Morning Carousel

You need these covered Walkways in the Tropics, come rain or shine. They abound in Lion City. Very little need to get burnt or drenched in this unforgiving climate; and if you have aircon, well, one can pretend Sorriento or the French Riviera. (The beaches themselves might be another story. There are tree plantings, and quite likely outdoor fans, possibly even on the sand; then there is the water of course, surprising to hear in a recent report from a housemate, clean, despite the huge container terminal and the oil processing plants and the rest.) The fifty year single party dynastic democratic arrangement here is far from all bad. As the sweet gal who runs the cafe/upholstery shop in Tanjong Pagar exclaims on each return from Langkawi and Cameron Highlands, Thank god for the PAP! Otherwise we might be like Malaysia.
         But the Walk-ways. In this case through the Haig Road housing blocks off Carpmael. This morning in the eighty metre middle stretch two strollers, one wheelchair and a leash, more or less in a row. One of the maids was in a hurry to get either lunch or the washing on; the other easy with her charge. Both Indons, unacquainted seemingly. Chubby and thin; dowdy and pretty. Native warmth and loveliness presenting no difficult task to fathom. Hurrying gave a rapido smile; the more leisurely other more rapido still, because she was a little preoccupied with the older, more inquisitive child she was pushing. As often, on the lawn—let’s call it that—someone had placed a food offering on a couple of pieces of cardboard one beside the other, little candles lined in front, the Buddhist thing for ancestors still fondly recalled. In passing the little boy, rather too big for his conveyance, points a finger for Auntie Maidie.
         — Apple, he declares swiveling around for her. 
         Hurrying for the lunch preparation or the laundry, the young woman indulgently corrects the little man. 
         — Orange. 
         Fruit was certainly correct. Difficult circs. here for learning the imposed foreign language without added tuition, the Prep. Schools &etc. Not within the means here it looked.
         The wheelchair carted Ah-ma must have been in her nineties, slowly sailing below the shelter, a brief cooing behind at one point ceasing when the foot-steps were heard possibly. Ah-ma may have cancer, or simply lost her hair. A look of alertness. Slowly gliding as if afloat on the breeze. The tall girl in the cheap discount China-wear had found a measure of stride that carried the pair along as if they were mounted on a carousel. Odd the grace the girl delivered in that simple, even pacing between the columns. The shoulder of the chair was at a comfortable height even for a tall girl like her, acne-marked, a single band for her hair. A hidden light hand effortlessly propelling the chair.
         Strange to report, on the other side of the Block the doggie was leading a pair of elderly locals. Not a maid. A rare occurrence here that made the viewer look long after them.

