Chair

Chap standing behind at Al Wadi unnerved somewhat. Immediately behind in the passage and not budging. Two minutes, five minutes and more. Indian or Bangla. (Turned out latter). A member of a local Islamic community might have been listening to radicalized muftis in a number of locations across the globe, from any number of sources. Taking a head on the street like that—perhaps an accomplice filming from the corner—made a large statement of protest and revenge for what his people have been enduring.... Seemed to be watching the EPL on the screen, but at such a distance? The Indians were less entranced by that game.... Surprised and hesitating to take a seat. Ah. Well, OK then. Thank you, sir. Many of the construction sites and industrial quarters had closed down early for NY, the engineers and managers needing some respite—in fact two days off and then the weekend in the present instance. Endless replays on the screen last few days unseen by this fan. Big Centre-back Ivanovic for the blue team the dill penalized for handball, hanging his head; teammate half-heartedly protesting; kicker stuttering in his approach but in the end ramming past the hapless goalie and running into the corner with a celebratory sign to the delight of supporters. Played and played and played again at Al Wadi. Stiff shit big Branislav, you screwed up. Classic Serb looking a lot like neighbour Rade back in Melbourne, up-scale lump here.... Ya, of course. Taking a seat as a non-customer made a chap nervous, naturally. Using the facilities, soaking up the comfort and entertainment. Ninety cent tea converting to Bangladeshi taka was??... A few minutes previous while still on his feet he had noticed the photograph of his co-religionist refugees catching rainwater in their hands and bottles from under a canvas sheet in a camp in Myanmar carried by the Straits Times in a photo summary of the year gone. After commiserating together it was not difficult to put the man at ease on departure. A hand was extended. Rounding back by chance two hours later there he was still in the same seat, at a loose end on a free day.

True Fan (Indian Cricket)

Lunch crowd thinning quickly at K.V. First few spoonfuls of the rasam surveying the tables one was about to say a chap always felt warm in that place! Such has been the delightful cool of recent days here on the equator. With only short bursts of rain not much evidence of the nor‘westly monsoon. A couple of days ago a bold and brilliantly illumined moon low in the east and slow-rising. A boy at the Haig bus-stop the other night must have sighted it a day or two before, because he was drawing mummy's attention to a corner of the sky where he was hoping for re-appearance. Rather touching: there were at least two of us on the island taking note. With some opportunity in the respite, Shanmugam rounded for a couple of chats. Lad had noticed the absence last few days and well-knew the reason. Sly smiles. Thankfully the white collared Colorado shirt had been donned for lunch. At Al Wadi in the morning there had been close scrutiny from Zaharuddin at the counter. A passing look in the mirror preparing for the second outing provided a shock when the loose collar of the KL Islamic Museum tee showed big-toothed Ni's marks of passion from the day before. Odd for Zaharuddin, a father of four young children, to see on a professional Westerner and an intellectual of sorts. (In younger years Zaharuddin had studied Arabic seven years in Syria and then one more year in Egypt. We were fixing for a meeting and chat.) Cricket it was again with Shanmugam; other subject matter quickly ran dry. The New Zealand lad Guptill had made a quick-fire half century the day before, almost in world record time: a mention on ABC online. Fellow didn't know how close he was till the last few balls, Mugam knew. Pity. Record gone begging. Wasn't the lad an all-rounder?... Yes, earlier in his career. Now solely a batsman. Not a Tamil by any chance?... Brought head-lolling assent. What, Tamil? Guptill a Tamil?... Ah. Born in India was he?... No, parents or grandparents; immigrated. In earlier conversations Shanmugam had bemoaned the kind of deracination that occurred with immigration. Often enough at Komala a Chindian entered who would have no idea of his heritage. With Shanmugam's assistance one was slowly beginning to discern. Shanmugam twisted his head like a pony in those instances. So Guptill almost a world record. The performance would have made it into Tabla on the Friday, had it been realized, whether or not young Guptill acknowledged his ancestry. Another thing too on Guptill was it? Shanmugam's heavily chewed English could not be comprehended immediately. When Mug bent close to deliver one was often surprised by the level of vocab. It was only pronunciation that continued to snag. Twice incomprehensible here brought Mugam around the table into the narrow passage in order to show his sandalled foot... Oh. Oh. Young Guptill missing one or more toes from one of his feet? Really?... Well golly. It had not stopped the young champ's progress; almost a world record. Claimed by the people from the land of his forebears, however young Guptill might conceive of himself. Bright Tamil star. Shanmugam was a proper aficionado. Australia v. West Indies meanwhile at the G? Last time Mugam looked Windies were seven down second innings. Not much of interest there, though there was more than one Indian name in that line-up too.

