Buffoons and Worse

Paul Virilio throws up the reminder of the "buffoon Berlusconi," a particular Italian joke for chuckling at a dozen years ago when City of Panic was published. These few years later the note rings rather differently after the imminent nomination of Trump, the South African Zuma (husband of four wives concurrently: polygamy was written into the South African constitution) and beneficiary of a $20m government funded renovation of his private residence; then add Najib's alleged involvement in thievery and murder, Sisi in Egypt, the Sauds forever in Arabia, Putin's PR machine manufacturing the Strongman cartoony. New boys on the block Duterte in Manila (boxer Pacquiao in the wings together with the young Marcos) and the pistol-totting candidate for the Austrian presidency losing by a whisker last week. Placing Kim Jong-un in the midst of that crowd, the youngster might be perceived in an altogether different light. (On our local little red dot the son of the revered founding father in the jockey seat a decade—the party a half-century—after a short round as a Brigadier General in a famed corruption-free meritocracy, with free elections and single state media throughout.)

The sting in the tail comes in the suggestion it was in fact ever thus, only much better managed and presented usually.

The Agency

As if someone gives a right royal FFF. What's the big deal? So damn well what for christ almighty’s sake, there’s far more important things to worry about. Young pretty pre-pubescent beauty happily swinging herself in the Haig playground. Cloud cover from morning holding through the afternoon. Long high swings in the air and no-one needed to supervise (copper-coloured Malay; the Chinese are more circumspect where risk-taking behaviour is concerned). Thin long limbs that will make the boys' hearts race in a couple of years, legs pointed, arms stretched and smiling. CIA orange caps on sleeveless olive green. In Manila, Vietnam, Laos and Cuba by now it will be the same.

Clear and Distinct

From a quite unexpected quarter one morning.
         — Good thinking; good doing.
         Frizzy-haired chap offering slightest acknowledgements up to that point over the five years. Early or even mid-seventies, always dyed and in good trim.
         The Malay might have been infused with some part Indian in his case.
         Earlier the man had never sat at the lower end there, all the previous passes had been up at the Haig, almost always with quite uncertain acknowledgement and most often nothing explicit.
         Chap had drawn some conclusions from his quiet observations over the term. More than a little surprising.
         Only in the last couple of weeks had there been more deliberate nods and inaudible words. These here the very first distinct—something like an oracle finally giving unambiguous utterance.
         Fellow had gone across under the awning on the other side of the passage to have his fag. (Two hundred and fifty dollar fines recently exacted for smokers at the tables.) One of the street chaps who slept rough and relied on charity was there on a chair he had taken over; joined by the sage. On the return passing behind the chair and bending to whisper in the ear.
         Clearly respected pen and paper, when there had not been any indication whatever.
         Left one wondering; still waters and all that.
         And more treasure almost immediately afterward as a kind of follow-up illustration.
         An old, irregular Malay tissue-seller had stopped at the adjacent diners. Yes, a sale. Lady would take a single pack, that would do. Keep those two. Makasih, makasih.
         Furthermore, chap accompanying the lady wanted to know whether the woman had eaten. Hungry or thirsty? 
         Usually perfunctory enquiries of course, though not in this case. Pressing at hesitation. (The ancients in Montenegro needed to be asked three times before they would accept hospitality; that way you could be sure of true offering.)
         Iced lemon teh then, no need let up on the gula. Sugar hit for all she's worth.
         Politeness meant the woman should sit a while, short conversation sufficient.
         Not so hot, good cloud cover. Quite enough for a thirst of course.
         Had the woman truly eaten? Would she like a plate of something?
         Sudah, the tissue-hawker re-affirmed. Seemed she had indeed taken some morsel previously.
         Half the teh consumed; the remainder she would take with her. Away then. Thanks again and best wishes.
         In delivering a couple of drinks unasked in the last few days Mr. Yusof the SMRT (“death” in Serbo-Croat!) bus-incident stand-by explained with Ramadan approaching a Muslim needed to reach out to one's brothers, to one's neighbours and strangers too.
         The extremism was chickens coming home to roost after more than a century of devious manipulation and vicious devilry in one particular region of the world most especially. Colonialism and Neo.

