Spot of Window-Shopping

It’s raining! It’s pouring! Pelting down around lunchtime, just when a chap’s tummy was a-roaring. But never fear. The 250m dash to the bus-stop from Block 2 at the back of the Haig, involving one little circuit out front of Block 9, provided EXcellent cover. Dry as a bone almost; piece of cake. Actually rather like window-shopping on nature. A kind of nature, well-ordered and contained. Neat as a pin. Theme-park site of regularly razored hedges, fringe garden-beds, the little candy-coloured playground. The Malay gardening crew behind their umbrellas under our block had grown of late, a week ago a great surprise when the figure usually snoozing hard against the wall in the corner behind her shield turned into a tall, long-haired, almost ravishing beauty. Golly gee! Ripe for a rescuing prince. Her mother possibly joined their detail now, and two or even three others bunched together. Further along Indian lads were spread-eagled on their cardboard, their yellow Wellies upright beside them. Then more Malays and Bangla for variation. Window-shopping the Third World, should you be interested; a zoo safari of cheap serfs. As usual more, than one group was taking their lunch on the brown grease-proof papers between their legs. (These people were in fact the reason for the spotless, litter-free grounds, the pasted-on perfection of gardens. Once or twice the poles and seats of the playground had been witnessed receiving determined buffing.) Not an out-and-out monsoonal drenching this one, but not bad. Especially given the price of admission.

What Is This?

From a distance looks like a tennis court and the snot-green some kind of scorched grass. The enclosure had been passed only once in these three and more months. Whatever kind of game they played there had never been witnessed. The first young fellow coming from the lift did not live in the block, but knew the matter. Old people play. Malay dude; not surprising he did not know what was almost certainly a Chinese game of some kind; or at least adopted by the Chinese. An old man with little English did not know the name either. To the display of imaginary vertical sticks striking balls, he gave assent. Something of that kind, like croquet, adapted for the colonies. It was however a deeper mystery that had directed attention to that corner opposite the lift at section D. The area was roughly the size of a tennis court; perhaps more square than rectangle. Dark young lad labouring within the wire. Since lunch-time the fellow had strung up three or four lines of flags and mounted more larger ones along the cyclone fencing. The red and white flags with the crescent moon and stars that five years earlier had been mistaken for some kind of Muslim insignia. The emblem of Malaysia perhaps in this quarter, it had been guessed. (An Australian football fan almost broke into song: Cheer, cheer the red and the white...) There were probably 5-6 more string lines to be erected and larger flags around on the fencing on the Haig Road side. Many hundreds and thousands more were to be hung from the balconies of the HDBs through the city-state. Some years past householders were issued the flags; after some lack of enthusiasm it seems, in recent years the government had contracted various companies. A week out from National Day, there was still much to do. North Korea, Cuba possibly, perhaps some of the newly independent countries of the European continent, and such-like, were the only counterparts.

 

 

Soaking It Up

True enough, scattered showers as warned by Doreen from the kitchen table at her early supper. Better take an umbrella. A look out west through the living-room window had shown blue and high cloud. By that hour the skies would have emptied themselves surely. At ground level stepping off the void deck on the vegetable garden side the drops surprised. From the tenth floor Dore could not have seen the pitter-patter along the outer walk-way. Nevertheless, the landlady proved perfectly correct: umbrellas in hand and out from the shelter all unfurled. Light steady sprinkling. Regardless, this population in the tropics was justifiably wary of getting the scalp wet. One often saw all ages and genders with outspread hand atop the head as people passed between the buildings or stepped from buses. The matter had been proved too: even a light dousing of the scone here was often enough to raise sniffles and in short order disabling head colds. Yet out on the bench at the edge of the exercise yard, close by the vegetable gardens, there lay the loner using his seat as a bed, one leg crooked and the other over the rest; opposite the weary old head was pillowed. Late morning the man had stopped in his mustard caftan by the Wadi table, mutely pleading alms. Eventually, while the coin was fished out, four or five words had been exchanged. Man was well, baik. By early evening he had tired himself.

Cool and More Cool

There can be no end to this arrangement on the equator here. Impossible. Not with the entrenched political-business class, the size of the middle-class, the peons all well-contained. Cashed-up foreigners fleeing their environmentally devastated regions not the least factor. And all snug within the broad frame-work of international treaties and alliances. Near 20% of the territorial surface is reclaimed land. Last year one of the coast roads had been raised almost a metre. Green initiatives included trailing vines from housing towers, reticulating rain and grey water, and most recently a move to curb the gross packaging waste problem. Much fanfare and self-congratulation.
         The air-conditioned nightmare line has been used previously.
         In this morning's Straits Times Home section the lead item was headlined: Fans at bus stops to cool you down? Cool!

S.T. Monday 25 July 2015

Wondrous Life

No one will believe, Australians least of all. Pretty little dark-haired girl captivated by a living creature, a darting, flying, bright-coloured and unaccountable life form in 3D plus, plus. In this republic cats of course have children completely entranced, totally and utterly enthralled, gingers in particular. One needs to know the HDB blocks, the walk-ways, playgrounds with their soft spongy surfaces, the garden beds, malls and transport capsules in order to comprehend the matter at all. Here the little sweet captured, seized by wonder at a glossy black fly doing what the animal does best touching distance right before her eyes—zig-zagging figure eights, back-flips and expert landing on the back of the green plastic chair, from where swinging up into the air again and down on the orange table-top. Wow! How—about—that!

                                             Geylang Serai, Singapore, July 2016 shortly after a rain-storm

Conch

The old man with the trannie this morning at his usual place under Block 7. (Evenings it was Block 9; occasionally lunchtimes he might be found around the side at the back of 7.) Not often asleep mid-morning. Nights he could be caught slumped over on his bench, radio blaring and newspaper on the ground. For anyone else the crooked raised arm like that denoted the phone of course; a conversation. Not a man of his generation. And like the Indian loner at the Haig, this old man had never been seen in conversation with a soul. Slowing the pace, bending the ear, nothing could be caught, not the smallest quaver; no note of any kind escaping. Perhaps close and tight like that against an ear there was some whisper still audible like from a conch shell, heard only by the person clasping. From somewhere a street or two away it must have been a Buddhist chant of some kind 

was fluting over. 