Somebody - Nobody

Us And Them cursive in gold on black carried by the beefy lad at the phone and accessories store on the walk-through for the aircon at City Plaza. Cheap items even in the higher design range, small businessmen can don a new, crisp and unfaded one with tight collar once a week. The scribe too tired to record a number of others introduced into the neighbourhood the month. Second language composers up in HK or the studios across the Pearl delta one guesses, magpie pickings in the exploration of the master culture/foreign language. Urban Groove New York a variation on the commonplace theme borne by a mainland lass getting on the bus at upper Geylang. Vandal Is Going To Destroy The World black gothic represented by a younger local still trying to find his feet in hipsterdom and of course struggling in the strangulating environment. (This lad wants to offer his girl advice on some recent trouble in either her friendship or work group.) Quite absent at any of the Komala Vilas tables half an hour later lunching. Interestingly, one finds the Indians far less prone to such faltering billboard tees; whether locals or the imported labour. Garish colour and thrown-together patterning are enough to take the fancy of this cohort. It is the local Chins, and then to a lesser extent the foreign talent from the region—not the labourers—striving for the Euro-Ameri leg-up to somewhere/anywhere. The locals, once Chinese, in the steamy hot air now feeling for something other. Straining. Identity, precious commodity not automatically conferred even with money and other top-shelf signifiers. Casting around, marooned on this castaway island. I AM SOMEBODY they wanna declare, they will assert. A tee often presses the case that cannot be made otherwise. FULL OF HIDDEN TALENTS Tick behind prison bars white on black said a lot—young fella at the Guillemard stop opposite Versailles condo in the triangle with Waterina and Sunny Views returning…. Somehow the ol’ fave here had unaccountably slipped from memory: NOBODY IS PERFECT/I AM NOBODY, mostly proclaimed by dowdy dads and prematurely aged teens foot-dragging along the pavements and through the malls. Painful wry acknowledgement that can make a observer well and truly wince. Luck Is Where PREPARATION Meets Opportunity weekend wear on a clean-cut, fresh-faced local aspirant no-one will believe of course, purchased and carried hopefully. The success of the Sing’ model thirty years flat-out in the making, leaving only the final riddle unanswered: Who/What are we? Aren’t we somebody too? Government PR sleeves rolled-up working overtime as usual.

Necessary Counters

Two greetings of the season offered this morning, both at the Cheers shop at the Haig picking up the newspaper. Only one guy in this neighbourhood dutifully, compulsively reads all the passing tees for all they can offer of clues to identity. The KL Islamic Museum blue /white of ancient Arabic script in large font would have told even only the functionally literate this morning with a merest glance. Surely…. (Sad to report, thus far only the single first letter has been mastered—alif. Currently, Brighton U.K. Blogger Graham Askey, met in Jogja the year before, was understandably struggling with the acquisition at a study centre in Alexandria.) In Melbourne the Jews and the Greeks—before the latter switched to the Gregorian calendar for Chrissy, while still retaining the Julian for Easter! — always provided good, much needed cover on the 25th. Firm, steadfast allies. Here of course the Mussies and later down the road in Middle Geylang it will be the Mainland Chin foreign workers. (These mostly Maoists from the construction sites with their ways of ages past continue to delight wherever they are found, regardless of language barrier.) All highly necessary counters to what has been made of this putative birthday of Christ the Scourge and Redeemer. Odd and exceedingly strange—no one had remarked upon the matter thus far— this year in fact the occasion closely coinciding with that of the Prophet’s own birthday too, here at least on the Equator: among the local Malays marked as the 24th. (Elsewhere in the Muslim world various other calendric markings in this instance too.) An auspicious, uncommon unity one would guess—completely ignored. Beautifully rhythmic supplications again last night flowing across the lane from the madrasa behind the hotel through the opened bathroom window, reminiscent once more of nothing as much as the Ashkenazi choristers down in Melbourne. Further unity again! The final maulid prayers proper had been the night before.

NB. “Christmas Chic” was the feature in the Life! segment of the Straits Times today. Colouful decorations erected in the higher end bungalows and condos by the domestic helpers, the report fails to note.

NB. 2 Christmas in most of the Orthodox world occurs on January 7 of the modern calendar.

Untouchable

No need get your nose outta joint. None at all. Far worse earlier in the afternoon the pimp down at Fei Du blaring gruffly, ordering his two young Viets around, the woman serving and his partner in crime/procurer, who spoke the girls’ language. As if filling out the caricature, at one point the man actually trumpeted a porcine HONK-HONK without any prompting. The slight surprise shortly after at the Arab cosmetic place at Tanjong Katong Complex was in the fact that it was another woman serving today, this one younger, unmade-up, heavier and taller. Lady in this instance got around the problem there in her own particular way. Soaps, shampoos, creams; &etc. A small $1.20 goats milk proved excellent for shaving; rich lather. (Likely also valued for whitening.) The older, made-up woman with the tattooed eye-brows when she receives the cash will tell you, Put it there. The last time seemingly pointing at the sloping register keys, which made for a bit of awkwardness for coin. The woman today perhaps sixty; sister-in-law or sister from another mother, possibly. Though she could not be recalled, for the transaction at the register she seemed to be prepared. Immediately knew the price of the article, without checking. From her left a clean, unused, plastic curry container, the dish with the inner grooves that many of the Indian places used for condiments. Directions not offered, likely recalling the kaffir regular.

