A Tease (Political Mainly)

Nothing worse than explaining jokes. Even decoding tedious ordinarily. In the present case hopefully it might prove different; some much needed enlargement in the perspective on Islam for one thing.

         A recent silver-tongued Malaysian politician (tongued and not spooned in this case), the Deputy leader of PAS, Malaysia's Islamic party, goes into a bar.... Only kidding. No. This chap has been currently drawing large, appreciative crowds in the on-going jostling up on the peninsular to unsettle the long-ruling coalition of PM Najib, the man whose close associates have been directly implicated in the murder of a pretty young Mongolian translator involved in the brokering of a large Defence procurement during N’s time as Minister of the department. (Another story.) 

         An Islamic leader in this case, Mohamad Sabu—Mat Sabu universally. A man delighting political gatherings with risqué jokes that make the more traditional religious figures of his party squirm in their seats. 

         Latest example quoted in the newspaper this morning here on the other side of the Causeway: attending a beauty pageant over in Sabah, on Borneo, East Malaysia, Mat bumps into some pretty gals awaiting their turn with the judges. 

         Middle-aged, porky—thick-set rather! —Mat was asked to come hither, as a particular lass wanted to whisper something in his ear. 

         Oh yeah! OK. 

         Obliging, the politico was more than a little surprised to hear the sweet susurration tickling his lobes: Ini kalilah.

        Ini kalilah. Non-Bahasa speakers will need translation: This time.

        …Result: roaring laughter. Audience in stitches, falling about the aisles. 

        Who wouldn't vote for this religious head. (Deputy Head.) 

         Ho-ho-ho. What a card!

         WTF? an outsider might be forgiven for thinking.

         Well, firstly, this whisper offered by the would-be starlet was the slogan, the battle cry, of the opposition in the last election. (Stolen from Australian Labour from the 70s, arguably. Just as the election itself earlier in the year on the Peninsular was likewise in all probability stolen.)

         Ini kalilah. This time.

         Now, the more crucial addition. 

         The author happens to have the following information from impeccable sources—a well-known local rake who has been haunting ths lower end of Geylang, Singapore, the last couple of years. 

         In the course of this chap's peregrinations, during attempted assignations and seductions, the fellow concerned has reported an odd turn of phrase offered him. 

         More often than he liked; a frustrating, teasing response repeated on more occasions than he wanted to recall and invariably, almost without exception, entirely empty of promise it always turned out. 

         To the invitations to dance, to share a cosy cuppa, a private tete-a-tete within the cloister, on occasions far too many to mention our fellow has been tickled, tortured, tormented, by a terribly tendentious teaser: 

         Next time. 

         Next time. 

         Next time. 

         Toward infinity and the end of time, the man dolefully reports.

         Up in Sabah Mat Sabu fared better.

 

 

NB. Post-Trumpet this kind of political playfulness has of course turned sour. Dating from 2013.

 

..

Singapore Ice (Non-injecting)

This item crept up on the author silently like drifting bergs at the Pole perhaps. A number of Eskimo-like winter clothing ads ought to have forewarned. Well, nothing so remarkable about fleecy coats and hoods in the boutique stores here on the equator. Well-heeled Straits Times readers were always on the look-out for an escape from their Little Red Dot hot-spot in this middle kingdom. A kind of paradise of sorts, though fantasies of snow and fir do take over this time of year especially. Tis the season to be merry, Christmas cheer in the northern hemisphere—in the Malls here. The Joy of Christmas at Frasers Centrepoint holly-coloured back page. Home held more tempting tidbits in the same vein: Santa-red gift ideas with bite-sized news items.

         One was only finally socked between the eyes when the Life! segment was opened. (Glittering blue-eyed cover-girl selling jewelry.)

         An Ice spectacular....

         Ah-ha. Hmmm…. London? Paris? Shanghai perhaps? (One knew it wasn't local powder-form in a family newspaper.) They often did foreign arts events, celebrities, travel features in Life! For the business, entrepreneurial, harried middle-class unexplored exotica made life not worth living.

         Noooo. Ice here we were talking. On the island. Singapore. Housed within a 35,000 sq. ft. hall beside the iconic MBS, flanked by the Convention Centre and Gardens by the Bay spitting distance.

