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.
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.
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