Scraps

Well-known old face from Geylang Serai hailing here out on the main drag from a crowded table. Even sans the topi, the eye-catching panama, the identification was certain.

               —  Hello John.

         Not just any John he meant. This fellow knew precisely.

         Dark, late-sixties, impressive dyed moustache; likely a shiny dome beneath the screwed down topi of his own, a navy kind of beret.

         Rings, thick-set, a certain lordliness attained years ago in the kampung where he was born.

         A similarly confident pal, though physically a much lesser embodiment, intro-ing himself as ustad.

         Unclear whether a joke was involved—far from a holy or learned man this companion, if  anything has been learned three years in the steamy tropics.

         The suspicion was confirmed a few minutes later when the chap called out the third time. (Second was to offer a seat at their table.)

         This on his left was Rani, or Rina, the fellow informed: squat, heavily made-up, jowls. Batam lass more than likely. Pleased to make your acquaintance. Short bow from the maiden.

         Numerous early release lottery leaflets on the streets. One chap leaned close in passing a hawker and raised a dirty look.

         A mistake deciding on the mee sotong at the last moment beside the proper sotong stall in the back alley behind the hotel. Noodles and little else.

         Mooning out at the street over the last teh of the day, thin crowd again on the Sunday, first day of the fasting month. There were feasts at the homes no doubt; the Chinese far more prominent than usual in this corner of JB.

         Turning to one side there came a shock. 

         — Dear lord above! A first this sight in these three years. Some seconds were needed to comprehend.

         Nothing quite like it seen before. The particulars of the procedure striking.

         Slightly built Chin woman perhaps early sixties, light blue tee, short cropped hair, cut-offs. Tha Han running rather thin in her. Quite easily she could have slipped onto the Footscray or Sunshine streets back home without any trouble; the St.Kilda or Fitzroy streets of a generation past. In hand one large orange plastic bag filled with goods. An empty beside it was being slowly, meticulously filled at the table. 

         Restorn Stor Tawakal on the corner diagonally opposite City Square, the old railway station now a museum it appeared from the signage at the head of the short lane.

         Two laden plates had been left on the Stor Tawakal table out front on the terrace. Angling first one and then the other, the woman scraped with her fingers carefully, collecting the whole of the wet, loose remnants. Curling her fingers into the inner grooves of the plate to get out the crumbs and the sauce too.

         Some pieces that fell onto the plastic table-top beside her she also collected, pinching at the strands. The cutlery she placed to one side; it was in her way.

         A slice of lemon was also put aside.

         One plate carefully and thoroughly cleaned, followed by the other. For the second the young Indian waiter had come up. The woman paid him no regard.

         Off a little the polite young Indian stood waiting without word, a kindly, respectful lad noticeable in his earlier serving.

         At the last he stepped forward and the woman co-operatively handed him the second plate. 

The Track

Sweet smelling BBQ sotong in the lane behind the hotel, a good dinner prospect should it last. On the corner around in front few Malays are in evidence; some mixed. The Chinatown quarter here is small and compact, two or three streets. Of course there are numerous eateries over the other side of the thoroughfare, the favourite opposite the marvelous bakery and biscuit factory at the edge of the Indian quarter. City Square the tallest in a thicket of towers here, nearer thirty than twenty storey. Racing guides spread at the adjacent tables getting close attention from a large group. Astonishing face and get-up sported by the Malay-Indian waiter. Chap has to be in his early seventies. — No! Mid surely. Weather-beaten and deeply lined face, stooped, with a billiard table green felt circular high-standing cap carrying something like a propeller it looked like first sight mounted in the centre. In fact it was a pom-pom. Eventually the same shock at this figure was recalled from over two years ago on the first visa run here when these presentiments from the distant past were more forceful still. Missed the waiting customer in the chair twenty minutes. Fairly crowded late afternoon.
         Poor fella from a couple of months ago at Sri Geylang, put up by his bizman brother in the hotel there, an incessant smoker with an Arab heritage, lost his mind here. Back in Geylang he either sat in one of the chairs along the wall of the hotel lobby, or else a marooned table on the outer edge of the cluster at Sri. Coming down the steps of i-Systems College opposite and once on the flat took a couple of knock-out swings at an imaginary antagonist. Carting himself up the street unshaven here, slipped a good deal.
         The first bell from the temple up on the rise arrived as a welcome saviour in the gathering of punters, tea-totallers and smokers stretching out the afternoon. Without having closely examined, the place turned out reasonable enough; there was no beer. The tables full of bottles nearer the hotel had been automatically passed over. Three years in a Muslim quarter had produced a definite wowser.
         Circling, underlining, notation, arrows—the notes over the Form Guides were extensive; the concentration through the afternoon had been immense. There was a good deal more than ringgit riding down here. 