Forest Thicket - published by Rambutan #5, 2018

Without any other way to record what must be recorded, these fragments continued.

         The man with the turned right eye usually found on the Block 2 Void Deck either at one card-table or the other, observing from the side usually; striped red, blue & white polo cycling through the estate; sometimes seated by the passage legs up on the railing.

         Good mornings, ni haos, zhao uns and how are you? This morning on the return from the teh and newspaper the same. Going out earlier there had been the same.

         After the second pass this morning a short wait was needed at the lift, where unexpectedly from around the corner the man suddenly appeared. He did not live in D Block; he had never been encountered there. 

         — I give you mango. Abruptly thrusting a red plastic bag at the shnozz and pulling back the cover either side.

         — Verrrry nice! As if afraid he might be disbelieved and his offering rejected.

         After a momentary start it was clear the chap wasn't kidding; man knew his fruit. 
         A hard, green specimen of average-small size, yet the perfume emanating was difficult to credit; more than substantiating the man's claim. An exploding grenade of richest heady perfume. 
         One hundred to one this was not supermarket product, and far from it. The fellow had access to a tree somewhere in deepest forest where trunks crowded each other and the foliage shredded the light; he knew where, as the old story-tellers would have said.

         Like everyone else, the man had observed the fruit carried in hand day after day up to Doreen’s flat, naked oranges, apples and the yellow Thai mangoes usually that gave only the most trifling scent. In his keeping this man had an appropriate gift for the stranger. Even late night from the entryway returning housemates remarked upon the fragrance.

         How to return something fitting now was the question.
         A couple of days later when the man was thanked again for his gift and the fabulous bouquet underlined, chap was surprised it had not yet been tasted. The hardness made no never mind, the fruit was ripe. It was in fact fallen fruit, not picked. After two days it would be "spoiled ready."
         In season a fig they used to give as an offering to children, friends and passers-by on the Montenegrin coast between the wars (and proverbially of course one would not give the same for anything less than worthy); an apple, orange or almonds and walnuts too from the fortunate ones in possession. Kampung folk easily identifiable here over the void decks, sitting on the steel benches, under the care of the dark-skinned maids and pacing the aisles under the supermarket fluro, old ways retained.

Rapid Dawn

Half seven this morning the wide fish-lens of the S-E of the island from Doreen's tenth floor kitchen showed low dark cloud on the horizon and beneath luminescent orange following the same line. Cool through the open window and still like a painting that had drawn one in. The brilliant visual that is given each morning here outside the window before breakfast bears no relationship whatever to the bulldozer heat imminent, less than an hour away. (During the time of the forest and jungle it must have been an entirely different matter.) Dusks are brief on the equator and innocent sleeping city dawns the same. Yesterday at the adjacent Komala table a young Tamil engineer based the last few years at the Caterpillar factory in Arizona remarked upon the heat—neither Arizonan desert nor the South of the Indian sub-continent came close to the challenge here.

 

Expect Death

Jan 1, 8, 11, 14, 22, 26, 28, 29; Feb 7, 17, 27; Mar 3, 4, 9, 11, 22, 24, 25, 31; April 1, 2, 16, 26 and May 16, 19, 23, 24 days of workplace deaths in Singapore. Thirty-two thus far this year, which is six more than for the same period last year. 

            A fortnight ago stronger regulatory measures were announced, which met with resistance from building contractors. (The construction sector employing mainly cheap foreign labour a major source of the problem.) 

            Stiffer penalties would worsen the "dire situation for meeting deadlines"; workers also might suffer financially with extension of stop-work orders. 

            An MP suggested "it all boils down to the workers." 

            One construction firm had increased safety inspections from one a week to two. 

            The Humanitarian Organization for Migration Economics (Home) executive director pointed to fatigue as an underrated factor: twelve hours or more seven days a week, lapses could be expected.

                                                                                
                                                                                                         Straits Times 25 May 2016                                               

NB. As of 12 May, fifty Australian workers have been killed at work in 2016; nine hundred and thirty-three in Malaysian workplaces in 2014.

