Perky Old Indian Clerk Risen from the Dead

Late-seventies giving off the perfumed soap and talc was it? He rather than the Batam lasses. Hands stretched across the table liver-spotted; over the bald pate darker raised spots more prominent again. Touching the hand of the nearer woman, the one within reach opposite—tap, tap, tap and lingering. Fly-weight in shirt, slacks, socks and shoes; dye some weeks old. (Astounding of course in the case of a few sparse strands; the last comb-over might have been forty years ago.) Stainless watch-band below polyester sleeves rolled on the forearms. For his out-of-use English the man needed to dig deep and in delivering tighten his jaw to emit. You-are-going-back-to-Australia…. How-long-will-you-stay there?.... I-see, before turning back to the ladies. Both forefingers pointing close for emphasis. Clerk in a storeroom on the docks hazard the guess, meagre retirement funds. The flat up the road would be worth a pretty penny could it be winkled somehow, by hook or crook. (Of course a mistress had little chance against the children, especially a foreigner.) Lass returning the touch occasionally, keeping the fellow dangling, jiggling leg doubtless sensed under the table. Beside her the scarved support had dropped her head onto her forearm lying along the table edge like a dutiful dog, raising her eyes appropriately. Back in the day when the loneliness had not been evident and the man had kept nightly company with the old Chin-Malay, presenting as the quiet, sober sort, miser perhaps with the TV through the night, the fellow had told of his strict walking regime. Could you guess how old he was? What did you think?... (Such a number of ancients here well into their seventies and beyond still coming to terms with the number carried on their backs.) The bus was right there around the corner on Sims Avenue. But no; striding out afternoons and returning nights kept a chap in fine fettle. Completely out of character. Near two years striding past with his stand-by back to the flat before night proper descended. How had they turned the old widower out from his rut? Early-forties cartoon chipmunk voices, full-bodied, sleek-skinned and freckled both—Granddad was putty in their hands. Funds were lacking for a maid, doing his own laundry, polishing the shoes. I-see

Whipped Senseless

Brought up short on the Haig corner by a bell-ringer's challenge, sailor's tug for the spinnaker that needed to be raised quick-smart Captain's orders. Ahoy mateys! Look lively! Chop-chop. 

         Queue were the woman Chinese. This instance attached to a late twenties/early thirties Indon with the usual fine, mature manner that suggested double that age by some measures. 

         Stopped in the tracks no way round. 

         Large group of people on the Sunday waiting in the unshaded morning sun, raven black cord like the whip of a lash at a circus thunderously cracking. 

         Pause. Restraint. Caution. Will I? Won't I? in brief contest.... Itching all along the length of the line.
         Knowing this people now there really was no need for hesitation. Generous, forthcoming, direct orang ready for the encounter with the stranger. The stranger was nonesuch really to them; little danger in pulling their chain.
         The young woman a month or so back had never left the mind—an indelible imprint. Observed from twenty metres distance in her passage across the road opposite Al Wadi walking against the hoarding for the mall being built that was supposed to be a focal point for the Malay community.
         Tall, robust mini-Amazon; beautiful virago of her particular kind. Statuesque could be used for the prime force of nature embodied. Dear god and the angels all, the grenades that woman set off with each footfall as she passed on toward the market that afternoon. Pounding, hammering the pavement, shrapnel assailing the naked brain a short distance away; detonations that made one want to run for cover and hide would the shell-shock allow.
         In Central Java in particular one had witnessed the remarkable gait. One of the older students of the Javanese and their ways had suggested at the time it was the dance the young girls had been taught in childhood that shaped the particular carriage.

         It was possible this authority (who had written a book on pre-Islamic Javanese culture) had been referring to the fluid glide/slide one sometimes saw in Central and Eastern Javanese women. This other, this piling prance—in the works behind the hoarding the construction noise included the demonic machine walloping the soil—something else again.

