Saturday Morning

Woman had earlier sold tickets for the Delima bus to Malacca up at a stall at City Plaza. Thrown the job in after some bother with the boss she had reported a couple of weeks ago. This morning at Al Wadi again with her group of friends for a late breakfast, all scarved and bound, the tall looker with the high head-dress among the rest. They were not noticed when the author arrived for his morning teh and newspaper, en route to the drinks counter a voice from the crowd giving Hoy! Ah! Unexpected. These ladies were a new element here, encountered only once before when the Delima woman had brought them over for intro and short sit. Waves from a distance: the group were eating. Smiles, smiles. Half an hour later the woman come over to the table to offer farewell. Oh! Off already. Adieu. Where might you be bound now? Spot of shopping? Jalan jalan—tripping about?... Early-mid forties, mothers and grandmothers no doubt; thickened and softened. Was it the movies perhaps, Saturday matinee session with the girls?... The Gardens to admire the flowers and blooms? (After an extended campaign to achieve some kind of listing, finally Sing’ had a World Heritage site: the Botanical Gardens. The experiment with rubber trees by the British in S-E Asia had begun here more than one hundred years ago.) Group of four, one new woman among the others, the Delima dame informed. Oh, indeed. The tall head-dress fluttered her kohled eyes beside the addition. Might it be cup-cakes at a new patisserie out in McPherson?... No, wrong. It was off to class, Delima answered. Every Saturday and Sunday morning. Not at the Converts here; Lorong 12. That'd be at Jamiyah. Yes. Yes. Is there a good ustad up there? A good one, yes. The same as was here earlier. (Above the former Labu Labi—now the cafe turned into a cheap China apparel outlet—Jamiyah had conducted classes upstairs.) Good to hear, because you know good ustad are difficult to find. (Just in order to implant the thought; prompt some critical evaluation. All Islamic groups were carefully vetted here by the government; the day before Omar had used the example of the standard Friday sermon.) Zainuddin had often made the point about inadequate, indeed ignorant teachers of the Qur'an, men of little learning and incapable of serious study. Zainuddin had been reading the Qur’an all his life and Zainuddin could be trusted above all others here.

Expat Location

Caltex Servo was the orientation once on East Coast Road. An Esso had been passed earlier.... Could the chap have confused his brands?....
         No, it was the Caltex, just beyond Telok Kurau Road. SmartMart attached and tyres the other side. Over four and one half years not driving a short snort of righteous disgust: cars, petrol, highways, speed. On the walk back to a bus-stop a couple of cars outside the Servo honked Indian workers on the roadway. Road had been narrowed, chaps hauling tubing given warning BEEP BEEP BEEP to stand clear. Grrrh!
         A selling point of the room was the "Expat location", for a prospective expat tenant just the thing. There was no con: cafes, bars, bakeries and the rest, one every fifty metres, no-one could complain. A working day there were no expats visible on the street, or only a couple. Hipster Chin girls, maids, old aunties and uncles.
         Redeeming feature was an old, weathered and discoloured block belying the fancy title it bore: East Grove Mansion. Yeah, right. In 1965 from the opium-addled coolie perspective, sure thing.
         Behshad, or Kevin, was correctly guessed: Persian he said rather than Iranian. The slight French accent suggested a possible Algerian, but that was because of Behshad's French housemates possibly. Nice chap clearly from the outset, long-term tenant in the flat opposite doing a favour for the landlord across the way.
         Crushingly neat interior: table setting, cutlery, napkins, dried flowers in the vase. Holy shit! The people here put on dark glasses for the crossing over the dirty discoloured paving outside their doors. Were there many such rundown places in East Coast? The whole stretch was reclaimed land, the fill from the leveling of the hills island-wide presumably. (Now under threat from climate change.) Beach, some kind of well-known promenade, bike-track, eateries and whatnot. Scruffy apartment blocks dotted between possibly. 
         Ten-fifty for a gap month between longer-term, contracted tenants, utilities add-on fifty or so. Behshad was happy to share his own wifi until good M1 was installed shortly. Two bathrooms for four rooms, one French guy and one American guitar player (only until 10pm Behshad assured). Nice chaps carefully screened from the outset, Behshad assured. Non-smoking but drinking was fine, laughed Behshad, assuming Australian habits.
         Fifteen odd minutes’ walk to Geylang Serai, with better cut-throughs likely. A variety of buses outside. (In case the point has not been made, not enough of the positives here acknowledged: brilliant public transport. Buses, trains. Aeroplanes well-known.)
         But the Caltex is the focus here. Walking up to the bus-stop. Empty, wide, clean drive-way, chap waiting at the bowser. Dark-faced pump-jockey under a red cap that matched his polo, black trousers. Long swinging strides for killing boredom, peak aimed between his legs.
         But hang-on, here comes a customer.
         Training was successfully drummed into this man: on the car's entrance immediately alert and welcoming, both arms raised and like on a tarmac waving the vehicle safely forward.
         Yes sir. Come along here now. Waving, waving.
         Had this guy seen Bollywood films where the male lead jets back from a business trip to Paris—shocking error: both wife and mistress, unknown to each other, waiting to greet. On the tarmac smart chap in uniform waving the big silver bird that had just descended from the clouds to the gate. One point seven thousand billion rupees in his hands. The Merc was likewise worth plenty. 
         If the boss reviews CCTV nights he will be assured the worker has the correct kind of attitude. If the yard is miked this chap would be offering fine courtesy and respect. Too right. 
         In the front page report of a recent parliamentary speech that underlined the need for the city-state to adapt and develop to suit the new global circumstances, where uncertainty abounded, three points were highlighted: continuing vigilance on the corruption front was one and meritocracy another. Meritocracy to the max. Nothing but meritocracy. The speaker used the examples of creatures in the jungle developing sharper beaks, claws, carapace in the struggle for survival. As before, meritocracy a key to the future. Benefits on show island-wide.