Maulid (Prophet's Birthday)

Truly good listening here currently Gabby, this crew really getting somewheres. Get yrself some of it in the next day/two, a ML specialist like yerself has a gap in the acquaintance if you don have this in yr knowing. Plenty good; strong, sincere voices. Lucky people, they'll all come away the better for it tonight and sleep well. Only thing I can compare it to is the male yeshiva boys evenings in St. Kilda, Melbourne, more raucous in that case. This has a finer lilt. Bathroom window open on the lane. Reckon they're indoors somewhere and the prayer and song of praise passing through the numerous walls, descending from one of the upper storeys it sounds like. Gee, it's good. Women would be proud of their men watching and listening. It's all male that one can hear (they tell me women add their voices from the side). How do they keep it up so long? Choir must be sectioned. Reckon it's to the effect, — God/Allah raise him up.... Or maybe, Our dear Allah, thy will prevails, light our ways, show the path LALA LUUHHLUU.... Might be some clapping or feet stomping at the end here too a little. Yes, they've wound down. The Ashkenazis would stomp energetically as part of their performance. Lovely. Cars filled the lorong. On the corner at the eatery the poor old Chins will be bent over their beer and pork crackers. Lifted the spirits of this listener opposite. How much more the participants themselves! Gone half eleven. Made them thirsty and hungry. There they are now quietly milling in the girls' outdoor lunch area in their white tunics and caps, soundless from behind this glass here and I'll warrant down on the ground among them. They're spent, pleasurably exhausted.... Almost eleven o'clock, mix of young and older men; some making off to their cars and the buses. A certain inevitable envy.

NB. In the approach to the Prophet's birthday Muslims gather for these recitals, often in school halls and community centres rather than mosques. In this case Thursday night a girls' madrasa in Geylang.

Puppies For Sale

Story in the paper last couple of days concerning a case before the courts of an Orchard business couple starving their Filipina maid over a number of years. When they went on holidays and ate at restaurants for the maid they took along her usual fare of Maggi instant noodles. Striding off for the fruit after the newspaper and morning teh the corner agency again stabbing at the brain as it has done the last year since it opened. Familiar scene observed on numerous occasions. One side the girl was on her knees outside cleaning the front window; given some occupation during downtime. At the adjacent agency woman behind the desk was occupied with a prospective couple in the market, while opposite three or four girls, one well into her thirties, were on the floor cleaning the Lego pieces from the toy-box. Working smartly the crew, lifting each individual lolly-coloured piece and RubRubRubADubDub like they were taught in training. Colours made to gleam. (They would need to keep a sharp eye-out for infants playing with that kind of hazard.) All in readiness then for the young royals whenever a chance visit occurred. The pair at the counter seemed to be still uncertain, but judging from what they could observe behind their flat would be spanking clean were they to choose any of these willing workers. On the weekend Zainuddin had come to the table from that side fuming after what he had witnessed in passing. According to Zainuddin the operator, the scarved middle-aged thin woman who ran the corner maid agency, had just returned and on entry the girls within had suddenly leapt to their feet and stood at attention. Not a prospective employer: Zainuddin knew the principal there, he had passed often enough. Man outraged. A co-religionist creating such abhorrent mastery over underlings. How many times had Din told of the Prophet's great care and kindness over his servants? Hadn't Mohammed freed one of his man-servants as an example to his followers? With her colourful scarf and whatnot clearly the business-woman knew nothing whatever of Islam. At Orchard and Katong there were reportedly scores of such agencies where the uniformed girls sit waiting in the windows like puppies for sale.

The Widow-Shark

Nice new topi fella, round of applause for the man, take a bow sir. Checkered fern green and black flat-cap in good cloth casts the lesser versions here into the shade well and truly. Snug fit bought in the run-up to Chrissy maybe by the Sweetie who just could not resist. In the first glance immediate flash of style. Two seats along adjacent it couldn't be eye-balled properly at first. Not everyone could carry a crown like that—the Shark shows how. Lord of the jungle, king of the beasts. Where'd he get that princely manner you wanna know, kampung boy like him from across the road in the muck of the unsewered flood-plain? Like a lotta successful Lotharios, decided ugliness at base; lizard kinda snout, tortoise head peering out. No shrinking violet this one; billionaires don't have the self-assurance of a guy like that. Elbow up on the divider chair didn't ask anyone's permission. Oh!... Just back from Phuket. Rich unfaded colour on the breast not from the cheap street-stalls; all the markings of in-store hotel purchase. Emblem an additional piece of raised fabric in luscious tropical tints; at the Thai beaches he had kept under the umbrellas. Piece of luck chair freed directly behind allowed showing of the gold glinting watch and below the leather loafers, white athletic socks with the cool spell. Blimey! rust-red dye grown out behind, curled and puffed, irresistible for a little tug smooching. He's a monty this boy! Swivels that reptilian head like in the pictures of royalty, the monarch a bit stranded and lone/loathsome on the throne, EPL on the screen above providing no kind of escape. Fella could masterclass wannabe actor-pretenders. As it happened Beefy on the same second row watching the highlights with his crew. It had been the big wrestler who had first alerted to the Shark's foraging habits. They didn’t like each other this pair, mutual contempt restrained. This was number three or four minnow according to Beef, good feeding all along the line provided. Two grand arrangement. Two in the Shark's kit kept the show running for the bereaved relict, Beef knew. Tidy. Ma’me concerned was older, well-preserved, collected insurance on the previous—dowager and usurper. The short lyric Beefy employed—asor asor, nayia nayia—came with an unusual gesture: one palm holding a little weight, fingers curled; fingers of the other hand stroking. A polished river stone it had to be, the Malays were mad for the high-polish pieces thrown up by the volcanoes, all manner of benefit and protection offered. The honey-bee says to the flower, Lay you now to my heart where you will ever be..... Untranslatable original, but roughly along those lines. Big fangs could still purr not a problem.

