Liquor Laws

New alcohol laws here due to take effect April 1 making it illegal to drink in public places from 10 30 pm – 7 am; takeaway sales likewise banned during the period. Second Minister for Home Affairs detailing the seriousness of the problem of alcohol: over the last three years one rioting incident and two cases of serious hurt involving liquor on average each week. City of 5.1m. Would the per capita rate be ten or twenty times higher in Melbourne, Sydney and London? (The large scale riot of foreign workers here a year ago the chief prompt of course.) Singapore not doing things by halves either: associated police powers might raise an eyebrow — the right to make suspicious persons remove their clothing in order to check for hidden containers.

                                                             Straits Times, p. 1 Sat. 31 Jan 2015

Graffiti and the Cane

Three young chaps with possible Anonymous connections graffitiing anti-government slogans here in indelible ink receive jail terms and canning: two months/three strokes and five/three for the ringleader. In the case of the latter other matters, presumably subsequently discovered, including theft and underage sex, raised the custodial sentence to two years. Twenty-somethings. An election next year. Six opposition MPs after the last election for the first time in almost fifty years of single party rule.
                                                  
                                                                                          27 January 2015 Straits Times, p.A3

NB. Moderate punishment compared to the Saudi Blogger running foul of the house of Saud sentenced to 1,000 strokes; fifty thus far administered on a single occasion. SG now restricted to a dozen maximum at a time.

Infinity

A short tale of language, manipulation and heart-break; romance of a kind.

      An infinity pool?...

      One had noticed the reference here and there in the relentless, almost daily condo porn in the newspaper advertising. With bigger fish to fry, this little minnow was left well enough alone. This morning's newspaper however brought the question to more prominent attention. Unavoidable longer. The Aristo on Amber Road was completed in November 2013, when keys were presented to owners, many of whom bought from the plan. Shock! Horror! attending that occasion when the missing infinity pool was noticed. No infinity pool anywhere to be seen, high or low. Where was the article promised in all the colourful advertising?... What purchasers were provided instead was an unremarkable squat little square built hard against windows that could not even be cleaned because of limited access. Hard to swallow. One poor Oz banker — "who asked to be known only as Garry" — was a victim. Chap concerned shelled out $2.19m for his penthouse unit after being enticed chiefly by the fetching roof-top pool that was not easily come-by in Singapore. Legal proceedings instituted. 

      The second appellant Mr. Sharque Said is pictured seated at the rim of the offensive poor substitute displaying a large brochure showing an alluring picture of a long narrow pool at the outer edge of a building. Easy to understand seduction by this enticement of private blue water appended to a tower that merges with the adjacent blue of the sea-front, then at almost touching distance the high empyrean above. Infinite heart-melting imagery. (One thought inevitably of the Marina Bay Sands where the three towers there are capped by a gracefully sinuous pool.)

     (Aristo likewise effective, including as it does echoes of the old philosopher, together with the enviable Brahminical target class.)

                                                                                                         Straits Times, Home 26 Jan 2015

Mutual Aid

Abdul must have spotted the trouble from behind his counter. There he was suddenly on the upper path outside the shop with the bird firmly clasped in his hands—side-ways sliding smile when he realized he was being observed. Holding the bird, a gray and white pigeon, securely with the wings folded a supermarket sticker came away easily. It had covered a portion of the wing it seemed, making flight impossible. That must have been what had drawn Abdul's attention. At closer quarters however more trouble had become apparent. Turned belly-up, bright yellow twine could be seen wrapped around a claw. The pigeon had landed in some kind of refuse pile and got more than it bargained for. Poor birdie. Luckily Abdul Majid to the rescue. Good spotting. With the left hand holding the bird Abdul carefully picked at the string line with his right, picked and picked as if he were separating grit from seed (fennel perhaps). Unbidden, seeing the difficulty, Abou had come out to help. Abdul remained in his place while now Abou used both his hands to work the knots. Abou managed better, drawing up short lengths of the line, making some progress. Picking. It wasn't easy; it was a proper mess. More lengths of the bright yellow line fished up. There must have been near a dozen windings involved; perhaps a metre or more of twine in all. The bird had panicked in its entanglement and flapped and flapped; perhaps that was how the sticker. Abou wasn't making much progress. Almost instantaneously both together the men reaching the conclusion it was no good like that. Over to the utility corner Abdul head-nodded, Abou already half-inclined. There would be a knife there. 
         Indian-Malaysian grandsons of indentured labourers brought over from Tamil lands to the rubber plantations, the tin mines and rail-lines. Abou's wife and kids live in JB an hour away; Abdul's three hours in Malacca. Twelve hour shifts seven days a week and one day off a month for around thirteen hundred dollars. (Overtime adds on.) Abou has about fifty words of English; a good deal more Mr. Malacca, Abdul. Good guys, good buddies. The solidarity of toilers that must have been the same as that of their forebears. The kind of scene that each day brings in this community and gladdens the heart with a certain sufficiency.

