After lunch the Long March Wednesday this week
with Gabriel. The cleaning lady had not switched her days; Gabriel was working
Thursday. What had the Angel devised this time? Well, first of all a little
turn around the temple precinct off Paya Lebar Road not far from the MRT and
the Police Station. Mr. Lim the Haig Road greengrocer had mentioned these
temples when delivering his tale of the Sword Brothers in the culmination of
CNY. True enough, in the midst of industrial lots serviced by busy, dirty
traffic sewers, one soon came onto brightly coloured columns and wavey roofing,
an unusual large gravel space in the forecourt that bore no markers for
parking. In addition, as reported by Mr. Lim too, in the centre of one of the
many altars under the roofs of this network of temples stood a large gilded
figure wielding a long, heavy and menacing blade over-head. None other than the
Elder Sword Brother of Mr. Lim's great story of Olden day fidelity. There he
stood raised above lesser figures either side, smooth gold sheen coated over
the entire torso, eyes and all. Children who had been told the same tale
through the New Year festivities must have been awe-struck when they first
stood before this large embodiment at the temple.
Tall cylinders with small numbered compartments corresponded to the columbariums where the ashes of the departed were kept, the angel Gabriel fluted in a whisper. Presumably one paid to have this catalogue on the shelf of a fine, ornate altar. One or two people were bent on the prayer stools throwing shells of some kind onto the tiled floor. On first hearing one assumed a pair of chopsticks had fallen. A heavy middle-aged chap had lowered himself before the altar and showed a solemn face that made an observer avert his gaze. A moment later the clatter of the coloured shells recaptured attention. Again Gabriel had the knowledge: appeals for lucky numbers for the lottery draw. After the temples circling around to the McPherson shop-row the Lottery shop queue there snaked out of the premises, across the length of the footpath and around the corner out of sight. It was possible the petitioners at the temple immediately walked around here.
A massive temple complex that looked far in excess of requirements. Perfectly maintained, clean and newly painted, bright and gleaming. Could New Year festivities, funerals and circumcisions support such extensive religious establishments on this tiny island with its tropical hot-house housing market? Again, according to the divine these temples were commonly thronged with worshippers, devotees, believers, what you will. After work, weekends. A stretch that Gabriel, but have it your way. Certainly the Angel did know his terrain. A good friend of the angelic Guide had familial roots in this very quarter. Once upon a time there had been kampung long-houses throughout this area, these temples the central focus of the old community. A short generation and one half later everything was swamped by the new order, the great, famous, much lauded transformation from Third World to First. OKOKOK Gabby. OK. Hard to believe, but OK. (After two and one half plus years one was unavoidably adopting some of the terminology and refrains of the locals.)
In one of the alcoves of the temple precinct the shelves were crowded with ceramic figurines that almost to a man—there were no female pieces—bowed their heads slightly and lowered their eyelids. One was struck by the uniformity. More than a dozen small, colourful, elaborately attired male figures clearly of some distinction sitting on a single shelf, all casting their eyes down ten feet before them. Five or six shelves rose up the walls on two sides, the same along each row. Eyelids prominent. This was not Greek or Renaissance Western man, not even in a place of worship. Here was both another time and region. Often on the roads and pathways in the Tropics these lowered, abstracted gazes were noticeable, and not only in the case of demure women. The shuttered, or half-shuttered, beguiling Asian eye-lid. One certainly was reminded of the street here beholding this side altar.
Beyond McPherson we happened to chance upon a tubby Tamil foreman working on one of the constructions sites, a new underground MRT in progress, one of two or three passed that afternoon. Here the chaps were working at 15 or 20 metres below; at their next project it was to be sixty metres. And could the chap have said twenty kilometres in length? More importantly, how did the tubby Tamil Acland Street busker from the 90's pick two Australians with a single, solitary Hello offered and nothing more, in the very first instant? The shuffling, winged angel Gabriel could not help feeling a sudden moment of self-consciousness. The goofy bushie hat flapping in the wind despite the secure strap under the chin, hanging corks or no, a dead give-away.
— But I bought it in Singapore! trilled the Divine, jumping the gun.
An acute working man, nobody's fool the South Indian. One knew the type. Down in the great Southern continent the man would have been the union Shop Steward, ensuring the young apprentices were getting a fair go.
On we marched, a pensive angel bringing up the rear. Wounded vanity even for a fairy sprite. Some quiet reigned for a space, a light breeze, the sun glowering. Someone suggested recently at the Mr. Teh Tarik table that the heavier tropical air filtered harmful dangerous rays on the equator, much more so than elsewhere on the globe. On this day the heaviness was more weighty than usual, the PM2.5 levels hitting 60 micrograms per cub. m., the newspaper would report on the day following, highest reading for the year.
A second feature of the day's program was to be the purpose-built foreign worker dormitories on Bartley East Road. Something over-much Gabriel had heard of late of foreign worker woes, discrimination, dangerous conditions. There needed to be some leavening in this excessively grim portrait. It was not all darkest night on this front here, by no means. The Asian context always needing to be borne in mind.
— Truly Gabriel?... Built specifically for the workers?....
A hissing Yea when the divine produced the adamantine affirmative.