Restoran Bintang Tawakal. The Hindu temple was partly visible through the palms of the comic garden walk of stagnant pools and coloured concrete parapets; beside the Hindu stood the Sikh. One or two of the chaps runs a book from the tables, following the races on a cheap Nokia that delivers results he calls out to the keen punters. A bagman is at hand for the payouts. A few minutes later an Indian tosses his booklet onto the ground in disgust. Couple of the lads had small collects.

         In fact there was more than one book, and further along back toward Meldrum numerous other tables and books too that had not been noticed going along; another Nokia in play. At the end Chinese checkers. Down at Bintang it was Indians predominating, smaller group of Chinese and only mixed Malay. The remainder of the stretch was all Chin.

Indicator

Two briefs briefly noted, carrying some import. 

         Tall, lazy stroller passing the table offers:

—    Welcome to Malaysia.

Inevitable surprise and caution.... Didn’t look like a beggar straight off.

         —…. I saw you yesterday here, the man assures, switching a look and tilting his chin toward the inside of the eatery.

         Almost certainly we had not spoken. Difficult to recall on the visuals alone. An Anglo-Indian was best guess, reminding a good deal of one of the Bosnian neighbours back home.

         Leaving after paying for the thosai dinner at Muthu earlier one waiter stops another on the turn to the main eating hall. The pair is of an age — late twenties — size, colouration. The senior, as demonstrated by his action, appears a tad younger if anything. (Age highly deceptive in the fast-track maturity the living for these lads engenders; one might add fifteen or fully twenty years for a cosseted Westerner to bring him to parity.)

         The senior has stopped the other carrying the tray, chapatti with chutney and two curries. 
         Brief exchange. 
         The platter can only have come from the roti maker in front; even so Senior has some kind of doubt and proceeds to lay his thumb length-wise on the wafer to check—the heat? Couldn’t be anything else.... Gives the OK. Yah. Go on, deliver.

         Dutifulness and high responsibility if anything. 
         The diners at Muthu would not complain even had they witnessed the action, wherein lies some of the import here.        

Decency and In-

  

Quart past five on the wrist-watch twisted around after the initial difficulty the other way. Much obliged, ta. 
         The other younger and prettier, slimmer waitress carrying luscious pink on her lips, stands a metre from the next table where half a dozen loud young lads give caution. 
         What are you after? And you?... Pointing a finger for the two concerned; not of course extended. 
          A male would never do that, let alone a young girl likely not yet known a member of the opposite sex. The thumb truncated, crooked on the loose fist that was formed.

         You?... And then you? indicating.

         Unmannerly if not obscene the other. The author had offended even a Californian Buddhist monk here more than a year ago—Venerable So-and-so—with too much poking and prodding of the finger.

         — You’ll make holes in the air and god’ll trip over, the mild jest in school-days from good auntie types back in the old neighbourhood.

         A Latino in the tropics has a lot to learn.

         Speaking of whom, the cheeky lads here also hail passing lasses with the rich kissing call. A chorus of four, five lip-smacks trying to get a pair to turn going past. Clearly parties unknown to each other; certainly not disposed.