Another Country

Two small additions that can help fill in the picture of the local community here at the bottom of Geylang Road. Small first and vanishingly so, but indicative nevertheless. Chin girl or woman late morning coming along the path and turning into the Haig Road stalls before a closer inspection could be made. Late girlhood, if not well past, fine slender body of the usual Modigliani form in these parts. Simple unadorned dress not much above the knee; easy hair-style without need hours of salon-sitting. Before the turn the woman had taken a strand on one side down on her shoulder and bringing it around over her chin began her twirling on the entry-way. Passing slowly between the tables within little slow twists winding round her forefinger like a vine around a post in a fairy-tale while casting about the hall. Furtherest back in memory the last such example; might in fact have been film rather than actuality. Early afternoon episode two, third occasion now of the same form from Mr. Ali. A year or so ago we began after the man had stopped at a table to greet Omar. From that point we developed with the raised hands, the greeting call, eventually reaching signaled offers of a cuppa—shovel-hand pointed south. Last month the first larger venture suddenly saw a teh abruptly dropped on the table-top.... Concerned at such a number of polite turn-downs, man might have thought his was being received as empty gallantry. Between times there had been halts at the table and attempted chat. Ali Paki-Malay mix in his middle-sixties; the hair was from the era, faded rock & roller skin, thin like Jagger and about the same size. Brotherhood of man, all were equal—Ali delivered his charter. Recent times he was fetching provisions from the market for his wife to cook at home. (Like many of the men roundabout, at the tables teas strictly. Such prices the stalls charged for food!) Good cook the wife? Not bad. Ah ya. Just like we in Montenegro: not good to praise wives too highly. Got a laugh. (The Malays could in fact be more than a bit uxorious; but then Ali was crossed with high altitude blood. Mixed blood the self-description.) Replay followed. Caught unawares again when there had been no sign of the man, bushwhacked from behind: BAP! another teh like a missile from a bazooka that the Security reminders were always warning about on the trains and buses. Oh! Dear me. Ah, thank you Al.... Raising the stakes again further still this afternoon at the bus-stop, just come down from the steps same time as the No. 158 pulling in. No time for real greeting, man loaded as usual strides over with a lunge, not offering a rapid hand-shake but one of the bags. There. For you. Come now.... Unable to hook it on a finger drops the gift beside a post, gently to ensure the fruit won’t bruise; rounds back into the bus without further ado. Wordless. What? Ali!... Mangoes? Peaches? No, apples. Hey! NO. In after him. Passengers, driver, crowd at the stop. Hanging it round the man’s neck however he wriggled was no good, bus couldn’t wait. Where did he go?...How?... 
         The impulse was known and well-recalled. All the early exemplars of the practice have passed on now. Contemporary readers will be scratching their heads wondering what in the heck? Strange tales. The past indeed another country.