         One could only think of the flooded padi field, the women making their way through the mud untroubled in perfectly balanced prance. This was not a cultured gait from any kind of stage, not even one improvised on the threshing floors of villages. (The Javanese equivalent at least.)
         There was no question of the woman at the Haig crossing being confused with her compatriot of the month before. This one was thin, not as tall. Even the slight slouch waiting for the green, even from the rear before the encounter, ruled that out.
         Hair was not abundant. The Amazon had worn hers clasped high somewhere over her shoulder, perhaps another, second tie on her back. The Amazon's long fall of hair was loose and splayed out at a number of points along its line. (Haig was tightest knotting that almost made an observer blanch.) In motion, passing on strong pins along the path, the mane of the first had thudded twice along its expanse. Once at her midriff and then the second answering rhythmic undulation was down below her knees. (The Haig woman at the traffic lights cast down beyond the crook of the leg.)
         Thudding and knocking. Almost audible over the road noise and that of the construction.

         The old stories of the heroes in the myths could be better understood with such reference. Odysseus detained by..... what was her name? Anthony and Cleo. Who gave a royal rat's about empire, possessions, wife, children and kin far off over the seas bundled up in the coils/toils of that kind of affair. Man oh man.
         Excuse me. Selamat pagi.
         Yes. Hello. Selamat siang.
         A rare over-sleeping after the first early wake. (Some Chin turd jerk in a room a few doors down the corridor had taken a call around 5AM.)
         Ah, ya. Siang ready.... Sorry to stop you asking.
         The girls were contemporary slaves of course of the usual sort in domestic service, paid a pittance, starved often, beaten, subjected to all sorts of indignities. One's heart always went out to them—heart mixed with other bodily organs active sometimes.

         One could engage these people confidently. Good souls; fine men and women. Respectfully always and forever to be sure.
         Sorry, I must ask you. I am such-and-such, doing so-and-so. Sorry, ask you, ahmmm. Little hard question?...
         Not a problem of any sort sir. By all means. Be my guest.
         The answer was eleven years.
         Not since 2005 when this woman may have still been a girl in her father's house had she performed such an operation. Of course she needs must know the precise date as well as year of the signal occasion.
         She liked to keep her hair long, she explained. It must be troublesome, but that was how she liked it.

         Entering into the spirit of the investigation the woman elaborated saying some hair grew fast; some very fast.

         However that might be, one would have wagered back in 2005 the scissors had not shorn too high among those tresses. The lass had hesitated, overcome by an understandable wave of self-pity, shears stayed and the cut taken at some appreciably lower level.
         Wondrous. Rapunzel. Goldilocks. Samson was something else—he usually rose energised from the bedchamber; once betrayed by Delilah mere mortal again.
         Magnificent.

         Perhaps beneath their scarves one or two women over these five years whose head-cover rose into a pillar up top might have vied with these two Indon Sultanas. Doubtful they could have exceeded them—not within a kerbau’s roar.

         An aunt by marriage, Strina Andje, had once hidden herself under the stairwell in the house on the coast bought by her father-in-law Pavle just after the turn of the century before last. Hidden herself in order to comb out her long steel-grey tresses. Disturbed at her toilette, the old woman had allowed herself to be observed pulling her comb through two metre long strands curled in her lap. Almost totally blind, Aunt did not need her sight in order to perform her task. All these many years later the closest approach to these ancestors has been provided only on the equator here among these peoples and little other possibility one feared.

                           