The Red Chair - published by NWWQ July21

As far as pavement barbers went this one was as good as any; for the Indians it was a twenty minute walk over to Guillemard. The night before there had been a queue and finally the wait was abandoned. A demanding Chinaman in the chair was wanting this, that and the other, making for a brief wait. In the second clan house further along one of the Taoist rituals was taking place, on the throne before the gods and devils a heavily tattooed former baddie-turned-savant rubber-stamping various documents and initialing others. Kids at the corner table helped themselves to soft drinks from the fridge; a couple of take-outs were delivered and the older man at the outdoor table opened four long-neck Carlsbergs, one for each of his pals. During the wait on the fussy Chinaman an unusual song was drifting across from further up the lorong. There were a group of youngsters in lableless clothes outside the last house in the row, with an acoustic guitar and some other kind of instrument. Five or six stood in the choir encouraging, We can, we can....something, something. Can we pray for you sir? the nosey parker in the panama was asked by a chap dealing leaflets. One of the girls of the group stepped forward. No money sir. Do you need a prayer?... Prayers would certainly not be amiss along that strip. There had been no revisiting the scenes in these lorongs the last number of years. Homelessness, beggary, the hunchbacked, deformed and amputees scrounging could be better endured than the trafficking of that quarter. Weekends the lorongs and side lanes along there off Geylang Road collected scores of girls and more in the brothels, young teens predominating. Pimps were regularly prosecuted for underage girls, without any semblance of change on the street. The barber that night had not been recalled—two or three men took shifts on that site—but the chap knew his regular well enough. Aodaliyaah? Aodaliya.... Ya, the great southern land; he had remembered. Understandably the man had been struck by the usage. As usual the working girls continued with very little hang-time. Viets, Cambodians and perhaps Filipinas, one or two trannies among the rest. On this second night there were far more girls and mainly Indian foreign workers customers. Pretty young girls without any need of smiling or enticement. Rapid negotiations, off up the spiral staircase or the old dilapidated house opposite, in and out. Of course whites were rare in the barber’s chair. Six-seven minutes for four dollars. It had been an early finish at the Cyber, well before ten. The street light was fair, but the Mainland construction labourers moonlighting wore bicycle lamps strapped to their foreheads. They used a narrow-blade machine and cut-throat for shaving; a gown was provided for clients. For brushing off a foam shammy was employed like car-washers used; broom for sweeping into the canal in front. Twenty metres down the gospel group continued; across the lorong the young lads followed behind the girls. Three or four girls were always waiting; it was very brisk. The stabbing moment that evening came when one of the young pimps returned to the corner of the canal opposite the lane, close by the chair. It may have been the cruising police car earlier that had sent the lad away. Here he was coming back to his post in a casual swagger. Seeing his approach, a young dark-haired girl suddenly leapt from the red plastic chair like the one the barber had commandeered and assumed her place over at the awning where her friends waited. A bolt of electricity could not have thrown her more violently. For the evening the shop’s awning had been half-raised and the girls slowly circled there showing their legs and curves. Sporting elaborate tattoos along his forearms and sharp red-tinted hair, the pimp took the seat. From the awning the lass bent forward to the young fellow with some witticism. HaHaHa. There was no answering laughter, though the pimp received the gambit well enough. It was OK, there was no need worry, there would be no anger. In the newspaper reports of prosecutions there were mentions of pimps trying out the girls at the outset in order to rate services. Customers enquired seemingly and a serious business needed to take its business seriously.

Nice and the Old Coolie

Through the morning the death toll at Nice rose ever upward. Earliest reports had at least thirty dead and one hundred injured; by 10:30 the number of the former had more than doubled, with some way further to go. A truck mowing down a crowd on Bastille Day gathered at the water-front watching fireworks. Later reports said the driver had continued on for 2kms scything through the mass.

Men like him were seeing the drone and rocket attacks in Iraq, Syria and elsewhere that needed to be scoured in the media on our side.

Old feisty Mr. Ng downstairs, a thin reed in his late seventies, told yesterday morning of a recent encounter with an American from California. The Chinaman must have startled the ang moh by his remarks on the wars being conducted in the Middle East. Was that a war firing on civilian areas from miles in the sky, with pilotless aircraft controlled from thousands of miles away? With no return fire, the people simply exploded, women and children? That's the way it is, was all that the American could answer.

Mr. Ng lived in landed property behind the Haig blocks. 

Another old granddad too who lived somewhere within the towers should be likewise honoured.

This morning as on all previous encounters, the second old man made a point of offering greeting, on this particular occasion firing unnoticed from the void beneath Block 4. 

There on those benches this man could often be found mornings and afternoons too, usually facing the inner wall of the block, so that he could not see the passersby along the path behind. And one must confess, it had happened on the odd occasion that that circumstance had been exploited and this chap had been slipped past unnoticed. 

This morning that second old granddad had risen to his feet for some reason and turned facing the square of lawn with its garden. Because aunt Josephine the cat-lady at Block 2 was out leaning on the railing on the other side, one had paid no heed to the trench opposite. 

Suddenly, Good morning, sir, like a rogue shot following a truce.

— Oh. Oh. Good morning to you too, sir. Howdeedo?

Along the pathways one first of all needed to quickly choose one’s language. Many of the older Chinese could not speak English, even rudimentary level. Ni hao for them. Old scarved Malays needed Pagi; Indians were often Muslim thereabout and the same was satisfactory for them too. 

A little tricky. Pleasant and easy for the most part. 

On occasion one had one's own preoccupations pacing by and a jack-in-the-box surprised. 

Some people didn't give greetings, nor did they seek them. The young needed to be differentiated too. No complaints; the intruder was yourself. 

Like Mr. Ng, this second old granddad had entered his late seventies and quite likely pitched beyond. Tall, corpulent, a gleam of dentures; legs beginning to give out. A stick helped and some days a maid pushed a chair.

Never failing in his salutations, morning, noon and night too once or twice. Always respectfully saluting the panama and often apologising for inadequacies. I no speak English. Good morning. Good afternoon, sir. Very well thank you. 

