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.