         Only Malaysians give the kissing lip-smack to hail a waiter or friend in Singapura. Indian Malaysians too; but not Chinese. Usually friendly and comradely; nothing untoward. This afternoon’s usage was a first.

Uri Geller in the Tropics

First time at the Hindu Tamil place around from the temple, large echoing hall tiled walls and ceiling, numerous fans low mounted. Instantly comfortable and easy throughout. No tension here of any kind whatsoever in the midst of these broken, dirty pavements, beggars, street hawkers, fortune-tellers, trannies and all the rest. The struggle and hardship is everywhere; not the underlying Western anxiety and guardedness. Not the guardedness.
         A dozen young and so-so young Tamil lads forming an avenue along the passage leaning on the tables. The place emptied out a little within a few minutes, lads left idle. Plentiful hands on deck here as most other places in JB; at the labour rates for the foreign workers no need skimp. That they are Tamil was proven when one was randomly greeted in his own language. An ear bent for the second hearing.
         — Oh, fine. Fine. Tamil language…. Smiling at it and walking off. No big deal in this instance.
         The same complete ease and camaraderie to which one has become accustomed at these cheap places either side of the border. There is no fire-breathing dragon in such Eateries. The old Tamil at Har Yasin on Changi road was probably the worst of his kind, making the lads hop occasionally. Nothing fierce. An avuncular position invariably, as if the businessmen had taken the lads from families in the village like in the old days. A good, general ease and order. Interchanges between the staff like that of the customers, all of a piece.
         One young chap here with the red dot was flummoxed momentarily.
         With the papers one wanted a clean and dry surface. Nice veneer at a good height for the chair; backed chair what was more here. The teh had made a ring, but at a distance. When it was first delivered the young chap, this same, had guessed the working arc and placed the glass at arm’s length before the chair on the other side pretty much.
         At the register the elder thought better. For him the arc was apparent too, but over on the left there within better reaching distance. For you sir. Two rings therefore, fairly quick drying. 
         The spoon created a problem. Drinking from the glass one needed to avoid poking out the eye. Half through time to dispense with the nuisance. Knock, knock, knock releasing the drips into the glass. More or less dry instantly with all the fans aiding. However. Holding it upright some more, awaiting an opportunity to off-load. Some few moments elapsed. Chap at the register sees the problem first. Calls the lad, collecting the offending item himself. From hand, to hand, to hand.
         Lad unshaven, moustache, plain black baseball cap without motif. Rake thin in company-issue apron; not graduated yet to the one bearing the Eatery logo—plain drab inky blue.
         As far as he can make out it looks like a perfectly fine implement. Not five minutes he himself had picked it from the rack and delivered it to the table with the tea. A fall on the tiles would have been heard. Didn’t happen. Was it bent? He holds it out before him in order to look more closely. Beats him. What was going on here with this foreigner?
         Not understanding the reassurances, hand patting of the air. Puzzled. Forced to walk away, something from the elder might not have provided complete satisfaction.
         Colleague when he comes to clear the adjoining table taking especial care. Otherwise the chairs returned to their places would screech on the tiles, even wooden, plates, platters and cutlery likewise. Respects pen and paper like the others.
         Muthu Restoran on Jalan Trus. RAANI clothing emporium down the road.

NB. From memory the spoon wizard-magician had been due to perform in Sing’ not long back.

Like a Coke With That?

After only buttered toast for lunch fairly famished. Usual Indian place opposite City Square here with a view down to the old railway station. Exceptionally busy on this early evening, a Friday perhaps the reason. On the way to the Net place the offering was examined, nice plate of sotong, squid, done with onion and something else that the chap translating lacked in English. (Give the burger place next door a try next time. His trolley.)

         An hour and one half detained at the screen one hurried back; prominent place like that it was not likely to last long. Returned, in fact one found the tray untouched, couple of the usual veg. likewise remaining. OK. Good Oh.