Juicy

New for certain. It would have been noticed previously. By the escalators the girl first and only then the shop.... Excuse me. You have just come from that place across there, right? Juicy Couture? Lovely range, suits you.... Scrumptious finger-licking little Orchard baby-doll you could tuck under your arm and carry home. Glistening beads and jewels bigger than those from the heavens last few weeks, petite honey-blonde Chin. YEOW! glory be how she would squeal like the shrills skittering across the paths here evenings. Twenty years ago she woulda been pursued along the street never mind her umbrella, never mind warnings and scolding. No mobiles those days. Not exactly hottest flaming arrow since this move to the equator and the sheathed, scarfed, sliding-gaited maidens have won over the heart, but still A-OK. Flower Diamond Boutique flanking one side of Juicy C. and (skipping a couple of inconsequential others with ineffective and illegible graphic) Shanghai Tang the other. Paul patisserie/cafe opposite for the note-taking striking while the iron was hot, sesame French stick picked up en route and declining the cafe. Waiting on a friend…. And once done, Yes, thank you. Just taken a call.... Two minutes two of the waiters. Nice to see you again sir. Anyone looking after you? the white dustcoat. Hello there sir. Welcome back. I do love that shirt, the champion heart-gladdened Chin smiler who had an eye for style and for a fella who could carry it off right. One didn't get batik printed tees like this even on Orchard, eat your hearts out Fuckers! Six dollars. Not put in an appearance at Paul 9-10 months, the well-trained Parisienne gallants not missing a beat. The pork pie panama continuing to knock ‘em dead these parts. Couple hundred dollaro the replacement for the original ruined after three monsoons on the equator worth every last penny, opened doors island-wide. One could probably get by Security at the Emperor high-roller suite at Marina Bay Sands adding shoes, the Fullerton dining-room. The mirror had been a bit flattering lately, appreciative girls on the streets, that funny cycle that happens of itself every so often still even at this ripe old age. Three storey tree centre-piece in the foyer lit up a treat. A Very Wonderful Horological Christmas banner strung even higher than the gilded star atop the pine with the spots trained, coupla dozen jeweled watch-faces enticing. The old gold-plated ticker still sold in these parts, chaps at the upper-end needed them on the wrist to close any worthwhile deal. Manager Billy at Dome last week had reported a recent firing of an Orchard tree. Terrorists? Godless anarchists? Mr. Billy couldn't say. Electrical fault could easily be a blind. A little gander for tell-tale signs shortly. Retailers would want to quash anything untoward in the rundown. Juicy they're pitchin for the Sugar-daddies of course; hubbies aren't in the market at Juice almost certainly. Take a squiz goin past.

Condo-Rondo Once More

Another attempt at a condo, Sunny Springs this time, which sat opposite The Waterina and Versailles. For a number of years one had walked past the Guillermard side there evenings on the Long Marches observing the comings and goings. Young Sichuan Amber came down to the security gate to fetch the visitor. (After the inspection she needed to come down again in order to swipe for exit. Rounding the car barriers on the driveway was prohibited.) Amber and her young partner lovely as expected; one could tell immediately from the texts. It was the indoor dogs, the sports-bags, the small crowded gym one would need to pass daily that presented difficulties. Beside the gym a function room Amber called it, with aluminum tables and chairs squeezed. Visitors or inter-apartment socializing possibly took place there. How to convey the scene? The patterned tiled walkways through picture-book garden beds; the tired dark faces at the security guardhouse. A film-set for a splatter movie—one understood the impulse in that Scandinavian genre. Exceedingly odd were the fishing rods returning at the gate. The river that ran along-side Sunny Springs was a feature of these estates, granted, murky and dark as it was. None of the inhabitants from these towers would dare eat any catch from there; for one thing there had been some hospitalizations recently and even a death from the consumption of fish. These young lads made the unlikeliest fishermen. They were all wrong in that leisure wear. Slowly, slowly the penny dropped. Ah! Ya. This was what you called recreational fishing. This was sport like tennis and golf. Difference being in this instance fine young lads of good Buddhist stock coming downstairs evenings after dinner for some release before hitting the pillow. Expensive collapsible sticks and reels from the catalogues. The fishing one saw off the bridges and along the rivers in Singapore was usually conducted by foreign workers hopeful of something for the plate. One particular sports-bag was unidentifiable, a metre long and rather ungainly; an uncomfortable shape. Long and rectangular, about 8-9 inches at its broadest, it took a little curve up top. Soft vinyl; an oar possibly. Definitely not a musical instrument. Pogo-stick of some kind?... There were always novelty items in these lines visible on the streets. How to tell Amber? One needed to convey the warning, drop the hint to these fine youngsters far from home. (The mainland accent had been picked in a trice.) Certainly they needed reassurance there was nothing whatever against themselves personally.

