Kasihan — Pity

A glimpse is often all one can get, or reasonably take. Looking back, or looking too hard was not permissible. In the dark section of road up from the train station toward the river, on the Malioboro side of the line, chap wheeling his pushie slowly just off the footpath, the narrow passage that comes to a thick cover of either coarse-grain dark sand, or else volcanic dust there. (Jogja’s gardens, roads and pathways are strewn with grey ash from Merapi.) Possibly the man knows of the obstacle ahead in his path. Older chap, he had procured from somewhere a fair kind of hat, shapely and passably decent it looked in the dark, with upturned brims and a nice crown. Where was he going? Did he have anywhere to go, really? Age was not the reason for that slow turn of wheel. More than anything, against the lights of the passing traffic and the occasional pedestrian, he seemed to be attempting to draw any available pity. Around the corner at the lights on Mataram  a truly pitiable young father with a girl holding a baby on the raised road-divider had gone from one motor-cycle to another seeking alms. The old chap wheeling his post-war bicycle made his case wordlessly.

Hackers WANTED! (For Smoking-out Villains)

Young hackers arise!
To work lads! What are you waiting for?
The major shareholders of these five Palm Oil & Paper companies responsible for these peat fires. 
Legal niceities we can determine at a later stage. (People concerned will be afforded a chance to defend themselves.) Right now we want names, percentage holdings, clear identification of the major beneficiaries. Bore in through all that commercial secrets smokescreen. Give us the names. 
Are they Indon moguls as commonly thought? Or perhaps Malaysian; perchance Singaporeans.
No more tardiness.
(A young Indon friend suffering in KL turning her anger on Jokowi, misguidedly one thinks. Much is at stake.)

NB. For European & North American readers who may not know, three-four weeks now smoke from palm-oil and paper plantations in South Sumatra and Borneo have been blanketing vast areas here on the equator, stretching northward as far as Thailand and the Philipinnes and reports today of south down to West Java. Hundreds of thousands of people have been affected, thousands hospitalised and deaths reported. The Indonesian government is planning mass evacuations by ship. Agri-business, large corporations involved. The political class of the region have been skirting around the matter; eg. Singapore a few weeks ago placed an embargo on various brands of toilet-paper. Who are the chief stake-holders? That is the question.

Dry Argument (at Semesta)

Hotel California. Earlier Hey Jude. (Originals rather than re-mastered, as more often than not in Singapore.) All rather strange drifting off into unfixed time and location without much awareness. One or two other familiar tunes were not able to be named by a non-aficionado; and the occasional bahasa of the same genre interspersed. Easy, tolerable and a little touching.
         This fare is solid bona fide kool in Jogja among these soft retro hippie kids, students in the main. This particular middle class need the lyric, the smoothness and yearning. Oh yeah! (The class element took some while to appreciate: lap-tops, smart-phones, labeled athletic shoes, stylized drabness—unequivocal middle-class.)
         Black predominates as if it were grunge on the sound system, again a little disorienting. (As yet the author has not worn his new batik tee to the place. A real rebel, that is upcoming. For these kids highly unkool; only dowdy old guys don such gear.)
        No tattoos, piercing, or beards. The tudong quite common, though the lesser proportion. (And much the most alluring.)
         Hand-crafted furniture. In Oz all the dark jati would be worth a small fortune. Laminex tops dotted here and there for the mix just right. Overhead exposed roof-tiling and atap in a number of places; stone pavers and worn concrete paths curving through the seating. The greenery of the tropics is unbeatable: a number of twisted tree trunks, over-hanging branches, creepers and vines restoring some of the forest and jungle. It is a great pity the birds have been excluded—the caged birds belong to the first generation out of the kampungs; not the hipsters following. (Mornings in the back corner a muffled rooster can be heard behind the fencing and what must be further barriers of some kind.)
         A younger son mans the till evenings and the matriarch day-time. The designer however has still not been sighted. Guess is an elder child away in Jakarta, if not another more prominent architectural capital out in the world. Neither the mother nor the young lad could have commissioned such design and arrangement. (Possibly the pair are more remote relatives entrusted with management.)
         Waiters mostly in tees bearing the logo—various colours—deliver the teas, coffees, juices, shakes and spiders. (Food is the lesser part of the trade; budgets tight for students. The prices are generally thought to be mahal: about double compared to the warung teas and the fried nasi triple and more.) Absence of female waiters hinting at conservative Islam.
         Point being completely dry. Not a drop of alcohol anywhere. Soda pop, shakes and cokes like in Gidget and The Patty Duke Show almost sixty years ago. (Reminds one that Prohibition and the Rechabite movement was only thirty odd years before that.)
         When Alice was in town earlier in the year after a quarter hour at the Semesta table she had remarked on the phenomenon. If there is nothing else of value in Islam, the stricture against alcohol has to be marked as of inestimable benefit. (If only the same injunction could hold against smoking. Deadly of course, but not devastating to a culture and community like alcohol.)
         Could the same geniality, the same ease and calm hold with alcohol introduced among this youth?
         Faris the Arizonan convert was perfectly correct: Western viewpoint often slips into the presumption that the absence of alcohol is a limiting curb and restraint upon a community. The old freedom gambit manipulated by capitalist consumerism.