50th Anniversary of the Geylang Serai Market

There was little guesswork involved here, quite a simple and straightforward deduction. The signs were more than sufficient. This was no ordinary guest, no local celebrity, minor minister or ustad of some kind. Most of the week the tenting had been going up; nothing special in that. A better class of cover, but much the same has been erected here and there for numerous community events over the three years. A stage had not been immediately apparent on first view. The security detail was the thing above all else. Only the machine-gun toting Gurkhas and Sikhs were missing, too early in the afternoon; they would be arriving later no doubt. Lightly armed more or less this scouting detail, with a number of female officers; at least a dozen at the entry on Joo Chiat corner. Metal detectors had already been raised; a couple were testing the long hand-held wands on each other. The supervisors themselves were a mark of class: skin tone, well-cut hair, shirts that were not off the rack. One Arab/Indian mix might have had speaking parts in Bollywood features: all eyes shining when he turned in someone's direction, warm shaking. Yes sir. Yes sir. All taken care of. If you'd care to follow me….
         Carrying the yoghurt back from the usual stall raised suspicions. Sorry, no entry here. It's been closed off. You'll need to go around to the other side.... No Sir. No I'm sorry. Please excuse the inconvenience. A large tightly scarved Malay at the barriers.
         A 100 metres she meant up Changi Road.
         Skirting around the side one could get back onto Geylang Serai and out following a young uniform. On the driveway Omar was found chatting to a fellow Arab, a Hadrami fair guess. Yes, yes. A VIP indeed. Too right. The Big-shot himself....
         A Cabinet Minister had been the vague thought; possibly a four or five star General. (Perhaps there was such a Malay somewhere in the ranks. Mr. Lee fils himself had long held the rank of Brigadier General. Critics suggested during his National Service he was driven home to the Istana every afternoon and brought back to the barracks in the morning for photo-shoots. Malicious gossip possibly.) The PM himself in Geylang?... That was a first in these three years.
         The heart of the Muslim quarter; no risks allowed. There had been a number of evasions at the Woodlands Immigration Checkpoint in recent times (faulty barrier); false passports of course in the case of the MH370 disappearance. The Palestinian factions had just signed a troubling agreement. There would indeed be Gurkhas and Sikhs aplenty in the evening. It was the 50th anniversary of the Geylang Serai market. White tables cloths, ice-buckets, cloth-covered chairs—a fair dinkum do. As chance would have it Beefy was encountered on the round back through the Haig Road stalls. Just as well the man was warned. Beef, if you know what's good for you....Even a minor league ex-con gone to seed shouldn't be found in that quarter on such a night. Promised to be a fine dinner looking on from the opposite corner from Sri Geylang Cafe (the former Labu Labi). An opportunity to raise a warm teh to the silver-haired son-of-a-gun with the nice duck-mouthed smile!
         A couple of days ago in company with the Angel Gabriel a pass had been made of the rear-end of the Istana on Dunearn Road returning from the jaunt over Alfred Russell Wallace's Trail in Bukit Timar. You know what goes on in there? saith the Divine, hooking a thumb at the window. The fencing, uniforms behind, military vehicles left little to the imagination. Separate water supply in there: Angel knew it to be a fact. We had been talking earlier of the state-of-the-art treatment and reticulation systems in Singapore, which reportedly trumped even the Low Countries. With a Food-taster reminiscent of Pharaonic times famously in the employ of the PM's household, separate water piping no wonder. Chap concerned would presumably get a feed there too at the function. One of the locals might be able to finger the man. That would be something. A photograph raising a spoon to his mouth. Priceless. They couldn't risk it back-stage. Had to be right at the Prince's elbow, plate handed directly across.
         Disappointingly, at half eight the look across the road from Sri Geylang was no-show. The busy man detained by urgent matters of state, apologies at being unable to attend the famous market first opened by his father....&etc. Changi Road had not been cordoned. Two motor-cycle cops in leathers at the entry a con? Looked every bit like. They didn't use doubles here; no whisper of it. Trooping up toward Haig Road the radio-smooth MC blaring added to the suggestion: .... the Assistant Minister for Youth.... the head of the Department of.... Substitutes roped in.
         One could understand and forgive the man. A Friday night with the feet up on the sofa, take-out perhaps from a trusted chef in Sixth Avenue, bottle of white under the aircon. Who could blame the man? Fiftieth anniversary of an outlying food market, for all that it was the good native folk involved. The Deputy PM or Foreign Minister was a stretch out here….
         Then, lo and behold! On the screen over the dining table at home on the return from the usual Long March, large as life the Prince up on a festooned stage presenting a trophy to the local Chamber. Ill-founded and unworthy suspicions. A tough task-master Dad and predecessor—one ought have known. Next morning the disassembly of the tenting was underway; newspaper reporting the government's firm commitment to maintain the unique Malay heritage at both the market and the soon to be commenced Community Centre adjacent. Motifs are to be added to lamp-posts and street signs; maintaining the kampung spirit.

Following the Trail of the Great Botanist, Alf Wallace

 

Gabby held there was no tin mined in Singapore. Bukit Timah, Tin Hill did not necessarily mean there was any. Up on the Peninsular it was a different story of course; tin and rubber had built all the colonial bungalows in Malaya proper. 

         We had planned to scale the peak, all 170m, at a run more or less; two dauntless Aussie explorers, the Angel in the floppy from Central Casting in the interior of the Queensland wastes; author in the far more fetching panama—touch misshapen after three years under tropical sun and rain. 
         We started on the Wallace Trail, cutting a passage through the jungle in the footsteps of the great English Botanist, the confrere of Darwin, who had shot all the game and bird-life of the archipelago for the glory of science and empire. A winding little dirt track that was poorly defined, occasional sign-posts barely legible and tree roots for footing. When the heavens first opened little of the rain got through the dense overhang; different story as we progressed. Utterly drenched and bedraggled in the wash-up, forced to take shelter at a sad educational site that was supposed to show school students here what a dairy approximated. 
         We sat on a bench opposite a large spotted fibre-glass Friesian it might have been, caught in the act of chewing the cud and switching her tail. A dairy hidden in the dales a fair old stretch. God help the poor students! 