Asia for Dummies

Filipino office workers due to turn the aircon down to 25 deg. C and wear shirts and shorts reported in the newspaper reminds of the colds and flu commonly afflicting Singaporeans. For over a year and more like two one wondered at the extensive winter appareil advertised in the newspaper and on sale in the stores in town. Jackets, scarves, hoodies, gloves even. There was a large middle class granted, but were there truly such numbers of skiers and mountaineers traveling to colder climes? Winter layering of course offered designers greater scope. How though was this possible on the equator? London, Paris, NY streets — the same romance as everywhere — suggested by the mannikins in the shop windows.... snow-covered side-walks, scarecrow trees, street brassieres aglow behind French windows.... Eventually one noticed the coats and the rest behind counters in various workplaces in the malls and office towers, odd little subtle out-of-place displays that took a time to fathom. Oh. Oh. One got it in the end.... Electricity supply more of a problem in the Philippines to be sure. A French agronomist on the bus on the weekend surprised with the revelation of her expatriate community’s reference to their host country. At first the accent prevented comprehension. The yellow books, you know?... (Did she mean the old term for pornographic under-the-counter books, still current in France perchance?) She spelt it out: DUMMIE??… Dummies.... You know, Asia For Dummies?... Ah! Ah! Yes. I see. Oui. Oui.... Certainement. Oui. True Asia, the reality, lay elsewhere. Oui.

The Hourglass

Through the morning over a dozen fighter jets impossible to identify tearing the sky to shreds—Singaporean, Israeli or U.S. possibly. The paper reported one and a half million Syrian refugees in Lebanon and a couple of Saudi border guards killed in an attack on the Iraq side. Emerging 3/4D Printing revolution driven by the military sector brought fears of terrorists misusing.

      The Year of the Sheep or Ram, depending on one’s preference for symbolism, was anticipated by a Korean English Lit. Prof. quoting Yeats and recalling “the serene province that was once called the Land of the Morning Calm”. Since of course bitterly divided like so many other nations of the world.

      The young Chin lad collecting plates was from Changxu, not too far from Shanghai, if the imaginary map and finger-work on the table-top was accurate. Without a single word of English after close to a year here. Good to see the confidence in pulling up a pew directly across. Perhaps four minutes he sat. Twenty-one or two maybe. He had seen enough in the plate and cup returns as well as the smiles and acknowledgements to give him the courage to face the ang moh, almost certainly the first he had ever engaged at close quarters. The table-top can only measure three feet across maximum. Taking the chair directly opposite too when there were four in the row at the pair of joined tables in the usual place adjacent Mr. T.T.’s Servery. The hourglass sketched in the air for the lad had failed to convey any semblance of “girlfriend”; further pantomime in the same vein likewise. Not quick enough to recall the elegant stick-figure character crossed at the waist…. Ah, hang on a second. In fact no! That was “big”, not woman. Woman was a much more complicated compound character. One might have come close had he not scooted off, really impressed and surprised the fellow.

BRANDED (published by Anti-Languorous Project 2017, segment of Billboard)

Too late to catch dad as he turned onto the steps cutting in front. Tall, lumpy pink polo with the laurel leaf emblem it had to be. (Bought by his wife.) 
         Was the brand a family favorite, a club of sorts?
        Five-six year old advertising-perfect daughter held by the hand on the escalator while mummy was still at her shopping. White shorts & blouse, the former tagged low, slyly low behind in large pink lettering—
​         GAP
        High-end you can't get higher Takashimaya on Orchard Road: Cartiers, Mont Blanc, Rolex, Raoul.