We trooped along the narrow maintenance track of the busy three or four lane Freeway, Bartelby East, tortured by the traffic passing so close. At regular intervals we needed to step outside the rail of the safety barrier and onto the narrow verge, stomping upon the double orange lines, strictly single-file and conversation impossible. Being so long in the Tropics the guiding Angel was not familiar with Jeffrey Smart. Here we were in a kind of moving picture of those tableaus of the famous painter. To our right the burnt grass of the embankment gave way to scrub and bush where on weekends the foreign workers here would reportedly disport in drunken stupor.
The newspaper was still full of the riot of early December, the first civil disturbance in Singapore for forty or fifty years. Four hundred young men running wild, pelting police and service personnel, torching and up-turning police vehicles. In Singapore, where not long past dropping chewing-gum on the street landed a citizen behind bars. Alcohol. Uneducated drunken immigrant workers suddenly off the leash. (One of their compatriots was dying under a bus.) In the first seven or eight days of hearings of the Commission Of Inquiry the emphasis was on alcohol and the history of drunkenness in Little India where the disturbance took place; police action or lack thereof; inadequate weaponry in the arsenal. One young policeman who had charged a large group of the foreign workers with nothing more than a raised baton was commended for outstanding courage, exemplary courage, by the Commissioners. (More senior police had needed to point out the recklessness and danger of such conduct in a situation of this kind.) On the night of the riot the PM had high-lighted the role of alcohol. In the last couple of days of the Commission hearings some dissident voices were heard. The living conditions provided for these workers, treatment by the rogue Construction operators, racist discrimination and contempt—a range of voices enlarged the debate. This now was an opportune moment to inspect the better living quarters provided here for foreign workers. One could easily develop a jaundiced view. It was not all crowded shipping containers and flimsy ply-wood forest shacks housing the immigrant contract labour in First World good global citizen Singapore. The Angel fully recognized the dissident counter case; here he would introduce the other side for balance. Fair was fair.
Bartley East was a gentle gradient Fly-over. We might have taken the path beneath; the upper afforded a better view. A light industrial precinct at present, water treatment plant ahead, beyond a stand of trees further on Bedok Reservoir. Some liquor shops below; food outlets were perhaps awaiting the completion of the MRT's. HDB's would follow in good time, as the housing market was developed. In the meantime this six or seven storey building opposite was to be entirely devoted to dormitories for foreign workers. It was not quite clear whether it was an entirely new building, or some kind of conversion. A curtain of blue safety fabric hung the length of the long central structure. This building alone stretched more than forty metres; smaller others ahead were to be incorporated into the same development. Unscrupulous construction operators might sardine-house the poor old dark-skinned exploited foreign workers with a single bathroom serving fifty men—as reported in recent days in testimony at the COI: here was the other side to weigh in the balance.
— This was dedicated specifically for foreign workers, Gabriel? You're quite certain? Built specifically by one of the big operators?... Not a housing project by another name that might provide temporary quarters while the market was calibrated and adjusted?
The questions flew into the relentless roar of traffic, Gabriel only able to respond in brief, staccato affirmative. Coming down the incline later the Angel took up the cudgels once more. A feisty, demonstrative Divine; not your regular Lay-me-down-sweet-Jesus-in-your-meadowland. Here was perfectly good housing no mistake, at least so far as could be seen from the roadway; justice demanded proper acknowledgement. There were shades of many kinds in the Singapore story. The coolie forebears of the present day rulers had coped with far, far worse conditions. Far worse had they endured under the yoke of the Colonial regime. This was good, decent housing by any measure. Yes Gabby. To be sure. OKOKOK. True.
We marched on us two Australians. The absence of a McDonalds or KFC outlet was unusual. Neither the Golden Arches nor the Finger Lickin' man anywhere in view. No hint of moisture in the air. Would it ever rain again? one was forced to wonder. The passing traffic was no doubt struck by the pair of foot-sloggers, easily identified even on the fly as Caucasian. There were certainly no white hoboes in Singapore. Loads of others of the genus; all excepting whites. A floppy, less than handsome bushie topi, partnered by a rather more impressive, though now frayed and lusterless panama. Back-packs. Marching along. Passing motorists were entitled to wonder.
At the Reservoir the water level had never been so low, the Angel plaintively intoned as he surveyed the rusty brown marking the shore-line. A long face beneath the old floppy. There were elements here of our own sun-baked land, the great Australian continent. On the rise where we sat a carpet of leaf litter was far spread. In the drought parched trees were weeping copiously. Not since the 1860's, the newspaper reported, had this place seen the like. To our right young men with expensive remote-controlled glider planes were watching their handsome birds in flight. The blustery conditions were no draw-back, one of the lads answered the enquiry; on the contrary, the more wind the better for this craft. The week prior the Malaysian airplane had inexplicably gone down in fair weather. There was water rationing in large areas of Malaysia; the capital was affected. Here in Singapore with its treatment and desalination plants an air of disregard. Disasters happened elsewhere. Was it eight or nine weeks without a single drop of rain? February, traditionally the wettest month of the year, was like June. With the foreign sweepers here, ordinarily a fellow was lucky to see a single brown leaf on the streets of Singapore, a city-state rightly commended for its urban greenery. What was taking place within the soil itself, in the substructure of the island? We ought to have asked the tubby Tamil; during the excavations perhaps he had seen some changes. Could a tropical island sitting on the equator carry endless weight of concrete and iron mounted up to the clouds? New York and Dubai managed. Something like thirty percent current-day Sin'pore had grown since the time of British settlement. Land reclamation was an unending project. At the present time off Changi Point acres and acres of land were being created on a daily basis more or less. Alarmist Climate Change predictions were decades away: the Republic was putting its faith in technological advance. There was no stopping the growing Little Red Dot. Technological know-how, together with the famous Can-do spirit had created this modern miracle in the Tropics. Why wouldn't you continue to go for broke in their shoes? Rain however was needed.