         More authentically, Gabby regaled with tales of bringing the cows home for milking on grandpa's farm. The old man had sadly met his end falling from his sulky when his horse reared at a car-horn behind. Milking the frisky old moos one needed to tie a leg in order to be sure you wouldn't get a hoof in the guts when least expected. Mechanical milking even in the 50s was a surprise. The Angel though knew how to turn a teat in the direction of an unsuspecting by-stander for a little squirt in the eye. 

         Oi! Give a working-man room here!… Gab was eldest in the family.
         Two small pimple mounts remained on the island of Singapore. Mount Faber, which this dauntless duo had previously surmounted, at one hundred and ten thousand centimetres; now Tin Hill would remain for a subsequent venture. The twenty percent increase in the land area of Singapore since the time of the British had been achieved by leveling the terrain for the great land reclamation. Made it cheaper to build pigeon holes for the population of the former kampungs. Can-do Singapore. Singapura, City of Lions—tigers properly. 

         The educational notices plastered on the wall of the exhibit here noted the killing of the last big cat on the island. The task of the school-kids was to try to imagine that.
         Ah! the perfume within the few hundred metres of the Wallace Trail, the stands of timber, the ferns and foliage that was brought into one's being through the sight of the eyes, the scent of the nostrils and pores of the skin. 

         With respect, Third World to First in the famed thirty years has come at some cost, Messers Lee pere and fille. (The younger inherited the post of PM from his dad.) 

         Enviro greening of all future housing was an earnest government project here currently—roof gardens, trailing vines over exterior cladding, water reticulation. Prizes have been awarded in elaborate ceremonies to the local architects by their colleagues. 

         In that few hundred metres stretch of remnant jungle what would have changed from the time of the great scientist's passage? Not a jot, gentle Reader. Some swifts flitted overhead; none of the Freeway traffic noise was audible. The softness underfoot passed up through the limbs. A mini glory well worth the dousing.

 

Class (Komala Vilas)

K. V. two long weeks later according to the Chief. (Magnificent smiling gallantry from the time equivalent to the Troubadours.) Gone quart past three on another hot afternoon, busted sandal strap making it hotter. Thiru a couple of days ago reported back after a first visit, commenting on the typical middle-class South Indian form. The kind of place where the money-making imperative was not ruling and absolute; not entirely. The speechless head-loll of the waiters taking orders without any pen or paper was noted. (Better class places in India with those aids invariably got the order wrong, Thiru said.) It was something of a surprise to hear the characterization. Occasionally one found working boys here from the construction industry; a couple of foremen have been struck, and oil industry men. The gold, rings and watches, ought to have indicated the matter more clearly. Eating with the fingers, manner and behaviour, had masked the reality. In Singapore the construction workers cooked in the dorms or their illegal shelters—heavy 25 kg. sacks of rice and tins of cooking oil lugged in the gutters of Geylang Road nightly. Even S$3.50 meals and S$1.80 masala chai definitely pitched the place into the middle bracket, no two ways about it. One recalled Yanasagaran complaining about the latter and abashed at being treated the former. Still, places like Woodlands around in Upper Dickson and Aravinds out behind the temple were something else with their epic wall paintings, cuckoo clocks and place mats. Butter-milk just the shot here against the heat—the Chief had once complimented on the wise choice one other hot afternoon. Who would have thought green chilli and coriander leaf? Dark balding fellow opposite with dyed goatee and mullet very much the aspect of one of our Aboriginal ex-football stars dispensed with the physical regime. A definite worker, as confirmed by the Ang Moh Kio Council tee when he went to wash his hands. Some of the older sari wrapped widows and spoilt kids ought to have made the matter abundantly clear, together with the whitening creams. Almost entirely full-house, four vacant chairs across the room. Numerous hopefuls had turned on their heels after an initial survey from the first corner.

Kluang & Mount Lambak (Johor, ML)

 

 

About thirty hours in total in the town and a few more on the mountain, without one single other Caucasian sighted. Indeed Malays themselves were not numerous. Unsurprising all the furtive looks, helpless smiles from young girls—even scarved young girls—and numerous greetings. 