         Fifteen degrees below sheltering beautiful sculptures of world landmarks from the hot tropical sun, such as Big Ben, the Eiffel Tower, Statue of Lib. (London & Paris wasn't far wrong.)

         Twenty professional ice sculptors from China working three weeks to produce thirty masterpieces from 450 tonnes of clear and coloured ice. Maintenance workers ready for de-icing the fans and walkways; sculptors for touch-ups. (Still somehow the heat gets in.)

         $32 adult, $26 child, free for children under nine or below 1.2 m. if accompanied by paying adult. (Same as on the transport system.) White gloves come with tickets and because not everyone in Singapore keeps a winter coat in the wardrobe—despite the advertising—$5 hire at the door.

         Sounds like leg-pull right?

                                                                                                                                                                

Faith and Inter-faith (the Baha'i)

Report of a successful talk presented on the weekend by Zainuddin to the local IRO (Inter-Religious Organization). On Saturday evening the Baha'i community turned out especially to hear how Muslims and Baha'i can achieve some tolerance and mutual respect, common ground even. In attendance were something like a score of Baha'i, a Catholic, a Buddhist and one Indian Muslim girl all keenly concentrated on Zainuddin out in a HDB in Choa Chu Kang. Historically there had been much tension between the Baha'i and Muslims. The former faith developed in a corner NW of the Sub-Continent, early nineteenth century circa Tzar Peter the Great's territorial expansion. At the outset the problem for Muslims began with the chief Prophet of the Baha'i (one of a trinity) declaring all the Korans of the world needed to be burnt. Further, the Baha'i forbade polygamy (though it seems one of their prophets maintained more than a single family). Last in the line of Baha'i prophets was much less of an obstacle for Islam. (For Zainuddin, however, the fact the man was an inveterate smoker was concerning. It seems there existed in the archives a photograph of a reception in Buckingham Palace where this eminence was captured between the Queen and Prince Phillip, the latter shown directing a withering look at the almost invisible figure wreathed in his cloud.) 

         It may have been the middle, the second Baha'i prophet, who was said in his person to be the manifestation of God. Not a conduit nor Messenger; neither a Prophet alone. Different to a son in the Christian trinity presumably.

         Well, a pause was needed there too. Challenging obstacles altogether for any kind of bridge between the two faiths, Islam and the Baha'i faith. (Not -ism. The Baha'i avoided and rejected that linguistic convenience.)
        After his introductory speech that sought to clear some ground, a range of good, deft responses to inherently difficult questions from Zainuddin.
         How to proceed?

         Well, firstly one should remember it can only be God who judges these and all other matters. Not and never man. All dangerous contention must be left to him.

         It was not a difficulty for Zainuddin to accept that all the prophets and teachers going back to Confucius, even Plato and Socrates, offered something to human enlightenment. Even after Mohammad there might have been similar. It was asking a bit much to suggest that for 1400 years after Mohammad there had been nothing further added to the illumination of the Almighty by all the generations of seekers. 

         Labels and designations were finally human constructs. The striving and seeking, the need and the hope on this earth were all one, in all the lands of the Almighty’s creation. 

         The call for a great Koranic conflagration? 

         Well, might it be possible the Prophet concerned—the Bab; the Door in this instance—had intended to counter the conservatives of Islam, the hard-core extremists? One met one’s opponents’ belligerence with the same. It was always thus, no? 

         There might be found possibilities if one thought deeply enough. If one wanted to reach out to one's fellows. Men often made difficulties where none were necessary. 

         Not difficult to imagine the general agreement from the assembly; the dubious persuaded to consider anew. General goodwill and amity; some sweet reason reigning. 

         At this gathering it was possible there may have been an attempt by the Baha'i to ensnare the Indian Muslim girl. A subtle, rather devious strategy among the tea cups and biscuits that was quietly and deftly countered by Zainuddin. 

         Well done Mr. Z. A success by any measure. Long round of applause out at Choa Chu Kang Saturday early evening and an invitation to return before the end of the year.