Obscenities

This brief is for Western audience only. An Eastern would not comprehend what all the fuss was about. Nothing to see here, move on.
         We in the Balkans are among the top global place-getters for what here in the Tropics is termed obscenity. Or at least we consider ourselves of that rank. Australians are in the league somewhere too, but junior grade and certainly not vying for gold.
        The vagina (polite form) of your mother; I f*** your mother/father/sister/goat/god/ saint front/behind; Suck on this &etc. &etc.
         Poles and Russians are reputed high class. 
         Eventually one discovered the Chinese shared a great deal of precisely the same phrasing and vocabulary. (For years Chinese friends in Melbourne, housemates and others, had refused to utter the words, even in aid of philologic enquiry.) 
         In the case of Indians and Malays one had one's doubts; the latter in particular seemed to refrain entirely. Rather difficult to conceive for one so steeped. Of course class was always and everywhere a factor, naturally: the civilizing mission.
         Inevitably after a number of long, open and extensive conversations this young woman in question here needed to be backgrounded. We in the Balkans let fly; are hardly alive if we don't; vigourous, excitable people. Australia not dissimilar &etc.
         A relevant tale was the rapido forced adoption of English in the schoolyard when a boy from a migrant family was utterly bereft. The vulgarities conferred a cachet better than anything else and one certainly needed to comprehend what one was receiving; how and what to return &etc. Then shortly after in the street at a more refined household a young friend's mother had debarred entry because of her son's playmate's foul mouth. (The echoing street that was our playground betraying when one had no idea.)
         Slow learning of fit and proper occasion, tailoring and restraint.
         At one point in one of our latter conversations the young woman concerned here needed apology and some kind of explanation. Then two or three weeks afterward an illustration unfolding of the gulf between the habits and breeding (to use a term which has fallen into disuse on our side).
         Among our common themes in conversation were race, colour, history, culture, colonialism from either perspective. The correspondences in the life journey were many.
         One thing and many others, many, many, brought us to a particular usage that the young woman could not bring herself to articulate, to sound aloud. Impossible to befoul her mouth. (In another obsolete phrase our side.)
         Term of abuse: Word starting with C. Go....
         The first that naturally came to mind had not up until that point issued from the foul Balkan mouth in these exchanges. That particular stick of dynamite was a step too far. (The C-word with most men here, certainly with any woman was certainly, most definitely out of bounds.)
         However the young woman had quickly assumed the first option and ruled it from contention.
         — No, not the other C-word.
         ....Well, this was now a puzzle. For this chap a task set, never mind his literary bent. Crosswords, word plays and scrabbles not this man’s forte by any means.
         Four letters like the other. Race, colour; perhaps in the British context she had said, and possibly of an earlier period.
         The old Hindi song filtering through from the kitchen of the restaurant for thinking time....
         In the end—as it turned out not especially prolonged—the penny did drop. 
         Good thing it did too because the girl was not going to deliver. Likely she would not produce it in written form either.
         Oh. Ah! The single vowel, repeated. Ends with N?... Ooooh.
         As any Australian would tell you, not one that traveled down to the great Southern land. We had plentiful others there.
         The young woman had been to London, where there was some currency. 
         Had it been used in Singapore? back in the day? Wasn't it American? Did the U.S. troops on Rec. Leave here introduce?... But those troops were largely black to begin with.
         Questions of etymology. The other is the point here.
         Plenty of Balkan ladies swore like the proverbial troopers; then there were the gypsies, inventive and brilliant grandmasters of the art. Small children rocked on daddy knees were tutored. (What’s Mummy got? Where do we send her? (Get you to your mother's ——.)
         There were few here in fact with whom one could let fly unrestrainedly. One thing to look forward to back in Oz, not to mention the rocky heights on the other continent.

Turning a Profit

You gotta love this guy, his glorious gumption most of all. Exceedingly dark Indian-Malay at a guess; late sixties and still jovial. Chaps of his aspect made one recall Rawat's book on the slave trade that had been passed by Zainuddin. Africans were transported by the various White devils — the Portuguese and English pre-eminently — to the sub-continent as well as the other better known destinations. (This student of history had been unaware before Rawat. When the Tamil lads at Har Yasin crowned their compatriot at the prata stand the "Nigerian", the full scope of the jest had been little comprehended. The south in particular saw large numbers transported.) Not for a couple of years has the man appeared among us; last mango season it must have been, with one or two seasons omitted. Bicycle propped on its stand precisely in the middle of the path immediately before the Onan Road crossing, on a sheet of paper beside it two green fruits poking up at the sky. With the steps at the intersection necessitating a slow-down perfect location. The purblind she must be white girl with her stick circled around nimbly at a fair pace; some of the elderly up from the Haig might have been less than pleased. On an adjacent chair at the end table the fellow awaited his customers, scanning the faces. On the last occasion the entire crop had been sold in under ten minutes. (There were more in the chap's carrier, one remembered from the last time.) Was it the unripened green that gave customers caution this morning? One chap stopped for a good chat, but without purchase. Under a quarter hour the man gave it before packing up and pushing off. Only as far as the traffic light behind it turned out, where he created another obstacle in the middle of the tiled path to the mall. Pushing his iron horse past the table to the second stop the smile suggested perfect confidence, nothing to worry about, we'll be right in a jiffy.

