Far and Near

Old pair of scarved ducks adjacent offering from their plate of fried bananas. Excuse me. Excuse me, indicating with a shovel hand. Almost defies belief. Earlier a mid-seventies chap at that table after his meal rising to go to the counter enquired whether a drink might be welcome. Followed by this pair. Let us mark it down appropriately. Two quite unfamiliar faces late sixties, perhaps early seventies. Possibly they have seen this mat salleh regular hereabouts. Many unknowns here of course have done so, many who come only periodically from some distance. That their little hub has been chosen by the outsider, a scribe of some sort, well-disposed clearly, is perfectly evident. Possibly they witnessed a brief exchange with the dotty waiter here, chap a bit scrambled, a figure of a little fun for some of his work-mates occasionally. Possibly the small exchange witnessed. The one this side bearing the mark of some Chin ancestry back somewhere. Flask brought from home — a better drop likely than what they serve at these places. Cap shared for drinking between them. Like many others of their kind, forehead down on the table-top at some humour, the one this side especially, fully three times bending. Sisters or sisters-in-law; outside chance wives indeed. One has witnessed perfectly amiable wives sitting close together like this. Their positive joy and elation in company suggested something else. Shortly after on the phone Opposite pronounces kaka, older sister, whereupon the woman proceeds to hand the phone across to the other. Mystery thereby solved. The White outsider who keeps up his appearance, an amenable sort, gets an arm-chair ride, Indian and Indon friends have remarked. To be sure, to be sure. Najib and the other ratty types are not likely to be offered such grace and generosity. These will get alms and a purchase of their tissues now and then: not this over-flowing hospitality. Be that as it may however, nevertheless. Inevitably the thought arrives how much had been lost to dear Bab divorced from brother and sisters in the long years of the second half of her life in the far distant foreign land. U daleki bjeli svjet bez idje ikoga, in the far white world without anyone near. The far bjeli, white world was eventually assumed to derive from the phraseology of mountain peoples accustomed to prospects across great spaces where far distant places stood behind the furtherest veils of light. Living in the midst of a strongly established, deeply rooted community has given rise to a good deal of similar reflection. A substitute ancestry standing in place of one lost long before. Turned out the flask in fact held no more than plain hot water, twenty cents per cup the charge at these street eateries.

Done with Begging

The stout old Indian-Malay beggar in his sixties turned to some gainful employment in recent time. Bicycle procured from somewhere, decent set of wheels, loaded up this morning with cardboard on the rear carrier that protruded a metre either side. Small stack like that not going to fetch more than a few pence, perhaps only recently embarked on the day's scavenge. A few months ago the man's usual routine had been playing dead along the paths here, up past the Changi Road lights under the trees where passersby needed to step round him splayed out just like in the Splatter flicks. Coming upon him unexpectedly one often passed in such shock there was no chance to reach into the pocket. A few times the same routine outside the Converts, where on one occasion he continued lying through steady rain. In the last weeks of that performance the chap would sometimes stare up at his fellows with a look of bewilderment seemingly unable to uncomprehend the heartless disregard. A distinct change: more than once he has been spied now sitting at table with a plate before him.

Cheap Rates

Mister Malayu jabbering as usual beside the table, this morning's chief mention a new, cheaper option for his Viet assignations. Sold on the Viets Mr. M., fine, dedicated treatment such as a wife would provide. No longer interested in the Batam girls, had enough of them; Viets far better. The 17th his last tryst — four days ago he counts off on his fingers in order to get it right. Tiding him over. Every fortnight: “old ready”, he explains. Thirty for the gal and at the new place up a "ladder" on Lorong 24, just beside the fruit-stand, fifteen dollar an hour. Going a little over not a problem there. Weekends the beasts at Four Chain View have upped to twenty. Monday - Thursday remains as before, but weekends they've got a cheek. Good the Viets, clean.... On the return from the market with the tapioca for his wife Mr. M. shown the note scrawled earlier on the newspaper. Hang on, no, not 24. It's number 34. He can show you there and then if you wanted to accompany him. First stop after Four Chain, just off the corner. Small sign, yes, that's the one.... Old weathered sign had been noticed a couple of years ago during the hunt for cheap digs. Open staircase up above an eatery on the corner, unlicensed and illegal now of course. White guy would raise suspicions no doubt. Hotel? Which one you look?... Rooms? Who tell you?

Handsome John!

Nice compliment of course, at this ripe old age. Ta very much buddy, Ya. Chin chap in his early forties from the Geylang Serai market. Dad must have begun the stall years ago, one of the few "purely" Chinese in residence there. Fruit and veg. in the first row from the main Western entrance, most late mornings the old man nodding off on a chair in the corridor out of the way. Mum was still fit and able dicing, ordering and serving. Younger bro usually the Fetch-it man, a fine family operation. Older goes out regularly too in order to escape briefly, over to the Haig Road food stalls for lunch. Can't be married either of the pair, case of no-where to house a wife perhaps given tight living quarters. Quick with the chat, never mind the highly limited English. Simple modest living, established clientele with the orders known as soon as the face was sighted. Typically frank greeting, not the first of its kind. Chap fired it off striding past without stopping, keeping his head erect on up the footpath. Further conversation of any kind would be impossible. Hello. Ni hao. You good? Hujancoming; or panas—rain/heat. That was always the outer limit. Slight reddy tinge both lads chosen, eschewed by dad whose snowy white sat just fine for an old chappie.