Here the Angel was downcast amid the leaf-litter hoarsely whispering in the drifts of air. Along the water-line the very same brown tone of the leaves was reproduced. There could be no cheer in the brightly coloured wings of the young lads' planes. Only youth could cavort like that in the midst of this desolate, lugubrious scene. Woe, woe, woe. In recent times the suicides had fallen off at Bedok Reservoir; or else the reporting curtailed. Certainly the place looked more than a little benighted and doomed on this Wednesday afternoon. Not a place to even pull the plug quietly.
Wending our way through Chai Chee, Kembungan and Telok Kurau, at some point, mysteriously, for some reason that later neither man could recall, the curious subject of the accented tones of the current Deputy PM arose as a very particular bone of contention. A sharp, needle-point bone found on the road as it were. Here the relevant terrain was suburban, housing, crossings, overhead walkways; one or two front fences of schools were passed. Had schooling, the project of education and indeed civilization, at bottom civilization, been the point of departure for this particular argument? Somehow or other the dulcet tones of Mr. Tharman Shanmugaratnam arose as the focus of attention.
Prior to the introduction to this oddly jumbled community on the equator long Indian names had only been noted in touring cricket teams. As anyone of a certain vintage will recall, the sub-continent was not represented down on the great Southern land until quite recently. In the case of the Indian, Pakistani and Sri Lankan cricketers long unwieldly names were often abbreviated for convenience of fans. Up until recently too these minor nations were side-show affairs compared to Ashes or West Indies series.
However, even before seeing the Deputy PM's picture, the Honourable Mr. Tharman Shanmugaratnam, one could guess more or less the chap's heritage. Tamils were over half the Indian contingent in Singapore, the Coromandel coast of India providing easiest pickings for cheap labour. Ceylon, present-day Sri Lanka was another source, both then and now. Mr. Shanmugaratnam's heritage turned out from the Sicily of the Indian sub-continent.
Only in the last few months had Little India begun to be explored. Previously the concentration had been upon the old Malays and Chinese in Geylang. Then the December riot erupted and all at once the position of the foreign construction workers one had seen carted around in the rear of lorries came to the fore of consciousness, the Indian foreign construction crews in particular. No doubt the Chinese foreign labour from the Mainland had troubles not dissimilar to the Indians; in the case of the latter perhaps the relative position was a rung or two lower.
In the midst of all this trouble and strife, this concentration upon the contemporary under-class who had caused such unexpected turbulence in the usually calm Singaporean waters, arrived Mr. Tharman Shanmugaratnam.
Readers unfamiliar with Indian compounds may need some assistance in rolling the syllables. Shan with a rising vowel, certainly not the flat Australian; rhyming with "barn". Mug—again not the classic Australese; the Moo cow... MugaRAT—rhyming with "nut". And nam finally. Over two years this particular name was glided over in the newspaper. It was a long, long tangle. How to unpack? And what was the point? Was there any point? Wasn’t there only one name in the political firmament in Singapore, known to all the world more or less? Obituaries had been sitting in the drawers of the region more than a decade. The support cast was window dressing. Lackeys. Such was the judgment of the most fierce bloggers familiar with the Republic. The political royal house here needed allies and supports to be sure; those were bit players elevated for convenience, drafted into the business of government. On the streets of Geylang this was the harsh view. (Just the other day one of the local pundits was quoting Singapore as having attained Number 5 rung on the global Crony Capitalist Index.)
A fortnight or more past the Deputy Prime Minister and Finance Minister, Mr. Tharman Shanmugaratnam, had delivered the New Year's Budget to Parliament. In the run-up to the signal day, in the usual way, the Minister's photograph had been carried in the pages of the newspaper on numerous occasions: the tall figure descending a stair; crossing a foyer with the ticking-bomb briefcase in hand; in the midst of a scrum handling questions from eager reporters. Judging by the newspaper coverage and glimpses of other media, apart from the First family there appeared to be two key figures carrying the burden of government: the Law Minister, some month or more past giving a polished performance defending the need for the death penalty to maintain safety standards in the Republic; and this tall, bald, bespectacled, less than entirely prepossessing figure of Deputy PM and Fin. Min., Mr. Tharman Shanmugaratnam.
Together with the name the features clearly spoke of an Indian descent. Light skin tone in this case. In the pictures one saw the type of brainy, dorky school-boy turned slightly diffident adult. There had not been any fashion consultant engaged to spruce up the presentation. Indeed, the lack of smoothness, the absence of polish and shine—the pate aside—in the present age was rather attractive. It was possible Mr. Shanmugaratnam dyed the fringe of hair bordering his ears and around the back of his collar. On the other hand the man may have been young enough to be not yet grey. Brains and capability beat a pretty face any day when it came to the crunch.