The memory of Taiping up in Perak State strongly returned. In Kluang the hills round the town stood at more of a remove and the marvellous old buildings of Taiping were not much in evidence here. 

Kluang was more recently built, largely post-war, certainly the town centre.  As usual in Malaysia, the traders and the professional class were often Chinese.

After nearly three years in Singapore the stray town dogs surprised. One old bedraggled beast crossing an intersection presented a startling sight for all the odd folds of flesh hanging from its body. A few moments one thought one was seeing a ragged, slipping coat of some kind, mud perhaps. 

Crossing the bridge from the bus-stop on entry to the town there was immediately a pack down on a spit of land in the middle of what appeared deep, muddy water. With the pedigrees dogs in Singapore and Australian cities the mongrels appeared another species.

A young Singaporean trekking group which had been joined needed to visit a mall within an hour of arrival. On one of the upper levels a couple of whiteboards commemorating the missing MH370 offered photo opportunities. 

A fine, helpful and considerate group of women trekkers, with perhaps some sense of premature ageing in the conservative Asian manners and attitudes. Preoccupation with food delicacies, cheap massage and beauty treatments at a fraction of the cost back home. 

Thankfully, the prudent gals sought out the simple street-stalls.

Five years since the last climb meant a tough haul on the steep sides of beautifully wooded and fragrant Lambak. Ropes helped. The monkeys in the wild were compelling. Later finding the peak topped a mere 500 metres was difficult to believe. The steep, perpendicular ascent chosen by the more toughened part of the group had followed a track that had been carved by a work-crew some years before.

Back down at the base local fruits and juices were provided by uncles and aunties at improvised stalls. Fresh and fleshy mangosteen, pineapple and papaya, as well as tasty kway of various sorts. 

The culmination of the visit arrived without notice under the trees eating the fruit. 

First an old grandma came over with her grandchild in order to get a closer look at the foreigner. The woman had three children in Singapore, one a teacher. Meandering talk. 

The woman was in her mid-seventies, same as the chap pointed out as her husband buying fruit for their party.  Once the interaction had begun, Grand-dad strode over with a long piece of papaya for the new-comer. 

— Oh, Oh! Very kind. I have just taken three or four fruits…

The man could not be shaken. Five minutes later too, back again with another offering. 

Oh, Grand-dad! Dear me! Overwhelming. 

A juice too had been taken earlier.

— Never mind, never mind. You try. Mangosteen. Try uncle.

One should plainly admit the wounding at the address. Like an unexpected sock in the jaw!

Yet, how to take offence? How? 

Unexpected kindness all these many months from all sides and all quarters.

            ...In the old man's excitement he had confused mangosteen and dragonfruit in English.

Only days later did the penny drop. Mangosteens were not in season currently.

 

 

 

                                                                                                  Johor, Malaysia 2015

Johor Bahru Delight

The kissing calls slipped so soon from memory. Even before taking a seat a luscious couple criss-crossing the room like love arrows. Crowded before nine AM, but luckily a table available against the wall on the side facing the old bakery. Three or four tables have been placed across the other side of the street against the rolled shutters on the opposite corner. Well-to-do biz types well represented in shirts, trousers and shoes, grand-dads and ma’s, perfections of children in cream school uniform—pleated skirt, bivouac shirt and tie. As ever a good number of Singaporeans out to recapture the past, at bargain rates of course. A new gap-toothed tubby Chinese waiter quick and light on his feet like the rest hung a wet white cloth from his wrist. Taking an order the man stands firm and steady, pointing to each side of the table to repeat details. Chirped orders called by the Money-collector on the other side of the street rise like a note from an exotic forest bird whose existence could never have been guessed. In order to convey a tricky double to the Hot-end behind the walls inside one of the usual chaps cries in a rhythm of his own invention: teh flat lower bass, followed by a teh Ohhh in rising falsetto. The impulse to leap to the feet and applaud the artist must be restrained. More than an hour one could not wipe the smile from the dial one thing after another. An old bent tree trunk on the near side carries a couple of red paper lanterns with lines strung further round; plastic tables and stools, heat rising without any fans outdoors, the old building's grimed walls in a state of disrepair—all turned into a whirling choreography of ceaseless, spectacular theatre. RM1.30 for plain hot tea—teh O kosong—splashed onto the saucer. Impossible to convey the uncanny glory of the place.