One of the yellow slave class had learned such as himself had no call enquiring after the health of his betters, especially gentlemen pacing briskly somewhere where bundles awaited at upper storey desks with secretaries jumping from their chairs. 

Should the latter personage grace a man like him with an enquiry after his health, he would be honoured. Even having his greeting returned, he was grateful. Thank you. (Routinely here thanks was given for a communication; for a trivial exchange. For someone having taken a moment for such poor pitiful beings.)

This eternally sunny granddad might have escaped the opium dens, the tin mines and possibly even the cartage at the go-downs. But he had been well brought-up otherwise. Never would he make a trouble of himself for his carers, you could be sure. (Doreen would be quizzed about family. To date the chap has only been sighted with the young Indo girl. On the other warm and smiling old granddad with the transistor on his Void benches, Doreen could not make identification. A matter of varying times she thought.) 

Occasionally the tall granddad got his periods confused and once the tongue was too quick correcting.

Cut Off at the Knees

Once every five or six weeks the Indian gardening detail perfume the pathways of the housing blocks with the scent of freshly cut grass. Upstairs ten floors high the windows shut out their work almost entirely. Emerging from the lift and turning onto the path early school-day athletic sports return first of all, the frosts and fogs banished by the spring that has arrived. On the far side of the void deck a line of beating wings suggested birds larger than pigeons, the flight too rapid to identify; out by the vegetable gardens numbers of mynahs come down hopefully to the ground. A crew of half a dozen lads with whippers breeze through the entire stretch of blocks here in under a day, easy going with good cloud cover like today.

          Younger brother Calvin had flown up from Melbourne the night before to be with the elder Francis during his by-pass operation next week, this morning bed-side the old Carnegie favourite here sitting face-up on display: How To Stop Worrying and Start Living. This was a re-reading for Calvin, some reminders being useful for him and other matter not so much. 
         More than likely Calvin had progressed from the more famous How to Win Friends.
         Teochew family the Yeos. The mother had regularly helped neighbours write back to loved ones on the mainland. 
         The sister Doreen had opted for the Charis Tabernacle church; elder brother a Japanese sect called the Mahikari with a temple in Geylang, some kind of modernized Shintoism it seems. Where the eldest brother out at Tampines had sought succour was not known as yet. 
         A highly indicative Singaporean family unit grouping for the Chinese most particularly. 
         Denaturing in the big bad vertical city was one thing; but followed by the kind of deracination one finds at the same time in the laboratory of ultra-modernism here grievously painful to witness. 
         By comparison the Indians and Malays have not suffered anything of the same magnitude.

Marauder @ Starbs

Quart past eleven nowhere to hide from the smoochin muzik and finally an appeal to the two young Malays. Gee, the sharpness must have startled the pair. Did most definitely startle the lumpy girl in particular…. American rubbish…. How in the heck did that get out. Wholly unintended. Crickey. 
         But sir, we…. 
         A White guy was giving the pair a hard time because his hit parade—re-mastered swelling big number—was delivered to him on a plate with jam and cream complimentary on the side? Ah. Oh. But. Forgivable floundering. 
         Sorry sir. Yes sir. Sure…. 
         Darling, you are Starbucks, granted. I know. I noticed coming in. But yellow. Sulphur through and through. (She herself may possibly have been Chinese, many were hard to tell. The boy’s name tag had been sighted.) But couldn’t you go your own way like. Just do it? Be yourself, make your own tracks in the forest…(A nice Tamil girl the week before had been caught re-reading the running wolves book at KV.) 
         Become tongue-tied and confused the author himself. Irretrievable position. The Arabic script tee the day after Hari Raya might possibly have been counterproductive and spooked the kids a wee bit, whole island being on alert awaiting their turn of ructions.
         Hopefully the CCTV failed to catch, could not possibly have done under the fellatio fondling the vocalist was giving the floor….
         Many thanks lads, hands clasped at the table.
         None of the other punters immediately complaining thankfully, thin crowd in the last half hour before noon, yet to land. Corner window job interview where the lookalike girls either side shopped for the same clothes, watched the same TV and dreamt the one dream at night; around at entry two joined tables spouted Singlish corporate mimicry all ends up for an SME strategy.
         The table further along was a better bet, even three feet remove made a difference. 
         Toast Box was rather vacant too. There had been a thought passing. In the end the doll-house scale of seating, tables and décor had decided against. (The Box at Bugis five years ago wasn’t that bad, was it?)
         Thursday, taking a while to figure. At the Haig an old Indian-Malay (former predominating physiologically) coming along from further east reported Har Yassin was as expected still closed. Cat-lady auntie Helen under her umbrella pacing out the last steps for the refuge of the mall. Earlier there had been a short rain-storm that had prompted a look out the bedroom window, heat sting through the glass.

Colour, Cut & Blow at the Top End

For those mystified by the author's recent preoccupation with politicians' colour-dyeing of hair and styling, refer to the recent French example si vous plait. (This blog does not concern itself with trivialities.)

Francois Hollande really pays $14,600 a month on haircuts?

• ABC (Aust.) online

  French president Francois Hollande causes a stir after it was revealed he spends 9,985 euros ($14,600) a month on a personal hairdresser.
  http://www.abc.net.au/news/2016-07-14/francois-hollande-pays-14-thousand-dollars-a-month-on-haircuts/7628044
  
  