         The common moniker had long been owned of course, not a problem, and far from the first re-christening over the journey.

Scam

Noticeable difference in the number of Chin Grannies up and down ceaselessly with the tissues in the two month absence. Likely this is what has made the Convert Najib more pushy recently. Some little exasperation with Najib difficult to restrain. Poor devil.
         Zainuddin was telling last night after an encounter while he was escorted up to his bus. After accepting a tissue pack from Najib in front of Darul Arqam a difficulty arose as the latter's offer had been of the wet, scented kind of product — more expensive than the usual dry paper. The seller Najib attempted to explain this one was superior, good for refreshment in the hot afternoon, motioning awkwardly in the dark to sign wiping face and brow with his heavy bag weighing in the other hand. Nine PM, traffic noisy along the road made conversation difficult. Najib was attempting to explain further. Zainuddin straining, leaning forward, failing to comprehend. In sifting his coins for payment Zainuddin had sought a fifty cent piece. The usual offering was three packs for one dollar. Like most of us, Zainuddin would take only a single pack, for which fifty cents ought to have been a fair deal for the vendor. Yet here was Najib bending toward the dim street-light and turning over the coin in his hand. Short, he discovered. The single wet went for one dollar apiece. Zainuddin was struggling to follow. Poor ol' Najib dudded by a co-religionist.
         Ya, poor ol' Najib, when we had passed. Word was he was given a daily tally by an ex-wife with whom he continued to live, and the new partner into the bargain. Some compensation money had been diddled on top of that. Twice Najib had converted to Islam; the story a little muddled. The conversion had caused turmoil in his Chinese family. Najib was on medication, disappearing every couple of months when he went in for a rest. 
         So many pieces Najib needed to sell in order to reach his assigned target and satisfy those at home. A year or two ago there may have been a whisper of some beating. Every night Najib needed to present his earnings back at the flat. Eight or nine o'clock Najib could become particularly anxious. Zainuddin was reminded of the sharp practice, the net within Najib seemed to find himself entangled. Poor Najib facing that dragon.
        This ghostly demon was usually roundly reviled by all and sundry at Geylang Serai. Najib always got good pity at the Geylang Serai tables. A Chinese convert: some little added consideration perhaps. Poor ol' Najib a slave to a rapacious witch who had installed the new lover and only endured Najib while he brought in the cash day after day. Typical Chinese. They would sell their grandmother for a handful of coin. Stolen traditional Malay lands. Turned the island into a concrete jungle, destroyed the kampungs and relegated the population to the bird-cages. The indigenous population, the original people second class citizens.
          The dependable old Social Worker and Drug Counselor Zainuddin however hesitated to blow-off the usual condemnation and outrage. Held back. Unexpectedly, though perfectly in character, extended his understanding to the Chinese harridan at home too. The woman was caught up in her own predicament, attempting to survive. She had a story too, all her own. Hardship all round, widely shared. Pity and understanding for all from the dear goofy Sufi grandmaster Zainuddin.
         Off the man went to fetch his Olive from the Jamiyah orphanage office on Guillermard for their trip back to Woodlands.
         Rich down at Aljunied suggested the Chinese Mainland Grannies were run by local operators, groups brought out for so many hundred on thirty day visas, which enabled them to earn so many hundred more on the streets here trooping morning until night. A tidy sum in RMB to take back home. Down at Geylang Serai they knew the pickings were richer among the Muslims.

Waiter 1 : Diner 0

Indian waiter magisterial this afternoon at Paul.
         Table secured against the window looking down across the paved concourse onto leafy Orchard Road. Lamp overhead, the Little Sparrow piping, Chin millionaire if-not-better wives with big curled hair.

         Wallpaper, windmill landscapes (understandable confusion), cold fire-place with brushes, pan and poker smoothing the creamy latte. ($5.90.)
         Change-wallet delivered like a missive from a brother prince over the hill in the neighbouring valley. If you will allow Sire, almost curtsied.
         Thank you so much my man, my fellow. Smile and raised hand half-way into the air. (Lacking courtly French both sides dumbshow must needs sufficed.)
         Black leather (surely not vinyl) touched the table surface for a brief, uncertain moment. Was the man’s hand removed for an instant, finger detached and lifted? Too quick to be sure.
         Look of appraisal bent close at elbow, cheek-bones poked. As if a hidden switch had been thrown, eyes beaming; brow-gleaming like a rocky promontory after rain.