This was all prior to hearing the voice of the Deputy PM and Fin. Min. Reading the newspapers, scanning the photographs and attending to the Kopi-shop chat, gave one only part of the story in the present case. On entry to the Carpmael residence the television that came with the room had been immediately removed with the help of the former boxer/now landlord, who had been a little puzzled at the decision. In deference to the strange habits of the monkish fellow tenant, housemates had learned to turn the volume of the Common-room TV right down to the bottom of the dial while they ate their dinners on the dining-table. In short, there had been no audio of Mr. Tharman Shanmugaratnam until the day of delivery to the Parliament and the nation of the new Budget for the year of 2014. In the case of Mr. Shanmuragaratnam one was flying blind and ignorant without having heard the gold-throated warbler.
— God almighty Gabby! It is nothing less than absurd. What? Have you actually heard that Ascot timbre?!...
The Angel would have none of it. An aficionado of celestial music and heavenly choirs, the winged creature in fact was rather a fan.
— Gabby! I do most strenuously protest! Please....
Gardeners turned their heads from condo entrances. Schoolchildren lugging monstrous sized bags cocked an ear stomping past, keeping their eyes downcast. The voices rose to a pitch and carried over this lesser traffic of the side streets.
For some particular reason, ten days or so ago in the Cyber Cafe in Dunlop Street, Ari behind the counter had cranked up the volume on his PC out front. Listening to.... an aria of some strange kind. Or was that recitative?.... Most strange. Ordinarily the Bee Gees might be heard from Ari's station, poppy love songs and C&W. Above all else the happy brother pair from Downunder more. There was no better according to Ari than Words and Maaass—A—Chu—setts.
Dunlop Street at the upper end near Jalan Besar, Big Road, late week or even a Saturday it may have been. (No surprise to have the pollies here working weekends and overtime, setting the example.) The usual activity over the way at the mosque. Fridays raised the numbers of course even more than weekends. Beneath the skull-caps dark faces under the verandas either side. Dunlop carried a couple of Backpacker joints that leaked a slightly bewildered, often hippy contingent onto this hard, earnest street. The long shifts and robes of Islamic dress was common, a mini Mecca most days of the week among motor-cycle outlets, massage places and various other jumbled oddities. In the booths of Cyber the clientele drawn from passersby. Ari and the boss were Hindu; in the minority in this corner of the locale. Behind the partitions the hourly price at the PC's rose 50% at Cyber. Secluded privacy, albeit tight and cramped, attracted a surcharge. Cheap thrills was the trade here by reports. The Indian working girls near-by charged twenty or thirty dollars—or their pimps did; surfing on the screen provided more basic release at a fraction of the cost. The night-shift was the main business at Cyber; still, afternoons and even mornings drew regular custom.
An innocent toiler slaving at another kind of inspiration found the locale rather congenial. On this particular afternoon however the foreign note arrived like a completely unexpected meteor.
— What is this then Ari? What in the name of God, man?
There was no way to credit one's ears. Mid afternoon or past. It may indeed have been a Saturday—unless the speech was delivered the day previous and Ari was listening to a recording. The usual range of faces outside the window. At the cafe next door the Thai Trannies were assembled, laughing, smoking and amusing themselves as was their wont. The Arab with the good English and sharp political viewpoint had earlier been in for Hello. Black faces up and down and indoors too.
The photographs may indeed lie: the Deputy PM and Fin. Min. may have been darker than appeared from unreliable newsprint. However that be, the dulcet tones here filling the cavernous interior of Cyber were pure liquid gold. It took some moments to focus properly on the melody. Indeed, there was no great alteration from the smoothness of the famous brother pair from Down-under that usually played here. So far as sugar and syrup was concerned there was little to separate the two. Shock and at the same time something less than complete discordance. Normally Ari kept the Gibbs boys toned down. — Maaass—A—Chu—setts.
Lord above!... Ari had been asked the question. But even before striding out to confront the man there could be no doubt; Ari merely confirmed the same. What the man was doing listening to the broadcast of the Budget of all things was beyond any hope of sensible reply.
The voice of an exotic song-bird trilling within the dark, dingy confines of Cyber. (Cave more than Café.) Outside the Thais tittered. Shortly before a chap at the desk was chatting to Ari about football results in the usual brogue. Tamil and Malay vied for precedence in this quarter; Hokkien a distant third and English out of the picture. Throughout Singapore it was much the same. A kind of English reigned as the administrative, official language, encouraged from the top; famously foisted upon the various community groups some thirty years ago. In the linguistic by-ways of the island one darted through numerous back alleys and lanes in order to achieve communication. It was certainly an adventure. One needed to remain nimble.
Here and there over past years one had caught snatches of the old master LKY on television. Clearly high order English proficiency. During the stay on the equator the most brief snippets of the son and heir in passing. In Dunlop Street the afternoon of the Budget delivery the extended peroration in those tones and rhythms threw an innocent listener into an ecstasy for which he was completely unprepared. True enough, one had heard the immaculate pronouncements of the Ascot lady on the MRT and newer buses—Please mind the platform gap. The Fin. Min. was a match made only in heaven. One assumed Eton followed by a double major at Cambridge or Oxford. The gorgeous green fields of England coloured this voice, polo, golf and cricket. The commentators of a couple of generations past for the latter game were recalled. An Anglophile’s heart could not but melt in the face of this repast.
