. This was wonderful to hear once more. Some year or two ago John had met an American just around the corner—Joo Chiat Road he seemed to indicate—who found in all his travels through Indonesia warm welcome, friendliness, good helpful inhabitants. Not a single terrorist or thief of any kind. Now here was further confirmation.
         John Lennon affirmed again: Indon people were good people—going on a little unnecessarily, but quite understandably to underline his case.
         Pre-Lennon the man had been born on Sumatra, Padang in fact. More pleasure now that not only were Sumatra and Padang known, but even the Minangkabau. This was gold on top of silver and diamonds. Minangkabau, unprompted coming from the foreigner opposite. To hear his own tribe, his noble, proud people named by a tall foreigner with pen and paper before him, crowned by a smart panama, that was something indeed; very heaven. Sent swooning. The former matriarchal society of the Minangkabau known too! How the man stared. Not now—understood. There had been change in south central Sumatra like everywhere else. But not all was erased, no. Smelling salts very nearly. Hot flushes. Roasted coffee was turned hot chilli.
         Zainuddin's matenal grandmother had been a Minangkabau, feisty, wild, irrepressible Amazon; a virago and one half in the family legend, Zainuddin's babushka. Young Era at the Flower-stall where John had pointed earlier for his serendipitous meeting with the gracious American—Era too was Minangkabau. A part-time girl-friend John unavoidably needed to be told. Out with it immediately. Yes indeed. Gift the man, your new friend, with further appreciation.
        —Marry her, quoth he.
         Without missing a beat, straight-out and confidently. Marry her. The Minangkabau were progressive women. Whenever they married on Java for example they always made great strides forward. Immediately John Lennon pledged he would stand as Mamak.
         — You know mamak? John wondered.
         The pretense of mastery would be exposed here no help for it. A pity. This had been a good, more than impressive run. No, the foreigner could not in all truth own to mamak; not this mamak. In Ipoh the English Forward-scout from the time of the Emergency had introduced the author to the former derogatory Mamak for an Indian prata place. Plainly something else on the island of Sumatra among the Minangkabau.
         Traditionally for marriage the Minangkabau maternal uncle—on either side, John seemed to indicate—acted as chief and first marriage broker. You wanted to marry you enlisted the aid of your maternal uncle, your mamak, no-one else. In this instance John was more than happy to provide the service. A number of times previously he had done the same for both Singaporeans and Tanjung Pinang peoples. 

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