         In Kota Bahru, Old Town near the Catholic encampment on the rise from the river where the becak drivers need to dismount.

Peg-leg

Another oldie dumbfounded at how far he had fetched, reporting to all and sundry at every opportunity. I seventy-four!... Not the usual guessing game this time: straight out challenge. One had become practiced at the requisite surprise and retort. In this case chap did look alright for that big number, might be able to crawl on a bit further yet. Gaps, dye faded long hair, squinting. No leg—summarily rapping his thigh. Everything suggested the man would be perfectly accepting and indeed welcome a closer camaraderie.... Ya, an old-fashioned peg-leg alright, the wood giving a distinct hollow ring. Bike of course. From Medan, Sumatra, but forty years in a Chinese kitchen in the States left good English. New to this neighbourhood and surprised to encounter a bule with a smattering of bahasa. More surprise followed when he heard of a liaison with a Minangkabau (just south of his own region). What?!... And immediately, How much?... and No believe when told it was sayang, love; not bought. Over the years the old rascal had paid plenty safe to assume. What could that Lima Satu sign mean? At the upper end of Gang 2 off Sosrowijayan the old board hung out with all the others into the alley-way. Five One? What, fifty-one a room? he was thinking. None of the Losmen went that low. A Russian film-maker of the early Stalin period had startled at Cinematheque Melbourne eight or nine years ago with improvised doco-drama using non-actors pulled from the street who gave remarkably compelling performances. Strangers seemingly thrown together that same instant immediately struck up an effortless intimacy that side-lined the camera as an element entirely, producing an effect something like high import dream. A century later one was experiencing a close equivalent in Yogyakarta on a daily basis, in this case the frame entered and full participation.

Musollah (Jogja)

Hard to tire of the small little musollah behind Pak Muh's stall at Beringharjo. Sometimes people seated at the head of the narrow passageway observe the observation and wonder to themselves. The interior measures something like 4.5 X 3m., with the prostration required fore-shortening further. Often women waited their turn outside on long low benches where they also restored themselves after their prayer. Within a remarkable scene of humped forms in gleaming white satin down on the rugs. As the girls at the clothing stalls at Beringharjo far outnumber the men it is this shrouded form that predominates on the floor of the musollah. Of course from behind one cannot see the faces. A certain kind of preparation in the features can be observed going in and coming out; sometimes profiles giving a hint of the attitudes being adopted. In a pass once Jo-Jo the dishwasher at Pak Muh was found on the right where the men kept when they attended spread-eagled on his back like an upturned turtle in a most ungainly pose. No way of knowing what that was about. In the Hindu temples in Singapore you often saw the full-length male prostration arms outstretched and forehead to the ground. It seems there is no call on the Hindu women to follow suit; on Shivaratri two years ago in Singapore there was no evidence of it among a great number of female devotees. Fridays in the neighbourhood in Singapore it was only ever men one saw filing off to the sermon. (In old Montenegro women were rare in the churches and when attending stood on the left at services. Funerals too they rarely attended; but then the famous keeners were of course women, who drew many notable foreign travelers to the high gravesides.) On the odd occasion at the Beringharjo musollah one saw a kind of chorus line, or sometimes even two lines in formation, all covered in the white robes that were provided, holding hands and moving in unison in the first stage of prostration. The brotherhood of Islam certainly extends to the sisters.

Cry Merdeka!