         The same fat Indian attending had leapt to his feet at the prospect. Owner; not hire.

               —    Sotong? He hadn’t forgotten the draw.

         New operator. Otherwise the man would have been recalled; twenty visits over the three years. This time we made do without assistance. Having heard the fragments of Bahasa earlier the chap proceeded like a steam train.

         Hang on my man. Whoa. I’ve still got my training wheels on.

         Non comprende. Rattling ahead.

         Sikit, sikit only. Only a little can…. No nasi thanks. A plate, yes. I’ll take that one below the fly hasn’t crawled over yet. Yah, ta.

         —    Ten. Ten, the man.

         Ah. Don’t really get ya. But OK.

         —    Want makan, eat, right?        

         You got the idea pal. The sotong, yah, let’s roll.

         Again the ten. Ten.

         He was fixated, collecting the pieces carefully, gingerly, one by one, counting them it tumbled eventually. The ten.

         Oh, OK. Don’t load me up too high. What was this worth but did you say?

         Thumb and forefinger rub.

         Ten. Ten ringitt.

         Ten for ten then he meant. No wonder the broken record. A ringitt a piece. Sounded rich; quick calculation. That was over $Aust3.00, a fair stab for the broken, dirty pavement in Johor Bahru. The crowd didn’t look desperado exactly, not all of them. But none here would be shelling out ten ringitt for grub—add two for the veg. Nope. There had certainly been no sale of the sotong the last couple hours. Did the office crowd over from City Square tower usually polish that off lunchtimes? Twenty storey, lots of biz shirts, ties and pleated skirts in there. Slow today for some reason.

         At the end the chap may have flipped an extra two onto the plate in a generous little flourish. There. One or two, the second on the house if it was seen right.

         —    Ten ringitt, he reminded of the agreed arrangement.

A red ten and two blue ones. Did he think there would be some argument?

         — Minum? Something to wash it down? Thumb jerked at the gob.

         — Nanti. Later.

As you wish. Folded up his wings.

         Five minutes later half-way through the meal he rounded back. Observing the belly from the chair the girth was larger still. Kept his eyes off the mirror in the bathroom. How was he going to cope with puasa, the Ramadan fast? You had to feel for the man. We were on the cusp right then; tomorrow night the new moon expected. He had better tuck in the night before and up early on Sunday. The penultimate azan was in fact sounding just then from the mosque, sending a shiver through the fellow no doubt. There were Hindus in JB, many around in the quarter near the temple, a fine, elaborate one of the usual kind; on a par with Sri Sivan in Geylang. Ten to one this chap was a Mohammedean.

         No one has a meal in these parts without something to wash it down.

         — Coca cola? the belly guessed helpfully.

         BLAH!... Lucky the mouth wasn’t full just then.

         You kidding man! What’s got into you. Wanna get fat like you you seriously think?.. Poke in the guts in case he was struggling with the comprehension.

         — Teh Oh kosong alright!... You got that?...

         His turn to burst out in a gloriously natural and easy laugh like one remembered had not been heard in the last ten years in the great Southern land before departing. Correction: the last twenty or thirty years.

         HoHoHoHoHo. Like an audition for a Santa of the tropics.

         A white guy in a fine panama—an upgraded number brought up by Altaf in a hat-box specially—could only choose Coca Cola surely. Like in the TV ads and the magazines. The place was halal: therefore no champers.

         Nandri for thanks in his own ancestral language when he came to collect the plate and cup hit the sweet spot too.

         HoHoHoHoHo.

         Earlier the chap at the adjacent table in a large Chin group had been at the trash can twenty metres along. Still took some getting used to Chinese vagrants.

Durian Trader - JB

Always surprising a well-known caricature come to life on the streets, as if performing for one particularly. The old Chinese opposite loading up the car with durian.

         Ah yes, that was right. He could not possibly have been either the owner or driver. The delivery man or trader was more like it, stuck with the wife making her selection of the fruit while the hubby was having a quick teh.