Faun at the Haig

Mission accomplished more or less. Fair and reasonable success. Landlady Doreen had left for work early (she would return early too, but it was the morning that was important). As expected there had been little of questions or messaging from Ni. When Ni left Kovan she sent the usual courtesy message — she was OTW. Otherwise there was the single other contact, a call in fact, for the number of the block. Ni remembered the neighbourhood well enough, but it was easy to lose oneself in the thicket of towers. Entrance D she recalled; the markings on the blocks themselves were much less prominent. Ni didn't say from where she was calling and she wasn't asked. Her favourite almond milk had been bought for her, she was told the night before; no need stop for it on the way. Had she however cooked as usual, getting up early in order to have everything ready? The question the night before on the use of "auntie's" kitchen had not been answered; at that stage Dor's movements the next morning were unknown. A stop for take-out from the Haig might have been another reason for delay. It was best when Ni hurried along directly as she usually did; stopping for one reason or another was frustrating after a month of absence. Door left open as advised. No knock had been audible. Here she was then in excellent time, entering and closing the door promptly and quietly behind her. Neither the turn of the knob nor footsteps had been heard—as near as one could get to finger-snapping abracadabra. All excellent well. Ni could not have known whether auntie was in or not, leaving that uncertainty had been intentional. Adeptly negotiated by Ni. Pee... You?... What you Ni? Come to bed....The bed-cover was raised high, perhaps a naked flank was visible, or part visible; aircon high. Ni would be hot after her 1.1km trek from the MRT and not much less had she taken the bus. Last time you don't want take. Now you off.... What was a girl supposed to do? The last few visits Ni had adopted skirts because of her lover's preference for his particular kind of preliminaries in the love-making. Ni stood long-legged against the side of the bed. (Showing the room at the beginning Doreeen had called it a large single or 1 1/2 size bed. On her first visit to Dor's flat Ni had approved, saying it enforced closeness. She would repeat the same on this visit too. In the kampung she had what she called a king size bed, Ni said.) Pressed against the side of the mattress Ni unbuttoned her white frilly blouse, working almost as quickly as one would have wished. (Three years before after a two month absence another Indo lover from the other side of Java, the hot chili Eastern region, had literally leapt from the hotel room doorway into the arms, thereby causing a slight stumble and half-collapse onto the bed, where sexual union was completed within a matter of minutes of arrival.) Ni's blouse had a difficult zipper. Once it came off over her head Ni had thought to join her lover with what looked like new lime green briefs. Not permissible. Usually the briefs were retained and Ni strong-armed over the matter. Everything was different and contrary this morning. Immediate compliance. Now the girl could be admitted under the covers, coverlet raised for entry something like a cloth over the opening of a cavern. As she bent, in the act of plunging, Ni gave a brief glance downward, a kind of survey seeing what she was getting herself into. Briefest glance but no mistake; the head turned back round afterward. The smile was full of delight, it recalled girlish pleasure from summers around backyard pools where young lasses dropped themselves into the water with eager relish. A giggle might have escaped Ni. Another girl might have aimed for the far side of the bed against the wall; or one unable to be more direct would have attempted a nervous elbowing aside of her lover in order to enter the bed more demurely. In Ni's case the landing was aimed squarely atop her lover, with other, different smiles here. With each visit Ni was loading up a great deal in the memory bank. There had been an attempted break two years before when another lover, another kind of love, had been awoken. Ni was better than the others she confidently declared; the others which she assumed but said she didn’t want to think about.

Blair Answering Chilcot (April24)

The rawness and haggard emotion was appropriate. Performance and inner conviction inseparable. A seemingly false memory—something that pre-dated the conversion in fact—had him the son of a lay preacher of some description. The accomplished, captivating presentation throughout the career always returned the hint. One recalled his advice to some notable—it may have been one of Murdoch's foot soldiers taking the rap for the boss: advised by Tony to make sure she got a good night's sleep before the ordeal confronting, for which quality sleeping pills were essential. One recalled the christening of Rupert's girls to tigress Wendy on the banks of River Jordan, wardrobe fitting the host in white gowns and Tony doubtless upstaging the professional actor, the Australian pretender Nicole, in his role of godfather... So far as psycho-drama went, you would have to say difficult to resist the man’s plea for understanding of his predicament in the run-up to the invasion shortly after the planes hit. The choking was proper, sharply delineated, without deflecting from the purpose. Sorrow, anguish or remorse, heavy conscience in attestable form; self-justification carefully modulated. Man could not in all conscience, &etc. If one wanted to be picky, there was perhaps a single moment, one troubling instant at 1:11 secs; for the remainder all the matter was given in due and appropriate measure, movement and progress sure-footed. The tragic results were substantial: there were so many British forces killed, so many injured... One hundred and fifty something British servicemen & personnel losing their lives; the injured a sizeable number (precise figures unavailable). Following upon which came the slide to the other side, the Iraqi component. One needed to return to the video more than once in order to judge properly and watch the entire forty-seven plus minutes. If one could give it musical notation, the point might emerge more clearly, the falling, descending note where Iraqi casualties were included at the end in that brief summary of devastation, at 1:11. Did he mention one hundred thousand in one of the subsequent, follow-up interviews; the radio possibly. When most estimates were tens of thousands more and possibly many tens of thousands again? In this first media presentation answering Chilcot, where he was preoccupied with the battle of good & evil, precise figures were a lesser matter. Before an Arab or Mid-East audience, where the man often found himself seeking absolution, no doubt better care would have been taken over that.

Brothers In Arms - Eidilfitri Night

Nearing quart eight at Tasvee after an oily supper of vegetables on Lor. 24 corner. Great buzz of lads congregating down by the lane.

       Shortly before departure brother Francis was ranting something at Doreen in English about the choice of wifi and phone bundle she had chosen. Fellow was in for an unexpected blast should there be a repetition. 

       Uncle Francis, I am not paying good money here to listen to your raving. You sound to me like a bully, poor sister of yours needing to put up with it. I don’t want to hear it again. Why don’t you pick on someone your own size? &etc. 

       Bloody cheek. Member of some strange Jap sect with HQ of some kind here in Geylang that needed to be investigated. Silly old duffer. Sergeant Peppers, Dylan and a few other vinyls discovered in the spare room currently being cleaned for the reception of the younger brother Calvin was difficult to fit with contemporary Francis. They were his records alright, Calvin was ten years younger.

         Good gathering, the usual settled, even temper. Nan and dahl to soak up the earlier oil was the way to go.

         Chap at register a dead-set spitting image of the fellow here 3 - 4 years ago; the surprise was he had gotten younger. A brother or clansman of the other; alternatively hair dye and facial sculpting from Ramadan perhaps. (The latter transformation was a real matter.) A good many Chin heavy and coloured heads stumbling and blundering.