BELUM 
MERDEKA, 
PAK!!!
on the rail-bridge over the Code river at Tugu station.
         The common cry the world over: Waiting on Freedom, Pak!!! (You Fuck!)
         Faded colour: it was not aimed at the present man-of-the-people President Jokowi. One presumes there was nothing like it in evidence during the Suharto era, though that might be wrong. In Sing of course with CCTV coverage the consequence would be immediate arrest, legal process (shackled with leg-irons) and imprisonment. For disrupting social order and defacing government property, at a guess eight weeks, possibly with a couple of strokes of the cane in order to reinforce the lesson.
         Excuse the author a momentary little exhilaration this morning, dear Reader, at the sighting. A few short moments were needed beneath the inscription.... Never mind the vain plea over the dirty, broken pavement where only barefoot and ragged passed; never mind the futility. The act of deciphering was one reason for a little cheer; and then after the long term in the northern polis of blank, clean and freshly painted walls. Sigh…. Otherwise  language acquisition continues to proceed at shamefully snail pace. Questions too hanging regarding future habitation and prospects. Trieste, the original destination almost five years ago, stands like a chimera on the horizon.... Montenegro a ferry ride away; or road-trips through Slovenia & Croatia. The heartland. Crossing the Dinaric Alps—Lika, Bosnia & Herzegovinia—to the bays of Boka.... In an earlier age three months on foot would have accomplished the feat. With the body still strong might it still be possible perhaps?... Difficult meanwhile to tear away from here, broiling heat and all.

Ian McEwan in Jogja

So Bill was a bit of a dill alright. I'll try another 3 pages of McEwe standing up at Kinokuniya when I get back. (Arrived in Jogja today.) No offense to Ian Mc.—company policy: No chairs of any kind in Kinokun SG. If you really wanna seat there's the tight little SHSHSH_t-hole cafe attached where they jump at you the second you enter. Sir, have you purchased that book?... No Sampling Allowed of unpurchased prominent  all sides. Might be cos of soup stains; might be cos a proper survey would reveal the utter crud within the pages; might be a whole lotta things. NO, absolutely No Such thing as a free lunch in the island republic, get that straight. Not to worry, my dear. I'll be buying it when I leave. Shirt, collar and of course the panama unfrayed back then, what could the poor love have done? Rile a customer who was about to spend $5 plus for a cafe AND promised to buy a book on the way out into the bargain? Risking that would be more than her life was worth. Manager scream his head off, next she knows she's collecting plates like the old toothless ah mas at the kopi shops. Needless to say discarded. Enormously difficult to buy anything in a bookshop nowadays. Bought the occas. 2nd-hand item here, Greene's Quiet American. Took the region to finally get around to it. First rank, some wonderful pages. Met a French-Algerian bank fella last year who credited Quiet Ameri for setting him on the road to Asia in fact, where, incidentally, he has found his local Phuong, gal who believes in him more than he believes in himself, man suggested. (Sabbatical from the grind to pursue photography and maybe writing.) Fantastic unruly procession here tonight. They love their costuming the orang Jogja, brilliant get-up. Pike-men, powdered 18th C. wigs, caked lime it must be on young women signifying god knows what. Lustrous batik every side of course. Drums—kettle and other—pipes and gongs, a long LONG Chin dragon carried aloft by boys wildly rambunctious. Ten o'clock at night in an unlit street by the rail-line they were their own choreographers, the head suddenly doubling back without notice and the lads in the body forced to follow just like a real dragon might have done after something had caught its eye. A pretty trannie walked in the midst of one troupe perfectly fitting. Countless numbers were fagged out sitting in the gutter having a ciggie, one provided a massage of her toes by a compassionate colleague. (Arbus and other photographers of down-time performers recalled.) The disorder provided bucket-loads of captivating, multifarious life. (Now Breughel.) It does do one's heart a power of good passing through this people every day. Fourth time in Jogja; this will bring up six months in this city alone. (Informed reportage.) Struck some fine chaps at Semesta cafe after dinner and before the second round through the carnival. Initially young Sulawesi lad caught the attention with his FUCK YOU IF YOU CANT DANCE tote. Black item belonging to his girlfriend. The girl, a native of his hometown, he managed to convince to come across to Jogja with him to pursue her passion. For his part—a reggae fella—lad was respecting his father's wishes with Internat. Rel. at the Muhammadiya University. (Jogja is a university town, a great number sited.) When his group later came to take up the adjoining table a comment on the bag surprised; after some giggle an apology forthcoming for the indecent language. (Common courtesy from the youth here, even wannabe hipsters.) Chap listened keenly to the news of the current Booker contender, whose novel centered on the assassination attempt on Bob Marley in Jamaica back in the 60s was it? Later when the group was asked about its take on the Syrian disaster intelligent responses delivered. Minimal English, and the bahasa this side more minimal still; somehow we managed. Difficult to imagine a similar group of ours being able to give such measured, thoughtful and insightful response on say the South China Sea standoff. The reggae man too was told of the old Arizonan convert Faris's comments on the striking Javanese female gait. Earlier in the evening a scarved girl in non-descript jeans and top—plain dark brown head-cover—had lifted herself some distance from the mean with her passes in front of the table. A stream of water finding its own path; sinuous snake in a kind of glide-slide smoothly through the tables and chairs. Could have been the shoulders moving with the hips creating the effect. One saw the same everywhere here, Faris putting it down to the traditional dance classes in childhood that participants retained in later years. In Singapore the Javanese maids could sometimes carry themselves similarly. One fine exponent in Singapore had shown those movements within the walls of the Carpmael domicile on a number of occasions last year, but that is another long story.