The figure he made a kind of Weg portrait from the Sun-Herald Melbourne news-stands of the sixties and seventies: loose hair flopping over the forehead—dyed in this milieu; baggy non-descript polo, missing teeth with an over-bite accentuated clamped down on the fag.

         Placing the fruit in the back door chap knew to butt-out—stomping blindly without need of sight-line. (Just nicked the tip sufficiently on the lit end.)

         Fabric dirty over the paunch, heavy lines from the living; nothing missing of the stock medieval figure from any number of centuries past. Lady taking her time he was used to. Boozer in former days possibly, might have slowed down.

         Enter the hubbie in laundered blue-striped polo, John Lennon dark glasses, neat cut: perfect fit behind a silver chariot. The other eats his durian fresh beneath the branches of the trees in the forest.

         Disappeared after the sale leaving an old rusty steel prong behind for his possie, against a post one side and concrete-filled plastic bucket the other for the convenience of the next buyer. Easy parking.

         The Indian Muslim pillow-hawker from ten weeks ago still here. This corner between the eatery and the wonderful old wood-fueled bakery—the sticks either side of the doorway half screened behind recently added fencing —no doubt provides rich pickings. On this pass the man only carted a single item, wrapped in the original plastic. Tall, stooped, early forties and looking much older. The smile flashed was a development from the amiable visage that came with the trade. No good looking daggers in a business set-up, especially with a skull-cap.
         As usual, the schoolboys and girls in their blinding cricket-whites, collared safari shirts with epaulettes, silver buttons and matching belt for the lads. There was a retailer near-by, noticed a number of times on the explorations of the quarter. The soccer coach last night at Sri Geylang had mentioned all the new upper tier schools for the mat salleh over in Johor (Marlborough being one). These kids were all Chinese.
         Not unexpectedly, Hiap Joo Bakery and Biscuit Factory has numerous mentions on Lonely Planet and Trip Advisor; as yet no sign of the lamentable developments that usually follow such popularity. The elder generation still in charge likely. The durian trader had not been noticed previously.

Loner (14, updated Jan23)

The old Indian-Malay, short, thin, moustachioed. Tousle-haired. Big-time loner street guy. Unlike others, if this man was sleeping rough it was somewhere out behind the Haig blocks, well outta sight. On his bicycle he came along the path from that direction, passing the open window on Carpmael without ever looking. In three years he had never been seen in the company of a single soul. Once he began to be acknowledged occasionally a raised hand; once or twice hoarse greeting. Once or twice approaching for coin, he led with the upright forefinger to indicate his ask. (Pushy beggars immediately requested two.) 
         This morning coming upon him at the head of the supermarket queue, a sudden reflexive halt.
         No! Couldn’t do that. 
         Alone in that line and being served. Back turned.
         The girl knew him, addressing him as Uncle in a forced tone. Every day he bought the same, a small can of Anchor, two dollars and ten cents at NTUC. Cheaper than the liquor outlets. 
         The note and coin sat on the counter to save the girl accidentally brushing his palm; prevent her wincing. 
         The offer of payment was accepted.
         The path to the market, the river, the two or three little gardens with their benches. In the hottest part of the day circling bare-headed, shirt hanging from trousers and pushing the wheels only enough to keep himself upright. The man was regularly overtaken by athletic walkers.  