         The momentary blinding enabled the article to be whipped out of sight.
         — ….Hey! What?... Come back here with that you.....
         Choked in back of throat.... Gasp. Swallow. Splutter. Damned cheek.
         Hail him then if you wanted to demean yourself, if you wanted to collect your four dollar ten cents you Cheap-skate, let everyone hear. Call the manager, go on holler your lungs out best you can, be my guest. Big flash tipper.
         — .... Oh. Here you are sir…. Oh!... Let me get that ten cents that’s rolled…. under your shoe sir. Sandal.... There you are. Have a nice day.
         Was he on four dollars an hour here? Costumed in Figaro servant-gear that was counted an added benefit of the position, new guy unsighted previously almost gypsy.
         Eleven dollars ninety for six week old LRB— priceless excoriation of the second-round Martin Amis on the Holocaust by the German poet/translator Michael Hofmann; another $1.70 for Pilot WinGel 0.7. Kinokuniya recently down-sized and relocated on the fourth floor at Takashimaya. (History and something else equally inconsequential chief casualties, as well as Foreign Language.)
         Ten buck average slurp like you would pay at authentic Paul on the Champs Elysees—established 1880 something—here on the equatorial plantations white sugar in brown sachet.

Publication: Small Wonders

A relatively new online literary journal focused on South-east Asia, Eastlit, has recently published a short piece taken from this blog.

 "Small Wonders" was written during the second Ramadan in the Malay quarter of Singapore, 2012. (Posted on the blog late July 2012).

Here is the link:

http://www.eastlit.com/eastlit-november-2014/

Solo Aid

On the second trip to Yogyakarta in October 2014 I traveled with Mr "Faris" to Surakarta, aka Solo, central Java, to visit a family in some hardship. Faris had known this family for some years and needed to assess their true position before attempting to raise funds for them. Following the visit I wrote a kind of story about the venture, published on my blog at the time.
         In the almost two years since the position of the family has deteriorated further and now the mother of the small boy, daughter of the old ibu and wife of the invalid, whose name is Hartini, is casting around for a buyer of her kidney. In this way she hopes to raise funds to live on and relieve her debts without selling her small house.
         After receiving this notice about the kidney I revised the story, light brush-up involved. Here it is.