 

 

NB. A friend began an online exchange with comments on an Ian McEwan book praised over-much in a review by Bill Bryson.

 

 

                                                                                                                                  Yogyakarta, Indonesia 2015

 

Halloween in Sing'

Something about

       Don't Take

           LIFE

     too seriously....

at a try-hard hipster coffee-counter in Selegie Road opposite SOTA.

         Around the corner in Bras Basah Road past Rendezvous Hotel, food republic at the base of Manulife Centre offered young blank-faced Chinese in neat navy cap with artfully arranged

         PORTLAND

               USA

         The construction workers in Geylang that were this young lad’s racial brothers never showed such a death-mask. Most definitely never. Not like young Portland carrying his tray to his window seat like that.

         You needed some stamina on the circuit: — now soft slender lass with her boy in bone-white carrying a bucolic version of the    

                BE

            The Best

               You

             Can Be.... (Something).

         Aduh! Capek. Golly. Tired.

         Along by Din Tai Fung, Molly Roffey's bar (12pm - 2am) neighbouring Starbs on the end beside the MRT at Waterloo corner, keeping right side of the shadow line to be sure like everyone else. Dodging and weaving the texters. PSI had to be upper 200s without masks visible was unusual.

         Designated Arts quarter on the urban masterplan. (SOTA - School Of The Arts, sits squeezed on the corner, weathered timber inserts that soar skyward covering the concrete bones beneath.)

         Around at Dome HALLOWEEN was hung over the register, lurid orange fishing-net stretched adjacent.

         Capek plus. Gotta await second wind

         We take a glass of warm water before the cafe, Yes, thank you.

         For the regular most of the staff delivered without order, even newbies. (Ice-cold sometimes was an understandable error on the Equator even for regulars.)   

         Latte listed $5.60, 10% off for regulars. Add 10% Service Charge and 7% GST. Five-ninety.

         Still, the room was rather wonderful, once the office of the old school, St. Joe’s Institution, where the current President had attended. Where he and the other upper crust drank coffee now on Orchard could boast nothing to compare.

         As an especially favoured regular one also received extra biscotti and panda or monkey illustration, depending on the barista. (Heart and leaf from the year before had been retired. Hearts had had a big, island-wide run in the branding a couple of years ago, with no clear successor emerged as yet.)

         Lunch had been with Gabby at KV prior to the Jogja trip upcoming in the morning. Pesky retired Divine continued to refuse to wear the handsome gifted straw-boater; but then neither has the old Queensland floppy been sighted many a month now.

         A few days ago the Gurkhas were in the news again. The extensive encampment of the trusty old Nepalese warriors out at Bartley Ridge had been circumnavigated in company with the Divine eighteen months before. A most memorable excursion. Who would have thought? More than a dozen tall towers that housed over two thousand hardened men alone.

         Well, Gab had discovered an odd procedure for the recruitment. In the regular selection process in the North one thousand young men underwent the most searching, the most rigorous examination. The inspection of young manhood likely had nothing like it anywhere to compare. (Could even Special Forces hold a candle to the mountaineers?)

         From this large initial cohort usually a mere forty or fifty candidates would pass muster for the final in-take. So few able to jump the required hoops. Of this number too, further winnowing took place before the Brits accepted their final contingent.

         The local element then.

         For their own purposes, the Republic of Singapura accepted those young men of the last group who had fallen at the final British hurdle. Ten, twelve, fifteen progressed to serve on the other isle in the North Sea and the remainder were given a life-line on the equator.

         Our gracious Queen naturally needed the best of the best even after the Irish had been tamed. But then the others were plenty satisfactory for the local Tropical nobility without all the goings-on left and right.

         Reputably reported by the former Divine. Fascinating.

         As a young lad in the Isa Gabby had in fact shaken the hand of the young Queen when she had visited her Southernmost dominion. Indeed, on the occasion the man had caught a glimpse of the lady’s panties too at an opportune moment in the mine-shaft when her royal Highness went down for an inspection.

