Drummer-boy approaching from behind it sounded, carrying something
vaguely like the current Chinese "hungry ghost" rhythms. Guess had
been the young Malay lad who has appeared at the Labu Labi tables the last few months with his little bongo drum.
Difficult to tell whether the youngster was a trifle touched, or simply one of
the loose and free kampung spirits
who has not buckled down to the big city. The lad thinks he has struck a Meanie
unwilling to become Facebook friends; unwilling to sponsor him to Australia;
standoffish.
The barreling percussion quickly brought out the beefy hirsute Tamil rojak chap from behind his stall. What was this?...
It was only this man's rounding the table and craning his neck for the narrow entry-way behind, that made one turn to look.
Two tight adjacent entries there for the upper storeys of neighbouring shops on Changi Road, measuring little more than a metre in width, concrete risers in both cases. At the base of the second, the further, sat an empty eighteen litre cooking-oil tin, one of the common square kind that can be found at any of the street Eateries.
There might have been a dozen and a half stairs in a straight line upward, reaching cheap rooms where landlords bunk ten or fifteen foreign workers to a room. One sees the lads mid-evening wearily lugging their packs up to such places. The big Tamil went all the way along to the entry and stood there a short while looking up.
Mystery solved. Unwanted lodgers, those who had failed in their rent, were sent cart-wheeling in precisely this fashion from just such dwellings here not so long ago, one could be sure.
A short supermarket pass directly after the morning teh found the old Malay leaning against some kind of utility box hard-by a pillar. Yesterday she had surprised there in her traditional garb, straight-backed despite her years and sounding out morning greeting clearly in English.
Even a consecutive second sighting like that a couple of moments were needed to realize what she was about.
Woman clearly in her eighties, no mistake. Handsome aged face, thin, tall and scarved.
There was no hand out. Any passersby who were of a mind here would understand and extend a coin or two, or more often a note.
Around the corner Alfie the Optometrist thought his is the only First World country where the aged beg on the streets. Old style, dignified begging in this case; like Osman the recent amputee awaiting the release of his CPF funds, seated most mornings just down the rise under the cover of the walk-way. Osman won't stretch a hand either; unnecessary in this community.
The barreling percussion quickly brought out the beefy hirsute Tamil rojak chap from behind his stall. What was this?...
It was only this man's rounding the table and craning his neck for the narrow entry-way behind, that made one turn to look.
Two tight adjacent entries there for the upper storeys of neighbouring shops on Changi Road, measuring little more than a metre in width, concrete risers in both cases. At the base of the second, the further, sat an empty eighteen litre cooking-oil tin, one of the common square kind that can be found at any of the street Eateries.
There might have been a dozen and a half stairs in a straight line upward, reaching cheap rooms where landlords bunk ten or fifteen foreign workers to a room. One sees the lads mid-evening wearily lugging their packs up to such places. The big Tamil went all the way along to the entry and stood there a short while looking up.
Mystery solved. Unwanted lodgers, those who had failed in their rent, were sent cart-wheeling in precisely this fashion from just such dwellings here not so long ago, one could be sure.
A short supermarket pass directly after the morning teh found the old Malay leaning against some kind of utility box hard-by a pillar. Yesterday she had surprised there in her traditional garb, straight-backed despite her years and sounding out morning greeting clearly in English.
Even a consecutive second sighting like that a couple of moments were needed to realize what she was about.
Woman clearly in her eighties, no mistake. Handsome aged face, thin, tall and scarved.
There was no hand out. Any passersby who were of a mind here would understand and extend a coin or two, or more often a note.
Around the corner Alfie the Optometrist thought his is the only First World country where the aged beg on the streets. Old style, dignified begging in this case; like Osman the recent amputee awaiting the release of his CPF funds, seated most mornings just down the rise under the cover of the walk-way. Osman won't stretch a hand either; unnecessary in this community.
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