 

Triste

The less accomplished Deaf over for Hello and in fact to bid Farewell. Unusually, none of his crew was in attendance that night. An emptiness for the man: two raised hands fingers extended swiveling beneath clown-crumpled chin. Left alone solo in the midst of all the hubbub of the tables at Mr. T. T. and Labu Labi on a Saturday night. Right raised forefinger close to the chest, with a head-shake that makes the middle-aged man's jowls tremble. Oh. Oh, my man. I see. That's no good. Off up the road where perhaps better luck awaits. Go look-see: horizontal forefinger drilling toward the Haig Road stalls. These are the two poles for the old displaced Malay community here: Labu Labi (from a song lyric associated with an old film, basically connoting Yum-Yum) and this Geylang branch of the Mr. Teh Tarik chain (Tea Stretched) at one end. Opposite a mock-up Malay Kampung built in the 60s as the last of the kind were disappearing; Geylang Serai market, not the worst of the architectural blots on this small island adjacent; And then one hundred metres up the road forty or so small keyhole mostly Malay food and drink stalls bound by Haig Road at the end. (Chinese Geylang begins beyond that boundary—beer and karaoke bars, pork and frog porridge eateries and brothels and street girls.) The former Queen Theatre gangster, tough and stand-over man, uncle Enek, in his wheelchair, one leg amputated, retains a commanding corner at Haig Road with numerous old crocodiles fanning round. The ex-cop Yousef has long made his peace with his old adversary there. Yousef is currently returned from Medan, Sumatra, sleeping rough around the Converts, while uncle Enek turns his face toward his feather-down some short distance away in his flat. Evil triumphing over good in this unjust world as usual. Mr. Hussein the kway sweet-seller takes a seat in the smokers' circle opposite the first row of stalls at the Haig. A non-smoker Mr. Hussein as well as non-talker in that round of gabbers finds a place. Middle-aged heavy-bottomed Batam ladies who jolly the old boys trawl between the two poles, down to the lower end where Geylang Road terminates at the market and back up to the Haig intersect. The sixteen storey housing towers ranging behind there at the Haig neatly painted where many of these gals find shelter for their three or four week visits, five or six on the floor, corridor included, $8-10 per diem. Off the Deaf trudges along the inner path, a last lachrymose sign scoring trails beneath his eyes and down his cheeks, baby-face sad. Poor me, poor me. Confreres hopefully not too far distant bon chance.

Pakistani Porn

Were the on-line hook-up sites for real, or just cons? Jafaar wondered.

         He didn’t know how to get on.

         On SingaporeGirl they advertised for a good time, seemingly girls out for a bit of fun. Could you believe that? (SingaporeGirl or something similar.) 

         Was it a scam? Did the girls want money?

         Jafaar hadn't been for his dialysis. Today was a holiday. Tomorrow. Four and a half hours x 3 weekly.

         One of Ja’far’s daughters bought him the tablet, half-size Samsung, still early experimental days. A Pakistani porn site came up last visit when Jafaar wanted to show what had raised his interest. A very fair girl in close-up staring directly at the camera, behind a very dark stem quite unidentifiable at first.

         Khan the cabbie and gemstone dealer took a seat uninvited. Five minutes Khan requested to tell the story of American domination in the Middle East. Uninterrupted, if you please; afterward you would get your chance. Raised hands of protest and impatience brushed aside.

         When Beechoo somehow managed to interrupt, the next 25 minutes was gemstones. 

         Khan wore a ruby on the right hand, his prize Alexandrite on the left. $12k offers on the latter didn’t tempt Khan. On Youtube you could watch it change colour depending on the light. One of its features. Ordinary, lesser stones could not do that.

         No-one had a torchlight. Khan’s phone was no good; you needed the old cheap phone.

         Jafaar’s stones were small, fake sparklers. Still, Jafaar said he preferred them and didn’t need better.

         — Thom-son the best one.

         — Tom Stone, Jafaar?... You mean Tom Jones?

         There were lots of the Welshman’s fans among the Malays in Geylang Serai. In fact the old crooner had toured only a year or two earlier, appropriate colour-tone helping with the big-number blast no doubt. Perfect karaoke fare.

         — Tom Jones…Tom Stones last one.

         Ja’far had a fair command of English. On the other end of the table the gemstones rattle interfered. Tom Stones?...

         ….Oh. Oh. OK. Fair enough, yeah Jafaar. Tomb stone. The last one.

         Last few weeks Jafaar had adopted an old forgotten Bee Gees number as his anthem.