         The royals in the old dart were a special case of course. Not to be wondered. The local billionaires and heads of government here could make-do with the slightly lesser calibre and only a bee’s dick in it ultimately you would guess.

         Perhaps further relevant: at the time of Will and Kate's visit here not long ago the Gurkha lads had been given patrolling duties with their mine-detectors around the streets of Raffles Hotel. For the portico of the hotel itself, however, only exceedingly tall, turbaned Sikhs qualified, chaps capable of eating babies from the spit and drinking hot blood, one could easily tell from a pass on the footpath.

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Friends down in the Great Southern Land will be scratching their heads and pulling faces. Guys, get with it. You’ve heard of the Corporate world. Somehow you’ve remained ignorant buried deep in your rabbit holes. Titles here that are available online.
Youngish English chap met briefly couple years ago at The Coffee Bean foot of Paya Lebar P.O. earns his living developing “leadership” in the island republic. Every few months sends his latest inspiration.

  For the Grand Final Saturday it was The Prince of Wales in Dunlop Street Little India, near Clive corner, where the first half was watched on one of the beer garden tables in company with three tennis coaches. Two Melbournians and an American earning a decent living here coaching at the condos. Nice boys sending an old sportsman rebounding back. Trifle odd. We managed. Peter the Beauie lad was a teetotaler, 2 Cokes with his burger and fries. Main bar was rocking pretty much; one could have been at the other Prince on Fitzroy Street, St.Kilda. Haze outdoors wasn’t let in.

Lachrymose

Filipina with stroke victim it appeared. (The day following Manager Billy discovered car accident, fellow on bicycle. Length of hospitalization not revealed.) Maid had enabled Madame to skip out to the library to pick up some reading. Hardbacks…Fred Forsyth and Cath Cookson GROAN among the rest when she returned. Smoke haze returned, hopefully to put an end to this show in short-order once and for all, blanket the malls, bring the MBS monstrosity crashing to the ground and return the forest and jungle. Indon VP Joe Kalla had a point the other day telling them here they ought to be grateful for 9-10 months of good air from their neighbour’s tree-cover. Met with predictable outrage. Point occurring at some juncture earlier catching the bus: the ecological devastation from these seasonal burn-offs is as nothing compared to what has taken place on this island in particular. Far too much of a challenge for all the boosters: this place was simply never ever meant to be. Ecologically a five or six mil. city on the equator was preposterous, completely counter to the natural order. Couldn’t be simpler. Colossal error as it turned out. Aircon may have seemed the greatest human ingenuity 45-50 years ago, as bruited by the local founding father gone to his grave earlier in the year. Good complacent bullishness on the matter much harder to sustain presently. The corporate capture of a number of rich old cultures here—Chins, Indians and Malays—a lamentable, lachrymose matter, painful and gruesome to behold. This poor man had a few deals left in him yet in fact, gathered three other chaps to the table. He and maid had been awaiting their arrival. Prior to the first entering girl had helped her sir to his feet, big chap185cm/95kg. Helped him rise, straightened shirt cuffs and put a few stray hairs back in place. Ready. Ready, but not moving. Two-three minutes standing in place. (Wife not returned at that point.) They were slowly, slowly about to make off it seemed. A wheelchair stood folded beside the door, but no move in that direction. Chauffeur OTW, he would help? No. No. The key man must have called telling he was just about there. Readying for the greeting then. Fitting and necessary reception. No. 1 man slow to arrive turns up with a thin dolphin snout, steel-rims, unassuming like. Probably sizeable investor in the palm oil plantations in Sumatra and Kalimantan. Cowboy capitalism take-no-prisoners. Wife sat off to the side for the duration. Had she been included in the handshake after she arrived? Entirely ignored thereafter. Leg-jigging White last to land a fatty who couldn’t settle. Big dollars involved plain to see, fat contract. Jitterbug all he was worth the Whitey. Dolphin opposite made him nervous. Chief among the wifely duties was to keep herself trim-slim; late forties, a little handsome. Fragile, but an adornment. Forsyth and Cookson. Could the maid last out? An easier position than Erny the Timorese in the Sims Avenue block recently loaded with a ahma early onset dementia. This guy was still sharp upstairs, astute with his investments. Wife could not possibly have coped, and the kids…Poor bastard. Why did he feel the need to receive Dolphin on his feet like that, really? Why?… Over 300 PSI readings a couple of days now, schools closed. In Sumatra itself over 1000 and yesterday in Kalimantan it reached 1800. The entire town of Pekanbaru reported evacuated.