Darts

This dart champion with the dyed handle-bar and screw-top cap (doubtless shiny pate) got a positively unIslamic alarm unmanning thefellow. Fourth, fifth, if not sixth death now announced by the chap especially, leaning close to the table. 

Young Filipina was she? from the block opposite where he lived. His was sixteen-something and the other seventeen. Hanging out the washing. Heavy doesn’t wanna let go. Fall down. Flips and drops his open palm. 

From the tenth floor, doesn’t know her name. Monday just gone. Out at Tampines spitting distance from the mall. Again the flipping hand for the proximity this time. 

Had the girl been in his block he might have known her name.

Once he showed his precision machined missiles in a box with felt lining, heavy workingman’s hands capable of launching the arrows unerringly at his target. 

Traveled up the Peninsular for competitions, roomful of trophies at home. Even tonight the chaps were calling him from the club. Where was he?

Burden of the Filipina delivered, an interruption came from behind by one of the old aunties enquiring, Makanready?...

What?... Ah! the mention of chapatti his cue…

You remember the old Indian beard here front corner Labu Labi? The chapattis?... That one was Tuesday, back in Chennai...

Like one of the gatekeepers of the nether world, never missed a one.

For all of them fetching back as far as you wanted to go, the stout old Christians, the Romans, Vikings and all the rest, fear and trembling was dissuaded.

Friendly likeable sort struggling a wee bit.

One of his reports too had subsequently proved erroneous. Couple months past the Singing Cowboy had collapsed on the pavement here and carted off in an ambulance. Looking like Death’s door, in fact the old cowpoke's tunes were still a'coming nightly on that corner. The ghost had positively startled when he approached the table shortly after the return from Indonesia.

No Sweat

Like big Beefy, like some of the cricketers of old, many of these lads carry a little flannel in their rear pockets for wiping off. Case in point this chap turned up to see the brute as if in some kind of expectation. Beef perfectly nonchalant quickly turning back to his form guide. Most pals who come by, certainly those coming to Beef's table, receive a warm welcome, a deep growl usually as if from a beast in the depths of the jungle, sometimes a tongue-clacking vibration from a bird hidden in the foliage. Another matter afoot with this chap. One recalls the hawkers on Jalan Tubun, Jakarta outside Hotel Kalisma up on the narrow road-divider under the sun the live-long day. A trade in handkerchief-sized flannels for passing motorists stuck in the jams and melting. The improvised stick display racks in a range of colours held up by the men, pastels largely like this friend of Beef's draws out. A second time too fifteen minutes later the apricot square out from the pocket and refolded after use in a particular, irregular manner. Rinsed out overnight last him most of the year ahead. Little aircon in these chaps' daily round, none in the blocks where they live. Beef himself sleeps in the passage down by the Maid Agency, aircon turned off by management after-hours, but so are the fluro lights. For a breath of air from the street Beef jams a two litre plastic water-bottle between the pair of auto glass doors, couple chairs a litter. You don't see these articles on sale anywhere here.