Foraging

After a recent visit to KL Uncle Zainal has returned cheered by the fine Islamic deportment of the gals he had seen there. Even in a tourist hub like Bukit Bintang, where cafes and bars line the streets in the central hub, uncle Zainal found good girls everywhere. Fine, decent, tightly wrapped girls and women in their tudongs that fell from the top of the head down over the lower curve of the breast. In all the malls the same modesty and proper attire. It cheered an old fella. Not like here in SG. For some relief and entertainment here in his own neighbourhood uncle Zainal is confined to the cheeky, forward Batam and Viet girls who come over on their fifteen and thirty day visas. Daily they traipse up and down along the street, jalan, jalan, cari makan. They are a feature of the locale, easy to spot, the same periodic faces and newcomers all the time. The Viets are younger, though not as young as those trafficked up in Middle and Upper Geylang; the Batam mostly middle-aged, upper thirties and beyond.
                 Jalan, jalan
                 Cari makan
         Three years now one had heard the little rhyme. Jalan, jalan was often given as the answer to questions what you were doing, what you were about. Jalan is walking; the same term is used for a lane or street. Answering you were going walkabout would often bring the rejoinder from the inquisitor, Ah, jalan, jalan..... something, something. In the quickness it was usually lost. Previously there had been no need to seize it.
         It was cari makan.
         In search of a bite is a rough translation. Google Translate has "foraging". 
         The visiting lasses here in Lower Geylang were always on the make, fossickers, foragers, squeezing a deal. Not what one was after at all; not the ideal. Uncle Zainal was disenchanted with that round. Up in KL the scene was entirely different.
         The guess is uncle had not been out of his neighbourhood a fair while. Retired now near twenty years, travel is arduous and expensive.

Wedding Bells

REAL LOVE
   WORKS in giant letters mounted above the greenery along the driveway. Even after three years on this island a shock carried. Fort Canning Park where the famous gleaming elevator rose up the slope featured the same Hollywood Hills inspired lettering for identification. The Registry of Marriage building stood on Canning Rise, the little wooded hillock needing to be skirted coming from the direction of Bras Basah.
         The house-mate Richard Ong was getting married. Early sixties was not exceptional for marriage in Singapore; an older Chinese man taking a younger Indonesian or Mainland Chinese wife was common too. Richard and Ami had a three year old daughter. Questions of residency and schooling made formal marriage prudent.
         Two witnesses to the marriage were required. The landlord Mr. Tan, away on a trip to the States, was not able to fulfill the function as promised. Richard's roommate was unreliable. A couple of work-mates had undertaken the duty, but Richard remained nervous. A reserve witness would reassure the anxious groom. In the event the two young work colleagues kept the appointment, all was well. A $15 charge was added for the substitution of the original witness, Landlord Tan. Never mind.
         Indoors the aspect was of a train station, German or Swiss. A pair of screens listed counter numbers and gave a kind of wedding-bells chime for each update. It needed a few ringings to recall the old Avon Calling TV advertisements from a generation ago down in the great Southern land. Loud peels echoing in the chamber.
         Neat attire was more in evidence than formal gowns and suits; these were administrative affairs, not textbook magazine romances come to fruition. There were a couple of exceptions. Two giant floral hearts, plastic more than likely, stood in one corner behind a green velvet bench-seat for photographs. Couples and in one case parents of the happy pair exchanged positions in the tight frame. Order and smooth functioning like a well-administered transport timetable.
         Within the room to the side the ceremony lasted a short twenty minutes, a young woman officiating from behind a large, colonial-style desk. The vows were made standing, a stuttering affair with the English being so difficult for both Richard and Ami—Sukami officially. Twice the clerk asked for the holding of hands and twice too for eye-contact during the exchange of vows. In this his second marriage bumbling Richard began placing the ring on the right hand of his bride and needed to be re-directed. Many brides and grooms would struggle at this place in the very same way. The older witness at Richard and Ami's wedding, a Tamil-Malay bachelor who described his Japanese proficiency as kamikaze—the chaps worked for a Japanese Tourism company—had pointed out the various mixed nationalities in the waiting area: mainland Chinese, Viet, Indonesian, Westerners, Thai. The various odd combinations were unmistakable. A multi-cultural triumph of sorts.
         Would you like to kiss the bride? the clerk encouraged finally. This needed repetition too. Oh. Oh. Richard obliged once, then a second time, too quick for the Malay-Tamil photographer. And the lips Richard, the lips. Richard obliged once more.