Six hours altogether. Rp300,000 taxi fare; Rp10,000 return on the train. 
         We had chosen the date badly: Muslim New Year and a long weekend meant a queue at the train station ticket-office—seats sold out. The standing option was declined; therefore the taxi, about thirty dollars. Twice before in the week prior Faris's toothache had resulted in last minute cancellations. 
         The mejut, traffic jam was not so bad. Bad enough however given the bleak roadside scenery of dilapidated shop-fronts devoid of any conceivable prospect or hope of redemption. Some new housing and commercial construction was taking the place of old without any hint of past failures comprehended. A number of years Faris had not taken the road-trip and swore off it ever again. LA Tropical, he quipped in a low voice. 
         Beyond Klaten two thirds of the way along glimpses of green rice-fields finally; later the train back would deliver a great deal more of the carefully cultivated fields where straw-hats toiled. An old local permaculturalist some days ago had made the claim in the newspaper that only farming provided a means of independent living for man.
         Two hundred thousand Rupiah was given from both sides to the poor family we had come out to visit in Kampung Ngasinan. In the planning a couple of weeks prior Faris had agreed one hundred thousand would be satisfactory offering to the household. On departing the house however after the visit Faris thought differently: one hundred was neither one thing nor the other, the man unexpectedly suggested. Two hundred might amount to something for the family. Four hundred thousand in the circumstances would at least provide respite.
         Some years ago Faris had taught in the neighbourhood, encountered this family and taken particular interest. Now there was a disabled husband who had fallen from a fruit tree nine months earlier; a young three year old boy and the old mother of the house fetched into her mid-seventies wobbly and effectively blind. 
         There had been two major interventions: some years ago Faris and his American son had financed sealing of the roof to keep out the rain. This had amounted to paying for plastic sheeting to be laid under the roof tiles. There were no ceilings in the house—with the passing of a few years the plastic had shredded in a number of places above our heads in the front room. In order to clear family debts that had increased since the misfortune of the accident Faris had sourced from his network a French Muslim benefactor, a Fireman from Marseille. Since debts had mounted again and growing pressure from neighboring creditors to sell the house. At present the family was splitting profits from the fruit harvest of their trees with pickers
         Shortly after being seated cups of tea were brought from out back by the young mother. A half hour later the fuller hospitality arrived from in front delivered by a neighbour—heaped plates of noodles with some egg and vegetables. Meals scaled for Western appetites (servings at the local warungs were never this size). 
         The household itself would not be partaking. Still, no one made eyes at the food, not even the little three-year-old. The family was well-fed—a paunch showed the Invalid was not suffering on that score and the little boy took his father’s build. Second or third tier poverty perhaps. 
         On a day-bed opposite the small TV sat the Invalid; the wife shared the couch with Faris and the boy played on the floor with plastic toys, wheeled vehicles mainly. A misplaced old exercise bike stood against the wall immediately inside the front door. The Invalid had made some progress from weekly physiotherapy sessions, the wife reported. 
         On the other side of the front door out of the way the old mother sat on a bench smiling through the opening when she bent forward to survey the room. The old mother was paper-weight thin with inflamed gums, cloudy eyes and over-sized hands distended from field-work. Dickens came to mind: a loved smiling mother quietly abiding and never complaining, maintaining all her cheer. 
         Various neighbours came to the door and the window over the bed. The window held no glass or sashes; a concertina panel of wooden slats had warped and sat askew. It was through the largest gap there that neighbours came to converse and observe the visitors. Small children came to the open doorway; teens, young mothers with babes on hip, middle-aged scarved women took turns at the window, smiling and waving.
         Nine or ten square metres the front room measured, certainly a larger space than many front rooms along the gangs of inner Jogja. A couple of low packing-case cupboards, pitted concrete floor that had once been polished. There were complaints about the flickering television; its entertainment was important for the invalid and the old mother, who was prone to falls wandering outdoors. 
         Plastic stools were brought into the room for the guests to rest their cups and plates. From under a corner of the day-bed mattress the wife at one point fished out a prospectus for an insurance scheme for the boy’s future education which Faris studied. It would come in handy in a renewed petition to the Marseille fireman. Apart from this man Faris had one other possible benefactor, a well-to-do Arab who might respond favourably to a plea.
         Behind a narrow passage led to two smaller rooms with mattresses on the floor in the corners. At the rear a low cupboard held a rice-cooker, cutting board and cooking utensils; the other side a little tiled annex held a hip-bath. 
        A well was mentioned. In the event old rusty iron piping was found running into the concrete floor that accessed ground water; an electric pump rather than bucketing on a winch. The wife showed the spurt from the plastic hose attached to a spigot. Unlike in Jogja and Jakarta, the water was clean here, Faris reassured earlier when he noticed caution over the tea.
         Outdoors a tall boy came at one point to hang a bird-cage on a high hook immediately beside the entry door, almost over the head of the old mother on her bench within the shadow of the porch. Inside the wooden cage the tiny bird immediately began twittering in a voice that pierced the heat of afternoon. All the tall wooden cages seen in Jogja held small, often tiny birds that were raised high for better voice projection it must have been; shade did not seem to be the factor. 
         The volume of the television was low, another of its faults; sporadic conversation continued. From its perch the bird sent high notes out into the passage between the opposite houses that made a row toward the river. The first voice after the bird had settled in place made a listener leap and follow the call in pursuit. Ahead the little bird darted happy to be chased. A gambol was the last thing a foreigner could have expected here. 
         Forty or fifty years ago caged birds had disappeared from Western cities; the prize of bird-song, its admiration, continued in these traditional communities on the equator. Smaller Malaysian towns were the same. 
         The tall young lad who delivered the cage was not part of the household; nor could this family have owned the bird. The front pillar on which the cage had been hung was part of the house however, still owned by the family. Could the entertainment of the bird have been provided for the added reception of the guests?
         Outside the open door at this Kampung Ngasinan house a row of similar houses stretched down to the narrow water-channel behind—in flood no doubt justifiably termed a river. A woman emerged from one of the houses and took care to lock the door behind her with an old latch key. Shuttered against the heat, the houses gave the impression of an abandoned, derelict quarter. At the rear door of the visit house chickens could be heard; none were visible outdoors. A plastic or vinyl merchant had rolls of his product out front of a store a few doors along; the better class of houses no doubt had floor cover. Some house fronts here had been painted and carried minor decoration. In the event of a sale the visit house would fetch some reasonable price.
         The water-way had raised precast concrete slabs aligned to contain flood-water when it arrived; during the dry there was no stir in the dirty, littered channel. An inspection created awkwardness with some men gathered in a work detail for a “People’s garden”, one of the chaps unexpectedly conveyed. Like many others still young in Indonesia, gleaming white teeth showed a number of gaps. Thus far the men had not made much impression on the baked clay; perhaps some leveling of ground had been managed. There were half dozen men from the houses with one or two hoes between them. 
         At home the men had children and old parents too. They were able-bodied at least. The man with the good English had noticed the momentary doubt; an involuntary cast of look. 
         A proffered handshake attempted to retrieve the situation. Smiles were exchanged.
         The Islamic tee bearing the Arabic alphabet from the museum in Kuala Lumpur could not counter the effect of fine sandals and handsome white panama. 
         Faris had mentioned the old Java script that was now little in evidence these few years since his last visit. We noticed it in only a couple of places. Rather than a heart-land of fundamentalism following the lead of the infamous old cleric Abu Basheer, Solo in fact cast back to its pre-Islamic roots and there was long-standing tension here with Islam. The Solo Sultan was renowned for his meditation up in the tall tower of his palace that we skirted in the taxi. During his regular astral travel the Sultan visited far distant countries and reported back to his court on return. Embarrassing, suggested the young man at reception at Gloria Amanda apologetically that evening.
         The Invalid appeared genuine. A stroke seemed exaggerated description for a man so young. The chap was two years younger than his wife. An injudicious marriage made matters harder still now—the husband's family was too poor to offer any kind of aid. 
         Ordinarily a benefactor like Faris might have expected to have been asked for his blessing prior to a marriage. Everything was harder now. 
         On entry the Invalid had taken Faris's hand in his two and brought it to his forehead. A scramble to rise to his feet had been shaken off by Faris. Twice the Invalid demonstrated his incapacity: the right arm had little feeling below the elbow; almost none in the hand. A couple of times through the visit the Invalid took the numb hand by the other for massage. The arm could be raised to the horizontal but no further, and the gait included an angled dragging of the right leg, toes of the foot bent inward. The man seemed lucid. Possibly given more time he could further improve. Faris could report back faithfully; the Fireman or the Arab might be prevailed upon.
         Of five or six interventions of this kind over the years across Java and Malaysia Faris had two families continuing dependent and struggling. Another Jakartan scenario was similar to this in Solo. In Faris's judgment the little boy here seemed promising. Being able to amuse himself for a couple of hours augured well for future schooling, could it be provided. The insurance scheme might be a good investment here.
         During the six month teaching stint nearby that had introduced Faris to the neighbourhood he had been housed with Western volunteer teachers who sought to tempt the Convert with beer and other alcohol. An Arizonan Muslim was received as a challenge by these colleagues. 
         Nightly Faris had taken his supper at Kampung Ngasinan and sat with the people. One of the scarved older women who came across tried unsuccessfully to prompt Faris's memory. Unfortunately there had been little progress made in this neighbourhood and in the case of the particular family back-sliding.
        In over four weeks there had been no rain. When it did arrive in December the roof of the visit house would leak; the daylight had gleamed through the small perforations overhead. The plastic itself was not expensive; not that thin cheap kind. The labour over the tiles would mean four or five days’ work for a couple of men. In the meantime some of the holes might be patched.

