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.