Dynastic Democracy

Sitting at home lazily scanning the news bulletins on the BBC. Tomorrow a hike up a little mountain outside Kluang, Johor State, Malaysia, with a Singaporean trekking group. Cyclone hitting North Queensland; Hilary Clinton ducking a shoe-throwing fashionista in Vegas. From Mother to daughter: Chelsea Clinton fielded a question on a possible political career... Unexpected TV infotaiment. Further fingering took in Michelle Obama's first speaking role for this non-viewer: a tonight show Letterman-style. Music for Michelle sacheying in from behind the curtain, waving her hands. The curly teaser question of the Hiliary/Michelle dream-team for 2016 deftly turned to comedy. Warmly applauded by either the studio audience, or else canned. One other politico-drama package was on offer on the BBC site, tagged - Why is Indian politics dominated by dynasties?... Oh golly! Gee....  
         Serious investigative journalism from the BBC?...
         Sitting here on the equator the net for political royalty does not need to be cast so very far: a short fling into the water soon brings up the Lees here; Najib following his father up north; and down south Megawati's ambitions for her daughter seemingly frustrated by the people's man Jokowi. A year ago the PM here was asked about any political interest evident in his teenage children.

Barking Mad

The following is at the request of a friend. This has not been the first request of its kind here on the equator; but the first acted upon.
         Three men in a car driven by the chauffeur. Three Japanese executives. Second in charge is the chauffeur's particular boss, seated in back beside Number One. In front is a newly arrived executive from Japan, never seen before by the chauffeur.
         The car a two or three year old Toyota, as far as the particular can be recalled ten or more years later. Tootling along in the usual fashion. After some short distance however the car overheats. Jaf'aar the chauffeur pulls over, looks under the bonnet to find water dripping from a hose it looked like. That's it, done for. There can be no more travelling in that car. News conveyed by the chauffeur Jaf'aar to Number 2; One and the new guy listening, comprehending or otherwise.
         The main action now: At this development the new man, just arrived from Japan, begins without further ado to shout at no-one else but the chauffer. BLAHBLAHBLAH and more BLAH directly at the chauffeur; all in unintelligible Japanese. Full force howling and screeching. All the man’s might involved.
         Jaf'ar stood and looked at his antagonist without reply. The Boss said nothing; the Head the same. Out of respect for the new man it might have been. (Whether the new was senior of the other pair was unknown; unlikely thought Jaf'aar.)
         BLAH BLAH BLAH extended more than a little; and suddenly done. Stopped; satisfied the man must have been. There came no more. The party caught a taxi, chauffeur awaiting help; and that was the end of the episode.
         Jaf'aar was employed as a chauffeur, a professional driver. Six years he had worked for the Japanese man; a number of others before him too without a whisper of complaint, much less a fit of deranged screaming in an incomprehensible language.
         Part of the chauffeur's duties was to check and monitor water and oil. Done in this case as in all others. This was a perished radiator hose or faulty clip perhaps. The workshop would soon sort it out. Nothing to do with the driver. Even a new car could present problems. Of course.
         No-one had ever spoken with this kind of rage and venom to Jaf'aar in all his born days. To this day Jaf'aar has no idea what the man said. The boss never explained and Jaf'aar thought best not to enquire.
         Mika Jiro the explosive loudmouth's name; well-remembered all these years.

         What Jaf'aar requests is that the incident be recorded and a question asked of the culprit. 

         — Is this what your years of university have taught you sir? To behave in such a manner. Did your parents teach you this kind of behaviour?
         Jaf'aar wanted the incident and these questions recorded. Bruited into the void. Some satisfaction presented by that it seemed. A plea made to a busy author.

School-boy Files 2 (Morrie)

This one insists himself for some reason difficult to fathom. A measure of the time past pressing more and more on the thinking; rapidity slowed somewhat by such examination.

         An unremarkable boy for whom one felt a secret pity. The casual ridicule and contempt had never been joined—never was the boy called by the name one of the more cruel lads had coined—Grot. But equally there had been no standing up for him either. Almost no-one stood up for anyone in those days of challenge, days of every man for himself. Standing up for the unpopular and pathetic was full of danger.