Had the Angel heard the man? Had he listened? Nothing preposterous in any of that Gabriel?...
The good Angel had taken the remarks as ridicule of what happened to be a particular accent; a particularly fine example of the kind indeed. It was like ridiculing a man for the way he looked, or for a personal idiosyncrasy.
No Gabriel. NoNoNo, lah.
Tall cylinders with small numbered compartments corresponded to the columbariums where the ashes of the departed were kept, the angel Gabriel fluted in a whisper. Presumably one paid to have this catalogue on the shelf of a fine, ornate altar. One or two people were bent on the prayer stools throwing shells of some kind onto the tiled floor. On first hearing one assumed a pair of chopsticks had fallen. A heavy middle-aged chap had lowered himself before the altar and showed a solemn face that made an observer avert his gaze. A moment later the clatter of the coloured shells recaptured attention. Again Gabriel had the knowledge: appeals for lucky numbers for the lottery draw. After the temples circling around to the McPherson shop-row the Lottery shop queue there snaked out of the premises, across the length of the footpath and around the corner out of sight. It was possible the petitioners at the temple immediately walked around here.
A massive temple complex that looked far in excess of requirements. Perfectly maintained, clean and newly painted, bright and gleaming. Could New Year festivities, funerals and circumcisions support such extensive religious establishments on this tiny island with its tropical hot-house housing market? Again, according to the divine these temples were commonly thronged with worshippers, devotees, believers, what you will. After work, weekends. A stretch that Gabriel, but have it your way. Certainly the Angel did know his terrain. A good friend of the angelic Guide had familial roots in this very quarter. Once upon a time there had been kampung long-houses throughout this area, these temples the central focus of the old community. A short generation and one half later everything was swamped by the new order, the great, famous, much lauded transformation from Third World to First. OKOKOK Gabby. OK. Hard to believe, but OK. (After two and one half plus years one was unavoidably adopting some of the terminology and refrains of the locals.)
In one of the alcoves of the temple precinct the shelves were crowded with ceramic figurines that almost to a man—there were no female pieces—bowed their heads slightly and lowered their eyelids. One was struck by the uniformity. More than a dozen small, colourful, elaborately attired male figures clearly of some distinction sitting on a single shelf, all casting their eyes down ten feet before them. Five or six shelves rose up the walls on two sides, the same along each row. Eyelids prominent. This was not Greek or Renaissance Western man, not even in a place of worship. Here was both another time and region. Often on the roads and pathways in the Tropics these lowered, abstracted gazes were noticeable, and not only in the case of demure women. The shuttered, or half-shuttered, beguiling Asian eye-lid. One certainly was reminded of the street here beholding this side altar.
Beyond McPherson we happened to chance upon a tubby Tamil foreman working on one of the constructions sites, a new underground MRT in progress, one of two or three passed that afternoon. Here the chaps were working at 15 or 20 metres below; at their next project it was to be sixty metres. And could the chap have said twenty kilometres in length? More importantly, how did the tubby Tamil Acland Street busker from the 90's pick two Australians with a single, solitary Hello offered and nothing more, in the very first instant? The shuffling, winged angel Gabriel could not help feeling a sudden moment of self-consciousness. The goofy bushie hat flapping in the wind despite the secure strap under the chin, hanging corks or no, a dead give-away.
— But I bought it in Singapore! trilled the Divine, jumping the gun.
An acute working man, nobody's fool the South Indian. One knew the type. Down in the great Southern continent the man would have been the union Shop Steward, ensuring the young apprentices were getting a fair go.
On we marched, a pensive angel bringing up the rear. Wounded vanity even for a fairy sprite. Some quiet reigned for a space, a light breeze, the sun glowering. Someone suggested recently at the Mr. Teh Tarik table that the heavier tropical air filtered harmful dangerous rays on the equator, much more so than elsewhere on the globe. On this day the heaviness was more weighty than usual, the PM2.5 levels hitting 60 micrograms per cub. m., the newspaper would report on the day following, highest reading for the year.
A second feature of the day's program was to be the purpose-built foreign worker dormitories on Bartley East Road. Something over-much Gabriel had heard of late of foreign worker woes, discrimination, dangerous conditions. There needed to be some leavening in this excessively grim portrait. It was not all darkest night on this front here, by no means. The Asian context always needing to be borne in mind.
— Truly Gabriel?... Built specifically for the workers?....
A hissing Yea when the divine produced the adamantine affirmative.
We trooped along the narrow maintenance track of the busy three or four lane Freeway, Bartelby East, tortured by the traffic passing so close. At regular intervals we needed to step outside the rail of the safety barrier and onto the narrow verge, stomping upon the double orange lines, strictly single-file and conversation impossible. Being so long in the Tropics the guiding Angel was not familiar with Jeffrey Smart. Here we were in a kind of moving picture of those tableaus of the famous painter. To our right the burnt grass of the embankment gave way to scrub and bush where on weekends the foreign workers here would reportedly disport in drunken stupor.