Poison

The width of the smiles on these old guys and gals. You don't get it on the other side. Men of seventy and up grinning like school-boys. In the HDB towers of course nada. A report in the newspaper a day/two ago described the familiar relations between the inhabitants there. Hi — Bye was about the extent of it, people lamented. Keeping of each other's spare house-keys, watering plants during absences &etc. Where was the old kampung spirit, the gotong royong?

         The authorities were onto it with provision of more seating along walkways and outdoor areas, art-work and greenery to be introduced in an effort to create an encounter, have people meet, stop and linger.

         The scrambled egg reassembled. 

         You could count on some ease with a tea at Sri Geylang usually. This afternoon that too was disturbed.

         Four tables ahead a pigeon suddenly down from the awning flat on its back—BANG—on the table-top.

         Long minute of trembling, fluttering wings and deep shuddering, until one last movement that ran through the whole of its body left the bird motionless.

         While this was still in progress another too of the same kind two feet away on the ground, on its belly again like the other fluttering wings. Here the bird could not raise itself, seemed to lack the strength in its core. There was strength in its wings, but not its body.

         For a moment or two it appeared this second may have found some crumbs beneath the table and between the legs of the chair. Pecking at the concrete possibly.

         Soon the gapings showed themselves to be gasps. The muscles in the neck were weak too.

         You could not avoid glances left and right. What was going on?

         More than a dozen diners sat in complete disregard.
         For a quarter hour the second struggle continued. A chap a metre and a half from the first bird continued at his plate without a single side-glance. Not a flicker.

         The Malay waiter eventually spotted the creature on the table-top and went to take it away. Lifting the bird by the wings that had remained upright he moved toward the roadway.

         — Not the gutter! No! Not for the Sweep to deal with later when he did his rounds....   

         In the last couple of weeks a female Sweep had been assigned this area of lower Geylang stretching around to the Carpmael house. Under her head-cover the woman showed an unexpected Chinese face. Malaysian.

         Instead of the gutter the chap placed the bird on one of the timber piles for the upcoming Ramadan stalls. Shortly thereafter doing his rounds at the table-rows toward the head of Changi Road fellow noticed the second bird. 

         That is strange, momentarily across his brow.

         This bird too was taken over to an opposite corner of the same pile where it was left to struggle a good long while, eventually slipping onto the flooring beside one of the tree trunks that had been wrapped in white plastic sheeting for the festivities. Later a passing couple pushing a pram stopped to sprinkle the ailing head with water.
          In the evening Beefy turned up skiting over a $500 win at the Penang races. Usually the big fella asked about the day's subject. On this occasion the birds were volunteered. No sooner the mention than Beef roared. Roared and growled as he did sometimes at sore points, matters that got his goat.

         — Poison! Growled the half-tiger, half-gorilla. Poison was what was involved here. The Environment Officers had been on their rounds.

         Beef knew all about it. The Enviro guys mixed rat poison with bird-seed and rice. One or two hours did for the fowls, according to Beef. He was against the practice. Mostly Chinese the Enviro men, Beef reckoned.

         Beefy understood the problem of droppings and possible disease spread by the birds—a blob of excrement sat on the adjacent table. But even so.

         At Changi the ASP (Assistant Superintendent of Prison), a uniformed purblind Tamil who wore dark glasses, on one occasion ordered the inmates to catch the stray cats around the place. When they had seven or eight in a gunny the Super ordered the sack to be dropped into a pot of boiling water.

         Beefy's horror and disgust remained.