          —……..tragedy…. It’s trag-edy….

         Fine swinging disco Jafaar thought funny.

         The Batam girl going by giving Jafaar the big eye.

         —  You know that gal Jafaar?

         After a short consideration, pacing the reply.

         — …I don’t remember.

         Another shortly after with the same eyeing got a cross in the air that she might have caught, followed by a repeat on the table-top for reinforcement. 

         Didn’t fancy that one for some reason, Jafaar, though she was younger and better loaded. Some history possibly.

         — You spending much dosh on the gals Jaf?

         Same as above for pacing.

         — …One or two hundred.

         With CPF of $500 monthly, Jafaar might in fact not have been kidding. Living simply as he did, camping at the mosque, every likelihood. A ladies man no bones about it. Softened everything.

         Jafaar after the Israeli orange. With his baseball cap covering a bald pate, smooth cheeks, dark sunnies day/night, you would not have guessed late-sixties. Named before the territory became Israeli. Jafaar was sometimes rendered with two F’s, sometimes two A’s. Depended on the official at Registry. Spring or stream in Arabic.

Peregrinations

Ten or eleven Net places visited in the last two days searching out functioning Acrobat software. Nada. $9.99 buys you some kinda usage. But non!... Bugis, three or four of the Myanmar places at Peninsular Plaza, the Indians in Dunlop Street, Haji Lane and Geylang on the return. (Revisiting the kool tourist strip in the old former Arab quarter was a punishing ordeal—Acland & Brunswick Streets rolled into one for Melbournians. Young, affluent shisha smokers at the walk-way tables, knick-knack shops, candy-coloured fixed wheel bicycles as if from a comic strip, clothing boutiques &etc. Such blessed purity among the Malays in Geylang Serai these twenty nine months!) 

Resorted to a friend in an office to prepare the PDF for another submission, the last of 2-3 for the year. (Always reluctant to entrust anyone, no matter how usually reliable, with the responsibility.)

Cup of teh at the half-way mark with a Hari Krishna who had an interesting story to tell. Yanasagaran has traveled five continents using the well-established HK network—living cheap, odd jobs, venturing, hoping to find some way to complete a degree. 

The legally recorded name is the usual assigned approximation given by foreign authorities, in Tamil the Y being closer to the Latinate Ng. Near enough good enough for the official in British Malaya. 

             For Yana thee Australian venture came to an end when the aggressive Chinese at the Immigration gate at Fremantle questioned the regular entries and finally came upon a CV recording illegal work. 

             The Health shop at Golden Landmark—suggested by the shop assistant in the bicycle store in Haji Lane for a possible Net place—produced an interesting sale item in an old steel bucket sitting in the middle of the floor. 

             In a number of cities in Malaysia charcoal merchants traded out of old shop-houses, where the front room was given over to storage of the goods; small-scale production in a couple of places in Ipoh. 

             At Golden Landmark purchasers at the Health shop bought charcoal to absorb humidity in rooms and also radiation from televisions, the woman at the counter informed. 

             Difficult to transport on the bus for a trial.

             After dinner fruit was shared with Captain Rashid and Beechoo at the Labu Labi table. Before Bee arrived the Captain told of his trip out to Tan Tock Seng. 

             For a number of weeks Rashid had avoided appointments because of both the cost of services and also the fares out. Yesterday Rashid wheeled himself both out and back. 

             Roughly four hours each way. On the return he left at 1:44 PM and returned around half seven, tired and sore. A broken bone in his right forefinger didn’t help. 

             One commonly saw wheelchairs on the busy roads here. 

             The Captain reported a little run-in with a bus driver who pulled up beside him near a stop, opened the door of the bus and gave a "scolding". (Common usage hereabout. Cambridge educated Mr. LKY was recorded in a book recently using the same term to describe the reception he received in Geylang Serai at the time of the dismantling of the kampungsin the mid-60s.)

             Rashid showed the water in-take over the return journey. From here—top of the bottle; to here—a carefully measured inch from the bottom. (About 300ml.) 

             Rashid's 89 year old mother had wanted to come out in the morning to deliver cab-fare, but Rashid told her he couldn't wait. Rashid avoids accepting money from his mother. 

