Just gone 10pm yesterday's buskers again for
the first time. The previous night a number of them made a couple of calls with
not much spacing between. A pair of heavily made-up Trannies with home-made
stringed box and maracas were striking. These now were grunge street kids that
would fit like a charm into Glasgow and Manchester: ragged dark threads,
tattoos and piercings. The boys infused with a touch of Young Romantics looking
away from the eye of the imaginary camera. Late teens and up. A brief chorus
with harmonies, rising lilt with the night, the night recurring in the lyric.
Pitching it out front of the entry-way one and one half minutes, the collector
entering and approaching the tables and quickly away. Beggars cannot be treated
with disdain in an Islamic community, much less street musicians. Odd they
thought better of approaching the white guy.... One of the others came back
with the packet of Crisps, the inverted foil making a nice purse. Too Joe-cool
for his own good the tall lanky Collector. Last night another lass did the
rounds for this crew. The bule, the
white tourists, are more of a younger, hipper crowd in this cultural market of
Jogja, perhaps less liberal with their coin, interested in the high-colour
printed tees, jewelry and batiks. Shortly Hong Kong Cha Lit. Journal will
publish the piece titled The Ang Moh
from these pages of travel, where a grossly crippled beggar in Geylang Serai
assumed the chap in the panama, quintessential Englishman such as peddled the
opium to his people so many years, was not worth the effort, nothing to be
expected from the likes of him.
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