Àodàlìyà

 

The young woman was a Mainlander. Easy to tell straight off. Frilly dress, hair-band with the pink ribbon, keenness most of all. Stringing out an impossible conversation she recalled one of the show-girls in the Saloons from the old Westerns, attempting to cadge something from an unlikely looking, weather-beaten old cow-hand.

Australie was simple in Bahasa. Anywhere in Jakarta and even the far flung islands you would be instantly understood. Anywhere in Singapore you would have thought, where a local Chinese was concerned.

The girl was one thing; but how could a Hokkien, born and raised in Singapore, even one in his sixties, not have a clue about "Australia"? Remarkable.

The Drink-waiter's help had been enlisted.

Nada.

You gotta be kidding man!...

Many of the Chinese could sing-along with the old anthem: God save our gracious Queen, long live our... no problem at all. Old McDonald and the other school-room favourites they often knew pat. Most of them adored all things British in this outpost of the former Empire. Pictures of Big Ben, old red double-decker buses and Westminster sold tea-towels, t-shirts, shopping bags, condos, you name it.

This guy attempting to help out the Mainland lass with her difficulty, blinking behind his glasses.

Australia. Australie. Au-Stra-Lia. ORS-tralia.

Shook his head. Shook again. Reminded of slow school-kids in class bullied by dragon-breathing monsters at the blackboard back in the day. Back in the day of morning assembly, flag monitors, anthems. Oddly shared memories in Singapore. Not this fellow. Missed out somehow. Didn't think to draw him an outline.

The girl one could completely understand. Sydney. Melbourne. An upright hand bounding over the table-top Hop-Hop-Hop.

Nothing, sorry.

What was left? Kevin Rudd? Not likely.

Where she was from impossible to get either. Not Shandong, no. (Many of the Mainland gals were from the back-woods of course) Wuhan no. Beijing? Xi'an? (This was pointless. First rank cities was not where these girls hailed from.) Flustered, Shanghai was forgotten.

We had to give it away. Couldn't be helped. The girl herself admitting defeat. It was not even that she wanted to score. Some of her compatriots, the majority, put up with the slave-rates and long hours rather than turning to the game. A little afternoon exchange here was all.

Like the foreign construction workers, the working girls were part of a large industry. Likely the two industries closely allied in a carefully planned polis like this, same syndicates operating. Plenty of hardship and desperation in the region available to mine for entrepreneurs lacking scruple. In the back lorongs at night at this Chinese end of Geylang the girls stood together in their native groups: dark Thais, short Indos, pencil-thin Viets. There were laws now, regulations, raids every so often. Innumerable girls in their mid if not early teens all the same, as the regular prosecutions demonstrated.

Audio on Google Translate later indicated the gulf. Close, yet so far. A mouthful of pins possibly the best recourse.

 

 

 

 Originally penned 2012, a re-draft was published on the ABC RN Earshot website Oct 2015.

http://www.abc.net.au/radionational/programs/earshot/pocketdocs-2015/crossed-wires/

                                                                                                                     

No Hipster

Young chap couple tables down difficult to follow. Sitting with similar age companion while opposite them a little group had stopped. Three scarved women middle-aged and a young boy pausing in their slow amble. Sisters, with the mother difficult to pick among them. A number of us watched the group casually. Nothing in particular; not whatever. Whereupon the young man calls over, gestures across to one of the women with a folded bill in hand. From two tables along one had a clearer view than the recipient—a lavender Two flashed. No doubt, clearly. And the surprise evoked equally clear, though the woman did not drop her jaw, nor gape. Like, what?... Ah? Ah.... Slight chin rise and head swivel he. Like, the child. Something in that direction, of that kind. No word, all gesture of the most minor kind; one or two rows further back nothing whatever could have been discernible.... Fifty-four full months tomorrow witnessing, every second or third day something of the same kind. Tonight the particular circumstances proved a little intriguing. The group was most certainly not begging; nor did they look in particular need. Chap had surmised correctly however: toward the bottom of the socioeconomic pile. The sprint to the meritocratic winning post would leave this group short. More expressiveness in the momentarily puzzled recipient here; comparatively blank benefactor. (Cheap accommodation at the losmen in Jogja—about 4.5 times cheaper than Four Chain View Hotel in Geylang—enabled something of the same daily walking the streets down in that town.) Pony-tail confirmed on departure; mid-late twenties, thin and not exactly a hipster. But by the same token, nor would one have guessed devout.

The Asian of the Year

The Straits Times here today announced their Asian of the Year.
Doubtless stiff competition after an eventful year, in the end with just a nose in front at the post the winner was found to be the local favourite, Mr. LKY.
".... won the world's respect, in life as in death." (March deceased.)
Chap at the breakfast table this morning mulling over the announcement seemed serious in his suggestion that there had been a secretive cyronic procedure undertaken immediately after the state farewell at a facility within the Kissinger Institute, which the man had deep in the granite of Colorado, Rocky Mountain high. (The cremation story put about in order to deflect any possible terrorist threat.) An unknown too until this morning's report: the ripples of mourning stretched far across the globe of course, easy to understand. That India lowered its flags to half-mast on the day of demise was easy to anticipate with Mr. Modi such a strong fan; but what did surprise was that apparently the same honour was offered in NZ. The Kiwis, secret fervent admirers (in the year of another World Cup triumph). Others that must have followed suit were not mentioned in the morning's report.
The original Asian tiger in this year of the old goat.