The Buddha All Guns Blazing (Vesak Again)

Mid-afternoon on the return from lunch jets four-abreast over Tanjong Katong corner, crossing to the field on the other side of the former post office. Oooooh! Burning up the blue, almost touching distance overhead. Were it not for the almighty clamour, the crowd at the air-field might have been heard. Earlier in the morning someone had said it was the Air Show. Yes, the Air Show; big crowds along Changi Road. Parking was impossible anywhere along there. One chap complained he had been forced to park down at Eunos MRT; peeved that he could get no closer to the market at Geylang Serai. In fact turned out not to be the Air Show at all; that had taken place in February. Not the big ticket Air Show. This was the RSAF Open Day at the Paya Lebar Air Base; a rather different, less highly geared affair. The theme of this year’s Open Day was "Defending Our Skies": aerial and static displays of RSAF aircraft and weapons systems (Republic Sing. Air Force; not Royal); demonstrations of aircraft arming, simulators and aviation-related games on the program. Fun day for the family and unlike the bigger production that draws buyers from the region with their cheque books, this open day was free. Only problem, there was no parking provided at the air base, mums, dads and kiddies forced to bus it and foot-slog in order to partake. By chance, it also happened to be Vesak Day, a national public holiday in Sin’pore that marked the Buddha's birthday. There were other events on elsewhere in the Republic on Vesak Day, but it does seem the displays at the air base outdid all others. Unfortunately, the only thing, the poor old sage was forced to put up with sharing his special day with the flying machines. Unhappy accident. Doubtful the irony would have registered for any of the busy local mandarins. Protecting/defending the skies was all well and good, but even so, one could imagine the wise old Compassionate One might have been miffed at the circumstance. That explained all the aerial thundering day after blessed day through the last week: the lads had been getting into shape, readying for the crowds on Vesak Day and keen to put on a proper entertainment. Syria, Iraq, Libya were a world away. All the same, three cheers for the Buddha, not completely over-shadowed in Singapore. Earlier, over the back fence at the Carpmael Road temple, chopsticks had been heard clattering on the porcelain it must have been, brought out for the occasion; late afternoon pleasant and lulling chanting drifting over the grass. 

NB. On the following day a news-item on the world's most advanced fighter jet, the F-35B Lockheed Martin, which Sing' is currently assessing for purchase. Possibly it had featured in the entertainment on Vesak. Equally interesting too, the Israeli-US-designed augmented-reality helmet, which offers pilots six cameras mounted around the plane, giving 360* views of surrounding airspace, including "look through" floor. A "heads-up display" projecting directly onto the visor provides info like altitude, speed, location of enemy aircraft or ground weapons, "right in front of the pilot's eyes".
                                                                                                                       S.T. Sunday 22 May 2016

Updated Sept23

Kicking-back at Starbs

Mr. T. T. closed for the second day. Yesterday was Har Yassin, the fat Tamil owner hanging around like a bad smell. Should the old dragon find you sitting on a $1.30 teh at the front table newspaper spread, watch-out! A couple of weeks ago the man enquired the food order. Rounded back a few minutes later with same again, this time adding fingers to the mouth case you weren't understanding. Third the nice prata-maker was enlisted, ordered to join the siege.

— Makan? Something to eat?

Money-hungry old devil. The labour that he sourced from the homeland was treated like the indentured from the good ol’ days.

Wifi at Starbs. Kampung Cafe around in Joo Chiat Road offered the same, but with curtains screening the street, backless stools and mediocre teh, it had to be Starbs.

10:15 usual dozen plus dotted at the tables, laptops sprung. Reading a newspaper within those walls was unusual, no need fisticuffs at the stand in the corner. One's own paper was always preferable of course and Auntie Helen had become accustomed to her lunchtime copy. (Feline stories aplenty: the therapeutics of cats, cat cruelties, cat cafes &etc. Always something for Helen.)

Starbs in the familiar livery. Sixteen Mr Teh Tarik outlets in the Republic; must be into the hundreds Starbs, Coffee Bean, Coffee Connoisseur, as well as some independents last few years in the hipster quarters. 

Woollen hoodies. Collared zipped windbreaker. In the squatting culture loads of legs brought up under bottoms, long clean limbs that were certainly unavailable down at Mr. T. T. and the others in the Malay quarter.