             While we sat last night a chap came over to wordlessly slip two folded tenners into Rashid's hand. An old seaman pal. Another old salt awaiting the completion of his new flat has kindly provided a bed for Rashid in the hotel beside L. L., the man and his wife in one room and Rashid sharing another with the teenage son. 

             For a couple of months after the release from hospital Rashid slept in his wheelie under the Labu Labi awning, one red plastic chair for the leg.)

             The Captain was lucky yesterday at the foot of the incline to the hospital. There was little foot traffic there and the gradient daunting. Yesterday a helpful pair of gals pushed the chair all the way to the top. 

             Rashid showed a second water bottle brought out from behind his back.

             — You know what this is for?

             The guess should have been simple.

             Fine for a wee Malay burung, Cap’n. (Bird in Malay; and Chinese equivalent. Strange to English speakers, despite the counterpart of cock.)

             Rashid ignored the lame joke. 

             With a paper—for funnel presumably—all well and good. For a resourceful sailor. 

             Rashid was pleased with himself.

             Currently the Captain was surviving on $340 per month for the three months it will take to process his CPF. Compensation from the accident will take longer. 

             Almost two years ago the accident occurred. Rashid was hospitalized eighteen months; the paperwork now lagging. 

             While we sat a drug-dealer in a bright Arsenal shirt approached the Captain with greetings. The fellow had been dangling the prospect of good dough to be made as a point man. A cripple in a wheelchair was perfect. 

             Rashid continued to resist. 

             As the motor accident occurred on Malaysian territory, compensation when it does arrive will be moderate of course. (Vietnam, from which Rashid had set out on his bike, would have been worse; and Thailand similar.) 

             The CPF will rescue Rashid from his current predicament. $51,000 is expected initially. After six months $4,000 per month until Rashid attains the age of sixty-two, when another lump sum will be released. Finally, should he live that long, the balance at sixty-five. 

             Paternalistic Singapore. Like many similar measures here, useful safeguards.

             The following morning the Captain needed to return to the hospital again. This time Rashid would opt for the bus. The effort and strain out at the hospital trialing prosthetics was enough to make a grown man cry. The doctors and therapists pressed on as they must, badgering and cajoling by turns. 

             The gel applied before the prosthetic was attached lasts how long? the Captain challenged. Not fifteen minutes: forty. Thereafter pain shooting into the shoulder.

             The plan was a return to Indonesia, where Rashid had lived for a number of years. With the money he will receive Rashid would be able to rent a house, hire car and driver.

             Otherwise an escape from the tedium of land-lubbing if a ship-owner could be convinced to take on a Captain with half of one leg and half a foot at the end of the other. Maybe.

 

The Two Aunties

 

 The two old Malay aunties stopping to say G'day. In fact, as revealed some months ago, the elder is the aunt of the younger here. (There might even be a dozen years between them, something that is quite unapparent on any cursory observation.) Elder stopping first draws the Youngster back. Hello, Hello. Off to the Haig Road stalls where a friend awaits, it seems, Youngster with a smattering of English conspiratorially leaning close. For some reason Labu Labi is no longer the place of choice for this inseparable pair and their little gathering of women of their generation. (For a few weeks after the MOM raid that trapped the illegal Malaysian workers, the Younger had cleared plates and cups from the L.L. tables.) Usually, the exchanges are greetings of the hour and enquiries after taking of food and drink. — Yah, Tidah / suda or lapar—Yes/No; done or hungry. Following the pleasantries now, Youngster rebounds once more after taking a few steps; there is one further part sometimes added to our ceremonial. As if pulling a gun, Younger presents her thick, heavily creased and chapped palm that carries a pair of rings on the fingers—discovered as we clap high-five. (Many even of these elderly sport eye-popping sparklers suggesting gangster molls, or the consorts of emperors ages past prepared for the after-life. This pair is far more modest.) Youngster’s retreat brings Great-aunt forward, following suit with her own raised hand, lesser English meaning a broader smile. Nodding and beaming. Colourful full-length print baju kurung, scarves, light make-up in their cases. A passing glance at the pair on the street would not provide the slightest hint of the hidden girlishness and élan.