The Muezzin

Landlord Adhi's mother identified the man positively. Yes, she was sure, Pak Yatin. A little shy smile at the challenge. Sorry to appear doubting Ibu.

         Where had those sandals gone?... In the sarong ten metres along the gang was quite alright, numerous men attended Nurul Huda in sarongs.

         Nurul Huda Masjid in Gang 2, Sosrowijayan, this one particular muezzin was a standout.

         A few days before Wahyu the day-shift manager at the losmen had suggested a chap named Pak Yatin. Adhi the landlord confirmed: the chap in question could only be Pak Yatin.

         The problem was a definite match for the particular voice. There were now three or possibly four muezzin making the various calls from Nurul Huda, one at least a newbie introduced in the last few months. The new chap and the old mainstay were the clearly distinct voices; one other certainly in the mix and possibly two. 

         No pattern was evident. How the men organised themselves was unclear. A roster of some kind was doubtful.

         With his prima donna straining the newest, younger voice positively irritated. Earlier in the year Nurul Huda had been free of this kind of put-on, all the voices emanating from older men reaching through mature contemplation for the call to their brethren. This new chap suggested he had opened a direct line to the beyond. It made painful listening; made one positively wince in the room and out along the paths. 

         Given the example of the other this fellow was a travesty. The chap seemed to be auditioning for a recording contract, the volume on the amplifier always turned up to the max. In the case of the other, Pak Yatin—if Yatin was truly the man—the volume was often erratic, sometimes barely audible in the beginning, and at other times oscillating as the call progressed.

         The stand-out muezzin was not on top of the technology. An old guy, a grey-beard one suspected, one with plenty of inner fibre retained. Landlord Adhi's uncle who lived in back, a kind of classic Byzantine saint in aspect, would have been perfectly fitting were the man not in fact an old Javanese animist. (At first meeting earlier in the year he had wanted the matter known.)

         The reconnoiter that evening following Landlord Adhi's mother's identification bore no fruit. Looking into the mosque from the gang the men within could not be differentiated. In the far corner the pulpit stood with microphone attached. From the gathering of men it was impossible to tell who had just delivered the call. One still hesitated on a touristic pass through a mosque, especially a small neighbourhood house of worship.

         The reason Pak Yatin was dismissed at first sight when the man of that name unexpectedly turned up one morning for some repair work at the losmen was because he was too young to fit the bill. Unlikely-looking in person and too young.

         For a number of weeks on this last visit the chaps passing along the gang out front of the losmen were scanned. Two or three weeks previously when the hunt began in earnest Wahyu had suggested an older fellow who always wore a songkok, with hair grown out behind. In his seventies, Wahyu guessed. The man usually wore a sarong when he attended the mosque and called the azan, Wahyu added. Promising.

         There were a couple of prospects penciled as they passed one way or the other along the gang, one thin old chap in particular who looked about right coming from houses somewhere toward the station. A slow-stepping fellow like him, spare frame, still healthy, with fairly thick grey strands a few inches behind seemed close to the mark. 

         The man sought was perhaps an ex-smoker; the remaining strength of voice suggested the habit had been overcome. Retired, an honoured paterfamilias; quiet and unassuming. If one could lay eyes on the man before the microphone the sight would be something to behold. 

         To date the only muezzin who had ever been seen in action was at another small neighbourhood mosque in a narrow gang not far from Nurul Huda. Chap had been glimpsed passing the open doorway and footsteps needed to be retraced. The example of this man had suggested that muezzin required some privacy in the mosques in order to perform his particular duties. At this mosque a five or ten minute walk on the other side of Sosro the muezzin had stood in the front corner turned to the wall, microphone in one hand and the other providing some firm bracing it appeared clutching the back of his head just above his shirt collar. 

         Amplification in the last decades meant muezzin no longer needed to climb up into their minarets to deliver their calls to the four quarters.

         Like any great vocalist, this particular man's phrasing at Nurul Huda was unique, quite inimitable. (There was in fact a hint that the prima donna had given it some study.) Some part pleading might have been involved in it; at his age the question of personal salvation, while not necessarily the specific burden carried, must have been bound up. One heard a predicament, a certain fraught position implied in the rendition of the verses sounded by this muezzin. 

         Allahu akbar / Allahu akbar.... Hayya 'ala salahh / Hayya 'ala 'l-falah.

         God is great / God is great.... Come to prayer / Come to victory 

         In this man's vocal posture there might have been sufficient enough sense of individual worth and dessert, a not unreasonable hope maintained; that however of course remained entirely for Allah to determine. Certainly there was no room for complacency in this muezzin's stance. Modesty, frankness and perhaps above all submission such as one had never heard in a Christian context. 

