Beefy Muhammad Solves A Riddle

The old Trojan over the road surprising. More than fifty months of observation it has taken to notice this part of the routine.
         As ever heat off the dial, cloudless, woman sensibly covered in long sleeves and straw sombrero like the Indian laborers often put under their hard-hats.
         Baked stiff and hard, the cardboard sheets were unwieldy. One pile stood about half meter high; the second shorter. Neither tied off. On the windless Equator there was no fear of blowing away.
         The tying needed to be secure for the transport. One sometimes saw slipped piles over the roadway that resulted in a good deal more work on the push home. This it was concluded must have been the reason for the watering.
         A blue bucket and two liter cut-off plastic drink-bottle had been brought over. No light spray involved here, the woman bent to her haunches and squatting proceeded to slap in perhaps two liters into the larger bundle, taking care and some kind of rough measurement. There was less for the lesser pile. Nothing like casual tossing in from the side: the woman lifted sheets at different levels to throw in water center, left and right.
         Going off for something else she returned for more of the same, almost certainly the full two liters by the time she was finished on the larger pile and proportionate the lesser.
         Off she went behind the boom gate turning onto the delivery road to the market, where an Indian pair pushing a large green industrial bin up the rise was encountered. The bin was loaded, the two young lads in their overalls and yellow hats straining behind.
         Unasked, immediately the woman lent a hand, putting her shoulder to the wheel.
         Didn't it make an immediate difference too. Up the incline rose the carriage, certainly more smoothly and easily than before. An extra pair of hands, albeit lady’s.
         Fifteen minutes disappeared, here she was again with more cardboard, the sheets all flat after the boxes had been cut out of sight. Soon the lesser had become the equal, if not taller pile. More watering to follow no doubt. Water would both flatten the piles, making them more manageable, and with softer edges help in a more secure tying-off. The cardboard was the sole concentration that afternoon; there was no aluminum in her hoard.
         In her late sixties, the heat hardly any kind of bother at all. Tough old Chinese Trojan. The Wall, all the former laundries and noodle places over the globe, the current Sweatshops were encompassed in her person.
         Through dinner that night the scene returned, slightly nagging. Was there a question remaining?...
         When Beefy Mohammed sidled up to the table, the perfect man.
         Before Beef could make off to his pal a couple of rows back the question of the watering from the afternoon posed the big fella.
         First time observed in almost fifty-one months. There was nothing in it of course; idle curiosity part of the profession.
         The big lug was not caught on the back foot: full face of the bat striking in the middle, like a shot the Beef fired back.
         — Weight....
        Pressing down his large paw that had done bad deeds in the past for which Beefy had done his time. Exemplifying in his person first of all of course. Pressing…. But this was not compaction Beef meant here.
         — Aduh! Of course. Oh Shiite! Blimey, blimey me! How could one possibly have been so daft and unthinking?

Chooks

This was no kind of palaver. Nothing whatsoever like, truly. Aduh! Walking around to the cafe after ArtFriend for supplies, keeping inside the shadow-line of even cloud-screened sun under the cover of the SG Management Uni veranda.... The morning had been perhaps a trifle grey-bleak; almost wintry-fog in appearance gazing from the aircon at the great outdoors. On the No. 21 crossing Kallang River it might have been haze from Sumatran burn-offs covering the prospect toward the bay, the prow of the ship atop the MBS towers looking to have run into a storm. Even KV's seemed to lack promise on the slow Monday. Some unsettling presentiment of renovations just around the corner, inevitably. Just a matter of time before sprucing up the place with new wallpaper, chandelier, a new audio system and large screen. (At present bewitching Tamil songs filtering out from the kitchen.) In any case, who in the time ahead could possibly replace the cast of the clientele for one thing, the old Tamil sons and daughters of the coolies made of such wonderful human stuff? Impossible. More than enough reason for mourning. (Grim Hades scenes were not uncommon at the best of times, and in Singapore sites aplenty.)
         Couple of young lasses in soldierly step more or less, pacing along. Of a size, colouration, matching uniforms. Not exactly military garb; not exactly. Light fawn shirts and trousers slightly darker tone. Short band of blood-red down off the shoulder and spotted on the caps, berets or baseball.
         There was an effect produced, a reflex triggered. Instinctively, at the last moment after some hesitation, when two strides beyond had been taken.
         — Ahem. Excuse me ladies!... What is this? The uniform?...
         The pair did not mind the close observation in the slightest. Easy recognizing an honest enquiry and nothing untoward. (No byplay.)
         Uniforms and dress-ups of the campy sort are a joy in this region, in Singapura almost as much as Indonesia. Kind of smart here in the present instance, wide trousers ala British WWII officer issue. Not altogether without styling.
         On the bicep the fabric had folded in upon itself. Bending close, bending, girl jiggling her shoulder obligingly in an attempt to straighten. Jiggling; bending.
         Filipina and Malay possibly, in their twenties, good together, smiling and friendly.
         — No, not police. Chicken. Like KFC.... Jollibee.... with the sounding, at the same instant the crumpled line of lettering become legible.
         Ah. Of course. Yes. A new outlet that had been sighted around Bugis Junction somewhere was it? Next to the Popeye place and the pancake. (Or was Popeye pancake and mr bean the other?) A recent player introduced on the market by perhaps local interests as the name suggested. (Ignoring the fact there were precious few bees on the equator. Where might one find one of those in these parts now?...)
         The advertisements for Jollibee must have been confined to radio and TV (as might also be guessed by the name). There had been no mention in the newspapers. McDonalds and KFC did not advertise in the newspapers either as a general rule, individual glossy brochures excepted. One had long wondered about the chooks in this region, the warehouses and conveyor feed-belts on a single chain perhaps rising up half a dozen storeys on the island, or perhaps off-shore close-by. (Ayam in numberless dishes was everyone’s default food.) The industrial scale 4D printing was still some way off.