The One and Only

There might be numerous Li Kuan Yews in Singapore. More still Le Kuan Yews and Kuan Ewes and Kwon Yews. No restrictions on any combination of these of any number and any form. All perfectly legitimate and above-board. No caning, fining or admonishing involved; not a worry. What one must however most certainly avoid is any attempt at naming a fond, dearly loved new-born Lee Kuan Yew, certainly on this territory of the Republic of Singapore—Lee Kwan Yew-land. There cannot be formally registered such a child's name, male, female or indeterminate gender. Under no circumstances. If in the privacy of your HDB flat you pamper your child thus with the hero's emblem without being picked up by the microphones or CCTVs that's your own affair. Try formalizing it by documentation at the designated authority and Watch out for your neck Buster! There cannot be tolerated another LKY on the little red dot spot on the equator. Seems there is no formal law instituted. That was not required in a place like this. Omar told of the matter—received from impeccable sources, a former public officer with the title of Registrar….— this morning at one of the usual Mr. T. T. tables, during this long rundown to the imminent event that will be felt with great sorrow in some quarters.

 

Surfing in Singapore

Couple of months now a Net place on Dunlop Street become the choice for typing and printing. The No. 67 bus drops you on Jalan Besar three streets back: Veerasamy, around the housing block and Chitty behind, where the bookish homeless man with his supermarket trolley has set up camp, then lastly Dickson. Going onto lunch at the Blue Diamond in Bufallo Street one crosses Clive (yes, Little India, dear Reader) and Perak. Dunlop is a perfectly apt reminder for those of even slight historical perspective of the plantations, coolie labour and the British Imperial past. Rubber for motorized military transport first and foremost, rubberduckies and all the rest thereafter. (Changing all the names in Singapore upon the pronouncement of the Republic was wisely judged might open countless hornet nests—sacks of cobras perhaps more fitting for the locale. Best to leave well enough alone, regardless of the odd music of Clive in Lt. India two centuries hence, Clemenceau and Petain elsewhere, to mention just three. Oh well.)
         One dollar a time at the place opposite the mosque, usually manned by Mohammed Siddique; lately by another Tamil, Hindu in this case, slowly on the path to becoming a Hari Krishna. The latter, named Ari—God, Knowledge and a range of other ultimate proper nouns in Tamil—recently delivered a speech on belief which turned on the usual hinge of faith and acceptance. Without this crucial belief the beauty and the glory of illumination remained out of reach. A famous story Ari delivered for illustration concerned a short-statured pilgrim traveling to reach a particular shrine of a well-known deity. Arrived before the presence the lowly man found himself unable to reach high enough to place the garland he had brought around the neck of the figure. Makes no nevermind: the deity-statue bends his head down in order to accommodate the pilgrim. Easy. That was why he was a deity.
          One dollar an hour. There are three or four other Net places along Dunlop. Keeps the prices low. A number of Backpackers in the street, tapas bars, pubs, together with hotels in the vicinity. (The Prince of Wales on the corner of Madras Street advertises on its chalk-board regular Quiz Nights. On how many occasions has Mr. LKY been formally received at Buckingham Palace? addressed the joint Houses of Parliament? taken tea at Downing Street, the Foreign Office and MI5?) Fifteen dollar jugs at the Prince—one an hour at the Net terminals. Yet at the terminals inside the shops the clientele is invariably foreign worker—Indians primarily, but then also Arabs, Bangladeshi, Sri Lankan. One dollar usage and twenty cents per print. (A fifty cent per hour rate for cell-phone charging can surprise only newcomers.) Best deal in Singapore. The sum has been presented on numerous occasions at the counter.
         But hang on a minute. That's right. The contradictory sign inside the door shows in bold large point $1.50. Indeed. No mistake. Nothing thought of it previously. This morning the discrepancy was explained by the Hindu Tamil after a new customer entered to enquire. One dollar is for the two terminals against the narrow passage wall beside the printer/photo-copier. For a terminal behind the office partitioning in the remainder of the shop the price rises fifty percent.
         Ah-ha. I see. Ahhmmm???...