The young mop-top Korean with the machine-gun jabber last time in his favourite chair. Returning from town that same afternoon 4hrs later the lad had remained holding his ground in the window. Earlier signs discouraging long-term tenure had since been removed at Starbs. 

The chap had been making progress with a local lass. That Singaporeans were muddling up the north and south of his country was a concern. Now the attack on the American Ambassador in Seoul would give more nuisance.

Did you want brekkie with that?... Afternoons the enquiry was for up-sized beverage, only 50 cents extra. Newcomers hailed on entry.

The night had been palled by news at home of Arth’s struggles. Up until recently Arthur’s voice had countered the reports of his wasting away. The recent remedy gotten from the Net had been abandoned; there had been nausea and loss of appetite. The coming week some kinda brew that included McKenzie's Baking Soda & molasses was going to be tried; pictures online showed shrinking melanomas. A fortnight since the last call, suddenly the suggestion of gun-to-the head without improvement. Arth’s old .22 was still wrapped in oilcloth in the house somewhere.

Mite hard the tunes at the best of times. On a couple of occasions when some serious work had been brought along the guys immediately obliged lowering the volume. Once or twice when the same worker was struck the courtesy was delivered unasked.

C&W instead of Frankie and Louie covers mornings. (Frankie of course never rose early.) The twang at that hour made balancing a full cup dicey. 

This particular sample was unfamiliar, Republican hit parade of the kind Bush & Cheney would play in the pick-ups rounding up the steers. 

First serious plunge of the knife was Family—chorus, refrain and ripe rhymes. 

It's Family, It's Family across the scale. Family.

None of the bent heads bothered in the slightest. Not a flicker. If they weren’t enjoying there was certainly no blood-boiling.

Usual 25% Caucasian, with Eastern Euro regulars. The Ruskies and Poles in Singapore always surprised, part of the "foreign talent" that was upsetting the locals. 

Every time a TV drama queen from the States, present case big haired with turbo baby-stroller, late to motherhood.  

Yes my love? More chockie muffin for bubs?

Scarves or caps were exceedingly rare at Starbs. (In Malaysia there may have been social action against the corp.) Even hipster or professional Malays kept away, though sometimes it was difficult to tell the Chinese apart from the Malays, in the office attire especially. Uncomfortable sitting against the glass while one of the familiars from the bottom end passed by.

The Chinese pressed camouflage shirt and steel-rims must have parked in the basement. Wife had purchased khaki knickerbockers and matching sandals. Laptop; pressed for time.

What had you straightening in the chair was the melted cheese focaccia. Would have been good to see the slice before the heat had been applied. Gee. Warnings about cardiac arrest had passed over the top of that dyed head.

The while someone had flicked the volume. Up to that point the piece had pitter-pattered drawled unobtrusively, before the shooting finale.

HALLELUJAH!

In the comic book version the tables and chairs were blown into a pile in the corner.

Even more profound a few moments later was the descending tremolo that carried the notes so far one could have gone into the mall for a pee, returned to the chair and still had time for the crossword.

....LLLLUUUUUUUUUU....JAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHH.

There had been a recent report on free diving where exponents held their breath underwater ten minutes.

Flickerlessness. Not the merest sign in any quarter. Conversations proceeding. 

Some heads had turned from the concourse outdoors. The water jet-cum-fountain was still not operating at the newly opened One KM Mall.  Water restrictions were pending after the almost entirely dry nor'east monsoon.

The Korean's girl finally showed, lad properly occupied now. Back home in the south of the Peninsular they were likely accustomed to this kinda thing. 

Granddad Focaccia had been replaced by another pair of Caucasians sweating in striped long-sleeve, soaking up that number unperturbed.

No point getting flustered. Carry on. Carry on regardless. (The locals had adopted the British phrase as their own.)

 

 

                                                                                                       Geylang Serai, Singapore 2011-2020

 

Panic City

Lately literature has been allotted some prominent space on the Saturday Opinion Page here—Rhyme And Reason, poem and prose double—today a "nature" theme featuring a local young woman who has been shortlisted for the Commonwealth Short Story Prize and selected for other honours (the Writing Program at the University of Iowa). "The sounds of nature" is a reflective essay recalling a camping trip to Johor, which prompts further thought on nature and its threats in Singapore. In the first and longest paragraph the author was "enarmoured" by something and later "sanguine" about something else….