Honoured White

Gone 2pm at KV's, India 130 for four at the Gee relayed by the beefy Tamil enthusiast. Yanasagaran, not a fan of Komala Vilas, due shortly. Yana prefers Tekka Market opposite, a more democratic spread perhaps; certainly cheaper than KV's. One continued to remind oneself this was a middle-class place, finger-eating, bare bellies and four dollar mains notwithstanding. This afternoon Yanasagaran was going to be told the reason for the fixation. More than once he had asked in texts and mails what was the reason. In a couple of meetings there with Yana his grimaces at the noise and busyness were plain to see.
         Again the sole White. Today however there would be at table a Chindian; after a long searching look Beefy concurred. Occasionally we got one of those at KV's, a growing community according to someone quoting a newspaper report at the tables in Geylang Serai, Gabby it might have been. Doubters there were many. Striking young lad. Did he have a foot in either culture was the question? Unlikely at that age, but not impossible. There were no Chindians in Chennai, Beef confirmed. That was later. 
         Otherwise devoted mother of two early teen fatties. Lots of that here. Jews, Italos, Chins of course—lots everywhere. The younger lad returning late from the wash-stand motioned Mummy back from the register. Hands raised high and fingers paddling like the under belly of a centipede. What was it honey? What? Took even her a couple moments. Back-wheeling, leans over the table for the water-jug. Mummy gloves the receptacle and pours into the plastic cup. Darling still thirsty, needing some more liquid to wash down his tucker. The stainless jugs are heavy, granted. Junior had been lectured earlier about wrist sprains from outsized objects like that—hidden traps for the unwary. Against the back wall a good couple, bug-eyed fellow, but the blue striped shirt suggested solid bread/rice-winner. Lady was regular pretty. Every passage of the galleon daughter-in-law at this branch of Komala Vilas all sails hoisted was an event. How beautiful she must have been before the rounding. Fine nature too: there was no nouveau rich bitch hidden within those opulent wraps. Ten dozen visits and observations of interaction with staff had told the story; unaffected sweet daughter another indicator in the same direction. Ugliness in behaviour ruins a place naturally.
         In the presence of the bent old Chin grannie here collecting plates and wiping tables all the customers inevitably are granted some re-capture of infancy and childhood, even those of us who have never known grandparents. Not possible the woman was under seventy-five, delivering us her radiant adoration lowered in a bow over our table-tops. Like many of the Indians, almost not a single word of English. But there were rarely Chin clientele either. Seventy-five year old Indian Singaporeans could not be prevailed upon to work for a couple of dollars an hour. A Hindu muscle-man with heavy tattoos overhanging both sleeves in fact of his blue-striped polo unsighted previously. A boxer younger days; in an earlier generation one of the lads who was the chief bastion of the youths from his kampung in the days of the gangs. (Thanks to Mr. Lee for the elimination of that part of the old days at the very least.) 
         This particular afternoon awaiting Yanasagaran a uniformed Chin inspector of some kind occasioned consternation. For the very first time the son, the daughter-in-law the galleon's husband, and their son too it could only have been called in to handle the problem. The indication had been a leak of some sort in the open hand, fingers dripping sign. Luckily Chief was back at his post newly returned from his siesta. But with almost not a word of English and certainly no Chinese of any description, how was Chief expected to manage here? At one point he had attempted to rope in the old grannie plate-clearer. Over there in the corner. Come, come. Communication with her too needed to proceed with gesture, tone and facial. Last week Chief had clasped Gran closely in the kitchen doorway and held her tight from behind as he attempted to convey something in particular, a witticism of some kind. Delightful. Oh gee! One smiled for miles and miles afterward on the way home. 
         But what was she supposed to do with her tribesman here. Get on with you! Chief had corralled her in the general direction, managing only briefly to hold her there. Finally the man needed to seat himself in the chair opposite the inspector. In Chennai one could imagine the grief at the sight of the uniformed, perhaps helmeted and plumed, Inspector of the Mains. Golly my! Times past they could reduce you to beggary overnight, take your children captive, burn down your house and throw you into the pit on the way out. Horribly unnerving. What to do?... All’s well though, rescued by the owner, he'll take over. OK, OK. After looking on from the aisle for a time Son had tentatively approached the table and at Dad's bidding taken a seat opposite Inspector to bolster the defense. Smiles slowly overtaking frowns, nods, glinting teeth, not to worry after all. What were they all so worried about?
        Over three months unsighted, Yanasagaran running late. The man was bringing stories of Security shifts in various locations across the isle, one recent case of thirty-six hours duration where two standard terms were joined by overtime, returning the princely sum of $150 in total. Keen to hear tales of Java himself, Yana had an episode to exchange of being hauled off a return flight from Bali for some unknown reason. The arm-chair ride granted a White traveler in these parts becomes something else for a man of colour, Yana one of a number to insist during this trip. No doubt. None whatsoever. A friendly, smiling White at KV's gets not only immediate refills of dahl the moment he runs dry on his platter — everyone has that available without further cost at Komala Vilas on Bufallo. (Not so the chutneys.) The unasked sweets delivered more often than not were another matter. Smiles, greetings, salutes, flourishes of all description. Finest princely reception not indiscriminately bestowed, right enough. If Yana failed to turn up promptly he could kiss the little delight that had been reserved for him goodbye.