                                                               Hasan M. Rawat, Slave Trade in Africa

Marching Onward (confirmed Mar24)

With the cloud and breath of breeze the morning was tolerable. There was some disappointment when in the paper one read it had been an autumn full moon the night before. How in almost an hour walking back from Little India had it not been sighted? Was it possible the big orb had shown itself in glimpses here and there along the path without being noticed, like a fast wink passed during some kind of con that left the hapless victim floundering? An autumn moon in particular.

         By mid-afternoon full furnace. At the park beside City Plaza a mother and her two young boys were followed over the grass around a tree in order to collect the shade. Crossing Guillemard the motors stopped at the lights sent out their added blasts from beneath the bonnets.

         After the long, frank and revealing conversation with young Sheila at the KV table the foot-slog had been a cinch the night before, everything light and easy. There was a danger a body could turn to stone, to a statue sitting so long, the old Montenegrins jested.

         Soon after Sheila's tears following the account of the Cambridge boy's cowardly wordless desertion in Central Africa, Sheila had been surprised to find herself feeling better. Such a welter of heavy emotion, yet a dose of the talking cure had produced an effect. Sheila had adjusted her posture commenting on the fact.

         It was a pity that something better had not been forthcoming in response to Sheila last night. One could usually manage something firmer than the lame words which had been produced. A pity. And yet a definite sense of something attained and accomplished both sides.

         There had been either a Rilke or Wittgenstein quote in recent weeks that had been searched in the memory bank to offer to Sheila in her trouble; something concerning the way of loving, the necessity of full and entire outflow regardless of fear and self-preservation.

         There ought be no calculation or second-guessing in love, the philosopher had suggested.

         Young Sheila had unreasonably suffered, she thought.

         Sifting through the online offerings later in the night one was surprised to find that Ludwig was indeed the likely source of the quote. It might have been Wittgenstein giving that insight every bit as likely as the incomparable poet.

         Another reason to attempt the Tractatus once more; five years before in Melbourne it had been one of the few volumes packed. A former friend had told of his two-three day battle with the first page, or the first two pages it may have been with the Tractatus. Once having overcome, the road had opened.

         One of Sheila's troubling thoughts was what was felt as a recent treading of water. Stuck unwillingly in Singapore, painting a little, reading and sleeping late.

         An old retiree at the Al Wadi tables in Geylang Serai regularly remarked on the sense of marking time—marching on the spot, the Malays termed it.

         The problem stayed with one through life, Sheila had been told.

         Lamely, one tried to suggest to Sheila that appropriate reading could provide a sense of progression and development; could offer some semblance of momentum and advance. The old sages and poets had much to offer those following behind.

         Sheila well-knew the dangers of the narrow and limited online forums; the conversations and sharing available there were only adding frustration. Nevertheless that was often for Sheila the first recourse; she had grown up with the net, not come to it at thirty or forty, Sheila said.

         A seven hour conversation had broken earlier records of five and six hours talking with Sheila. The work crews' reactions and change of shifts at KV had barely been noticed. They would all wonder of course.

         At twenty-six the young woman was certainly well-equipped, with fair prospects one would hope. The first meeting had found her re-reading for the second or third time a well-thumbed copy of Women Who Run with the Wolves. There must have been more on offer in the pages of the best-seller than one had assumed.

                                                                                              Komala Vilas, Lt. India, Singapore

Most Precious Stones

Near half two after lunch, the curry as usual causing the teh to sting the lips. Briefest light sprinkle of rain that none further under the awning at Al Wadi could possibly have noticed. A first of its kind come to think of it, one reflexively looked for corroborating evidence on the concrete path.