NB. If anyone reading this blog might be able to spare something for Hartini here is her email address.

Alternatively, for anyone in Singapore, Malaysia or Indonesia, I am planning a return to Jogja in August and will be meeting Hartini. My email: pavlelazarev@hotmail.com
(Hartini did not write to me but to Mr. "Faris".)

On Wednesday, June 29, 2016 3:30 PM, Hartini Sulastri <hartiniazril@gmail.com> wrote:
Om,apa GINJALKU aja di jual agar bisa bayar hutang,aku bingung Om,tolong Om klau ada yg butuh GINJAL ,aku diberi tahu
Wassalamualaikum

Prambanan (Heritage)

A third World Heritage site in the region could be ignored no longer. (Borobudur and Georgetown, Penang were the other two. Singapore was still trying to join the club through its botanical gardens, and a one or two other possibilities.) 

The introduction of the bell here in Java was suggested by the repetition of the motif up and down all the towers. 

Across the green jungle for miles round and high up into the heavens the peal of the various tones—the kampungfolk must never have heard the like. 

The stir of the moment in time might have been better imagined without the buffeting road-trip on the No. 1A Transjogja, and the commercial strip that had replaced the earlier rice-fields.

Hundreds of bells rising up in the stone, before one final large crown capped each of the structures.

Later the museum attached showed what a state of collapse had been found at the re-discovery of the complex in the early 1800’s.

School-kids from across the archipelago were out in numbers, the requests for photographs with the bule almost as many as the bells.

Mister. Mister white guy. Photograph please? Smiling, beaming young boys and girls, fathers and mothers. One extended family from Sumatra seized their chance early and was later found beneath one of the stunted trees seeking the shade.

In a short conversation of a few shared words the group was keen to impress the touristic claim of their own region. Toba. Beautiful. The famous lake was another must-see in the region.

The plea ventured here recalled mother's own for her birthplace; and all the years she had not been believed. 

As at Borobudur, the depth of the treads on these Hindu stairs were not scaled to European feet. The lurching required for the risers must have stretched Javanese and Indians both.

Within the dark of the crypts a minute or two was needed to adjust the eyes. The lines of chiseled stone rising up included recent mortar in a number of places. Many decades the reconstruction here had been continuing.

Candle flames, basilisks and birds with human heads and wings half-stretched for flight were everywhere repeated. The latter struck especially, suggesting as they did the difficulty of capture as much as flight.

Surrounding the candle flames the shimmer of air was included by the old artists and recalled the emblem of the Sikhs.

Without all the high-end Western curatorial trappings, the simplicity of the organisation seemed fitting. 

A wandering chook was sighted pecking in a corner of the grounds. It may have been Prambanan that advertised wild deer moving through the precinct, and then dance performance under torchlight for value-added tourist packages.

En route in the bus, the same as from the airport, another EXIST NET was passed on the roadway near the Sentul Market. 

