Gel

Gal behind the counter at Champion here up past the station, the chief Pilot outlet at this end, rises to draw out the chosen tray of pens. All the pens sit in little aluminum trays like we had at home for the ice-blocks, with the dividers here missing. 1700Rp, 3600Rp, 4800Rp. The middle, the 3600’s, looked familiar with the serrated black plastic sleeve in little loops. Lots of those pointy tops had been chewed these four years almost. Ya, Zero point Seven was just the shot. (Five was too thin and Ones showed through on the paper behind.) This two inch square slip was for testing then?... OK. A trifle embarrassing with the scrutiny over the poor handwriting, but of course hardly likely the lass in her honey-yellow and black uniform could make head or tail of any of that. (Numerous illiterates in Geylang had complimented on the fine cursive script.) Even without the pork pie and red bandanna—it was seven PM—an impressive tall White customer. People with real money in Jogja would disdain pen and paper; everything was digital now of course. Even so, it was not all, entirely one way. Champion here had more than a dozen employees, working from morning to night; a big place of more than 150sq.m., excluding back offices. Here was a professional man clearly, weighing the various product with some discernment. The 3600Rp was not bad. Why? When? Perhaps were common pen-testers. Even right-side up the girl would struggle; the brief exchange had established she had almost no English. I love you might have been ventured in fact here, why not? A little play that the woman may have understood from the tees on the street and the TV. Apart from this 3600 were any of the others on this shelf GEL my dear? …Ah. Mmmm…. All gel. Oh, I see. Well, in that case lemme have a shot at that 4800Rp top of the range. Don’t matter it’s a button. Certainly sir, when she found the slot sliding the rear glass door across. Because was another pen-tester. There was always room for because. Big B-cause. I could love you if you let me, often sprung from the pen too in recent months when no-one was looking over the shoulder, a little message in a bottle, something to give the next customer pause—a pretty young girl hopefully—in the middle of their deliberations. (There had been a young woman in Singapore to whom it should have been spoken last year.) This one then, despite the evidence seeming to be ambiguous. The price differential suggested some kind of perhaps hidden superiority. One should never scrimp too much on materials. It was beginning to look as if the journals might only be brought to the attention of the researchers many years into the future, multiple decades if not centuries. Good quality ink indispensable. As you wish, sir. The woman, a young rounded figure smelling of soap still at that hour, mother of school-age children most likely, produced her receipt pad, ensured the copy paper was properly in place and entered the date first of all: 30/5/2015, followed by the single digit in the No’s column, BP Something else in the Nama and finally 4800 in the Jumiah. Done. Excellent. From there it was around to the side near the back for the Cashier; one recalled the procedure from earlier trips. The white and green slip; blue was retained at the relevant section. Two older women one either side of the counter were chatting at the money-box, trustworthiness stamped in lines on their faces, both lighting up at the greeting in their own language. No stumbling over big figures, it was all there plain to see on the slips—4800Rupiah. There might not have been too many of those moved in recent days. Thank you, thank you. Welcome, welcome. Charmed. Delighted. Good evening one and all. In the larger, newer chains of course the aircon was turned up and humanity down. An earlier One point Seven had been bought same day from Gramedia at the Mall; this second was a sudden impulse after seeing the lights on trooping up to the Warnet. One knew the kind of reception on offer at Champion.

Play (Jogja Again - 2015)

Soon after 5pm in the tight Losmen room under the swivel fan hanging on the wall and louver windows bed-side, the children’s play from the vacant lot beside the vegetable garden. Light young voices rising from the improbable past that immediately finds one straining after them. There are no plastic slides or horses here, nor maids supervising or parents with cameras recording. On the local bus from the airport a shyly smiling little girl had an uncovered grazed knee, poor thing. Near forty months in Singapore provided the striking contrast. Certainly never once was the like chorus heard there. On the grass beside the middle Haig Road blocks older lads had kicked a soccer ball among too large a number for the confined space. Occasionally a father or grandfather with child sharing a ball of some sort. There was a pair of siblings who came onto the paving with rackets and ball two or three times.