         We had Istrians next door, known to Morrie's Nona. If Morrie knew any of the lingo he hid the knowledge as the other was hid on the other side. Once Morrie made reference to this connection of the neighbours as if intending to build a bridge by the circumstance. As in the case of other school chums, secret rivalry was not so far beneath the surface, both in the academic and sporting field. Morrie was a minor contender vanquished with little effort, it was falsely assumed.

         All long, thin and pointy limbs, Morrie leaning on the pool-table relating aspects of the game that no-one else on the team had noticed. Tall, and one of the longer and more accurate kicks in the side, we propped Morrie at Full-back. A struggle up there holding his own, especially against a bigger body with aerial skills. After a point, as directed Morrie kicked out to the Captain on the flank with an accurate, lazy and lopping drop-punt. In front position, once or twice a game Morrie took a mark himself. Without a leap Morrie was limited; lacking pace he was often caught out behind; spoiling only average. Poor ground skills. It was painful and frustrating watching Morrie trying to paddle the ball; without a handle on the thing he could not pick up. For the tough guys Morrie employed the elbows. Fella wants to get smart? Cop that! Morrie raised his weapons without diverting his gaze from the imaginary ball by the pool-table. Little an umpire could spot or penalize.

         A precarious place Morrie held both in the side and school. In school even more so; perhaps by the skin of his teeth one of the also-rans. That failed to change when in the Intermediate level Morrie was the only recipient of a Commonwealth Scholarship. We had a bright year, the boys and to a lesser extent the girls. Yet after the examination Morrie was the only winner of the rich, greatly sought-after prize. (The school would put in a complaint; some kind of error in the marking perhaps.) In the multiple-choice, math-weighted examination, Morrie stood above the more fancied prospects. At the school assembly where the result was announced there was much private disappointment, secret envy and palpable lack of enthusiasm in the congratulation among the ranks. A rank outsider chosen. (Later Morrie would become a man of the track, a keen punter.) Tepid, forced applause.

         Morrie socked the beer with the best of them; held it pretty well. Luckily for a Grot. He was putting on some solid weight, Morrie maintained. Stacking it on. Rolling up his summer tee, proud of his tan, he showed off invisible rolls of flesh. There was a girl in the wings, like Morrie a lesser light in school, from an Istrian family herself. Treated with disdain by Morrie. They would have two daughters, Morrie the coach of their basketball team. Coming down the hill on Queen Street many years later, Morrie stopped his former Captain. What? A Bohemian? Of all the fates most unlikely.

         Finally, Morrie had put on the weight he had so long desired; it came with heavy dark bags under the eyes that as head of Accounts at his firm was earning him a sum Morrie preferred to keep close to his chest. A more predictable future.

School-boy Files 1 (Zakosky & the Two Johnses)

A Wog and goofy; bumbler. Bottom of the class and the playground both. Paul Zakosky. 
         You didn't want to share a name with the likes of him. There might have been sausage in Zakosky's lunchbox. Rosy-cheeked Fatty. Could the kid catch a ball of any description? You wouldn't play marbles with the likes of him. Last on the roll, never picked in sports, hid in a hole in the playground. Why did he have to have that name? 
         Paul Johns was as bad in the other direction. A pushover the same, but with a firm, secure place in the ranks. His mother was on the Mothers' Club or something like. This one lived near the school and knew a number of boys independently from his neighbourhood. (Kosky was out near the Bottle Works.) 
         Johnsey had his own football that he sometimes brought from home. If he said you couldn't kick it you couldn't. That's my ball!... You were out. What was the use of it to him when he couldn't kick it over a jam tin; couldn't mark. A push-over like the other, but with allies that needed to be weighed in his case. 
         Footy and also a school uniform for special occasions—grey shorts and sweater, green and gold round the collar. (One or two of the girls had the equivalent; none of the other boys.) 
         Johnsey's mother was older too; tall, big-boned. Looked more like his Grannie than his mum. (Didn't look like a black witch but.) The Shit-head wasn't easily daunted. You could smack him down in a second. Knew you could and he better watch out. Still gave cheek. 
         No brothers or sisters. Older brothers particularly, but sisters too was a red flag.