The past still figured in the everyday culture for the emerging generation in Indonesia. Despite the lure of modernity.

 

 

                                                                                                                Yogyakarta, Indonesia

Splatter Flicks in the Tropics

The flaked-out sleeping visible on all the streets through the tropics still startles a relative newcomer even after almost three and one half years. Lunchtimes in Singapore the foreign workers under trees and over the concrete of the Void Decks of the housing towers strike for an instant like massacre scenes from a real-life movie. Tonight going out for supper the woman who provided the buzz-cut an hour earlier was found slumped in the chair before the mirror with head on hands across the narrow shelf. 25,000 rupiah was the charge — $2.50 the woman's boss converted when she saw some hesitation at the price. Over a coffee later with Paijo the becak driver the standard price of a cut was revealed to be 6 - 7,000. In bule kampung, Whitey Village on Sosrowijayan, understandably a different scale operated. Marching up the street the Western tourists at the Massage place, the Pedicure, the sightseeing offices and the bars drinking beer need to be passed. Many of the young bule here would be inclined for some other type of experience were it not for the industry steered by the Tourist Guides. Buying a round of straight kopi tonight for Paijo and his friend, a fellow becak driver, and teas for three young early teen boys, the bill came in below the cut. The people on the other side of the rail-way line were more friendly, Paijo suggested. Sometimes the backpacker kids can be seen along that stretch too beyond Malioboro.

The Two Ali's

Mr. Hussein the singer, masseur and boxer telling this morning of giving his namesake Muhhamad Ali a rub-down prior to the Bugner fight in KL. Somehow the episode came up in the brief Hello. A year or two ago at first introduction, when Mr. Hussein reprised some of his hits of bygone days at one of the Labu Labi tables, he also demonstrated the strength of his thumbs. Should it come to rough-house of any kind, a physical confrontation brought on, an opponent would have his eye poked out in a trice by Mr. Hussein. Much strength remaining in the aged hands. (A glassy-looking eye himself it seemed Mr. Hussein. Had he been a victim somewhere along the line?) Hussein Ali on the name-card: wiry old tough guy specializing in Tony Bennett and Tom Jones, together with the old Malay favourites. Someone, some notable, had recommended him for the great American boxer's corner; a fellow familiar with local conditions, weather factors, would be just right. Fetched his mid-seventies now, a drinker sleeping rough at the market, unwilling to impose on family most likely: Mr. Hussein was the perfect recipient this morning for one's own Muhammad Ali story. Immediately the man wants to give up his chair. No, no, lord no. Crouching close for the sharing. Back thirty-five or so years ago the great butterfly and bee was still World Champion, post-Frazier it must have been. Jets into Melbourne, Australie, the Hilton Hotel. One night, early evening, the man catches a taxi alone, one person, out to the badlands where the orang asli live, the native people; the Aboriginals. (Mr. H's English quite good; as the name suggests and some blade-like aspect in the features corroborates, likely an Arab ancestry. Money from a trader family in the past perhaps; not entirely an orang asli himself Mr. Hussein, strictly speaking.) Dangerous place this where the Aboriginals stay, where the great boxer went unaccompanied; the orang puti — the white-fellas in Australie — scared to enter that quarter back then. Come over from his room at the Hilton, big man in a suit walking down the hill. Raised hand showing the height. You know how big Mr. Hussein. Orang asli black people like him — no need to add "you" to Mr. Hussein. He come to see the people; they come out to see him, following, many, many. Soon in the middle of the group Muhammad Ali can't move, all the hands raised up to him. Many, many hands; a jungle of arms. Muhammad Ali passes both his hands out to them around on every side, clapping across them all. A big reach Mr. Hussein as you know, stretching far for the hands. One person come alone, no body-guard, nothing. Not just a great fighter Ali, Mr. Hussein — a great heart also. Little bang on the rib-cage indicating. It was only then Mr. Hussein revealed he too had been a boxer. Not a “killer”, no — Mr. Hussein objects to the suggestion; man making a living rather. Big heart also is Mr. Hussein’s—returns a knock at his own chest in turn. (One could have guessed right off from the singing.) The man had a Quarto note-book out on the parapet wall of the market there beside the stairway on the Geylang Serai corner. Mr. Hussein's friend Mr. Joe sleeps on the other side of the wall in a broken office chair beside his supermarket trolley. Wild years "last time" Mr. Joe took a number of turns inside. Unknown Mr. Hussein; possibly escaped.