Hulwana's Nephew

 

Astonishing when one oughtn’t be astonished. Mumbling to oneself lips aflutter and all unhinged. Strange, uncanny to be living others’ lives from the past and other cultures… Hulwana coming by with a young chap in stride, nephew of that size and aspect difficult to credit right off. Thin, darkly pretty, upright, always in her marvellous Arab gear—even when like this morning she declares she was not in her “fancy clothes.” Words with Hulwana, unsighted the last number of weeks, dad unwell and losing his appetite—when from the side the young fresh-faced body-building nephew in plain red tee that set-off his colouration shoots out a low hand at table-top level. Unexpected interruption, hardly recognisable in the first instance as an offering. Extended low and flat like a chapatti on a plate in fact for a reason. When the lad bent almost double to reach the hand he had been given with his forehead, astonishment, fright and delight all in confusion. A definite touch achieved with a slight nod at the end of the bow. Gee. Ah me...Ya, unmet previously, Hulwana confirms, as the lad hailed from Malacca. Her nephew. Smiling apologetically for his limited English. One would need to travel back at least sixty years for something roughly comparable in old Montenegro. (Hulwana's nephew was early twenties.) Online Piero di Cosimo pictures last night showing grassy knolls with livestock and birds of the air carried some hint of the same range of human feeling and respect. The omnipresence of birds and animals in the old artwork across the globe—Mughal India and Egypt before the most recent study—set one thinking on the temper of the human mind over the ages in the earlier living.

Pique

Old Sikh wonky on his feet after a loud fall on the steel drain-cover here on Onan corner opposite the Fries. Recovered sufficiently to get himself going again, no harm done.

         Waited out his slow amble and not disappointed.

—    Very lucky man.

—    Thank you uncle, without raising the eyes and light wave of hand.

         Not breaking stride.

         — Ok, good luck to you.

         (But didn’t you say I was very lucky ready uncle, you old fraud?...)

         Venerable to the max. Late-seventies. Regular beard-trims (eschewing dye).

         Faberge blue turban was it? that the wife or daughter washed every couple days. White cotton dhoti and red long-sleeved for cool mornings.

         In this quarter fellow was a bit outta his range, probably shopping at the market.

         Readers whose curiosity has been piqued can refer to a posting from the second half of 2011, when the author was still a pup in the new tropical environment. Unused to shysters of this form. (July, titled “Holy Man,” —newly revised just now and telling a useful traveler’s tale.)

The World's Most Successful Society‏

One is inevitably reminded of Plato's prohibition on music in his ideal republic. Wayward rhythms too dangerous for a community.
         After a forty-two year ban music will be allowed once more at Thaipusam in Singapore this year, restricted to three specific stages well away from residential areas. Rationale for the historic ban alleged outbreaks of fighting among competing musicians forty-two years ago. Wild street musos.
         Certainly a famously tight-lid kept on the community here, described by one of the city-state's chief propagandists as the "world's most successful society" in the same edition of the Straits Times today carrying the Thaipusam item. Mr. Kishore Mahbubani touted by fans as one of the top fifty intellectuals on the planet; or else of the last century it may have been.
         The long opinion piece of Mr. Mahbubani's returned to the question raised in recent days of the selection of the President. When the Republic of Singapore was still a pup presidents were appointed by parliament. Subsequently a rush of democratic spirit saw the last number delivered to that office by election. Mr. Mahbubani, like some other commentators recently, had become concerned that a democratic vote might not be the best option. Firstly the problem of a populist president capturing the position (Thaksin in Thailand); then the matter of an independent president at odds with the ruling party—ill-boding for the most successful society in the world. On a positive note, appointed presidents might open the door to representation from the minorities. (Canada & New Zealand.)
         Context. In the last parliamentary election the long-ruling PAP in Singapore managed to win back a large part of the vote lost in the previous election, which had produced six opposition candidates. A Jubilee 50th year of celebration, the death of the former PM (father of the nation and also of the current incumbent) and some generous social programs aiding the cause. In the Presidential election in-between these two parliamentary, four years ago, the government preferred candidate, a former PAP Minister himself, surprised by scraping home by 0.35% margin. Dangerous prospect ahead identified by the celebrated scholar.
                                                                                                                        Straits Times, 18 Jan 2016

RE: Rupe Murd and Jerry Hall announce engagement‏

Title sent it to my Junk Filter. Don't worry, pulled you out and dusted you off.