         The cousin Chris Johns was nothing to worry about; useless on the field and a Sissy. Blinky-eyed. 
         Chris was blonde; the other dark. Chris did have older brothers. (It was hard working out family groups and alliances.) Chris crossed Melbourne Road too, but right, not straight. Seven years of schooling not a single word exchanged. Chris and his cousin Paul knew not to get in the way of the ball. Watch out! 
         Years later the old man on the walking-frame going through the street turned into Chris Johns' father. The son had followed dad into the locksmith trade. (Tech. School divided the paths once and for all.) Years ago old bent Jeff had a shop in Elizabeth Street in the city; the middle of the city that wouldn’t be visited unless it was the solicitor’s office when mother dragged you…. 
         — You went to school with Chris? Friend of Chris's. Friend of Chris's.... You didn't know?.... 
         Heart attack in his late thirties, fifteen years before. (Jeff had survived his own in his seventies.) Went down to the beach-house. One of the older brothers went to find him. Widow and couple of children. 
         — You were in Chris's class? I'll tell Meryl. A friend of Chris's….

Twenty/20 Vision (Cricket War)

     

On the walk back last night from the Net place in Aljunied a large gathering outside Buhari Restaurant of Sri Lankan and Indian lads for the cricket final between the two countries. A few days ago a brawl had been reported in the newspaper at a similar viewing involving foreign workers, Bangladeshi and Indian in that case. Here the young chaps stood all of a piece, uniform height, colour, feature, all neat Sunday attire shoulder to shoulder fixed on the action. The screen was mounted indoors on the back wall of the restaurant, not an especially large unit; many of the condos and even the HDB's would have far larger. Three or four white cloth-covered tables only were occupied within, no-one giving any mind to the crowd outside. A century ago the hungry stood outside such restaurant windows observing diners indoors; in some places of the globe the scene might still play. There must have been fifty young men formed in a horse-shoe, in order to allow the swing of the door perhaps. Passersby under the walkway were courteously given passage. No sound penetrated from the other side of the glass; none was needed—the drama of runs, wickets and running all clearly displayed. Five years after the war there would have been many Tamils conflicted in their allegiance, Singhalese mixed and a good proportion of former combatants. Peace and quiet concentration reigning last night.

A Square Meal

No risk $1,000 wad the way to go at the Immigration desk for Era the Minangkabau currently. Once upon a time $500 comfortably did the trick. Now that sum raises suspicions and prompts a leafing through the passport, one page, another page, and another still. Hhmmming and Arhhhing. Tell them a thousand—CHOP straight-away. There you go. Have a nice day!
         Before the ropes were properly learned, before the money-show and the adequate sum established, the question would come: What's a (average-dressed no-jewelry) gal like you wanting in Singapore? (Entry via the cheap ferry terminal from neighbouring Batam—not Changi.)
         A-grade answer: Biznis. Handbags, accessories, manchester for the shop in Indonesia. (B-grade would be Boy-friend visit—especially informal de-facto E-grade boy-friend; visiting a sick aunt; holiday, the Night Safari.... )
         — What, you think I came down in the last monsoon?!...
         Six months ago the Minangkabau was denied entry and told she should not try to re-enter for the next two months. No evidence of wrong-doing, nothing incriminating. The authorities are not required to justify themselves. Suspicion, a whim, good enough. (Just as a tiresome, harping and carping author might be told, Sorry sir. Your Visit Pass has been cancelled. We'll escort you to the airport in the back of the van here. Mind your head and safe trip.) A year and a half ago young Lia was caught at the Immigration desk with messages on her phone from cleaning clients. Six more months before she can attempt re-entry—barred two years.
         Era's thou is borrowed from a fellow Sumatran family made good on Batam in the Building industry, a tenner's consideration added to the sum when Era returns the money on Monday. (Without good contacts Lia was adding $50 to the $500 on arrival here. No waiting on return back home—the Loan shark had his people waiting in the lounge of the ferry terminal for his cash.)
         We talked quietly using Google Translate for back-up after Era's supper she had brought from home. 
         Careful — hati-hati
         Aunt — Tante (from Dutch)
         Where / when / how — dimana / ketika / bagaimana
         Era has a niece studying medicine in Jakarta. Not nursing; medicine. Five year course, followed by a practicum. The girl calls her aunt "mother". On the phone recently from the capital she revealed the good news: Mother, exams completed. Fourteen more months to graduation. 
         Era the aunt very pleased for her niece and sister of course. The practicum however needed some money. Could the aunt help out with R200,000? Despite straightened circumstances Era agrees. Yes. OK.
         At home Era's own daughter wants to be a doctor. All going well the older cousin will help. Seven year old Angely continues her punishing schooling regime with earnest endeavour, never any complaint. Up at five for half seven start at regular school. Back home at one; lunch an hour before setting off for the afternoon Madrasa. Five return. TV one hour, supper and then schoolwork until bed-time. Always counting off her English numbers Angely, the days of the week and months. Not satisfied with being a teacher; firmly set on medicine. Perhaps she can follow her cousin's path, hopes a fond mother.
         Era noticeably thinner. Once a day she eats in order for the girl to get two full meals, chicken with one. No problem for mother, the child has been assured. The girl does not need to be told to work hard at school.
         All night Era's tummy rumbling after the large dinner. The grease-proof paper pack she unfolded that had been brought from home contained a good serve of rice, with diced sausage and some chilli sauce. A shared orange; pumpkin seeds — labu; almond and pistachio, all expensive on Batam. The angel Gabriel's favourite bean curd, bought especially from the Haig Road stall, was too sweet for Era. Honey likewise. Yoghurt too acidic and sour—two spoons, not more. We shared manga and pisang; an orange packed for the weekend's cooking at a wedding in Jurong East. ($150 for two days work. A good rate with a good boss.) The packets of mee readied on the desk were forgotten in the haste for the bus early morning. (On Batam a dollar for three—half the week's food for the mother.)
         In the Hadith the Prophet suggests two meals a day ought to suffice. Also the advice not to over-indulge; one ought not retire with a full stomach.