More Food - Uppuma

Chap comes in especially for uppuma. Cashier with the daughter who had studied Marine Biol. on the Gold Coast, near the colourful Reef no doubt in danger of destruction from Climate Change, turns in this direction to enquire. Asking at the Sweets Counter is she? A waiter in the back there around the corner?... Ah, no. In fact directing the question at the Australian regular, the scribbler, who ought to know. He had ordered it again this afternoon. A week or two ago one of the newer Chennai lads had rounded on the man. You wanna give something else a try one day maybe? Pongal very similar, rice flour instead of semolina. Very nice. The fellow had indicated a chap at the long central table who was also fixated on uppuma. Uppma, uppuma without fail whenever he visited. But on that particular day this chap had accepted pongal. (The last portion of uppuma had been served shortly before to you-know-who.) This might have been the very man: age, height, light colour, neat blue biz-shirt were all about right. Difficult to be absolutely sure. This same beefy waiter loves to clown, limited English no reason for shyness. (The above conversation must be understood as paraphrase of course—practiced readers will have twigged; the original with all its stumbles and mumbles could not possibly be reproduced.) Clowning in the lad's nature. Nandri, he offered the other day when he had been handed a plate or something else in order to aid his clearing of the table. Nandri, nandri — he had got it on numerous occasions and heard it liberally dispensed all round. Nandri and nothing else. Mocking. Another time the fellow had approached the table for a longer chat that began with the matter of the slow—in fact unmoving—Tamil acquisition. Two years here, soon to sign a further three year extension. Married, wife now pregnant. (A brief visit presumably.) Six or eight hours out of the city he was, still within Tamil Nadu. Mock military salutes, rapid steps over the floor, often sweat on the brow: proved his value to the employer. Out front the uppuma chap had been ready to turn on his heels in the event there was not available what he was after. A substitute would not do on this day, neither pongal nor anything else. The raised finger of the cashier had been misinterpreted and the fellow was beginning to pivot — spinning on a six-pence, the old chaps at the football club used to say of the earlier generation of deft ballerinas on the field. No pongal in any case today: earlier in the piece Beefy had said it was finished. Come down from his office tower the man, or on his way home, only the one dish would satisfy the growling tummy on this particular occasion; and take-out in fact today. Usually uppuma is a breakfast dish; two or three times a week one could get lucky lunch-times. This was getting on now: rare good fortune for the fellow. Coconut and green chilli one side, dried red the other with onion and tomato, split by a watery dahl on the silver serving tray. Uppuma does not in fact appear on either the display board at Komala Vilas on Bufallo Road, nor on the menu. A lucky chance found it once on the small Specials board opposite the register. $3.00, preceded for this palate by rasam soup served in a small stainless cup. (Add $1.50.)

NB. There are numerous Komala Vilases in Singapore—all off-shoots of the original—and apparently one or two established back in the homeland it seems (Chennai). Bufallo Road the tip, opposite Tekka Market.

Stuck

Couple of yellow helmeted Indians, tall and short, issued reflective safety vests and orange long-sleeved polos—remainder of the clobber their own responsibility: jeans & footwear. Pair is tasked this morning with removing the litter attached to the lamp-posts and street poles here in Geylang. Bag for refuse, bottle of water, pair of scrapers each; tall senior presumably charged with the responsibility of the camera for the record. Two posts on Geylang Road near Changi corner kept the lads ten minutes until the job was done properly, smooth clean silver gleaming and snapped for the Super. Illegal notices for room advertisements with the tear-away telephone numbers at the bottom are the biggest problem. The tape people use on these slips is very darn sticky; it is this that remains long after the paper has been torn away. What's worse, in the case of the larger lamp-post the fancy ridged sleeve wrapped around the pole earlier in the year for some urban beautification makes it doubly hard to clean. Some water needed to soften the tape. Unfortunately a bicycle is chained to this particular post and how to prevent the seat from getting wet? What to do? Quick furtive looks left and right. Luckily no irate owner leaps from the tables to upbraid the lads. Scrape, scrape both together, Tall bending his back. Blades sharp enough for the task? Don't look like it on a couple of takes from one and then the other independently. Scrape, scrape. Hands run over the grooves once, twice, three times does it. Not too bad; pretty good. Photograph. The Super not likely to hightail out to check every last pillar and post. Though square-edged and one would have assumed an easier prospect, the No-crossing post is not much better, its tape visible from ten metres away. Water again, scraping. It comes away with a bit of added elbow grease. But not really. Shit of a thing. Tall turns a beak in the direction; around on the other side Short angling contrawise for balance. A shot from a higher elevation will help with the evidence for Super. Tall raises the camera. OK, there. Difficult in fact to read this sign. No walking on the footpath? or from the upper path under the trees and onto the footpath perhaps in case you run into someone unexpectedly?... Ah, no. OK. Jay-walking. No jaywalking here across the busy four-lane roadway. Warning—not allowed: thick red line through the circled figure. Twenty-five metres away at Joo Chiat corner traffic lights for safe crossing. Some cloud this morning. Two posts done, get a move on. Off the pair troop; by lunch-time they ought to make the Kalang River where some shade is offered by the bank.