Hard Lessons - Sharia in Brunei

Famously, here in Singapore we have a fabled meritocracy, level playing-field, each rewarded according to his/her deserts. Corruption in so many places in the near neighbourhood makes it difficult to comprehend how the people there can breathe. What's worse, divisive race-based politics, much contest and dissent, demonstrations, criticism, bold and troubling accusations. A few days ago a photogenic young Malay lawyer in ML had even joined an Opposition Chinese-based political party. A Malay bright young thing, concerned about the consequences of preferential treatment for her own people. Unheard of since the ruling party won government fifty years ago. (Unbroken run as here on the more favoured island that was once part of Malaysia.)
         We thrash out the matters at the morning and evening tables at Mr. T. T. and Sri Geylang Cafe, uninhibited almost entirely now as the days of capital punishment and Cold Storage incarceration without trial are pretty much in the past in Sin'pore. A little flickering flame of democratic optimism. There are a handful of Opposition MPs currently in Parliament; no longer government ranks filling all sides of the chamber; much closer to picture-book politics now. (Sigh.)
         The Angel, the Lion of the Isa and some others were raking over latest developments a short while ago beneath lavender and apricot dusk over-head at Geylang Road, warm, sweetened tehs lubricating; Anita drawing on an iced Milo. General perturbation at the reports of the racial tension on the other side of the Causeway, bombings of churches someone said. The young pretty Malay candidate for the Chinese Opposition party examined; the great consternation her example had created. Shia harried and attacked either on the Peninsular or down in Java made young Neet blanch; the terribly calumnied Shia. On the other side Brunei. Oh Lord yes! What to say about that recent pickle? One of the richest men in the world, the Sultan there, wants the sharia, who's to gainsay? The population reported firmly in favour. Sharia meaning amputations for thieves, stoning for adulterers, death to apostates and sodomists /catamites. Pretty heavy-duty. Over-blown a little perhaps? Can one take it seriously, factoring the four reliable eye-witnesses stipulated in Islam and all that?
         The Angel sputtering over his teh at this juncture. Erupting. Very good thing the mouth was not full of goreng pisang.
         — Are you kidding? Do you know of what you talk? You think this is a game? Grrrh!...
         Most of this less than perfectly articulate; the author has joined the dots of spittle. (It was the same who had raised doubts about what might eventuate on the ground in north Borneo.)
         Most unangelic like Gabriel. Made one wonder about the heavenly being's true position in the ranks, momentarily.
         Long story short, years ago the Angel had been walking the earth in a closer approximation to human form, walking the earth, the sidewalk, in Banda Aceh in this case on the northern tip of Sumatra in a small party in search of taxi.
         Not such a lot about. Not in Banda Aceh—the Verandah of Islam. (The Arab traders in their dhows had made landfall in S-E Asia first of all in Aceh.) Finally, finally. On the horizon. Yes! Yes, wheels.
         No-one beat the Angel in seeing the opportunity, raising the arm. Hoy there! Hey! HEY!
         Christ almighty! Stone the crows! Unwittingly.
         How was the unenlightened man to know?
         In order to hail the approaching conveyance the Angel had raised high the arm, waving the hand like a fan while bouncing on the balls of his feet.
         As one immediately the lads roundabout jumped on him, on the Angel's offending limb and in particular hand.
         Pounce. Gabby disappeared as if plucked by his maker in a single scoop.
         Thank the lord none of the chaps had been holding a sharp object at the time.
         — Get out man! Down! You wan your kepala detached from your trunk?!...
         — ….What?... How?... Gentlemen if you please…. When the man could speak. Garbled again. 
         Not five minutes since the party had risen from the convivial dinner table.
         — Not the left sir. No. No under any circs. God forbid....
         It needed a short few minutes to explain…. Oh, poor Angel blinking, more white than white sheets washed in coconut milk, every last bit of colour drained….Golly what a fright!
         ....Raising the left like that. Offered to the street, to the passing traffic, for all eyes to see…. Hand with which one.... cleans oneself. Beneath…. What in God's name could the man have been thinking? Entire company's lives at hazard…. Ooooh.... Such a polite considerate chappie ordinarily.
         In Banda Aceh under sharia they didn't mess around even a quart century ago. Lived to tell the tale thankfully our Gab. Dark cloud descending upon Brunei now.