Community

Headline tagged green: "An oasis for community bonding".

         Artist's impression showing vines overhanging the building at every level, tree plantings, seats, walkways. 

         "....located next to Punggol Waterway, where residents can come together to bond over plants and greenery." (Thirty-three degree heat and 96% average humidity.)

         Three other "new generation centres" to follow. 

         "....one-stop amenity.... with 18,000 sq.m. of retail space.... dining and educational enrichment centres.... (a) Polyclinic." 

         "At the heart of the development.... a sheltered plaza for community gatherings and bonding among residents."

         In the West, in the wider spaces of Australia, the devastation of the contemporary environment was masked with much greater sophistication and finesse.

                                                                                    Sunday Times, Aug. 23

Condo Rondo

Malaysian Security at the gate needed the form filled in and signed. Block 10 straight ahead. Kristie running late allowed a little gander. Clean neat lobby without anything fancy, notice-board by the lift confirming what had long been reported: No unsightly washing permitted hanging out on poles at condominiums. HDBs the practice was allowed. They had dryers in the condos. Garden neat and clean, gazebo one side and BBQ pit another. Pool not visible. (A gym and pool was dangled in the ad. Presumably at the base of another of the towers.) Immediately a dog-walker, a busty young Indo lass pulled along on a leash. Indian painting crew down on terra firma outta their cage, DULUX Let’s Colour tees and Stand Clear signs. Ten-twelve storey: if the thing came down unexpectedly you’d likely get a lump on the scone. Iron tables in the picnic circle were discoloured; the next job for the work-crew perhaps. Synthetic tennis court below tall light poles—doubtful anyone was foolish enough to chase the ball while the sun was blazing. (These outdoor courts were indeed used in Singapore. No fans, no aircon. Usually at night when the temp had dropped to high twenties, humidity still off the chart, enthusiasts played. Marathoners and young National Service men were known to drop dead here; thus far no tennis players.) Ghostliness. Hollow ghostliness. The cropped shrubbery, an outdoor cleanliness like indoors—nary a stray leaf anywhere, much less slip of paper or plastic wrapper from the common outside world. Eerie. If there was such a thing as spine-chill on the equator. Some art-house splatter movies came to mind: Scandinavian films of violent meltdown began with such perfectly sedate surrounds featuring boy/girl-next-door villains. The Indian crew could have easily created mayhem: a Kashmiri or radicalized Muslim gotten past the Immigration desk on a U.S. passport carrying a certified couple of million $$ in a briefcase for cover. With the right explosives brought in on the truck past the gate you could have demolished the entire ten storeys, filmed and posted online, before police and fire brigade reached the site. The long ropes that had brought the Indian painters down from the top of the building waved like ribbons in the breeze. Every so often the lads looked up as if one of their number had been left on the roof. The cage sat on the grass 2.5 x 0.65 - 70m. Some kind of winch was involved, lads on the ground taking turns with those above. If these young men were Kashmiris perhaps it was less daunting, like for the Appalachian Indians on the early NY skyscrapers. Finally Kristie arrived, a Mainlander when the text exchange suggested hipster Singaporean. (A boyfriend had helped with the English acquisition.) They had a two month gap to fill, reduced price $900, utilities and wifi thrown in. Two prof. women in two rooms, one a Master that had its own bathroom. The other bathroom would be shared with one woman, a German guy and an Indian who stayed in the Maids’ Room (Bomb Shelter likely, with the early sixties construction). Kris was studying Accounting at a private college, $3k per semester. Expensive, but rental in Sing was the largest expense. Kris had lived in this condo earlier; now she was at upscale Orchard. Eighteen months out from Northern China, an hour from the Yalu River and North Korea. Recent high-colour toenail polish. Perhaps she did; perhaps she didn't moonlight out at Orchard, famous for its offerings. A second young maid was encountered seeking a gate for exit, this one led by two dogs of the same pocket-size as the first (again no plastic bag visible). A granddad stumblingly leading two children around a narrow, winding path. Don’t step on the grass whatever you do! Had you unconsciously tip-toed toward the garden-seat yourself perchance?