The newspaper was still full of the riot of early December, the first civil disturbance in Singapore for forty or fifty years. Four hundred young men running wild, pelting police and service personnel, torching and up-turning police vehicles. In Singapore, where not long past dropping chewing-gum on the street landed a citizen behind bars. Alcohol. Uneducated drunken immigrant workers suddenly off the leash. (One of their compatriots was dying under a bus.) In the first seven or eight days of hearings of the Commission Of Inquiry the emphasis was on alcohol and the history of drunkenness in Little India where the disturbance took place; police action or lack thereof; inadequate weaponry in the arsenal. One young policeman who had charged a large group of the foreign workers with nothing more than a raised baton was commended for outstanding courage, exemplary courage, by the Commissioners. (More senior police had needed to point out the recklessness and danger of such conduct in a situation of this kind.) On the night of the riot the PM had high-lighted the role of alcohol. In the last couple of days of the Commission hearings some dissident voices were heard. The living conditions provided for these workers, treatment by the rogue Construction operators, racist discrimination and contempt—a range of voices enlarged the debate. This now was an opportune moment to inspect the better living quarters provided here for foreign workers. One could easily develop a jaundiced view. It was not all crowded shipping containers and flimsy ply-wood forest shacks housing the immigrant contract labour in First World good global citizen Singapore. The Angel fully recognized the dissident counter case; here he would introduce the other side for balance. Fair was fair.
Bartley East was a gentle gradient Fly-over. We might have taken the path beneath; the upper afforded a better view. A light industrial precinct at present, water treatment plant ahead, beyond a stand of trees further on Bedok Reservoir. Some liquor shops below; food outlets were perhaps awaiting the completion of the MRT's. HDB's would follow in good time, as the housing market was developed. In the meantime this six or seven storey building opposite was to be entirely devoted to dormitories for foreign workers. It was not quite clear whether it was an entirely new building, or some kind of conversion. A curtain of blue safety fabric hung the length of the long central structure. This building alone stretched more than forty metres; smaller others ahead were to be incorporated into the same development. Unscrupulous construction operators might sardine-house the poor old dark-skinned exploited foreign workers with a single bathroom serving fifty men—as reported in recent days in testimony at the COI: here was the other side to weigh in the balance.
— This was dedicated specifically for foreign workers, Gabriel? You're quite certain? Built specifically by one of the big operators?... Not a housing project by another name that might provide temporary quarters while the market was calibrated and adjusted?
The questions flew into the relentless roar of traffic, Gabriel only able to respond in brief, staccato affirmative. Coming down the incline later the Angel took up the cudgels once more. A feisty, demonstrative Divine; not your regular Lay-me-down-sweet-Jesus-in-your-meadowland. Here was perfectly good housing no mistake, at least so far as could be seen from the roadway; justice demanded proper acknowledgement. There were shades of many kinds in the Singapore story. The coolie forebears of the present day rulers had coped with far, far worse conditions. Far worse had they endured under the yoke of the Colonial regime. This was good, decent housing by any measure. Yes Gabby. To be sure. OKOKOK. True.
We marched on us two Australians. The absence of a McDonalds or KFC outlet was unusual. Neither the Golden Arches nor the Finger Lickin' man anywhere in view. No hint of moisture in the air. Would it ever rain again? one was forced to wonder. The passing traffic was no doubt struck by the pair of foot-sloggers, easily identified even on the fly as Caucasian. There were certainly no white hoboes in Singapore. Loads of others of the genus; all excepting whites. A floppy, less than handsome bushie topi, partnered by a rather more impressive, though now frayed and lusterless panama. Back-packs. Marching along. Passing motorists were entitled to wonder.
At the Reservoir the water level had never been so low, the Angel plaintively intoned as he surveyed the rusty brown marking the shore-line. A long face beneath the old floppy. There were elements here of our own sun-baked land, the great Australian continent. On the rise where we sat a carpet of leaf litter was far spread. In the drought parched trees were weeping copiously. Not since the 1860's, the newspaper reported, had this place seen the like. To our right young men with expensive remote-controlled glider planes were watching their handsome birds in flight. The blustery conditions were no draw-back, one of the lads answered the enquiry; on the contrary, the more wind the better for this craft. The week prior the Malaysian airplane had inexplicably gone down in fair weather. There was water rationing in large areas of Malaysia; the capital was affected. Here in Singapore with its treatment and desalination plants an air of disregard. Disasters happened elsewhere. Was it eight or nine weeks without a single drop of rain? February, traditionally the wettest month of the year, was like June. With the foreign sweepers here, ordinarily a fellow was lucky to see a single brown leaf on the streets of Singapore, a city-state rightly commended for its urban greenery. What was taking place within the soil itself, in the substructure of the island? We ought to have asked the tubby Tamil; during the excavations perhaps he had seen some changes. Could a tropical island sitting on the equator carry endless weight of concrete and iron mounted up to the clouds? New York and Dubai managed. Something like thirty percent current-day Sin'pore had grown since the time of British settlement. Land reclamation was an unending project. At the present time off Changi Point acres and acres of land were being created on a daily basis more or less. Alarmist Climate Change predictions were decades away: the Republic was putting its faith in technological advance. There was no stopping the growing Little Red Dot. Technological know-how, together with the famous Can-do spirit had created this modern miracle in the Tropics. Why wouldn't you continue to go for broke in their shoes? Rain however was needed.