Inspiration from the Past

Another brief too on the fascinating penetration of First World notables and luminaries here in the Tropics: three candidates contesting the upcoming Indonesian parliamentary election.
         Yasser Arafat (West Javan seat)
         Hitler Nabahan (Aceh-born, contesting in Karawang)
         Martin Luter (North Sumatra)
         The original Palestinain had inspired the West Javanese's grand-father; the father of the second named similarly. (One of two Hitlers contesting incidentally.) Unspecified the particular case of the church reformer.
         In the same context one recalls the former candidate from the Riau Province in this immediate region of Singapore, an English teacher of many years in Tanjung Pinang, who visits Geylang Serai regularly, Mr. John Lenon (sic.). Using the songs and lyrics of the old Rock-and-rollers, Mr. Lenon went whole hog, officially changing his name by Deed Poll. (As noted in a Post on this Blog featuring this gentleman in the latter half of last year.)
         The bar named Auschwitz has been reported previously. For other reasons, Singapore maintains streets and roads here named after Marshal Petain, Clemenceau, Allenby, Mountbatten, King George IV, Queen Victoria of course, to mention only the most notable. But this is another story for another occasion.

The Big Spell (In the Big Heat of the Tropics)

Months past now regular readers have been banging the barn door down wondering about the annual School Spelling Bees that have been reported here on the equator in past years. To date news in the papers has come in minor drips and drabs, until today, Sunday 6 April, an extended couple of columns detailing regional finals just completed.
         In the north a young aspirant before the microphone at the podium, Primary 6 and eleven years of age, was reported throwing his hands up in delight each time he got a word right. In the south another, also Primary 6, twelve years old in this case, "kept the audience transfixed by tracing letters in the air as he spelt." No pencil and paper permitted in the contests now. If a student wants to visualize the words they require a good imagination.
         The lad who did the aerial tracery politely pronounced Thank you after each turn; indeed, even when he was eliminated the same. Suchlike behaviour causing a judge at one of the events to reflect: "There's more grace under pressure, and a show of respect for each other. That's what makes this show compelling: it's kids at their best."
         Difficult to argue.
         A sample of the vocab: dichotomy; cantankerous; circumlocutory.
         And finally an admission from the author. After numerous failures at regular spelling tests in Primary school, a young student one well recalls found the best recourse to improve poor, failing grades that never failed to raise mother's anger was careful glances across the desk at a reliable pal's work. That soon put things right.
         Such a bastard the English language, particularly in a non-native speaker household, much less city-state or country.