Security

Nice to have ya back onboard. Security’s all small fry piddle down there, the usual gig I mean. SWAT’s another story everywhere. Run of the mill garden variety Security you find throughout here—down in the glorious Sing Republic I mean. At the moment I’m a couple 100ks north in an old town called Muar on the south-west of the Peninsular. In four days haven’t seen too much Security here, one old Indian at a gold shop it musta been on a stool out front, rusty barrel strapped to his shoulder and wife it sounded like in his ear on the phone. Heard some nice Sec. job stories from Yana the Tamil, former Hari Krishna. Last in the badland brothel quarter some condo among the thicket. Didn’t like it Yana and insisted on relocation. Escaped the HKs only to fall into the clutches of Sec. Supervisors in supersaturated security-conscious Singapore poor fellow. You can’t have enough security in Sing’, safety, CCTV, caning, auxiliary Gurkhas &etc. &etc. Helps the populace sleep nights. A break-and-enter gets in the Straits Times, pictures accompanying—tracks of blood where the villain cut his finger, interviews with alarmed auntie next door. Coming up here to Malaysia was a walk on the wild side and Indonesia forget it. (Batam was OK for Sing tourists; they’d converted that territory into their colony.) Yana’s nemesis was a Chin guy at a carpark gig who had climbed the company ladder over the years, late 60s or into his 70s common down there. Lotta, I mean a real LOTTA shiny motors in Sing’. Monaco might be the benchmark but SG was hot on the heels. Gleaming shiny showroom spectaculars burning down every street. (You’ve read about the maids cleaning and polishing sometimes every single morning on yr fave blog right?) Lotta guys nervous bout scratches and scuffs once they have to leave their chariots unattended. You wan the $$$ on a cushy job in a chair 12 – 14 hours you gotta look-out good for peoples’ prized possessions in that land. Yana was caught sleeping number of times, reading and staring vacantly didn’t see the Supe slip in the door. Chin keen as mustard fella none too pleased. Not infrequently man would raid the rubbish bins lookin for clues to mysteries he didn't share, people up to no good maybe. Comes into Yana's pillbox: — Who put bin? Holding up whatever. Another time same; a different suspicious article brandished at Yana. It stumped the poor man, a contemplative guy revolving larger questions. Chap didn't like him, wasn't watching out hardly at all. Add racist undertones—yellow doesn't like brown, Yana holds, esp. Indian rubber tone. (Malays were a clear notch above the Indians—theft of their native soil &etc. They could get narky.) When fellow caught Yana sleeping kicked the metal bin, the one under the ledge in the pillbox, not the other suspicious public receptacle. Yana's up in northern Thailand now after couple months in Oz working in a boatyard in Freo, the exploitation there another story. First thing a newcomer notices in SG is the eerie cleanliness—place inhabited and densely populated, yet ghostly all-through. First thing a local will remark is safety, safety, safety. Safety in spades & truckloads. Ructions are confined to Mainland foreign workers, Bangla and Indon in their own quarters usually, rarely spilling onto the streets and after jail-time soon deported. A girl can walk alone in skimpy gear totally pissed 4am in perfect security you hear the mantra.

Stay well pal, salam
P