         Upon reflection over lunch a couple of hours later the decision was made to return to the piece and read it through. In the second paragraph one found further terms that might be ringed by parents here keen to promote vocabulary acquisition and hone spelling skills for their children: ineffable, enraptured and ersatz. In the third paragraph our present era (the Anthropecene) is described as having wrought upon the planet "audacious, irrevocable and often harmful changes...(from) our airconditioners, our errant eating and social habits”, which have "left our mark in the layers of the Earth's crust, the chemical composition of our air and oceans, and the evolutionary history of life itself." In conclusion in the final paragraph we Homo sapiens are encouraged to "stop, listen, think and admit..." the limits of scientific progress. 
         Yesterday up at Reference on the eighth floor of the National Library another Paul Virilio volume was begun, titled Ville Panique, “City of Panic” (2004). Virilio had abandoned Paris, no doubt a disastrous urban agglomeration of its own kind, some years earlier. But surely these equatorial mega-cities are the most outstanding examples of reckless ecological and social devastation on the planet, Singapore pre-eminent above all.

Giraffe With Stripes

 

Thin young manager of some sort from one of the gold shops it may have been, few doors back from KV. Tall stringy chap offering nice, full smiles. White shirt striped with half inch blue / red, white undershirt beneath his top button & bearing a shiny, stainless & bronze fringed name-tag. Talking to the auntie seated behind the register, man bent over the desk in order to hear. Bent, bent again and some more bending. Like someone was working a water pump. (A tall Indonesian girl a couple months ago walking with two friends had self-deprecatingly described her party as a pair of bears in company of a giraffe.) John Cleese too came to mind this afternoon. The Indian bending again and again shone and glowed more broadly and convincingly than the bean-pole Faulty Towers proprietor. No put-on here. Buying his leather belt, chap had either failed to measure the article, or else was thinking ahead to middle-age girth. The end protruding behind like a docked tail. (Perhaps it was a present from relatives.) Small wags and flaps with the chap's exertion. Some vibration almost audible. Little doubt substance triumphed over style here. You could be confident even from a distance. That particular darling aunt at the Komala Vilas register brought out flowering smiles in many.

 

 

The Rub of the Green

En route to KV after an absence of a couple of days. On the No. 23 before the new Rochor MRT a familiar sight described earlier in these pages. The previous example three-four years ago had been witnessed out on the lawn in front of SAM—Singapore Art Museum. As on the prior occasion, three young dark men, Indians, on their knees working in what passed as a field. The lawn at SAM was finest traditional needle grass of the English form. Luscious, almost edible spear of rich colour knitted closely together to form a couple of pleasing circles before the entry to the old Jesuit institution now transformed into an art museum. Here at Rochor the lads wore their yellow hard hats and one at least his visibility safety vest with Traffic Controller possibly emblazoned behind. At Rochor the grass stretched approximately the size of a half football field—Euro football, with a shorter added segment behind the entry to the station. Brown clumps of weed lay across the field—the lads had been at their toil a number of hours; the best part of the morning. The greater part of the task might have been completed, the chaps working close to the footpath in three lines. Before an art gallery or museum of art one could understand the concern for fine grade prime lawn that was a pleasure to behold, soothing, reassuring and attractive. The prospect out front of SAM, with the colonnades curving round and often teasing artworks on the lawn—most recently a little sheltered beige bus-stop from a generation past— was a favourite site for photographs, both for tourists and local enthusiasts. Understandably serious effort to remove unsightly couch and other infestations. Small scalloped spaces between the paving at SAM, much smaller than the penalty area in the football measure; a couple of narrow putting greens. For urban commuters on Bukit Timah Road beside the new Rochor station the rationale seemed less self-evident. Adjacent the road-works there on Bukit Timah Road had come to a temporary halt perhaps, an eagle-eyed supervisor, a local councillor or even PAP Minister it may have been observing the opportunity for re-deployment. It reminded of the common complaint of the maids, the domestic servants: when a certain kind of Madam saw her maid twiddling her thumbs, lying down or chatting on the phone, suddenly a back ache and need for massage.