         Laughter erupting from the gang in a number of registers. The ball or other missile is soundless, but the ricochets and unexpected deflections are immediately recognizable. How long one had not heard the like. Along one of the narrow gangs earlier in the afternoon a missile-marble that had knocked another clean across the lane-way and into the gutter had drawn applause and whooping from the keen spectators. Brilliant strike! The powers in the rich northern enclave have little idea what they have produced in their much vaunted republic.

         Five-thirty brings a short little ditty perhaps spontaneously composed. A couple of hours ago there had been a call from the masjid directly across the narrow lane. In the typing here a second…. Good job man! No strain and all fluid rhythm. Early-mid sixties fellow one would guess. Now larger ventures and a little flight given all within good bounds. This reminded in turn of Faris’s report last year that it was the hearing of prayer in his case that had carried the Arizonan the last part of the way to Islam. Iranian prayer in this instance during a visit to the country while the Shah still reigned. Possibly the maghrib call just then was the signal for the children to return to their homes. In the neighbourhood down on the great southern land it had been the street-light that had brought an end to play.

         Two further matters going out for dinner. The strange phenomenon of the rapid dark here well before six, only a few hundred kilometers south, had been forgotten—there is almost no dusk worthy of the name in the south of Java. Trooping along Malioboro the hawker on the bicycle ringing out his notice with a stick of some kind struck a three inch diameter PVC pipe that he has strapped to his handle-bars. (Somehow he managed a pleasing rhythm the same as the year before.) The improvisation was a fitting counterpart to the larger storm-water pipe in this case sitting on a ledge beside the entry to Masjid Nurul Huda that had been split down the middle to create a flower bed. There were hippies, greenies and guerrilla gardeners in central Java centuries before the current crop.

Air - Water

Chubby Indian biker with stiff neckless torso mounted on his chariot, at his table, or on the rare occasions padding the pavement. Goatee and old-style ventriloquist doll's dropping-jaw in speech. Attempted to sell watches couple of times after seeing the mat salleh without. First touch for two dollars a month ago for food.

         — "Hungry".
         Last night returning from the Net place and stopped again, some instinctive stiffening readying to deny the petition. Fellow surprised with his ask.
         — Fifty cents.
         Not for the public phones around the corner: that was ten cents.
         — ….Water.... Thirsty….Dropping the jaw without extending the tongue or gripping the throat for the common parched choking sign. (Above the waist the jaw seemed the only moveable part.)
         — Water???...
         Water was between twenty and thirty cents if you wanted to occupy a table while slaking the thirst. Ice and hot made for variance again.
         There must have been a quizzical, doubting countenance flashed as the coin bag was being fished out.
         — I have twenty cents.
         Fellow was sourcing bottled somewhere thirty under the regular price, he knew where. (It wasn’t the Cheers shop where we had stopped.)

         Not a faker at all.

NB. Tricky pronunciation and orthography. (Sometimes rendered "ayr".)

Quality Time (Mothers' Day)

