Something brought us to the name-game this morning over our teh. Kuching initially. What was this strange name—Cat—for a major city, albeit a regional one? Fast approaching half a million population, the largest city on the largest island in the Malay archipelago: Borneo. There are statues of cats now in Kuching, but these came later apparently, the usual civic sculpture seeking to develop the tourist potential.
Hayruddin had no answer for it. Instead he quickly upped the ante: there was Pontianak, also on Borneo, but on the Indonesian side in West Kalimantan. There you were dealing with blood-sucking devils. Vampires literally, in short.
Ah yes, the Dayaks. The famous head-hunters from the school-books. The proverbial wild men from Borneo, who must have presented nuisance to British & Dutch ambitions. Hayruddin found it hard to believe that Montenegrin fighters took heads too a few generations ago.
What, Europeans?!...
Of a kind dear Hayruddin. Yes indeed.
But cat and vampire cities were nothing. There was much worse. Oohh!
H. dare not pronounce the word... Sorry he had mentioned; modesty forbade.
No back-tracking now man, out with it! A thrice married man and father of two strapping boys.
Noooo! This was no jest.
The cat was out of the bag, so to speak. Yet still Hayruddin held firm.
The pen lay on the table as usual, newspaper spread and already carrying the names of the other cities.
Nonok, Hayruddin wrote and blushed... "Pudenda" in English. Colouring some more.
Not the vulgar Malay; that would not issue from his mouth. (...In former times did these Anglo-Indian well-to-do families wash their kids' tongues with tar-soap, really?)
— Don't say it! Hayruddin warned when he could see the much-used, ugly and abused term rising to the tip of the tongue.
Here was no ordinary pudenda either. This was specifically that of a ripe young girl. Maidenhead presumably, though it did seem to be less refined.
The Dayak again, inevitably. They went around bare-chested, both men and women.
H. needed to be reminded of widespread phallic worship throughout the ages. Even in Europe. Greece, the cradle of civilization. (Shortly before, during the course of something else, Hayruddin had again reiterated that Muslims gave highest esteem to Socrates and Aristotle as teachers—from which we soon veered to Avicenna and away from the theme here.)
We had started with a proposition for a visit to India, Chennai and Pondicherry, H.'s ancestral lands. There were hundreds of relatives there, Hayruddin had revealed on earlier occasions. Ties over-stretched now; in fact snapped. Not of any interest to Hayruddin. Not when there was Borneo unexplored on our door-step. Kuching, Pontianak, even perhaps somehow the Unmentionable by some ruse or other when H's guard was down...
Hayruddin needed to leave for the afternoon shift at the Rehab, sixty boys waiting, a number of them in their sixties and one or two tipping seventy. Recently a younger lad had run off from the place, wanting to be near his family it seemed. That would invariably mean a return to jail. Failing a urine test when out on parole meant jail in Singapore. In the 80s Hayruddin had been one of the first counsellors to bring the DayTop program back from the States. There was some enlightened policy in Singapore in dealing with the drug problem, though still a good deal of darkness remaining. The death penalty of course was still on the statutes for anything over 15 grams; more threat than actuality nowadays—there had not been any judicial killing in the Republic for a number of years. Change was afoot; even a kind of political change. The older of Hayruddin's boys at Rehab. went back to the infamous Opium dens here, only finally closed down in the late sixties.
The author had work waiting likewise, mountains as always and no help from any quarter. Back to the room to reload for the library, pisang en route from Mr. Lim's stall at the rear of the Haig market. No more delay, no malingering.
There the little man, the greengrocer, was found to the side of his counter, busy with what looked a big-buying customer. A tall basket sat more than half-filled with durians. Lifting them out one at a time, Mr. Lim was giving each a tap, tap with the flat of his knife, followed by a slice of the blade at the base to reveal to the customer rich custard-yellow pods within, precisely where they ought be. See, here, here, one after the other.
Four or five to a bunch for the nanas. Any more could not last at room temperature. One needed to select carefully. Twenty six and more months had provided a certain expertise on the Equator. Down in the south of the great continent one had learned next to nothing about bananas. Even on the racks in Singapore there were near a dozen varieties, some good for frying only; others stretched well over a half metre in length. (Sounds like Swift, or Bunyan, the author full-well knows.) Palm tree varieties there were near ten dozen was it? Pineapples, coconuts. Papaya grew all year round. Mr. Lim had provided a sample of a Sarawak pineapple a few days before. Without sampling that particular variety one remained an ignoramus on the subject of that fruit.
Into the plastic bags meanwhile the durians, double bags each time. This fruit here weighed over three kilograms a head, as the buyer would shortly demonstrate.
But what was this, six or seven large bags already, and Buyer indicating all the remaining were his too? How long could a durian keep after being opened like this?
As expected, only a day, they cried.
What then do we have afoot? A restaurateur? A large family durian party just for the heck of it?
No; the added were for friends, Buyer informed. Come, come.
To the side of the stall Buyer's wife sat before a crate holding a segment of the fruit with only one enlarged slug-like yellow piece remaining in its pod.
Instantly, like tiger-in-jungle-clearing, a frightening scenario.
Come, come, encouraged Mr Buyer warmly.
Earnest protests, thank yous kindly, excuses, wouldn't be heard.
Never mind. Come, come.
This was getting truly scarey.
It was utterly impossible Reader. Resistance was futile. Generosity of this kind could not be declined, however one sought to turn it.
The man, the Buyer, had the author by the elbow.
It needs to be understood, when a durian devotee offers his favourite fruit, in the man's mind he is presenting sumptuous fare beyond all compare. This was the essence here.
Never mind, never mind. (Signature Singlish.)
Buyer in his late sixties - early seventies, certain minor signs of wealth despite the gap-tooth. Glad to meet an Australian. Indeed Mr Buyer himself was half-Australian, having a house, a "bungalow,” on Bribie Island in Queensland. Positively overflowing with warmest good-will and cheer.
Perhaps it does take suchlike circumstances in order for a chap to plunge into heretofore forbidding waters. Two years ago the merest itsy-bitsy morsel of durian was unable to be taken down into the gullet proper.
This one, this durian here at the Haig Road stall, was a mau shan wong variety that went down a treat. (Almost.)
Excellent durian. First rate. ‘Twas the season too.
Kindly Mr Buyer revealed over in Upper Geylang the same sold for $18 per kilo. Last split on the bench here when weighed came in at 3.5kg. In Geylang you could pay a round hundred dollars for the largest one in the basket.
(Repeating still three hours later, and not entirely unpleasant.)
NB. For the first account of the durian fruit see the post 10 July 2011.
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