NB. Two days later another report over the ongoing troubles with the turf at the new National Stadium. Showcase architecture featuring an impressive shell form erected in record time and pride of the sporting public undone by the problem of the English green. The young stars in the Asian Football confederation Cup last night slipping and sliding on the pitch.
                                                                                                                                                                   S.T. Wed 11 May 2016

The Exit - Void Deck (3)

 

Last night after supper the regular chat with Arthur back home, an hour at Feidu tidying files and a couple of corrections. Down on the deck at the bottom of Block 2 returning the women's card game was underway on one of the tables. Each block had their own round concrete table, about 900mm diameter, with checkers squares embossed on the surface sometimes and ringed by six stub seats. Card games, dining and drinking tables, and sleeping platforms sometimes too. For some reason the men at Block 2 preferred their own fold-out table in an inner corner against a wall for their games, with their own soft plastic stools brought down. From the newspapers one knew rowdy drinkers sometimes gathered on the void decks and police had to be called. Young lovers sometimes claimed the rounds, sitting on the edge of the seats in order to snuggle close. Foreign workers taking their lunch and dinner were sometimes found at the tables. (More often the workers would sit against a wall on the deck itself, the greaseproof paper spread between their legs. The tables were not really intended for their use.) On the return last night there was something that looked like shredded tissue paper on the desk in the room. Strands of orange pith possibly left from the night before. Or else pigeon droppings somehow deposited through the window. During outings the windows were left slightly ajar in the way Doreen advised—not too wide, otherwise at that height the afternoon breeze could create havoc indoors. The friable material and the tang in the air soon established the matter: it was ash from the burning of the paper money from a funeral down on the deck. They were burning a lot of it, Doreen confirmed. It was the money alright; not gas or anything else in the air. Not to worry. The fourth or fifth funeral in the neighbourhood in these five weeks. Once more the deceased was unknown to Dor. (Three or four times Doreen had been encountered on the path downstairs, on each occasion needing to be hailed because of her dead-walk through the grounds. Many of the passersby walked blind like that; neighbours were often unknown to each other.) Ten flights up the ash had risen through the windows, both the far room and the louvered adjacent bathroom. (The windows to Doreen's own room were recessed a little and sat safely beneath a narrow concrete ledge.) Before the casket downstairs a male pictured in his sixties stood in a frame, clothing effigy draped on the chair in the usual manner. Two or three mornings ago the yellow tenting had been erected, evidently the man dying late week within C section of Block 2. Early mornings the mechanical sound of an unoiled pulley or wheel could be heard outside the windows on the east side. Some days before the brooding pigeons on the ledge below the kitchen window had been identified; a mystery that had taken a little longer to figure.

The Gift (Philippine Village)