Weekend mum prepared for the responsibility by TV family drama, sit. coms. and magazines. Gooey bubble an' froth. Young lass had her head buried in a book initially; part two was a quiz with Mummy & Daddy. Latter takes his turn as MC; in the heat mum minus her mermaid suit at elbow. A quiz for Kiddie. …. Places & Peoples of the World. Japanese city?... Kangaroo… Ah. No. Cameroon…. is the capital city of?... (Buzzer. Buzzer. Might have read that wrong both times Dad.) Bespectacled, braids, polka-dot dress and long black socks....knee-length woolies. (Really.) What did dad sell Monday–Friday? Was it him in the white Audi SUV picking up the girl under the Post Office arches on Aljunied corner the other night at the red light? Nice lemon evening dress skipping around to the passenger door with demure smile. "Circling…. Like circle… Champagne...." Moved onto spelling? Or still geography?... Seven/eight year old. Ahhhhh!... Mummy dearest on cloud nine for some reason best known to herself. (Enduring her put-on orgasms no wonder he’s cruising Geylang after work. Have to stay back honey, late order. Don’t wait up.) Track-shoes like dancing clobber from Nureyev’s wardrobe: rich blue-green leather laced with red ribbons shopped only on Orchard Road. Mid-forties. Bent over the Correction sheet; child craning from her side of the table. Cluck-cluck-cluck Mummy. —F-L-Y…. High-end cos. treatment.... Ah, you got it right. CLAP.... Maid preparing dinner, folks due over. (Mothers’ Day wasn’t known at the time.) Difficult to turn further into the corner. More than one look cast in the direction of the determinedly averted neighbor. Oooh!... That was dangerous now, and not really intentional. Meaty and ripe silent squeezed out was easily covered by the clatter; that wasn’t the concern. But gee! blown up unexpectedly. Toxic storm without warning. The Indian curry at KV’s made for a big bomb. Nowhere to hide; nowhere to run. At any possible challenge unavoidably forced to lay the bugger on his back in front of the children. KAPOW! Be extra careful who you accuse next time Buster.... "Healthy and nutritious….HehHehHeh...." Those giggle aren’t going to compete with Aljunied my dear. Tough ask; hard row to hoe. Junior on the other end not got any attention, worn out her colouring pencils. Entirely yellow the whole place, thirteen tables…. Make that fifteen; not a one vacant. Racket making it impossible for Izzy to hear his Golden Oldies over the sound system. Izz had noticed the racial element. Told of the absence of maids the man had twigged to that independently and immediately leapt to the explanation. Once home make sure all clean. It was too hot to take any of the Ah-mas and Kong-kongs along for the outing. You young ones go ahead and enjoy yourselves. Only two tables with kids in fact: another argument for the maid absence. Rare not to find a single one on a weekend. Sometimes they do sit at the tables; more usually outdoors with a bottle of water playing with their phones. Gosh! Neither phones nor screens half an hour. Pact to discourage the children during quality time.

Passing (Colonisation)

Even without raking through the documentary record one can guess the English put-on out here of fifty, sixty, two hundred and three hundred and sixty years ago. Vestiges everywhere. Old man alighting the bus out front of Har Yassin in his impeccable fixity: shirt, trousers, belt, socks and polished shoes. Most of all the pasted, recently dyed thatch with the severe flap brought over in faultless line. Carefully measured oil enough to resist the morning breeze twisting the young palms along the front of the market. (In the files there can be found a photograph of LKY's grand- or great-grandfather dressed up in a fashion that immediately reminds of the successfully passed negro down in the South three or four generations ago.... Above all of course the wincing recognition of one's former self—olive in that case rather than yellow or black.)

Leg-irons

The sixteen year old Blogger first incarcerated here a week ago remains in jail for his offences: 

         1. insulting Christianity
         2. posting and transmitting an obscene image
         3. The third matter that had been originally mentioned and that likely led to a physical assault upon the lad as he entered a courtroom concerned an expletive-laden attack on the recently departed long-time PM Mr. LKY, whose party continues in power, helmed (as they say in the newspapers here) by his son.
         The DPP has announced it would relax bail conditions that might afford the boy release from jail if he would undertake psychiatric counseling. Refused by the feisty young rebel. 
         Yesterday the young lad brought to court in handcuffs and leg shackles. 
                                                                                                                        Straits Times 8 May 2015


NB. Oh dear! Further detail emerging the following day on the obscenity involved. According to the prosecution an image infringing the "acceptable bounds of public morality", where no scientific, educational or medical purposes (were) involved, indicated only a tendency to corrupt or deprave; to wit: some kind of photo-shop overlay of the faces of the recently defunct founding father of the Republic, Mr. LKY, and the melting former Iron Lady Margaret Thatcher onto a copulating couple.
Young lad remains at Changi.

Political Dentistry

One has become used to this radiance now. Smiles and smiles for miles and miles; higher than the mountain, wider than the sea. The current PM might be making up for a dour, famously sour father-predecessor from an earlier generation prior to the smartphone, selfie, stick &etc.