         They’d turned themselves into a tandoori joint at Tasvee, or at least accent was on the new item introduced to the menu. Almost the glory of 4 - 5 years ago the workingmen trooping past in the gutter and sitting. Couple of young lads departing, exiting by the hot plate, with one laying a light hand on the wrist of the other. How a Westerner observing would flounder.

         Earlier there had been a glimpse of a suspected shared ciggie; a second episode subsequently confirmed. After a few puffs the lad was ready to hand back, — But, no, you hang onto it.

         In the interim fifties were counted out for this lad. The threesome had awaited Fourth’s arrival, two slender teen-like figures and one more robust. Newcomer, Four, conformed to the majority.

         There was a brief moment where a possible question may have arisen of short-change. Hopefully it was not the case, nothing untoward transpired. One should never allow it lads, All for one and all that. Off they went together for their dorm.

         The Deaf was not at his perch tonight; couple of the older Chin shady characters in their youthful street wear blown through briefly.

         The dollars earlier might have been hangbao from the contractor, Bangla or Indian perhaps.

         The crowd clearing quickly, back to the pile-drivers in the morning, at least for the laboring class. (Management and others might be able to string a few days together.)

         A downturn by common consent on the street if not in the newspapers, where upticks reign in the media white-out here. One item from a foreign source did get through concerning the number of oil tankers sitting at sea by ports like Rotterdam and Singapore.

NB. Syed the Hadrami user, jail-bird, victim of sexual abuse at the orphanage when he lost his parents, lover of Ramadan when the men at the mosques sat in foursome around the common plate for the breaking of fasts, Syed commonly referred to the song of the title.

First Muslim MP in the Federal Parliament looking a chance down in Australia—an academic specializing in de-radicalization no less—likeliest another of the co-opted speaking through her hat. There has not been enough damage inflicted in the “crusader” countries, none in the mainstream anywhere acknowledging the blowback from a century of dastardy and subjugation. Chilcot Report just released forced to measured tones.  

 NB2. The above penned on the evening of Wednesday 6 July. Following morning a Tasmanian independent MP recently re-elected used stronger language describing the blood on the hands of the Iraq war-mongers. ABC online.

Election (Aust.) - Count Goes On

No, that's been my feeling for a long while — you couldn't script this stuff, this thing generally. Brought home in these circles where there’s so much pretend yellow-Anglo, and much else of grotesquerie. Did Pauline actually go to the clink? Recall the fish shop $$$$. Re: Derryn the publicity shot dyed definitely. 72 yr old you’re not telling me that chestnut. Come off it, Jose. They do extremely good colour now, you got the dollars, natural you’d never know. Chap here, wealthy Chin, spends $325 or $345 monthly maintainin his hair-piece. You think i'm making it up right? Hair-piece? What hair-piece? i challenged Gabby. What? Ricky?... Vain left-field boy playing for the other side, they suffer worse. But you've done the math unaided: near four big ones per annum. Skin, sculpting, tucks, dental, manicures you can only guess. Derryn and the other glossy dudes lovin the camera, it's big real big. Tone i reckon resisted; eventually backroom boys convinced him otherwise. That sharp-eye lass he had backstage. I asked you ages ago you never answered. Probably did it progressively, like aging grey by reverse osmosis, attuning the punters, the electorate, in the run-up before last maybe. Bill might touch up delicately, with Quentin's daughter on his arm the old Joe would need to do somethun wouldn't he? One a the things i like about Mal: Double Bay trims weekly do him, no colour, thanks all the same. Choppers first grade you mighta noticed, excellent row, you don't get them holding up into yr mid 60s, as you well know, no matter what wagyu & sirloin yr chomping. Too right about history of postals of course. And now only the busy shopkeepers & jetabouts popping into the electoral office after banking the day's takings. Bloody nuisance, but responsib. canna be shirked, they might be asked somethun at a dinner table.

Waiting Under Cover

Ni would be awaited under the covers. The stage set needed darkness, for which the window curtains were too narrow. Nights these two and a half or three months at Doreen’s one had made-do with only the windows nearer the bed covered. This morning for what was in mind a few of the plastic laundry clips would be employed to stretch the curtains right the way across and perhaps some added fabric sought. Eight o'clock morning sun on the eastern side of the block usually flooded the room–not what was required on the morrow. Usually Ni was received in the old tropical pink sarong an old girlfriend had brought back from Polynesia a number of decades previously. It was time for a change. A change was as good as a holiday. Disruption, surprise, ambush was important for what one wanted drawn from Ni. The young woman would be forced to follow another script and improvise, screen test unannounced. Ni's precious erotic reactions. Usually the toying took the form of withholding the sexual union, the coition for which Ni had been primed with some extended preliminaries. All this was good and well as far as it went; the purpose had been served. Now it was time for a change, a holiday. The rather poorly masked sexual hunger was one problem. More importantly the long established set piece of the sarong, often the hard-on, clutching, brief resistance from the gal, needed refreshing. It was like a tired room, or sofa was it an interior designer was employed to enliven. Give a little spurt to proceedings, introduce some tension, throw in a stretch of quicksand and storm. Usually, like one or two other Indo lovers over the stretch, Ni wanted to promptly remove her jeans or skirt, and then her blouse or tee, all rather perfunctorily early in the piece. There was concern about crumpling of course, getting back home on the train and passing muster. It was the same with panties, where it was more like soiling that was the problem. Usually Ni would be prevented, strong-armed indeed from removing the panties. Jeans could be peeled off, it was no fun rubbing against the hard fabric of denim; the top was a lesser concern. But in either case what was disallowed was the orderly disrobing like an office girl preparing for bed and thinking of the morning. Fuck that to be blunt. On the morrow now however precisely this was going to be allowed, in fact encouraged. First contact on the morrow was going to be under the covers with many millimeters, in fact the whole entire of naked flesh in immediate contact first off. Bang, like in a forest glade in Tarzan’s day. Door to the flat left open–there would be no hotel on the morrow, Doreen would have to cope if she happened home and Ni the same. Usually Ni messaged on leaving her condo and nothing thereafter. At the door when there was no-one to greet her she would be tentative, but proceed. Bedroom door closed Ni sheepishly approaches, opens. Right from the outset uncertainty and tip-toeing: Ni would not know whether her lover was in the kitchen, or the bathroom perhaps. She would look around the corner to scan the former. Whether the landlady was home would be an unknown too, no need spoil the fun. In the days prior Ni had been warned the old Chinese auntie must be respected, no loud moaning or Fuck me Pee! pleas. (The whole show did depend on Doreen in fact being absent at least in the morning, going off to work early. The week before she had departed early every morning. If she was at home it would be difficult bringing the thing off.) So, door slowly opened. Seeing her lover in bed in the darkened room Ni would enter and close the door behind her. Pee. Why you not...? She could not say exactly what. Why what not Ni?... Why you...? Bedcover up high and aircon the same. Ni would be hot from the walk over from the station. Sakit Ni. Come to bed.... There had been no mention of sickness the night before, another surprise; it would explain the lack of reception. If Ni had brought lunch she would want to settle that first, perhaps use the fridge. Was auntie home would be a question; she had expected so. Come to bed Ni. No.... Well.... Little alternative left her. And she did want to join in that bed after all after a long month of absence. What was the out-of-sorts? Ni would disrobe, folding her clothes neatly. (A chair or desk space as usual vacated in advance, Ni would immediately find for herself.) Well then, you had her where she was wanted now. The disrobing would not be observed, it had always been inconsequential. Disrobing had never really been of any interest, void of any sexual charge. Men were supposed to delight in it were they? Counter-case. The disrobing would not be observed, turned away, either toward the wall or under cover. Joined then, skin on skin first contact top-to-toe, Ni's enquiries might be answered. Not immediately, but not necessarily prolonged delay. The other would be prolonged as usual, in this new manner now. Sakit. Itchy.... Gatal: itchy was their “horny.” As in “I’m itching for it!” It had taken the best part of five years to twig. Not the kind of useage you found in the dictionary. In her throes Ni had often used the English “itchy”, Oh she was itchy, itchy Pee. She had never used the bahasa. The matter was understood well enough, but not properly comprehended in fact. The teasing, the withholding worked a treat with Ni. Yet the woman had never used the original term that she was in fact translating. Gatal was itchy: gatal poor thing, in serious need of scratching. The rice padi, the heat, the volcano steaming and rats scurrying in the darkness were strongly evoked.