Picturesque (Sing' Still)

Four picturesque trees show-cased in the Sunday paper. Tall, wide-armed, impressive boles. These were not kerbside plantings; neither were they ringing condo pools. One that stood bare and stark after a lightning strike features prominently on google and instagram. Famous (locally). Couples, families, keen nature-lovers regularly beat a path to these trees. A bench was provisioned adjacent one. One in the Botanical Gardens and a third at the end of the island was a favourite for wedding shoots. Given fairly remote locations, backdrops for all four stretch wide without any looming tower encroaching: ".... don't even look like it's in Singapore", one photographer enthused. Grand escapism, as if with a magic wand suddenly blotting out all the architectural prize-winning piles of concrete, steel and glass. (Self-awarded by the industry.) Almost a case of (artistic) terrorism eliminating the burden of all that con(de)struction.

Publication News: Geylang Serai in California

Yes folks, this little corner here is currently playing on the big screen in CAL, Surfin' USA.
Big Bridge Magazine (No. 18) has just published a sequence of my flash fictions set at the bottom end of Geylang. (Posted on this blog earlier in the year.)
Check-out NTUC supermarket, Auntie Helen the Cat-lady and a couple of good pals Abdul & Abou from the former Mr. Teh Tarik featuring in high gloss technicolour. Titled “Year of the Goat”, you'll pinch yrselves, you'll laugh, you'll catch breath, gasp, cry. Hold onto your hats!
All freely available on the net in this case — B.B. is a webzine.
Hope you like it.
Salam & shanti
Pavle

Spaceship

Going out to pick up the stored luggage at Nance's yesterday Townsville Secondary School was passed on the elevated MRT. Late afternoon heat gone out of the day, the girls playing on court seemed fitting enough from the train window. The colour among them could easily have been from the namesake town down in the south. Looking at rooms again the day before—still holed up in the Love hotel—reminded of Dakota MRT close by on Mountbatten Road. Plains Indians out on the reservations how many generations now were not dissimilar to the case of the former kampung folk here. On the train a patch of dense jungle came into view at one point, the layered greenery and thick trailing vines momentarily flashing Tarzan movies, Johnny W. and Cheetah. At Admiralty the crowded McDonalds unexpectedly shocked; on the approach the signage had nowhere been visible. How did they pack them in so effortlessly with barely a seat vacant? How the advertising sucker so?... Night freeway blur taxiing back gave lit condo rooms with more than one hanging chandelier and an illegal Indian footslogger along the Expressway. One had become accustomed to only high-polished late model shine on the roads here; an old bomb in this landscape would stand out like dogs' balls; like a dinosaur emerged from prehistoric terrain. (Lately Queensland was turning up the old fossils at a rate of knots.) Cabbie had the AC on freeze, yet from his side there seemed to be a heater vent blowing contra-wise. The man wore a windbreaker and listened to commercial English hipster radio with its inflected patter that would have gone entirely over his Chinese head. (A dozen times over the trip the automated American voice warned of excessive speed.) At the Admiralty Chow stall the exchanges with the customers had all been in Chinese, the busy chap at the register surprised enough at the White to ask for origins. On the train earlier only one or two Whites had been aboard. Little "foreign talent" was to be found in the North-west industrial zone of the island, only Indians, Malaysians and Mainlanders. There was rarely any sense of separation from the people on the racial or cultural level; it was the drug-like disorientation of place, of locale, the make-believe unreal of the physical environment machine-gunning the brain Ratta-tat-tat—Ratta-tat-tat—Ratta-tat-tat. (Trumpeted, admired and re-produced throughout the region and the wider world as utmost perfection in urban planning.)

Colour

It might be a relative novice's mistaken impression, but, tentatively, a pair of strong candidates here at an early Komala Vilas lunch today sporting liberally applied whitening cream. Unremarkable of course ordinarily, were it not in this case on both sides males in question. With his phone fixation chap directly opposite could be closely observed from all angles. Black & yellow stripes on white polo, neat obedient office-lad hair from the 60's male lead Hindu flicks. Forearms certainly a slightly darker shade of pale; biceps perhaps less certain. The hair-line failed to give a clear indication either way. There were few suggestions of an Anglo-mix and finger-eating hardly counted as any kind of evidence. Neck closer to the collar line?... Chap at the back wall five metres distant sat opposite a wife who bore similar traces. Underlying shadowing distinctly apparent on his side particularly. (She a more expert exponent?) The usual two/three oldies in their colourful dresses here on our row really without a hope in hell given the dark base tincture. A lost cause with their artless daubs visible from an aeroplane (as the Serbs mockingly said). A more courageous investigator would have found a way to probe the men more deeply. — Excuse me, forgive me. I've just been shopping this morning at Bugis and....

NB. There is a suggestion the obsession possibly pre-dates the colonial era; three or four years ago a niche commercial sector in Singapore running to around $11m. annually.