Here the Angel was downcast amid the leaf-litter hoarsely whispering in the drifts of air. Along the water-line the very same brown tone of the leaves was reproduced. There could be no cheer in the brightly coloured wings of the young lads' planes. Only youth could cavort like that in the midst of this desolate, lugubrious scene. Woe, woe, woe. In recent times the suicides had fallen off at Bedok Reservoir; or else the reporting curtailed. Certainly the place looked more than a little benighted and doomed on this Wednesday afternoon. Not a place to even pull the plug quietly.
Wending our way through Chai Chee, Kembungan and Telok Kurau, at some point, mysteriously, for some reason that later neither man could recall, the curious subject of the accented tones of the current Deputy PM arose as a very particular bone of contention. A sharp, needle-point bone found on the road as it were. Here the relevant terrain was suburban, housing, crossings, overhead walkways; one or two front fences of schools were passed. Had schooling, the project of education and indeed civilization, at bottom civilization, been the point of departure for this particular argument? Somehow or other the dulcet tones of Mr. Tharman Shanmugaratnam arose as the focus of attention.
Prior to the introduction to this oddly jumbled community on the equator long Indian names had only been noted in touring cricket teams. As anyone of a certain vintage will recall, the sub-continent was not represented down on the great Southern land until quite recently. In the case of the Indian, Pakistani and Sri Lankan cricketers long unwieldly names were often abbreviated for convenience of fans. Up until recently too these minor nations were side-show affairs compared to Ashes or West Indies series.
However, even before seeing the Deputy PM's picture, the Honourable Mr. Tharman Shanmugaratnam, one could guess more or less the chap's heritage. Tamils were over half the Indian contingent in Singapore, the Coromandel coast of India providing easiest pickings for cheap labour. Ceylon, present-day Sri Lanka was another source, both then and now. Mr. Shanmugaratnam's heritage turned out from the Sicily of the Indian sub-continent.
Only in the last few months had Little India begun to be explored. Previously the concentration had been upon the old Malays and Chinese in Geylang. Then the December riot erupted and all at once the position of the foreign construction workers one had seen carted around in the rear of lorries came to the fore of consciousness, the Indian foreign construction crews in particular. No doubt the Chinese foreign labour from the Mainland had troubles not dissimilar to the Indians; in the case of the latter perhaps the relative position was a rung or two lower.
In the midst of all this trouble and strife, this concentration upon the contemporary under-class who had caused such unexpected turbulence in the usually calm Singaporean waters, arrived Mr. Tharman Shanmugaratnam.
Readers unfamiliar with Indian compounds may need some assistance in rolling the syllables. Shan with a rising vowel, certainly not the flat Australian; rhyming with "barn". Mug—again not the classic Australese; the Moo cow... MugaRAT—rhyming with "nut". And nam finally. Over two years this particular name was glided over in the newspaper. It was a long, long tangle. How to unpack? And what was the point? Was there any point? Wasn’t there only one name in the political firmament in Singapore, known to all the world more or less? Obituaries had been sitting in the drawers of the region more than a decade. The support cast was window dressing. Lackeys. Such was the judgment of the most fierce bloggers familiar with the Republic. The political royal house here needed allies and supports to be sure; those were bit players elevated for convenience, drafted into the business of government. On the streets of Geylang this was the harsh view. (Just the other day one of the local pundits was quoting Singapore as having attained Number 5 rung on the global Crony Capitalist Index.)
A fortnight or more past the Deputy Prime Minister and Finance Minister, Mr. Tharman Shanmugaratnam, had delivered the New Year's Budget to Parliament. In the run-up to the signal day, in the usual way, the Minister's photograph had been carried in the pages of the newspaper on numerous occasions: the tall figure descending a stair; crossing a foyer with the ticking-bomb briefcase in hand; in the midst of a scrum handling questions from eager reporters. Judging by the newspaper coverage and glimpses of other media, apart from the First family there appeared to be two key figures carrying the burden of government: the Law Minister, some month or more past giving a polished performance defending the need for the death penalty to maintain safety standards in the Republic; and this tall, bald, bespectacled, less than entirely prepossessing figure of Deputy PM and Fin. Min., Mr. Tharman Shanmugaratnam.
Together with the name the features clearly spoke of an Indian descent. Light skin tone in this case. In the pictures one saw the type of brainy, dorky school-boy turned slightly diffident adult. There had not been any fashion consultant engaged to spruce up the presentation. Indeed, the lack of smoothness, the absence of polish and shine—the pate aside—in the present age was rather attractive. It was possible Mr. Shanmugaratnam dyed the fringe of hair bordering his ears and around the back of his collar. On the other hand the man may have been young enough to be not yet grey. Brains and capability beat a pretty face any day when it came to the crunch.
This was all prior to hearing the voice of the Deputy PM and Fin. Min. Reading the newspapers, scanning the photographs and attending to the Kopi-shop chat, gave one only part of the story in the present case. On entry to the Carpmael residence the television that came with the room had been immediately removed with the help of the former boxer/now landlord, who had been a little puzzled at the decision. In deference to the strange habits of the monkish fellow tenant, housemates had learned to turn the volume of the Common-room TV right down to the bottom of the dial while they ate their dinners on the dining-table. In short, there had been no audio of Mr. Tharman Shanmugaratnam until the day of delivery to the Parliament and the nation of the new Budget for the year of 2014. In the case of Mr. Shanmuragaratnam one was flying blind and ignorant without having heard the gold-throated warbler.
