Far and Near

Old pair of scarved ducks adjacent offering from their plate of fried bananas. Excuse me. Excuse me, indicating with a shovel hand. Almost defies belief. Earlier a mid-seventies chap at that table after his meal rising to go to the counter enquired whether a drink might be welcome. Followed by this pair. Let us mark it down appropriately. Two quite unfamiliar faces late sixties, perhaps early seventies. Possibly they have seen this mat salleh regular hereabouts. Many unknowns here of course have done so, many who come only periodically from some distance. That their little hub has been chosen by the outsider, a scribe of some sort, well-disposed clearly, is perfectly evident. Possibly they witnessed a brief exchange with the dotty waiter here, chap a bit scrambled, a figure of a little fun for some of his work-mates occasionally. Possibly the small exchange witnessed. The one this side bearing the mark of some Chin ancestry back somewhere. Flask brought from home — a better drop likely than what they serve at these places. Cap shared for drinking between them. Like many others of their kind, forehead down on the table-top at some humour, the one this side especially, fully three times bending. Sisters or sisters-in-law; outside chance wives indeed. One has witnessed perfectly amiable wives sitting close together like this. Their positive joy and elation in company suggested something else. Shortly after on the phone Opposite pronounces kaka, older sister, whereupon the woman proceeds to hand the phone across to the other. Mystery thereby solved. The White outsider who keeps up his appearance, an amenable sort, gets an arm-chair ride, Indian and Indon friends have remarked. To be sure, to be sure. Najib and the other ratty types are not likely to be offered such grace and generosity. These will get alms and a purchase of their tissues now and then: not this over-flowing hospitality. Be that as it may however, nevertheless. Inevitably the thought arrives how much had been lost to dear Bab divorced from brother and sisters in the long years of the second half of her life in the far distant foreign land. U daleki bjeli svjet bez idje ikoga, in the far white world without anyone near. The far bjeli, white world was eventually assumed to derive from the phraseology of mountain peoples accustomed to prospects across great spaces where far distant places stood behind the furtherest veils of light. Living in the midst of a strongly established, deeply rooted community has given rise to a good deal of similar reflection. A substitute ancestry standing in place of one lost long before. Turned out the flask in fact held no more than plain hot water, twenty cents per cup the charge at these street eateries.

Done with Begging

The stout old Indian-Malay beggar in his sixties turned to some gainful employment in recent time. Bicycle procured from somewhere, decent set of wheels, loaded up this morning with cardboard on the rear carrier that protruded a metre either side. Small stack like that not going to fetch more than a few pence, perhaps only recently embarked on the day's scavenge. A few months ago the man's usual routine had been playing dead along the paths here, up past the Changi Road lights under the trees where passersby needed to step round him splayed out just like in the Splatter flicks. Coming upon him unexpectedly one often passed in such shock there was no chance to reach into the pocket. A few times the same routine outside the Converts, where on one occasion he continued lying through steady rain. In the last weeks of that performance the chap would sometimes stare up at his fellows with a look of bewilderment seemingly unable to uncomprehend the heartless disregard. A distinct change: more than once he has been spied now sitting at table with a plate before him.

Cheap Rates

Mister Malayu jabbering as usual beside the table, this morning's chief mention a new, cheaper option for his Viet assignations. Sold on the Viets Mr. M., fine, dedicated treatment such as a wife would provide. No longer interested in the Batam girls, had enough of them; Viets far better. The 17th his last tryst — four days ago he counts off on his fingers in order to get it right. Tiding him over. Every fortnight: “old ready”, he explains. Thirty for the gal and at the new place up a "ladder" on Lorong 24, just beside the fruit-stand, fifteen dollar an hour. Going a little over not a problem there. Weekends the beasts at Four Chain View have upped to twenty. Monday - Thursday remains as before, but weekends they've got a cheek. Good the Viets, clean.... On the return from the market with the tapioca for his wife Mr. M. shown the note scrawled earlier on the newspaper. Hang on, no, not 24. It's number 34. He can show you there and then if you wanted to accompany him. First stop after Four Chain, just off the corner. Small sign, yes, that's the one.... Old weathered sign had been noticed a couple of years ago during the hunt for cheap digs. Open staircase up above an eatery on the corner, unlicensed and illegal now of course. White guy would raise suspicions no doubt. Hotel? Which one you look?... Rooms? Who tell you?

Handsome John!

Nice compliment of course, at this ripe old age. Ta very much buddy, Ya. Chin chap in his early forties from the Geylang Serai market. Dad must have begun the stall years ago, one of the few "purely" Chinese in residence there. Fruit and veg. in the first row from the main Western entrance, most late mornings the old man nodding off on a chair in the corridor out of the way. Mum was still fit and able dicing, ordering and serving. Younger bro usually the Fetch-it man, a fine family operation. Older goes out regularly too in order to escape briefly, over to the Haig Road food stalls for lunch. Can't be married either of the pair, case of no-where to house a wife perhaps given tight living quarters. Quick with the chat, never mind the highly limited English. Simple modest living, established clientele with the orders known as soon as the face was sighted. Typically frank greeting, not the first of its kind. Chap fired it off striding past without stopping, keeping his head erect on up the footpath. Further conversation of any kind would be impossible. Hello. Ni hao. You good? Hujancoming; or panas—rain/heat. That was always the outer limit. Slight reddy tinge both lads chosen, eschewed by dad whose snowy white sat just fine for an old chappie.

         The common moniker had long been owned of course, not a problem, and far from the first re-christening over the journey.

