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.