         The partitions stand the standard one point five metres high. Exceedingly tight squeeze to enter and slip into the seat. One afternoon with a couple of blonde Finns in the passage lighting up the dingy interior one of the secluded terminals had been given a test-run. Usually the passage was free, only Siddique occasionally playing a game at one of the terminals and kindly vacating for a paying customer. To enter the cubicle behind the partition one needed to push the chair hard into the corner. That way one might open a path by the table and with difficulty seat oneself. Lowering onto the chair the descent at an angle in order to slip knees under the table-top. With the backs of the cheap office chairs often broken one had to push back against the wall in order to breathe.  Customers, foreign workers on slave-rates, paid extra to pulverize themselves thus?... One recalled the occasion a chap kicked up a stink and wouldn't let off about the 20 cents for printing. Just for one sheet of paper wasn't it ten?... When one passed down to the bathroom in the rear a couple of times customers could be spied low down in the chairs before the screens rather like rabbits in a burrow.
         The nice HK aspirant Ari provided an unexpected explanation when the matter was raised. Innocent Word and Office use, news and information sites were a small part of the trade here in these Dunlop digs. Ninety percent of the clientele at this Net place, reported the god of Knowledge, shopped exclusively for porn. The man knew. Eighteen months Ari had been working there. At the end of his shift it fell to Ari to clear out the drinks cans and dirty tissues. Clearly bottling a great deal more juice that might be revealed, Ari decided to bite his tongue.
         Well dear Reader, a feather would have been excessive force for knockdown. The author was left a little gasping.
         Two inch thick partitions. All those black-topped chaps—young and mostly undyed—fixed on their screens between long, arduous and poorly paid work-shifts were not Skypeing parents, wives and children back home. (In the Chinese Net places in Geylang the family reunions featured strongly on many of the screens.) The large, well-patronized Abdul Gafoor mosque opposite with its wide open forecourt, cleansing waters to the left and devotees across the steps discussing verses from the Holy Book. Between the busy street, cafes and provision stores. Respectable businessman high-hitching their trousers on their bellies; women sailing along the street like the most daunting galleons newly launched from some great protected harbour. Order, proportion and measure as reflected in the architecture and commerce. Truly, the last thing expected.
         A small-frame slumped before one of the buried screens with legs and pelvis under the table no doubt was capable of achieving the desired object without too much fuss. Certainly the shadows in the corners were a benefit. Syed the homeless Hadhramaut first gave notice of these economical Net options in Dunlop Street, where he reported he got much cheaper and more comfortable sleeping quarters than anywhere else on offer in the city.
         Footing back toward Jalan Besar one late afternoon when the toil exceeded the usual bounds at the dollar-a-go terminal, the innocent author was abruptly brought up short. Here stepping down from the raised footpath toward the Eateries at the end seemingly a large queue which appeared to have been recently dispersed or lost its bearings. The back doors of the kitchens giving onto the last short lane before Besar had drawn this crowd possibly. Indian girls on a short-leash Sunday stroll caught somehow and bunched in a narrow round, standing and pivoting more than strolling or sauntering. In the first glimpse reminders arrived of the endless succession of unknowns confronted in childhood for which one was ill-equipped and unprepared. The colourful prints of the women’s saris acted like flames in darkness against the grey render, the old concrete underfoot and all the lines of plumbing. This was a soundless, immobile scene in the form of a mysterious and complex narrative painting inserted between the hubbub of bustling streets, traffic and noise. The time of the maghrib prayer had arrived at the mosque a short distance off, worshippers entering at the gates as one passed. One could not risk a stop at that corner of the lane for fear of the petrifaction that had overtaken those who had entered there. And yet at the same time the allure was almost overpowering even for a chap passing at a run. Behind Desker Street a kilometre away the older Grannies in the back parlours tried thirty but did twenty unless you were a white in a nice hat, when it was double. These lane girls were younger, corpulent, impressively firm and commanding. A dozen filled the space like skirmishing troopers trapped in a sudden culvert no way out. (The particular entrapment of the doubtless trafficked women failed to register immediately.) One or two game men negotiating seemed completely inept standing before the ladies. How one woman kept her feet and stopped from toppling backward as she pointed both nostrils at a chap before her defied belief. The slightest pressure on the trigger BANG you're dead!... An American painter concentrated on the Geylang brothels reported Indian working girls at the bottom end of the market charging ten dollars for no-fuss quickie sari-lifting and be done. Not likely in this Dunlop neighbourhood here, where the lads baulked at much lesser extravagance and cheaper resorts stood readily available a stone's throw off.