Saw a pic little while back of Rupe and Jerry, some smoke they said. Poor fella must be getting nervous about the dark. After all the bright lights on planet earth, the dust of course a bit of a pisser. Any word you heard of cryonics, with his pal Ronnie and the others? (Latter of course banking on pristine restoration, pink of health and youth—you can forget the veg. days.) Whispers here that the cremation story of the great Helmsman Lee was just a blind, he went into deep freeze down in a vault in the Rockies somewhere, all hush-hush, organized by Henry Kiss. H. more than happy to help a good friend of America, and of course they had a great personal relationship too, Kiss. a regular visitor to these shores, the pair on the chesterfields under the aircon sharing the realpolitik. HK told the old Harvard story at a televised wake segment: Harry Lee's early visit to the States, Vietnam War, VCs copping a pounding, bombs galore. Young Harry wants to hear ed opinion on the matter at cedar-panelled Harvard, cigars, whisky, trees blossoming through the windows. After listening quietly to the various profs and specialists, straight-shooting Harry L finally erupts, the great SE Asian Tiger-Helmsman: You all make me sick! Jaw-socking punch putting their lights out, hero H Lee. All the second thoughts about imperialism, the napalm, agent orange malarkey put to bed in a flash. Realpolitik. Kiss loved him from that day forward, special, unbreakable bond forged. Was still a bit worried about being kicked up the kyber by the local Commies here, dominoes; &etc. Anyway, Rupe Murd. Bowie goin wouldn't have helped any. Didn't find any mention where he had the Spanish dancer. Eighteen months courageous battle sounds like brain or liver maybe, with Class A docs, last album the lucid snatches. Wonder whether Jerry's got anything to worry about fr Wendy's corner. If I was her adviser I'd suggest puttin a lid on the crowing. Could the old buzzard throw another spanner in the dynastic works with an addition to the roll-call deep in his dotage? Tipped over eighty, isn't he? Did he freeze some o' the juice? Where's the knot gunna be tied? I told you where he christened his girl to Wendy, didn't I? Huge to-do with Anglican-turned-Mick Tone standing as godfather. And...Who do you reckon was godmother? Clues: Oz blonde, actress, historical dramas, mostly, I think, and doesn't take her clothes off. Read the finale to my BERKELEY IN THE SIXTIES, that'll fill ya in. (Still hopin some brave editor will bite that bullet.) He'll be backing Trump, who else? And doubt he'd like Mal down in the land of Oz, that wetness not to his taste at all. Security would have to be supreme for the event of course, Murd wouldn't have too many friends among the beards. Not wishing evil on anyone. Leave that to god, like the Musies in these parts say.
Cheers
P

Awake!

Oyster-perpetual Day-Date 40 on display at The Hour Glass Ion Orchard #01- 02—two towers, or floors possibly—from January 11 - 24.

Worn By More Presidents, Leaders and Visionaries Than Any Other Watch.
Rolex, with the king crown motif above that many of the global casinos have adopted in their branding.
No other place on the globe could carry such a full page advertisement in a national newspaper (p. 5).
No other place on the globe could compare for the corporate cachet capture on the scale of Sin'pore.
Outcomes on the streets, the buses and trains, in the malls, the traffic jams and around the condos something to behold.
Oh traduced humanity. Brothers and sisters! Awake!