         The man was compelling. As an Intercessor, if that were possible in Islam—which seemed not to be the case, despite the prayers of others always being valued and actively sought—a chap like this would be highly esteemed. Under the sway of the man's rhythms and elongated notes one stumbled in pursuit. Tellingly the year before, Faris the Arizonan convert had revealed it had been an Iranian muezzin in the Shah's time who had finally brought the American over to Islam. (No-one ever converted from Quranic readings, Faris had added.)

         After three or four other voices in recent days, on the Friday the maghrib had been delivered by the man, Pak Yatin. All were in agreement.

         A day or two prior a workman had appeared at Red Palm beginning repairs on the sagging eaves out front over the entryways. Mid-year a couple of other chaps had worked on the division of a room at the losmen, constructing a party-wall of bricks and mortar, a pair of bathrooms, floor-tiling, architraves and jambs labouriously chiseled from the timber. For the present Adhi could only afford aircon in one of the rooms. The pair of workmen were fine jovial sorts, the chief with his moustache and flatcap a kind of character leapt out from the pages of a children's picture book—Happy Jack the candle-stick maker, whose product was delicious sherbet. The repairman for the eaves was another kind of fellow.

        Not far into his fifties, a ready and able all-rounder it was easy to see, Yatin. Sturdy and capable, moderate and well-mannered; a tradesman from two or three generations past in the Western case.

         Slight squint; at a brief encounter on his second day numerous gaps in the teeth were visible. Typical warm smile, from a face that looked incapable while the man was wielding his pliers. 

         Men like Yatin got on with their tasks, working steadily and surely. Pak Yatin had at the same time a young face and one deeply cut and creased. In the usual way, in coming days he would be difficult to recognise in passing.

         This could not be the man, Wahyu was immediately told. Too young for one thing. 

         Only thirty himself, Wahyu could not be expected to judge ages. This man the young would-be screenwriter had in his mid-sixties. (In another case Wahyu had been out fully twenty years.)

         Pak Yatin could pull rusty nails alright. Swing a hammer. You could not imagine him concentrated at the microphone up front at the mosque producing those tones that had one in such thrall.

         Sometimes a child's lullaby sounded in that voice. Many evenings one was pinned to the bed listening for the reach, waiting to hear how far it might rise and fetch. Some kind of preamble for the usual surat for the maghrib in particular carried this uncanny lulling, in

uniquely soothing tones. 

         Twice this had been clearly and positively identified as Pak Yatin. His signature hoarse voice, landlord Adhi's mother indicated on one occasion by a clasp of her throat.

         Pak Yatin still smoked, though not incessantly; during the works he was never seen with a cigarette dangling, as had been the case for the pair earlier in the year. One Friday when Pak Yatin worked under lamplight at Red Palm he was found later in a camouflage tee passing the front of the losmen on his way to the mosque. A hard body man. Shortly after he was unexpectedly encountered seated on the steps opposite the children's playground smoking. 

         Positive identification. Landlord Adhi's mother had been in that house opposite Nurul Huda almost forty years. Mystery solved; a face and form could be put to the voice. 

         Almost four months hearing the calls from Nurul Huda and studying them in some kind of fashion. In some sense it had been the muezzin who had drawn one back to Red Palm three months after the first visit, 4AM wakings notwithstanding. 

         One had long accepted the liability of a tin ear. (What must Mozart's famous discrimination in quarter tones have meant for life experience?) Still there was no expectation of a spanner in the works near the beginning of the final week of the fourth trip to Jogja.

         Tuesday 24's dzuhur call approaching noon. As the voice sounded the noisy fan on the wall of the room was as usual turned off in three not-too-rapid clicks.

         Almost immediately the realisation struck. 

         It was clear an error had been made. A confusion. This now was not Pak Yatin. Yatin stood to the side of this particular man.

         The new aircon room at Red Palm was windowless. There were glass bricks over the bed-head providing some pallid light, but no ventilation and no direct access to outdoors. 

         Better reception could be achieved by kicking open the magnetic catch on the bathroom door for the small ventilator in the ceiling that funnelled purer notes into the room.

         Pak Yatin was in a direct line with this muezzin, a descendent and pupil. The confusion was now understandable.

         Out on the front veranda Wahyu and Landlord Adhi's mother confirmed what had been immediately and abundantly clear. No, this was not Pak Yatin. This was…. 

         ....Ahmadwaji needed some short grappling.

         The description of another sarong man, minus long strands behind in this case.

         Sandal search again. Again the thin Polynesian sarong doubled in front was perfectly decent no matter which young girl might be passed in the gang.

        Once more two or three figures lurking within Nurul H. made identification impossible. It seemed too that the azanwas not delivered from the pulpit. As most of the older men here often spoke almost no English, putting the question was not possible either.

        Waiting-out the quarry was the only recourse, with Wahyu happening on hand.

        Ahmadwaji would be along shortly. (For some reason Ahmadwaji needed no dignified title.) 

         Wahyu did not attempt to mask his boredom. Ahmadwaji held even less interest for Wahyu than Yatin. The wait went on. One could be unlucky, Wahyu half-apologised, suggesting the man may have taken a snooze indoors, what with the rain started.