— God almighty Gabby! It is nothing less than absurd. What? Have you actually heard that Ascot timbre?!...
The Angel would have none of it. An aficionado of celestial music and heavenly choirs, the winged creature in fact was rather a fan.
— Gabby! I do most strenuously protest! Please....
Gardeners turned their heads from condo entrances. Schoolchildren lugging monstrous sized bags cocked an ear stomping past, keeping their eyes downcast. The voices rose to a pitch and carried over this lesser traffic of the side streets.
For some particular reason, ten days or so ago in the Cyber Cafe in Dunlop Street, Ari behind the counter had cranked up the volume on his PC out front. Listening to.... an aria of some strange kind. Or was that recitative?.... Most strange. Ordinarily the Bee Gees might be heard from Ari's station, poppy love songs and C&W. Above all else the happy brother pair from Downunder more. There was no better according to Ari than Words and Maaass—A—Chu—setts.
Dunlop Street at the upper end near Jalan Besar, Big Road, late week or even a Saturday it may have been. (No surprise to have the pollies here working weekends and overtime, setting the example.) The usual activity over the way at the mosque. Fridays raised the numbers of course even more than weekends. Beneath the skull-caps dark faces under the verandas either side. Dunlop carried a couple of Backpacker joints that leaked a slightly bewildered, often hippy contingent onto this hard, earnest street. The long shifts and robes of Islamic dress was common, a mini Mecca most days of the week among motor-cycle outlets, massage places and various other jumbled oddities. In the booths of Cyber the clientele drawn from passersby. Ari and the boss were Hindu; in the minority in this corner of the locale. Behind the partitions the hourly price at the PC's rose 50% at Cyber. Secluded privacy, albeit tight and cramped, attracted a surcharge. Cheap thrills was the trade here by reports. The Indian working girls near-by charged twenty or thirty dollars—or their pimps did; surfing on the screen provided more basic release at a fraction of the cost. The night-shift was the main business at Cyber; still, afternoons and even mornings drew regular custom.
An innocent toiler slaving at another kind of inspiration found the locale rather congenial. On this particular afternoon however the foreign note arrived like a completely unexpected meteor.
— What is this then Ari? What in the name of God, man?
There was no way to credit one's ears. Mid afternoon or past. It may indeed have been a Saturday—unless the speech was delivered the day previous and Ari was listening to a recording. The usual range of faces outside the window. At the cafe next door the Thai Trannies were assembled, laughing, smoking and amusing themselves as was their wont. The Arab with the good English and sharp political viewpoint had earlier been in for Hello. Black faces up and down and indoors too.
The photographs may indeed lie: the Deputy PM and Fin. Min. may have been darker than appeared from unreliable newsprint. However that be, the dulcet tones here filling the cavernous interior of Cyber were pure liquid gold. It took some moments to focus properly on the melody. Indeed, there was no great alteration from the smoothness of the famous brother pair from Down-under that usually played here. So far as sugar and syrup was concerned there was little to separate the two. Shock and at the same time something less than complete discordance. Normally Ari kept the Gibbs boys toned down. — Maaass—A—Chu—setts.
Lord above!... Ari had been asked the question. But even before striding out to confront the man there could be no doubt; Ari merely confirmed the same. What the man was doing listening to the broadcast of the Budget of all things was beyond any hope of sensible reply.
The voice of an exotic song-bird trilling within the dark, dingy confines of Cyber. (Cave more than Café.) Outside the Thais tittered. Shortly before a chap at the desk was chatting to Ari about football results in the usual brogue. Tamil and Malay vied for precedence in this quarter; Hokkien a distant third and English out of the picture. Throughout Singapore it was much the same. A kind of English reigned as the administrative, official language, encouraged from the top; famously foisted upon the various community groups some thirty years ago. In the linguistic by-ways of the island one darted through numerous back alleys and lanes in order to achieve communication. It was certainly an adventure. One needed to remain nimble.
Here and there over past years one had caught snatches of the old master LKY on television. Clearly high order English proficiency. During the stay on the equator the most brief snippets of the son and heir in passing. In Dunlop Street the afternoon of the Budget delivery the extended peroration in those tones and rhythms threw an innocent listener into an ecstasy for which he was completely unprepared. True enough, one had heard the immaculate pronouncements of the Ascot lady on the MRT and newer buses—Please mind the platform gap. The Fin. Min. was a match made only in heaven. One assumed Eton followed by a double major at Cambridge or Oxford. The gorgeous green fields of England coloured this voice, polo, golf and cricket. The commentators of a couple of generations past for the latter game were recalled. An Anglophile’s heart could not but melt in the face of this repast.
Had the Angel heard the man? Had he listened? Nothing preposterous in any of that Gabriel?...
The good Angel had taken the remarks as ridicule of what happened to be a particular accent; a particularly fine example of the kind indeed. It was like ridiculing a man for the way he looked, or for a personal idiosyncrasy.
No Gabriel. NoNoNo, lah.
No comments:
Post a Comment