         Nije ni kamenje skvasilo / Didn't even wet the rocks.
         Mother hovered ever-present even in what was perhaps the altered weather on the equator.
         One had a kapu studenog kamenja / cap of cold stone when one had nothing at all, when one was left bereft, cheated or denied. (A recent editor in India had pilfered a piece of work and published online when he had been expressly denied. Aduh! Without payment of course)
         Svaki kamen mi smjeta.... When mad brother-in-law Mitar who beat his wife visited at granddad Rade's during his lucid periods, Gramps bit down on his rage and gall at the man, as his wife and children very well knew. Any reference to this brother-in-law enraged Granddad Rade, every rock roundabout raising his fury against the man. Every rock of which there were many, countless, the whole terrain peppered throughout. (There was no help for it: one either murdered the man or the sister endured. The Montenegrin hill country almost a century ago now we are talking.)
         Granddad Rade's brother had also been named Mitar. This younger brother had died in the mines in California, after which Granddad Rade never uttered the name for the remainder of his long life.
         It was likely in fact Rade's children were never called by name by either parent, it seems to have been a familial trait arising from superstition. The Greeks call it the evil eye that can be drawn with naming or identification of love. The ghost of brother Mitar hovering in the house unable to be forgotten.
         Sharing the same ward in the hospital in Bab's last days was the Croat Ruza, Rose — the name of Bab's own mother. This woman immediately developed a fondness for the old Montenegrin and assumed the name of her son that she called nights was Marko.
         — Mako, Mako all night long. The nurses had to move the old woman into separate quarters to give the other patients some peace.
         Mako was an idiosyncratic endearment that one learned later was in fact inherited from Bab's own mother Rose. Bab was the eldest, the beautiful, later much-sought-after daughter, never called by name by either parent almost certainly. A particular familial trait, but also not uncommon in the higher hills of Montenegro. Care needed to be taken with too much love and cherishing, best not bring that to notice on every side.
         The only son George was given the name of a dill by his hard taskmaster father Rade. George had a range of monikers, one being that borrowed from this poor daft lad of the neighbourhood. Donkey of course another. Hard taskmaster father, demanding and severe, especially where the girls were concerned. The ruse helped keep George and the others safe.
         Precious few stones or rocks here on the little red dot of course. (Concrete was altogether another matter—mounted up to the sky. Mr. Mohammad on his bicycle who hated LKY and the PAP suggested Singapore was discernibly sinking such and such a measure year by year. Mr. M. wanted you to guess the figure.)
         Hills non-existent. In the great land reclamation project the entire island had been leveled.
         A good deal of colourful precious stones were worn by the Malays in particular, brilliant rubies, emeralds, ivories and azure blues — great spiritual power and safe-guarding conferred from the volcanic islands of the region. These big rocks were not all just showy dressing-up and adornment; the psyche could easily be misunderstood by a casual observer.
         Strangest most strange fate to find in these equatorial quarters the closest parallels and reminders of the distant ancestral lands.

         One certainly bore the common moniker lightly. 

         — John. Hello John. Morning John.
         Tall friendly white guy, what else?

Mothers' Little Helpers

Sugi popping over briefly to the morning table at Al Wadi. Busy free day for the young woman. After last week's hiatus at the Paya Lebar site because of some "black magic" problem—one of the girls in the partnership practicing and ructions resulting it seemed—the crew were back at both locations with their illegal bakso trade. By the river at the MRT station and here by the Plaza where they had first trialled their enterprise. Good earnings thus far; and the prospects for Hari Raya Haji tomorrow, the minor hajj, promised even better.

         At Sug's new employers all was well. The only problem cropped up was the late returns from dinner outings while the new mother's parents were visiting. Sug had told the employers, a French woman and her New Zealand husband, that there was no need to take the little 2-3 week old infant with them. She would look after him at home herself, not a problem. Now however they were taking unfair advantage of the offer and returning home round midnight, when Sug needed to get up early.

         The young, first-time mother had found getting her new-born to sleep difficult and would enlist her maid's help, saying, — Do your magic on him, Sugi.

         The service Sug provided was entirely under-estimated by the maid herself, as usual. Wasn't that all normal and natural in her position as a paid Domestic? (Coming from their villages to the big, bright city, the maids all displayed the same diffidence.)

         A Filipina Helper was currently before the courts over violence against a young child in her care. The parents concerned had dismissed the bruises and welts in this case and the girl was only discovered when she was filmed somehow and the scenes posted on Facebook.

         Meanwhile another report on the matter of pool access at the condos. Many of the condos refused access to the pools for domestic workers. The problem however being the danger of unsupervised youngsters in the water. Without lifeguards who would be responsible in the case of mishap? Perhaps it was safer after all to allow the foreign maids to share the water with those natives who had earned the right.

         And then finally, a live demonstration at an Al Wadi table directly in front not long after Sugi had departed for the bakso trade.

         A threesome sitting at table now that was not easy to judge immediately, even for a practiced observer.