         Wahyu was surprised and a little bewildered at all the fuss. For Wahyu the quality of voice of the muezzin was unimportant. Wahyu had a particular ustad for his weekly Quranic classes, a respected and trusted man still in his thirties who gave what Wahyu considered wise and vital counsel. Yatin the repairman and Ahmadwaji were neither here nor there for Wahyu. Such men might be only functionally literate (Yatin had not a word of English); none of them could approach the understanding and insight of his ustad, Wahyu maintained.

         A passing shower in the event.

         — Come sir. Come.... There, you see?... The old man.... No, the one standing with cigarette.

         Two men but one cigarette. It was a familiar face. If Yatin had been slightly, ever so slightly, disappointing in his person, the figure of Ahmadwaji had nothing whatever to do with that remarkable force of delivery in his call to prayer.

         A scarecrow figure thin and slight, flap-eared, blinking behind his glasses and stooped. Later the old photographs of blind Gus Dur the former President came to mind. 

         On the way to lunch a slow march past the mosque offered a close examination. 

         More rain to come, the man Ahmadwaji agreed in a sparrow voice, returning English to the bahasa he had received. 

         With another there Ahmadwaji had been scanning the clouds. Some evenings Ahmadwaji sat on the steps opposite the mosque smoking and watching the children’s kites riding a breeze that was imperceptible on the ground. 

         Pak Yatin had been acknowledged for his striking calls. In the case of Ahmadwaji one had held back.

 

 

 

                                                                                                Yogyakarta, Indonesia

 

Touched

After some calculation at Beringharjo this afternoon Andi the dishwasher suggested eight for the cloud burst today. (Only lightest grimis, drizzle last number of days.) Setting out for Semesta mid-morning the usual diviner in the gang up from the Losmen reckoned three at the earliest, the same as his erroneous prognostication the day before.

         Through the wire grill Antok in the parking lot cadged for another Es teh – Ice tea, on this particular occasion and for the first time pushing his luck wanting to include a couple of pals. How many was that on offer: satu, dua, tiga?... Ah! Fair enough Antonius. The generosity had been too narrow these many weeks. How was Antok—Antonius sometimes from the Drinks-stand man—to bear up with his workmates without even trying?  

         Shortly before the blind man, the buta had passed, escorted and having his order taken by Andi. There he was again now at the cashier, again escorted. Truth to tell, the blind minstrels had been dodged under the verandas many a month. It was easy. They relied on people coming up to them particularly. Many of the elderly women were difficult to dodge, even the graceless ones shamelessly pressing their demand. In the end rarely were these able to be denied. OK. Enough already. One could not buy three hale and hearty young lads heaving motor-bikes there and allow the buta to pass unrecognized.

         Finally, after the others and somewhat behind his usual time, the baik kawan, good friend regular. A little touched, a little lumpy, baseball cap and songkok  Fridays, glasses, a mumbler and expansive conversationalist with a seeming antagonist of some kind every so often—finger-pointing, nodding, hand-waving dismissals. Out on the street once or twice the man was struck directing traffic like so many other self-appointed civic-minded wardens in this region; another time selling some kind of Muslim somethings from a tray hung around his neck.

         Chap opposite just leaving must have struck him previously or known him from the neighbourhood. Greetings, handshakes. Fellow wide-mouthed looking on with surprise when he saw the same extended to the foreigner in the nice hat, the bule, White. Touch to the heart that the other may not have in fact received.

         A pause. The usual place in front of the mirror on the edge of the first table was occupied today. Chap remained in place standing, a nod given. There may have been a hand flicked out quickly, or a shoulder bent.

         On the table the kacang packets, roasted peanuts. Plastic sachets holding about two dozen shelled peanuts with some fried garlic fragments and lightly salted. Crunchy and tasty. As Amri the owner of the eatery said, full of cholesterol, but Gee, whole-hog discipline all along the line could not be sustained. Chap liked them too taking away for later; acquired a taste for the treats.

         Most afternoons when our times coincided a pack passed to him. It was forgotten how it had started. Certainly the chap had not brazenly asked for one such as in this present case. As we often found each other at the prime table nearest the servery and alongside the passage, when the kacang was fished out from the jar one sideways to the expectant, appreciative hand.

         In the weeks previous, in the last two trips to Jogja, the sign, the warning sometimes given for the special individual, one touched or not right, had been difficult to read. Often it was signed in the immediate presence of the person concerned, as if he or she were blind as well as slow, directly under their noses. Rapid often, easy to miss or pass over. Often the sign was given with a smile if not outright leer that made the signer appear somewhat suspect themselves.

        During the course of such encounters one had picked up a new word, bodoh, usually translated as the harsh “stupid”; the accompanying sign had slipped previously in such exchanges. This afternoon the matter clearly established beyond any doubt. The chap departing had lent over the table for the information offered, the sharp term omitted on this occasion. Hand raised, right fore-finger brought over the brow above the right eye, up at an angle where it crossed the amygdala presumably. A kind of incomplete salute, no mistaking this afternoon.

         There had been a little laugh when the fellow saw the packet passed across; it had explained the brief stand-off previously that had puzzled the man. This was explanation and apology perhaps on behalf of his tribe.

NB. Rp37,000, all up, which included the author’s own gado gado, teh and three peanut packs. About four dollars Australian currently.