Lolly-water

Many a month the old Yemeni was mistaken for a simple jester who enjoyed the play-acting. Not a word of English and it was possible his Malay was far from extensive either. Someone had originally identified the chap as Pakistani. As always, for a newcomer particularly, it was not easy to pick the difference between either of these and some of the Malays. 

Light tone, beneath a cap and in the midst of the group easily merging. Focus a little more closely, pay more attention to feature and line, clearly an Arab that perfectly fitted within any of the rubble of the dusty streets, smoking bombs in back-drop, impassive countenance incapable of further shock in the newscasts,.

In the taxi stop beside Joo Chiat Hotel the man would often be found; otherwise one of the benches around the Complex. For the first two or three years he was almost never seen at the eateries or kopi shops; one needed to pay for those seats. In the last year he had been adopted by the two Chinese converts, the cabbie Cha and his mate; the third of the group Jafaar who drove an executive van was another support, buying food and drink. 

It was Chia who revealed the fellow had no one either here or back in Yemen; marooned now in older years and with a hard final passage presenting. Over the term he had deteriorated, adding weight and a stick. What had befallen him was uncertain; details had not been sought in this case.

Thumb at the mouth in the usual way. Mistaken so long. Hand at the parched throat to drive home the message was taken as more vaudeville. After a time the man had desisted with greetings and eventually turned a blind eye. An unfortunate misunderstanding.

There had seemed something familiar and known about the chap; as often some echo of the past in body size and proportion, in manner and bearing, the play-acting repertoire, twisting of the mouth and the rest as much as anything. 

A great deal of the dumb-show of the eateries, the theatre of the street, carried aspects of a human drama from a much older, classical script. It was a large part of the reason one had remained in that community near the market, where Malays and all manner of Muslims from across the island would congregate.

Finally the other day when the gathering at Har Yasin left little prospect for a late-comer, the man was offered a seat at the front table and bought a drink.

Once the chap could be understood he was bought. A Peek-a-Boo?...

It sounded neither Tamil nor Malay…KI KA POO?

Nodding and gesturing, the man indicated the chaps serving would know.

In the weeks previous the fellow had not been sighted at Har Yasin. Since the shut-down on Geylang Road corner, cabbie Chia and his crew drank their teas around in the unappealing, hidden-away food court behind J. C. Complex. The Yemeni was probably en route. A Yemeni likely meant Hadramaut, in the north-east, but not necessarily. Of course there was no pension from anywhere. What was he? mid/late seventies.

On the column out front the big wrestler, Zainuddin had called him, looked down on the table briefly without finding anything of interest. A Nigerian was the joke of a couple of the fellow's workmates. By colouration it certainly fitted, the same as size for Z.'s venture. Young chap was a perfect illustration of the reputed Tamil darkness for the kampung class working the fields the other side of the equator, down on the point of the Sub-Continent.

Exceedingly dark. Scratching his back on the sharp tiled corner of the column. Twelve hours on his feet beside the hot plate; thirteen and fourteen weekends at 100kg. An ignorant white guy might easily be fooled with the Nigerian gambit. One thought of the Atlantic trade and some errant winds.

Hailed in the end from an outlying suburb of KL. Most of the crew at Har Yas. were Malaysian Tamils, cheaper that way for the greedy old Dragon employer. Two or three of the lads were Tamil Nadu proper.

Constant tight squint from the Nigerian.

Like his tubby pal the other side of the plate— another Tamil— the Nigerian showed full pale palms in stride. Common for big ungainly men of all races. Thick, stubby curled fingers and the raised ridge of the palms. Given the visual bulk, one could easily over-estimate the fellow's age. Little more than thirty in reality.

The Kick-a-Boo was taking a time.

Taking the African as full-blown black, his workmate the tubby prata-maker was perhaps thirty percent along the colour spectrum. There was nothing obvious in the racial pairing. In fact one would have bet against it.

Twelve hour days together opposite each other, one day a month free. The amity, ease, good humour and buoyant spirits came very much against expectations. At so many places here it was the same: trying, difficult conditions, long hours in oppressive heat no pause, all the onerousness so very lightly borne.

There ought to have been an insurrection against wages and conditions, marches against the bosses. Flames and violence.

It was only the poor Chinese dishwasher outback at Har Yasin wearing the heaviness of the labour. Eight or nine months ago there had been another; now a single yellow sheep among the black, usually confined back-stage and only emerging from his lair in order to deliver his plates and cutlery.

Kick a Poo citrus flavoured, Atlanta U. S., under license in Malaysia.

The old Yemeni spilt half the first can, what with so much ice stacked in the cup. Passed urine, another Tamil joked at the other black sheep's expense as he mopped up.

Not a drop of liquor hereabouts—one often needed to recall passing the men at the eatery tables, at the checkerboards, up at the market, the benches and shaded nooks they sought out. Entirely dry throughout. Up at Haig Road they sold the fire-water at three or four of the Chinese stalls at the upper end. Perfect calm, ease and natural cheer reigning the lower. An outstanding feature all too easily forgotten.