         Two twenty-something Malays opposite each other, husband and wife no doubt.

         Scarved, bespectacled, heavily made-up the latter; pregnant it appeared beneath the table.

         Beside this young wife, mother-soon-to-be, an Indon with Chinese aspect was sitting close, without scarf in her case. A good, obedient schoolgirl-type, kindly and reliable.

         Marginally younger this lass and good vibrations between the pair of women. Confidants most likely, with rhythms and sympathies well-attuned.

         It was always refreshing to witness warm regard, consideration and fellow-feeling, whether in the case of lovers, family or friends.

         The impression here was so strong it made one wonder.

         To the conventional Malay garb of the one, the other contrasted clean white Levis tee. A shared, even poise, eating together from common plates and at complete liberty.

         School-friends were they? Neighbours? Something other? They were not sisters.

         Only toward the end of breakfast was the position finally made clear.

         When the pregnant wife—confirmed on departure—raised the plate before her in order to put it aside out of the way, her companion immediately sprung into action.

         Quickly the hand was out and landed on the plate; with the added force and the other's resistance, risen on high.

         Let me do that for you. 

         No need, no need.

         The wife hoisted the item safely away on her side.

         This lucky maid had won herself a good, not to say brilliant position, heartening to see. All the reports of dreadful treatment of the girls in Singapore was certainly not the whole story.

         All would be blessed in this household; mutual respect, harmony and hardship fairly shared.

         The mother when her time came could be assured of valuable aid for her baby, without shadow of doubt.

Massage Chair (Dec16 - updated Nov23)

City Plaza for the re-cycle bins, the old trannie uncle again blissfully dozing in the chair, soaking up the aircon. Even at that hour sticky-sticky-pooh much worse than the day before. With the stores not opening until ten, no fear of being moved on. Who needed the vibration to get the benefit of the plush faux-leather caressing tired bones. No need; keep the coin in the pocket. $2 x 6mins. $5/10 & $10/30, lying back up-tilted in orgasmic ecstasy. Indo maids, tourists, elderly uncles and aunties; foreign talent too sometimes took turns there. There was no human touch of course, no sweet caress; that cost a whole, whole lot more. For a limited budget, for those who could not afford better, a short pamper was delivered in the chairs. A few days before the founder of the empire had gained a mention in the newspaper for his wealth. The name may have been on the list of the kidnapper who took hostage the old mum of the supermarket tzar a couple of years before, currently facing the courts. (During the planning of his scheme the chap had identified potential targets and listed intended purchases from the expected ransom: mouth-watering condos, motors, phones, jewellery, brand watches…) Peanuts the chair mogul was forking out for the space beneath the escalators & corners of the malls; manpower unnecessary, apart from the weekly collect and cleaning. Retainers for the adjacent shop-keepers to shoo away free-loaders… The old uncle was a regular mornings in particular; later in the day man didn't like to make a nuisance of himself. The shutters went up soon after ten at City P.—Hour & half untroubled run. The sec. guys, cleaners and lip-stick gals at the lingerie & dress joints all knew uncle. Before they lit up properly, womb-dark within. Fridays & weekends the carts trading over the floor made things less comfortable. The transistor was not needed laid up in the chair here; that was for the benches on the Voids beneath Block 9 at the Haig evenings and later in the morning and afternoon around either side of 7. Batteries lasted a week perhaps; new the echo in the caverns was like celebrity showtime. Uncle ran them down to the last whisper, clutching the unit close against his ear. It was not difficult getting to like the Chiang Kai Shek genre, by no means the worst hit parade on the island.

 

 

 

NB. Three years later the massage mogul had installed alarms. Press your ass on his plastic without coin in the slot, steel for the sirens, Buster.