Election Night (Aust) July2016

So what, Derryn's in on a platform of castrating sexual offenders, child molesters and pedophiles in particular? A new talk show on TV, "Good evening, I'm Derryn Hinch...." Still attached to the beard is he? Impossible to remove the trademark now, fella wouldn’t know himself, and then his fans?... Question, after five years in this sleek brush-back school of S-E Asia: is the Human Headline dyeing? Straight answer, Y or N? (Into his seventies now, come on! Googling the evidence is mixed. What’s the current?) Has he married a former TV starlet? Ida's too old, Nonie Hazelhurst maybe in the running, or is she too old too, I'm outta touch of course. Nicole too young, up here she'd be perfect for the part, excellent. One of the real surprises tonight was finally seeing frumpy little creased Shorty's support. Quentin written all over her: bones, eyes, proportions. In the hills of Montenegro they'd say he's over-reached himself Bill. It did strike some while back this pair of wise-guy marriages, Mal & Bill. Not suggesting anything untoward, the usual time immemorial dynastic dance. On that score you'd have to give Tone a tick, none of that malarkey in his case. Pauline. North Queensland again—8-9% of backcountry folk can get the silly old bag elected to the Fed. Parliament? Belting the Mussies now i guess. On the positive side Howard's friend Nikolic gone. Couple seats on some choice boards till the next tilt; they can always make room for military brass with pol. connections. Really don't wanna come back. Not even for a visit truth be told. Saw something in the news items about dogs in polling booths was it? and democratic partying and sausages. Give up these Ramadan pageants here for that? The cabbie at the table tonight, Jaf'aar's younger bro, forget his name, was nodding off. The cough syrup the Polyclinic prescribed he reckons (told him to chuck it and turn off the overnight aircon sure enough he uses). Fella told of his iftar meal over at the mosque around the corner. Four chaps around a large plate? he was asked. That's right, he answered. Every night for a month for those who wanna partake, free of course. Can you magine? Can you just paint the picture for yerself? Fifty plates like 750mm diameter, foursome surrounding sitting cross-legged on the tiling, bare-footed breaking bread, cupping the tea laid on. It was Syed the hipster Hadrami, from the Yemen, who first rhapsodized about the Ramadan feasts. Every year he looked forward to them. Junkie with a record, broken nose, jobless, having a secure welcome place at the board. Imagine. Not easy from down where yr looking. You want a sausage at a sizzle in place of that, coldie to go with it make you happy you reckon? Lads flicking between the footy and the results of that other game in town, the other entertainment, our precious democracy and way of life. I'm staying where I am ta very much, you can have it, sorry. Should add too they are big EPL fans here, the ManU Corp. captured them, Chelsea and City; in the recent season they all got onto Leicester of course. The Euro Cup would ordinarily have them salivating over their teas and Milos at the Al Wadi tables, rocking on, especially when they were off the leash through the night in Ramadan. But, know what? During Ramadan there can be permitted no distraction—dead TVs throughout. Stiff. Too bad, one old fan commented the other night. Can you imagine a blackout down there, electioneering blackout yeah, but cricket or the footy?

Attitudes of Collapse

The three loners at the Haig remain. While the old man can afford batteries for his transistor he endures. Being thrifty the chap runs them down to a whisper, so his hearing must be OK. Evenings he catches the breeze on the void beneath Block 7, where the thinnest volume is boosted. Newspapers some nights in that pallid light means eyes not bad either. When he is overtaken by sleep the man invariably slumps slightly to one side. Smiles, waves and cheerios without fail; an umbrella against the sun. (The drought goes on here. Doreen took a mid-afternoon shower today in an effort to cool off..) The tall Indian-Malay sometimes caught in the corner of the children's playground late night on one of the seats continues as before. An occasional red bull, an occasional chat here and there with acquaintances and sometimes a sit at one of the tables. Not entirely bereft; one never finds this chap sleeping out. The third on the fringe of the exercise yard was hanging his head low this afternoon. With one foot up on a knee, still the head bowed down so far. Dor knows nothing of the case. Like everyone else she knows the figure in his corner, his habits and routines; but Doreen knows nothing of family, where he sleeps, where he gets his money for his Anchors. Chap was capable of speech. Three or four times he had stopped on his bicycle to exchange greetings, never expressly asking for coin. Coin comes to him completely unbidden from more than one source no doubt, regardless of the drink; even from the Muslims no doubt. To date the man has not called out at any of the slinking past or skirting of his iron bench.