Before he left for the Philippines Jamaal promised he would enquire the altitude of his wife's hill village in Baguio, three hours out from Clark. True to his word, this morning after Steve the Ohioan vacated the table, Jamaal into the breach. Earlier he had been met at the tea counter and advised he was in possession. Thirty/thirty-five minutes of unfolding the trip and related. The old mother-in-law up there in the Philippines received especial solicitude from Jamaal: a house has been built for her down on the flat that was the envy of her ten children, all of whom—apart from the daughter here, Jamaal’s wife—still live up on the hill in much inferior accommodation. Thus far, Jamaal has spent about $25k on land and construction. Another plot of land in the neighbourhood, big spread of about two acres—from the Al Wadi front severy down to the "post-box" (that was actually a utility stand) and down to Sims Avenue. In Sing perhaps $2m, Jamaal conservatively estimated. Fifth trip, Jamaal a big hit in Baguio. One evening he was prevailed upon to sing a song for the gathering, once the guitar was produced a fine ballad issuing. Sweet little lyric, the opening verse of which Jam gave soto voce at the table this morning, chin dropped slightly and dyed handle-bar brushed back into place on completion. Out to one side the old mother was frying fish for dinner and asked who it was singing so captivatingly. Told it was Jamaal, seems an expletive escaped from mum at the unexpected command of Tagalog. How was that? Jamaal had kept his competence under wraps, a useful and perhaps understandable ploy in a position such as his. In fact Tagalog and Malay had a great deal in common. Jam underlined the shared roots and the common humanity for the people of the two religions, when he attended church to sponsor a young man's wedding it might have been. Lad had no one else to perform the function and when Jamaal heard immediately offered. The first Muslim who ever entered that church, the priest announced when he saw Jamaal's name recorded on the paperwork; whereupon Jamaal told of the same red blood under the skin; the same closing of eyes and mouth at death. Not difficult to credit the priest’s agreement and fulsome appreciation. The old Ma had been gifted a thousand dollar gold necklace by Jamaal (either on this last visit or some earlier); grasping children lectured about their ways with the old mother, the respect due, the kindness and consideration. The sons, Jam's brothers-in-law, who were rather put out at the primitive condition of their own housing compared to their mother, ticked off by their sister’s husband and mother’s benefactor. With Jamaal's guidance, the error of that standpoint granted by the brothers-in-law and undertakings made by them for better behaviour in the future. On departure everyone wanted to know when there might be another visit. Don't worry, Jam told them, with his German firm closing down a week in December—in Germany it was three weeks—there was good prospect. Adding another week of accrued leave would make a follow-up feasible. The wife herself earned $6k a month; Jamaal as tradesman likely topping that. Other funds of some sort were in hand, from a down-grading of housing here it may have been. (The marriage to the Filipina was only five year term. Was she a family maid "last time"? Or Jamaal a widower? There was some kind of story which would be enquired.) Otherwise, Jamaal had been lucky with his 4D, two or three upper level prizes over the last couple of years. When that dosh came in Jam always spread it around—unlike some tight-arse others—and this helped the luck continue rolling. From there on the back of the money motif perhaps, to an old wealthy pal who had passed away recently. The old chap often spread his own money around, though his principle was to be neither a lender nor borrower. The expat Filipina gals mourned the man when he had gone. Food, dresses, perfume and accessories gifted, if not loans and cash advanced. It seems chap was without family; owned numbers of top brand wrist watches (six to be precise). You know how much?... In those murky depths, an ignoramus was always at sea. Thousand dollars seemed like a good under-estimation here for our purposes. NO!..., Jamaal countered. One hundred and fifty thousand was more like. Rolex and other less well-known involved. A kind of father-son relationship established, it seemed. Once the man asked Jamal what he might like. Jamaal not unprepared for the question: Nothing, nothing, he answered. Only that time-piece—pointing—if that was alright; one of the prize suite. Old man promptly assented. When he was ready he would call Jamaal and hand it over. In advance one could sense missed opportunity looming. What the old man did in good time was present Jam with a belt. For holding up Jamaal’s trousers. Initially a bit stumped, in time to come Jam learned this was no mere common strap. Alerted first by a friend, Jam eventually discovered even some time ago now the article was worth not one or two hundred, but $1400. For a belt one might wonder. Seems near the end the old man either called and Jam had not heard the ring until too late; or else the intended call was prevented by untimely passing. $150k watch gone begging. Never mind. Others in the circle had gotten their pieces; Jamaal who had equal claim missed out by a whisker. But never mind. Thirty-five or perhaps forty minutes. Later Cha the Chin convert cabbie who was always kept on a short leash at the eatery tables, remarked on the length of the conversation. The Today newspaper had given Cha a little trouble that morning. Not on terms with big Jamaal the dart-player with the flourishing dyed moustaches, Cha had sat quietly a couple of chairs off. Some of the vocab had stumped Cha that morning in the news-stories of Today. Cha in possession of good English, but not of such an order as might stretch to the lengths of "valedictory" and "conscientiousness" and “reckless delinquency”. There were one or two others before Cha was cut-off. And before he was cut-off the kind of snobbery of some of the Singaporean journalese that was common in the Republic, but perhaps a little unexpected in the free tabloid Today, was guessed by the Cabbie Convert all by himself unaided and without prompting from the side. Stuff and nonsense indeed. Pretentiousness, meritocratic trumpery and subtle airs of superiority, mimicking former colonial masters, carefully crafted and reinforced wherever one happened to look on the island nation.