         In forty-seven months of reprising the record of the recently departed founding father a couple of small corner-of-the-mouth squeaks only in those voluminous files.
         The heir can surely claim world champion ranking. Clinton did a fair look of glee, and Blair; not a patch on the man here. In a shaky identity polis such as we have on this island—this needle-point category of the Singaporean—perhaps understandable fixation.
         Friday morning's front page example raised by the wonders at the opening of the new Indian Heritage Centre. 
         Inside (p. 12) a full page Congratulations self-advertisement on the centre from Yong Xing Constructions Pte Ltd; the Min. Culture, Communic. & Youth; Nat. Heritage Board; SIPM Consults. P/L; Greg Shand Architects; &etc. &etc.

                                                                 Straits Times 8 May 2015

Nature-loving Opp.

After precisely forty-seven months in the region one could hardly call it a surprise.
         Funtasy Island Eco-theme Park & Dolphin Villa Project.

         Off Batam, Indonesia; units priced at $758k. A Malaysian-Singapore PR owns 30% of the development, remainder two Indon businessmen. Altogether 621 units, 90% sold, 70% bought by Singaporeans.

         In addition to the Dolphin lagoon an aviary, stingray habitat and mangrove swamps. Twenty minute ferry promised to Sentosa (the forerunner hyper-fantasy island). None of the buildings as yet completed, project running 6-9 months behind schedule.
         On the other, northern side of the main island of Singapore the Sultan of Johor with his various partners is planning land reclamation by the narrow Causeway—separating Singapore from the Peninsular—for a much larger up-scale development.
         The Condo porn splash here far, far less sophisticated than the comparable in our weekend papers down in the great Southern land.
                                                                                                                                                                                                                Sunday Times, 2 May 2015

The Key

A copy of the room-key was needed. Last week Ni had broken the spare trying to let herself in. Even with only a fortnight left before the trip to Jogja, it was good insurance. Once already there had been a lockout after lost keys.

         First stop the old uncle was busy with a young Bangla needing a number of cuttings. Returning after the supermarket he was just finishing with the lad.

         A small cigarette-paper sized slip was folded and cut at an angle either end. The first angles were wrong and the paper was cut again. It slipped into the groove of the key for better grip on the manual lathe.

         In the early stages prior to engaging the machine the man needed a fag to replace the butt he had spat out soon after finishing with the Bangla boy. As usual there was nothing left of tobacco in the discarded butt, completely dead.

         From a small tin that could hold no more than eight or ten cigarettes, yellow coloured top and bright, shiny aluminium within, the man had drawn the replacement. Taking a stick left one spare in the tin. This the Key-uncle suddenly pulled out with the other to offer to his customer.

         — Oh uncle. Xie xie ni.

         Shoulder blades outlined beneath his loose, discoloured shirt. He was one of the classic fly-weights. It was good to lay a comradely hand on the man.

         Perhaps there was another tin or pack in his bag beside the lathe.

         Breathing difficulties seemed to be the reason the new stick too needed to be discarded a short while after lighting. The stubbing was too quick, it had not been caught. It must have been a plucking of the hot head, because there was no sign of blackening on the cigarette lying between the Key-uncle's feet.

         There was no further re-lighting. 

         Hoisting up from the squat required a couple of slow, preparatory adjustments of feet for balance.

         This was the second cut for the same Carpmael room; perhaps the man remembered from eight or nine months back. There had been no statement of price prior to getting underway this time.

         Late afternoon uncle caught the bus around on Changi Road. Possibly he had noticed the greetings. The right eye was covered almost entirely with a milky film—even shapes would be beyond him on that side. The man had seen enough no doubt and got by now with his blurriness.

         Around in Changi Road first sighting of the Key-uncle after a longer gap one confused him with the food scavenger who commonly passed there for the busy bus-stop bin, a fellow Chinese some years younger and kilograms heavier than Key-uncle. This chap always made a big show of his scoffing and swilling, taunting the well-to-do waiting for the buses. The Key-uncle was much more contained. Nevertheless, it was easy to confuse the men.

         A few years ago Omar the money-changer had put in a complaint about the Key-man illegally cluttering the public thoroughfare. Where would we be if everyone set-up like that? Omar griped.

         Did the Key-uncle own the boarded-up shop in front where he squatted, a widower tunnelling through time, living independently of the children, passing the fashionable boutiques on Joo Chiat Road without giving them notice?

 

 

 

                                                                                                                                            2015