Scam

Noticeable difference in the number of Chin Grannies up and down ceaselessly with the tissues in the two month absence. Likely this is what has made the Convert Najib more pushy recently. Some little exasperation with Najib difficult to restrain. Poor devil.
         Zainuddin was telling last night after an encounter while he was escorted up to his bus. After accepting a tissue pack from Najib in front of Darul Arqam a difficulty arose as the latter's offer had been of the wet, scented kind of product — more expensive than the usual dry paper. The seller Najib attempted to explain this one was superior, good for refreshment in the hot afternoon, motioning awkwardly in the dark to sign wiping face and brow with his heavy bag weighing in the other hand. Nine PM, traffic noisy along the road made conversation difficult. Najib was attempting to explain further. Zainuddin straining, leaning forward, failing to comprehend. In sifting his coins for payment Zainuddin had sought a fifty cent piece. The usual offering was three packs for one dollar. Like most of us, Zainuddin would take only a single pack, for which fifty cents ought to have been a fair deal for the vendor. Yet here was Najib bending toward the dim street-light and turning over the coin in his hand. Short, he discovered. The single wet went for one dollar apiece. Zainuddin was struggling to follow. Poor ol' Najib dudded by a co-religionist.
         Ya, poor ol' Najib, when we had passed. Word was he was given a daily tally by an ex-wife with whom he continued to live, and the new partner into the bargain. Some compensation money had been diddled on top of that. Twice Najib had converted to Islam; the story a little muddled. The conversion had caused turmoil in his Chinese family. Najib was on medication, disappearing every couple of months when he went in for a rest. 
         So many pieces Najib needed to sell in order to reach his assigned target and satisfy those at home. A year or two ago there may have been a whisper of some beating. Every night Najib needed to present his earnings back at the flat. Eight or nine o'clock Najib could become particularly anxious. Zainuddin was reminded of the sharp practice, the net within Najib seemed to find himself entangled. Poor Najib facing that dragon.
        This ghostly demon was usually roundly reviled by all and sundry at Geylang Serai. Najib always got good pity at the Geylang Serai tables. A Chinese convert: some little added consideration perhaps. Poor ol' Najib a slave to a rapacious witch who had installed the new lover and only endured Najib while he brought in the cash day after day. Typical Chinese. They would sell their grandmother for a handful of coin. Stolen traditional Malay lands. Turned the island into a concrete jungle, destroyed the kampungs and relegated the population to the bird-cages. The indigenous population, the original people second class citizens.
          The dependable old Social Worker and Drug Counselor Zainuddin however hesitated to blow-off the usual condemnation and outrage. Held back. Unexpectedly, though perfectly in character, extended his understanding to the Chinese harridan at home too. The woman was caught up in her own predicament, attempting to survive. She had a story too, all her own. Hardship all round, widely shared. Pity and understanding for all from the dear goofy Sufi grandmaster Zainuddin.
         Off the man went to fetch his Olive from the Jamiyah orphanage office on Guillermard for their trip back to Woodlands.
         Rich down at Aljunied suggested the Chinese Mainland Grannies were run by local operators, groups brought out for so many hundred on thirty day visas, which enabled them to earn so many hundred more on the streets here trooping morning until night. A tidy sum in RMB to take back home. Down at Geylang Serai they knew the pickings were richer among the Muslims.

Waiter 1 : Diner 0

Indian waiter magisterial this afternoon at Paul.
         Table secured against the window looking down across the paved concourse onto leafy Orchard Road. Lamp overhead, the Little Sparrow piping, Chin millionaire if-not-better wives with big curled hair.

         Wallpaper, windmill landscapes (understandable confusion), cold fire-place with brushes, pan and poker smoothing the creamy latte. ($5.90.)
         Change-wallet delivered like a missive from a brother prince over the hill in the neighbouring valley. If you will allow Sire, almost curtsied.
         Thank you so much my man, my fellow. Smile and raised hand half-way into the air. (Lacking courtly French both sides dumbshow must needs sufficed.)
         Black leather (surely not vinyl) touched the table surface for a brief, uncertain moment. Was the man’s hand removed for an instant, finger detached and lifted? Too quick to be sure.
         Look of appraisal bent close at elbow, cheek-bones poked. As if a hidden switch had been thrown, eyes beaming; brow-gleaming like a rocky promontory after rain.

         The momentary blinding enabled the article to be whipped out of sight.
         — ….Hey! What?... Come back here with that you.....
         Choked in back of throat.... Gasp. Swallow. Splutter. Damned cheek.
         Hail him then if you wanted to demean yourself, if you wanted to collect your four dollar ten cents you Cheap-skate, let everyone hear. Call the manager, go on holler your lungs out best you can, be my guest. Big flash tipper.
         — .... Oh. Here you are sir…. Oh!... Let me get that ten cents that’s rolled…. under your shoe sir. Sandal.... There you are. Have a nice day.
         Was he on four dollars an hour here? Costumed in Figaro servant-gear that was counted an added benefit of the position, new guy unsighted previously almost gypsy.
         Eleven dollars ninety for six week old LRB— priceless excoriation of the second-round Martin Amis on the Holocaust by the German poet/translator Michael Hofmann; another $1.70 for Pilot WinGel 0.7. Kinokuniya recently down-sized and relocated on the fourth floor at Takashimaya. (History and something else equally inconsequential chief casualties, as well as Foreign Language.)
         Ten buck average slurp like you would pay at authentic Paul on the Champs Elysees—established 1880 something—here on the equatorial plantations white sugar in brown sachet.