Celebration Nigh

Malls full throughout, people leaning along the walls of the corridors soaking up the freeze. The rich coffee tones of the carters at the street stalls had deepened some more, t-shirt competitions galore. Era's Batam pal, little stunted barrel flashing a smile in passing thought he wouldn't be recognized. In the handshake that followed when he was pulled up a suggestion of a deformed pinkie. Possibly just the bird-nest scale of bones. Chap had got himself the full month's work; Era went back after ten days, only able to scrounge hours here and there at something out at Tampines. Nene-grandma on a four-pronged walker with deep pockets in her dress. Woman has noticeably aged and slowed in these five years. A coin at one table, two dollars at another gran's table 7 or 8 years her junior. One of the younger mums in front came to chase her down with an offering; the oldie did not linger long with her hand out. A maid she looked with her two teen charges and kong-kong at table waved her on. For the mat salleh pointed avoidance, giving the chair a wide berth and walking on without slightest pause. The tee with the full Arabic alphabet from the Islamic Museum at KL prompted her not a jot. (Before other eyes that item could be a show-stopper and one half.) Earlier the Haig Loner was given a one and a couple of minutes earlier there at the market the Hindu lad selling the socks, belts and wallets another. This time for some reason lad had come out on an eleven day visa, raising suspicions at the immigration desk no doubt. A couple of sympathetic parties for the "Solo Aid" call-out. Some kind of better Hari Raya / Lebaran will be in-store for them in central Java.

Solo Aid

Six hours altogether. Rp300,000 taxi fare; Rp10,000 return on the train. 
         We had chosen the date badly: Muslim New Year and a long weekend meant a queue at the station ticket-office—seats sold out. The standing option was declined; therefore the taxi going out, about thirty dollars. 

Twice before in the week prior Faris's toothache had resulted in last minute cancellations. 

The mejut, traffic jam was not so bad. Bad enough however given the bleak roadside scenery of dilapidated shop-fronts devoid of any conceivable prospect or hope of redemption. Some new housing and commercial construction was taking the place of old without any hint of past failures comprehended. 

A number of years Faris had not taken the road-trip and swore off it ever again. LA Tropical, he quipped in a low voice. 

Beyond Klaten two thirds of the way along glimpses of green rice-fields finally; later the train back would deliver a great deal more of the carefully cultivated fields where straw-hats toiled. An old local permaculturalist some days before had made the claim in the newspaper that only farming provided a means of independent living for man.

Two hundred thousand Rupiah was given from both sides to the poor family we had come out to visit in KampungNgasinan, a short distance out of Solo, aka Surakarta. In the planning the trip a couple of weeks prior Faris had agreed a hundred each would be a satisfactory offering. On departing the house however after the visit Faris thought differently: one hundred was neither one thing nor the other, the man unexpectedly suggested. Two hundred might amount to something for the family. Four hundred thousand in the circumstances would at least provide respite.

Some years ago Faris had taught in the neighborhood, encountered this family and taken particular interest. Now there was a disabled husband who had fallen from a fruit tree nine months earlier; a young three year old boy and the old mother of the house in her mid-seventies, wobbly and effectively blind. 

There had been two major interventions previously: some years before Faris and his American son had financed sealing of the roof of the house to keep out the rain. This had amounted to paying for plastic sheeting to be laid under the roof tiles. There were no ceilings in the house—with the passing of a few years the plastic had shredded in a number of places above our heads in the front room. In order to clear family debts that had increased since the accident, Faris had sourced from his network a French Muslim benefactor, a fireman from Marseille. Since debts had mounted again and growing pressure from neighboring creditors to sell the house. At present the family was splitting profits from the fruit harvest of their trees with pickers.

Shortly after being seated cups of tea were brought from out back by the young mother. A half hour later the fuller hospitality arrived from in front delivered by a neighbor—heaped plates of noodles with some egg and vegetables. Meals that were scaled for Western appetites; servings at the local warungs were much smaller.

The household itself would not be partaking. Still, no one made eyes at the food, not even the little three-year-old. The family was well-fed—a paunch showed the Invalid was not suffering on that score and the little boy took his father’s build. Second or third tier poverty perhaps. 

On a day-bed opposite the small TV sat the Invalid; the wife shared the couch with Faris and the boy played on the floor with plastic toys, wheeled vehicles mainly. An old exercise bike stood against the wall immediately inside the entry door. The Invalid had made some progress from weekly physiotherapy, the wife reported. 

On the other side of the entry out of the way the old mother sat on a bench smiling through the opening when she bent forward to survey the room. The old mother was paper-weight thin with inflamed gums, cloudy eyes and over-sized hands distended from field-work. Dickens came to mind: a loved smiling mother quietly abiding and never complaining, maintaining all her cheer. 

Various neighbors came to the door and the window over the bed. The window held no glass or sashes; a concertina panel of wooden slats had warped and sat askew. It was through the largest gap there that neighbors came to converse and observe the visitors. Small children came to the open doorway; teens, young mothers with babes on hip, middle-aged scarved women took turns at the window, smiling and waving.

Nine or ten square meters the front room measured, certainly a larger space than many front rooms along the gangs of inner Jogja. A couple of low packing-case cupboards, pitted concrete floor that had once been polished. There were complaints about the flickering television; its entertainment was important for the Invalid and the old mother, who was prone to falls outdoors. 

Plastic stools were brought into the room for us guests to rest our cups and plates. From under a corner of the day-bed mattress the wife at one point fished out a prospectus for an insurance scheme for the boy’s future education. This Faris took up and studied carefully. It would come in handy in a renewed petition to the Marseille fireman. Apart from this man Faris had one other possible benefactor, a well-to-do Arab who might respond favorably to a plea.