minor revision Sept23

War of the Worlds Till Doomsday

Tea with Omar this morning punctuated around a dozen times by the jets coming in to land at Paya Lebar. We had set a ten AM appointment and the meeting needed to be cut short because of matters pending in old Melbourne town, the two hour time difference adding squeeze. As usual Omar was a little early, though not as early as the author ensuring the usual paper shuffle prior. Normally the lads return their jets to base for lunch in the half hour after eleven; a dozen or more planes tearing the sky to shreds by no means unusual. News of the arrest of the Bangla terror cell coupled with the fire-power in the sky would leave the populace securely reassured, by-election currently being contested perhaps coincidental. Dear lord a racket. The impediment to conversation the least of the matter; one cowered under the assault and the reminder of what other corners of the world endured pricked the mind.

Late afternoon an item on Australian ABC News reinforced there was no hope whatever for humanity. Women in politics making for a gentler world? Pah! Forget Maggie Thatcher, Golda Meir and Indira Gandhi: here was Bronwyn Bishop down in Canberra giving her valedictory speech to parliament. Former Minister for Military Materiel; one had forgotten her reported sharp grillings at enquiries. Pictured up on her feet entirely and utterly unconscious of her grossness:

".... Mrs Bishop took an early liking to aviation as the minister for defence material, drawing laughs from the Chamber, when she recalled a story about flying an F-111 fighter jet.
"We did a mock bombing raid, which was lots of fun, we went in low, dropped our pay load, barrel rolled," she said.
"We then came up and the pilot said to me 'would you like a go?' and I said 'would I what!' and so he let me take it.
"We went back, came in for another raid and pulling 4.5 G's, I did the roll and it was just fantastic."
She spoke fondly of her early years in Parliament as a Senate backbencher, where she pioneered an aggressive form of questioning during estimates hearings, as well as her move to the House of Representatives...."

A terrorist hairdresser needed to infiltrate her neighbourhood in coming weeks and let rip on that sprayed birds’ nest pile.

Void Deck (2)

Mid-afternoon weaving through the shadows of the blocks taking as much grass as possible en route to lunch. Patches of tree cover and sharp angles from some of the towers that were followed like a tight-rope. Up the top end it appeared to be the regular karung guni down on the deck out for the count. Beneath him the man had spread wide some of his product, turned his head to one side and no pretense about the matter, freed from all the troubles of the world. In passing automatically one tried to take the degree of softening from board like that: two thin sheets with the rippled inner between them provided a mattress of sorts; a not insubstantial comfort. Otherwise the men would not pounce on the material as they did, the China boys up the road, the Indian and other foreign workers. These chaps sometimes beat the karung guni to the goods; one often saw the sheeting carted under-arm up along the gutters in the night especially. Figure here almost certainly the local who rode through these streets with his cart behind, grisly kind of hombre with sharp canine features. You could bet the man knew some good cursing and rasping put-down. Bare-chested and perhaps it was bare-foot too usually; a fellow who always maintained his deep jet mop. The latter was a distinct marker, a glossy tone that suggested regular weekly application; never once had the man been spotted patchy or with any hint of gray or fading. Earlier in the afternoon a chap had come singing up the stairs with some kind of short musical accompaniment. As the door had been left open his call had slowly risen from the lower floors and was aimed directly into the room when he stopped on the landing. Later Doreen, who had not moved from her kitchen chair, said it was the karung guni; whether the same caught on the deck an hour later beneath Block 11 was uncertain. Coal-coloured head to one side resting on a small bundle pillow of some kind which from three metres could not be properly sighted. Coming out for dinner it was the card game that took one’s notice further along from D entryway, the concrete round-table gathering that side which collected the women and a single younger man with turned eye who was a regular interested observer. This man and two or three other older men occasionally joined late mornings for a game at a smaller, fold-out table in a corner up against an inner wall as if they were hiding themselves. A wee wager likely either side in order to add pinch of spice. Almost certainly it was an American designation going back to earliest pigeon-holing of a populace in another new world, immigrants again in a more optimistic era who had left the old behind.

NB. For an earlier "Void Deck" posting see October 2013