Thieves Like No Other (More Cheap Internal SG Tourism)

This morning Zainuddin with a bamboo pith-helmet present from his sister that he attempted to bestow as a gift; followed in the afternoon by a chap with a heavy, highly decorated felt sombrero going cheap. The salesman was struck by the panama and wanted a closer inspection.

         Stretching credulity perhaps, a day in the colorful, lively Tropics.

         Short, punchy chap latter needing to stretch on tippy toes in order to reach the article that had caught his eye.

         Where did you get it? How much?... Made like he wanted to buy at any price.

         On his own head man wore an olive green beret with large escutcheon pinned. The extra padding made the panama a fairly good fit; this way it wouldn't blow off in the first gust.

         The Sungei Cowboy. Ask anybody they will tell you. Look in the Straits Times files you will find pictures.

         This lad—pointing to the Chinaman wearing the grievous bubbling blue and green birth-mark over one half of his face—was a boy so high when this place started. Minister So-and-so tries to move us off I fuck him—some kind of big bazooka barrels to be employed for the task. (Government was once more moving the Thieves into some back corner, or so they thought.)

         Cowboy took from his bum-bag a photograph of a younger self in another beret during his time in a military unit with an acronym provided. The riots, he said. (Likely the locally famous race riots of the sixties.) 

         Seventy years old didn't you know. Used to like to dress like a cowboy.

         The darker Bedok Malay a few spots down who occasionally pops in to Labu Labi said Bullshit. Talking crap. Thirty-five years he himself had been there at the Market. All the faces now, never seen them before.

         Thirty-five years ago monkeys in cages. Top of the head comes off like a coconut, there you had your repast.

         No pause for breath. (An old, well-known story, one Beechoo had heard in childhood, spooning up the hot brains.)

         Mice babies, the dark Bedok Malay went on, garbling his first telling. Baby mice; tikus, small ones. Down the hatch smooth and neat.

         Bedok Malay drew his fingers down along his neck to show the swallow. (Young new-born mice were hairless, Beechoo explained with only minor grimace. One gulp. Reputed health and virility.)

         Before there were fights here for spots. In the old days, the Africa-dark Bedok Malay continued.

         Things he had seen. Newcomers knew shit.

         The Indian Malay with the terraced razor-cut one side of his ears that lasted a week wanted five dollars for an old speckled Coca-Cola note-book with a gal from the 20s Speakeasies lounging on the cover. A5 hard, spine firm and supple. Couldn't be shifted. Evenings this fellow could usually be seen at the Guillemard/Nicol corner boozer where the bad-boy Malays hung.

         How was one supposed to haggle with these demons?

                                                                                         Sungei Road Thieves Market, Singapore