Behind a narrow passage led to two smaller rooms with mattresses on the floor in the corners. At the rear a low cupboard held a rice-cooker, cutting-board and cooking utensils; the other side there a little tiled annex held a hip-bath. 

A well came to be mentioned. Old rusty iron piping was found running into the concrete floor that accessed ground water; an electric pump rather than bucketing on a winch here. The wife showed the spurt from the plastic hose attached to a spigot. Unlike in Jogja and Jakarta, the water was clean in Solo, Faris reassured earlier when he noticed caution over the tea.

Outdoors a tall boy came at one point to hang a bird-cage on a high hook immediately beside the entry door, almost over the head of the old mother on her bench within the shadow of the porch. Inside the wooden cage the tiny bird immediately began twittering in a voice that pierced the heat of afternoon. All the tall wooden cages seen in Jogja held small, often tiny birds that were raised high for better voice projection it must have been; shade did not seem to be the factor. 

The volume of the television was low, another of its faults. Sporadic conversation continued. From its perch the bird sent high notes out into the passage between the houses opposite that made a row toward the river. The first notes given after the bird had settled in place made a listener leap and follow the call in pursuit. Ahead the little bird darted happy to be chased. A lively musical gambol delivered suddenly, the last thing a foreigner could have expected here.

Forty or fifty years ago caged birds had disappeared from Western cities; the prize of bird-song and its admiration continued in these traditional communities on the equator. Smaller Malaysian towns were the same. 

The tall young lad who had delivered the cage was not part of the household; nor could this family have owned the bird. The front pillar on which the cage had been hung belonged to the house however, still owned by the family. 

The sudden appearance of the bird in the cage puzzled later at night back in the room at the hotel. Light, airy melodiousness of that kind in that setting of the Solo house had one metaphorically scratching one’s head too. In another context something of the kind might have been provided in a house visit where there was a pianist among the members. Could the entertainment have been provided by solicitous neighbours for the reception of the guests? The whole thing left you flabbergasted more than anything.

Outside the open door at the Kampung Ngasinan house a row of similar houses stretched down to the narrow water-channel behind—in flood no doubt justifiably termed a river. While we sat a woman had emerged from one of the houses and took care to lock the door behind her with an old oversized latch key. Shuttered against the heat, the houses gave the impression of an abandoned, derelict quarter. 

At the rear door of the visit house chickens could be heard; none were visible outdoors. A plastic or vinyl merchant had rolls of his product out front of a store a few doors along; the better class of houses here would have floor covering. Some house fronts had been painted and carried minor decoration. In the event of a sale here the visit house would fetch some reasonable price.

Precast concrete slabs along the river would contain the flood-water when it arrived; during the dry there was no stir in the dirty, littered channel. An inspection created awkwardness with some men gathered in a work detail for a People’s garden, one of the chaps unexpectedly conveyed in English. Like many others still young in Indonesia, gleaming white teeth showed a number of gaps. 

Thus far the men had not made much of an impression on the baked clay; some leveling of ground had been managed. There were half dozen men from the houses with a pair of hoes between them, lazily at work. 

At home the men had children and old parents too. They were able-bodied at least. 

The man with the good English had noticed the momentary doubt; an involuntary reflex hearing of the intended project there. 

A proffered handshake attempted to retrieve the situation. Smiles were exchanged.

The tee bearing the Arabic alphabet from the Islamic Museum in Kuala Lumpur could not counter the effect of fine sandals and handsome white panama. 

Faris had mentioned the old Java script that was now little in evidence these few years since his last visit to the city. We noticed it in only a couple of places. Rather than a heartland of fundamentalism following the lead of the infamous old cleric, Abu Basheer, Solo in fact cast back to its pre-Islamic roots. There was long-standing tension here with Islam. The Solo Sultan was renowned for his meditation up in the tall tower of his palace that we skirted on arrival in the taxi. During his regular astral travel the Sultan visited far distant countries and reported back to his court on return. Embarrassing, suggested the young man at reception at Gloria Amanda apologetically that evening.

The Invalid appeared quite genuine. It was only his relative youth that made reference to a stroke seem dubious. The chap was two years younger than his wife. An injudicious marriage had made matters harder still now in this house as the husband's family was too poor to offer any kind of aid. 

Ordinarily a benefactor like Faris might have expected to have been asked for his blessing prior to a marriage. Everything was harder now and Faris felt some frustration.

On first entry the Invalid had taken Faris's hand in his two and brought it to his forehead. A scramble to rise to his feet had been shaken off by Faris. Twice the Invalid demonstrated his incapacity: the right arm had little feeling below the elbow; almost none in the hand. A couple of times through the visit the Invalid took the numb hand by the other for massage. The arm could be raised to the horizontal but no further, and the gait included an angled dragging of the right leg, toes of the foot bent inward. 

The man seemed lucid. Possibly given more time he could further improve. Faris could report back faithfully; the fireman or the Arab might be persuaded.

Of five or six interventions of this kind over the years across Java and Malaysia, Faris had two families continuing dependent and struggling. Another Jakartan scenario was similar to this in Solo. In Faris's judgment the little boy here seemed promising. Being able to amuse himself for a couple of hours augured well for future schooling, could it be provided. The insurance scheme might be a worthwhile investment here.

During the six month teaching stint nearby that had introduced Faris to the neighborhood he had been housed with Western volunteers who sought to tempt the Convert with beer and other alcohol. An Arizonan Muslim was received as a challenge by Faris’ colleagues. 

Nightly Faris had taken his supper at Kampung Ngasinan and sat with the people. One of the scarved older women who came across tried unsuccessfully to prompt Faris's memory. Unfortunately there had been little progress made in this neighborhood and in the case of the particular family back-sliding.

In over four weeks there had been no rain. When it did arrive in December the roof of the visit house would leak; the daylight had gleamed through the small perforations overhead. The plastic itself was not expensive; not that thin, cheap kind. The labor over the tiles would mean four or five days’ work for a pair of men. In the meantime some of the holes might be patched perhaps.

                                                                                                                 Central Java, Indonesia