The Two Alis (May24)

 

Mr Ali the singer, masseur & boxer telling this morning of giving his namesake Muhammad Ali a rub-down prior to the Bugner fight in KL. Somehow the episode came up in the brief hello. Some months later it was learned both fighters in fact had received a week’s massaging in the lead up to the bout, $6K earned either side.

1974, during the Presidency of Datuk Harun.

A year or two previously when Mr Hussein Ali reprised some of his hits of bygone days at one of the Labu Labi tables, he also demonstrated the strength of his thumbs. Should it come to roughhouse of any kind, a physical altercation, an opponent would have his eye poked out in a trice by Mr Ali. Much strength remaining in the gnarled old hands he held up, oversized for a man of that stature.  

A glassy-looking eye staring out too from Mr A’s head. Had he been a victim somewhere along the line?

Hussein Ali bin Ismail on the name-card, in the other string to his bow specialising in Tony Bennett and Tom Jones, together with the old Malay favourites of course. Twenty-seven albums had been recorded, some now lost or misplaced. 

Someone, some notable in the fight game, had recommended him for the bout. A master of the craft, boxer in his own right, familiar with the local scene—perfect for prepping the two heavyweights.

Into his early-eighties a drinker now sleeping rough at the market, unwilling to impose on family, most likely. Genial, talkative. Mr Huss Ali presented as the perfect recipient for one's own Ali story; couldn’t hope for better.  

Immediately the man wanted to give up his chair for something of that kind.

No, no. Lord, no... 

Crouching close for the telling. It was a busy night at the kopi shop.

Back thirty-five or so years ago, the great butterfly & bee was still World Champion. Post-Frazier it must have been. Jets into Melbourne, Australie, the man. Putting up at the Hilton Hotel. 

Set beside the Fitzroy Gardens, Melbourne’s Conrad Hilton, in the days when there were few other hotels of that class in the town.

One night during that Melbourne stay of Mohammed Ali’s, early evening, the great, world famous boxer catches a cab.

One person, as the communal minded Malays said. Alone. Out to the badlands of Melbourne town where the orang asli lived.

The native people. Aboriginals.  Hitam colour.

As the name suggested, together with some blade-like features, pint-sized Mr Ali had an Arab ancestry. Far from hitam, black himself, and not entirely an orang asli in the Malay world either, Mr. Hussein. Strictly speaking. 

Good English. The greater part perhaps learned on the road, developing his craft. Plenty of the dark Malay tough guys—once upon a time—were in his circle. The upright Malays often gave men like Mr Huss a wide berth.

A dangerous corner of Melbourne here where the Aboriginals congregated, living rough many. Dark laneways, strewn broken glass, outbreaks of violence on the streets. This corner where Mohd Ali went one person, unaccompanied, that evening.

Gertrude Street, Fitzroy, back in the day.

The Australie orang puti—the white-fellas in Melbourne, Australie—were pretty careful about entering that quarter back then.  (In the ‘60s & ‘70s the street was in fact shared with the Yugoslav immigrants. Restoran Jugoslavia. Makedonia. The Roy Roy at the other end on Brunswick Street corner was run for a number of years by Montenegrins. In those days the bad boy Yugos could be found in the parks & tram shelters sharing plonk with the blackfellas.)

Come over from his penthouse at the Hilton, big man in a fine pressed suit walking tall down the hill on Gertie Street toward Smith Street corner, where the tram turned for Preston. Precious few resplendent notables in their finery swanned through that quarter in those days.

A raised hand showing the height of the big man. Wholly unnecessary for Mr Hussein of course; necessary however for the proper unfolding.

You know how tall, Mr Huss. 

Orang asli were black people just like him. Like the Heavyweight Champion of the World. (In fact there had been a bantamweight World Champion Australian Aboriginal ten years before, not long after the younger Modh Ali, Cassius Clay at that stage, was beginning to make his own mark.)

He go there see these orang for himself, Mr Ali. Somebody tell him of them. Many orang at the time in Melbourne never see any black man.

When people hear quick come out for him. On the pavement this street name Gertrude.  

Many, many come. Big crowd. In middle standing on footpath, Muhammad Ali cannot move. Cannot. Cornered like never happen him in the ring. Smiling.

All the hands raised up.  Many, many hands, Mr Huss. A forest, a jungle of arms.

Thrusting for Mr Ali so he could picture it better.  

Muhammad Ali pass both his own hands out to the people round every side.

Clapping and holding people hands.

One hand, another, another. Many hands. Reaching with his arms stretching out, until everyone touch this black man like them.

One person alone. No police. No bodyguard. Nothing, Mr Huss.

Not just great fighter, Muhammad Ali, Mr Huss. Great heart also. Big like a kuda; horse. Likely Mr Ali understood thoroughbred racehorse.  

A little bang on the rib-cage, underlining.  

It was only then that Mr Hussein revealed that he too had been a boxer. Not a “killer,” no. Mr. Hussein bristled at that suggestion. Man making a living, rather.

Started at seven years of age. Germ weight.

G-E-R-M, like in a cup of teh, Mr Huss Ali explained, spelling out the word when we ran into difficulty.

Seemed like an official weight category in the Tropics, perhaps. Too difficult to untangle.

In the amateurs Mr A got his start. Badminton Hall, not far from where we exchanged our stories. 

Big heart in Mr Hussein’s chest too, the germ weight wanted to add.

Knock given the shirt his side of the table too. (Not to be outdone. Typical Arab.)

One could have guessed that heart straight off from the songs, even in the croaking, hoarse voice. Lots of the Malays had numerous Tom J & Engelbert hits by heart.

The man kept a Quarto note-book on the parapet wall of the market beside the stairway on the Geylang Serai corner. Mr Hussein's friend Mr Joe slept the other side of the wall in a broken office chair, beside his supermarket trolley. Wild years last time. It was known Mr Joe had taken a number of turns inside. Unknown in Mr Huss’s case. By the looks likely the pair had been in together. 

                 Geylang Serai, Singapore 2011-23