Eternally Hopeful

Out early with the wifi down at Four Chain. (One Star hotel one discovered online yesterday should not have surprised.) Single hour at Feidu last night where the owner has his dad and uncle visiting from Jilin Province, both picked in a trice and younger distinguished by this eagle-eye observer. (Older bro something significant here of course.) Interesting genetic components that transmitted in fair form to the little granddaughter. How did the boys in the mid Sixties at Spotty State School do it? Right fist loosely clenched and rubbing left breast. I’m too good…. Ah yes. And first a hot breath over the inside of the fist for polishing the imaginary badge. I’m so good, it may have been. Footing up the road an arrow immediately piercing the equilibrium: PAZZION on a passing van in the stream. Dirty old tall-sided van, run-of-the-mill innocuous everyday nothing suddenly turned vile. Shitheads. Garbage. Fitting punishment needed to be devised for the responsible parties. Rapidly following on the heels too COMFORT taxi and worse still, upping the ante, SMRT bus in rapid succession…. Yikes! Brrrh…. Unsettled. Cloud, breeze (heaven’s, not from the mounted fans), so-so pretty girl running for the lights. Syrian reports every morning, the latest the city starving under siege. Perhaps there had been running water through the walls overnight and the Faker moaning again. Way back when one had become acclimatized to SMRT—Sing Mass Rapid Transport; “death” in the Slavic languages. There was nothing in it now, nothing. Hair-trigger foul mood. At Guillemard corner a little boy’s hand held by the Filipina maid as she was trained, the free banging, hammering on the button. ClackClackClackClack impatiently. You wait for the little green man Sonny, I’m going to cheat. Big-frame candy-coloured glasses in four or five hues chosen by the mite from a rack with mummy and daddy in one of the malls. Averted eyes. Warned of strangers is one thing, but Chappie unused to any parley of any sort on the streets. Maid giggling; difficult task trying to explain that. Only to be steamrolled by the van first and others immediately thereafter. There was in fact a logic in the sequence too, twisting the knife. Mr. Ee at the first Haig table surrounded by the uncles and aunties over their late brekkie, his own head bent low to his Buddhist tome in Malay. To look at Mr. E is more Chin than Malay, colour tone aside (heavily, darkly freckled). The other however his stronger, literate language. Goes up to one of the temples two-three times a week, not one of the chanting ones. Retired seaman, bachelor living with a brother who has never been sighted up in one of the towers behind. Blew all his hard-earned from the better paying Norwegian ships on women and whisky. (Opium was never his thing.) Hong Kong brothels, Macao brothels, Dallas, Jakarta, too many to mention and little to differentiate. In Dallas a lady drove him to her place, stayed the night in her own bed and breakfasting in the morning for only $100 unexpected for a Yellow man possibly. (In the Orchard area recently complaints from the exclusive condos of pop-up brothels, all online difficult for law enforcement.) Presumably Mr. Ee had Houston on the Gulf confused with the other. At Al Wadi Beefy his eternally hopeful self as always—the knack of a long-stretch jailbird. Today Friday, he reminds himself, we got four leg…. Up at Bedok on the screens in some kind of den. African races, Australian, Singaporean, HK, some days there were four meets. Close-up of Obamas’ tears in the newspaper; then confirmed:  mangroves played a significant role in carbon capture, Sing’s own scientists report. The late-lamented mangrove swamps.

Greek on the Equator (S-E Asia)

Names are hard in this republic. After independence the understandable decision to leave untouched the former colonial imprint. (Can of worms.) Therefore Somerset, Grange, Ascot, Victoria, Belgravia, Admiralty, Lavender, Regent, Rochester, Saint Andrews, Versailles, Petain & Clemenceau roads, MRT stations, condos, malls and schools. The Western inheritance and aspiration remains, nowhere more evident than in the remarkable project to institute and uphold English as the national language. Again, perhaps understandable in the nation-building project where various languages and cultures were forced to share a small island. Occasional faux pas (one example must suffice): a few years ago local entrepreneurs opening a bar thought the most fetching ring was provided by AUSHWITZ (sic.). Enterprising investor had heard something somewhere, schooldays maybe… Recent times some little controversy over the naming of a new Junior College. After exhaustive consultations with all stakeholders the unanimous decision fell on EUNOIA. Greek root denoting "beautiful thinking" and "goodwill toward others". Difficult to surpass for an educational institute for serious-minded students with anxious, ambitious parents. Some of the Windsor accents one heard here was completely bewitching: the MRT announcer possibly narrowly outdoes the Minister of Finance, Mr Tharman Shanmugaratnam, a clear head in front of the Minister of Justice, Mr K. Shanmugam, with the PM Lee in the same leading pack possessing impeccable enunciation, phrasing and even some measure of creativity. The prospective students at Eunoia just entering the race would need a great deal of support and encouragement to carry through. At present some struggled with the colliding vowels and uncertain syllables of the newly named JC. From the relevant department stout defence against accusations of pretentiousness, top-down dictate and disregard for local character and culture. Linguists meanwhile stood at odds over pronunciation. In the case of the college itself, it had settled for "yoo-noh-iea"