Picnic

Sunday afternoon soon after lunch. Young scarved women in clusters over the unmowed grass opposite, a pair against one of the Rain trees following the shade around the trunk. The Deaf came up from the rear a short time ago touching the flank of his friend and indicating the fan turned in this direction. Without it so hot it made you crazy, he signs toward the outdoors beyond the awning and then knob-twisting at his temple. The man caught some shut-eye briefly afterward until Cha the cabbie landed with his pals and started up a little conversational racket. Usually quiet and reserved, questioning more than talking himself—a listening ear behind the wheel you would guess—sometimes Cha does turn unexpectedly voluble. A Chin convert of many years now, Islam has taken Cha, together with the other two regular Chin converts here, away from his ethnic group. (Some estrangement has resulted in the families too in all three cases.) Sitting at the tables the scarved women could not escape a charge for drinks at least, and of course there was no bringing in of outside food to the Eateries. (Regulars went unquestioned.) The women have cooked at home this morning and brought flasks of tea or water. Next door in the neighbouring Carpmael house Lia the mixed blood (as she called herself) Filipina-Indian is being starved of food by her stingy, rich employers. Seven kilograms Lia has lost in two months there. Indian Muslims in a four storey house, two cars, a tailoring business and singing prayers in chorus regularly, begrudge the maid more than a small serve of rice and some curry twice daily. (Breakfast is coffee.) Lia is aiming to convert to Islam at the end of the year; currently she is taking classes on Islamic history on her free days in order to better prepare. Prior to this employment Lia had worked with other Indian Muslims, who though they sometimes had insufficient money to pay her treated Lia very well, as part of the family. It must have been their example that first attracted Lia to the religion of the Prophet; prior to starting in Carpmael Lia did not believe Muslims could be so uncharitable. Unable to hold back her hunger, an occasional apple is taken from the fruit bowl, a biscuit eaten in the toilet; last night again there was a long wait for dinner and only noodles served her. A special boy hurt in a motor accident and unable to communicate is Lia's particular charge; but the house is also large and with two cars much cleaning is required. All more difficult on an empty stomach. The goodness of Islam is everywhere apparent in this quarter; perhaps the goodness of the culture and community underlying—a lavender coloured two dollar bill just now drawn from a rear pocket wallet for a lame chap stopping at a table. Is it the strong enjoinder in Islam that produces the everyday generosity and promptness of alms-giving? Were Christian communities the same a century ago? (Sometimes the Malays will tell you Chinese beggars and tissue-sellers know to come over to Geylang Serai for the pickings they can expect there.) The small daily glories on this Changi corner in particular opposite the market have detained this author nearly forty months. There was no thought of anything like this term on landing.

Food Adventure - Fennel

An Indian of some description wants to tell you he doesn't know fennel when he sees it. Get off the grass Mr. Billy! You're kidding.... Bends close over the table squinting. Never seen nor heard. The new waiter knew the Tamil word, not the English. Useless for Billy. New chap is moonlighting for some extra cash; nights works as a welding inspector. (Chennai; Billy of Ceylonese extraction; second and third generation respectively, which explains.) Seeds brought up from lunch at Komala Vilas lasted the 15 minute walk and plenty left over. Uninspiring crowd; business shirts and skirts predominating as usual. Two pair of shapely legs, sleek fleshy femurs and tibias; but an old Dweeb art patron-tourist between needing a shot across his bows in order to collect the offering. Not worth the candle; might wanna talk. Talk art maybe and then Sentosa and the Night Safari. Shortly after at the bill man produced his discount card from the gallery next door. Sorry sir. Over $30. Manager Billy disappointing with finest consolatory smile. Oh!... Better luck next time, bud. Finally, ten minutes hence after a number of reconnoiters, Mr. Billy was seduced. Billy's grandpa might have been Singhalese. Converted to marry his Javanese bride — Billy converted that is; not Gramps. Sneaky old dog always kept his second wife hidden. All the talk was of the Javanese, the two boys to her in their late twenties powering ahead, one flying Garuda and the other on the way to same, taking exams currently. Proud as punch dad; now proud dad in his dotage to a secret six month old child here in Sing. No wonder all the hours and the side-line health products. Couple of his staff hooked and trying it on customers. Feeling tired, lacking energy? Fellow had just the shot. Good gear.... No, no. Nothing pyramid about this one. This one was different. One needed to keep an open mind…. Finally, overcoming much hesitation, induced to try. Ventures two single pellets pinched delicately from the napkin. The elixir of youth he kept an open mind on slugged immediately no doubt; an organic product proved over thousands of years from his ancestors? Gee, I dunno. You sure it's OK? What's it for?... Why don't you give it your friend? Indicating the Dweeb. Mr. Dweeb immediately understood to be a “friend” because of course he is white. We all hail from White-land where all the Whiteys hang together, eat at restaurants, drive shiny cars and visit tourist attractions. Goo and ga over art-jewels lighted behind glass in galleries and museums. What's $5.90 for a cup of coffee for the likes of us?... Yeah right Mr. Billy. Sure. …Wisely pretends he hasn't heard. Chew slowly now Bill. And don't swallow mind…. Nods moving off to a table where he had been hailed. Still a bit dubious…. Except for the gait all bird Billy, topped by a wavy dark crest that might even be undyed. Ought to have taken to seed more easily.