Wobbly at the Knees

Golly gee! You're a retiree of a certain age from the States, from the UK, Queensland and other parts of rural Australia, what a ride you get here in the Tropics on this little red dot hotspot most particularly. The malls, department stores, supermarkets and community nodes. You're my China girl from .......Hmmm Hmmm town.... when least expected just now rounding the corner behind the Haig. A kind of bushwhacking in this instance. All small stores in that quarter—one or two mini-marts, hair-dressers, luggage places (bursting at the seams in this international port-town the latter). An organic Health place, Yes, Natural, of which the author was a card-carrying member. (In recent days seriously considering blocking after all the online bombardment.) The little Chin provisions store where the mouthwash had been discovered almost at Malaysian prices did not pump any kind of music, least of all Western golden oldies. There was very little English at that particular counter. Anytin? Anytin?... the enterprising owner politely enquired at frustrating single item purchases. Worth noting while we are about it, certainly a rarity for Sing' believe you me, and hidden away from main street: beside the old provision shop there at the Haig stood a veritable Op. Shop, as we called them down on the Great Southern Land. Opportunity knocking. Second-hand clothing mainly in this case, second-hand carry-bags and costume jewellery. The lady running also offered tailoring and laundry service on the side. A foreigner of any stripe, and many a local too, would ID the delightful Sweet here as only Chinese. Not the case, she protested. Very much Malay! Adopted in infancy no doubt, like so many others. (Five plus years later the author was still searching for a Malay child similarly given up in those dark days before Mr. Lee transformed his gangster-ruler, opium-addled, embarrassing little backwater.) Taking the corner at the back of the Haig there was no immediate thought at the oddity of this particular lyric. Da-da-Di-dam…. Highly catchy…. Da-da Di-dam. Some part of the way further along, suddenly, — Oh yeah! His China girl....The source of the music would not be enquired. Little did it matter. Most likely the culinary supplies place beside the Health clinic, odds on you would wager. His China girl from old Honk Kong, wasn’t it?? Not entirely politically correct in some other locales. It was not Glen Campbell, but somewhere thereabouts. Of the period and genre toward the end of the war in Vietnam, some fella riding on the coat-tails of the Wichita Lineman. Just a day or two past one had stepped from the stationery section of what must needs be called a bookshop—Popular Bookstore, a ubiquitous chain here and also over in Malaysia and Indonesia—down to the basement supermarket at OneKM with a feeling of bursting repletion at all the rich fare accompanying, ringing in the ears. It was rather like rising from a sumptuous, a stupendously provisioned dining table, five star yum cha perhaps where one had inevitably over-indulged. A bit wobbly at the knees.

NB. Because of Dave Bowie/Iggy Pop, it was difficult to locate the old crooner and his 60’s hit on either Google or Youtube. The oldies would know it, and the Singaporeans most certainly.

Some Joy

Looking forward to Rina's touch under the sheet on the morrow. Aircon turned up, clouds over the madrasa opposite and perchance a rain-storm with thunder later. Under the cover Rina reaches for the joystick and lingers at some length—ahem, good length—no hurry about it. The simple handling gives Rin straightforward and easy pleasure. It is not pleasure Rina is seeking to give; rather taking. Last couple of encounters no "ice-cream" has been required to get underway: all prompt and ready in quick-time. Grannie Rina—married in her early teens—continues to enjoy the ride, her own, evident pleasure adding appreciably to the whole. Returned back home for a month or two, her husband will be a come-down she laughingly admits. Old ready. Rin was his second wife and more than half his age. (A common Javanese story even today.) Two years ago at the last return Rin told of keeping the poor sod at bay by using the young grandchild who slept with her as pretext. After some extended exploration in the archipelago one guesses the jockey-mount is not so very common—Rin and her compatriots assume the post quite unbidden. Currently we have been attempting to arrange a few days together in Jogja. With flights so pricey and the project in JB hanging, Rin must be given the bad news tomorrow, which in fact might have the beneficial effect of raising the meeting to a higher plane still.

Net Down

Near quart 10, double check the date.... September 1. Net down at Four Chain meant Starbs and its biz meet-greet morning voices filtering over from the far back corner. Issuing in fact from guys 25 years younger than presumed. Check and double-check. Positive ID: guys at the very back. An intermediate rear middle-aged who had been on the phone earlier ruled out. Introductory rattle of awkward jokes and encouraging laughter. First in-person. Back turned looked an old fashioned body shirt if you can believe it. It would be fast-stepping to the taxi rank on the other side of the street for that young buck. Light Indian facing—as is the older intermediate. Shirt Asian the guess, but educated off-shore and extended living. (Chinese Asian.) Tinkle-dribble from the speaker mercifully turned down. (Did one of the gals remember the pesky customer whining and complaining last time?) Gee! Don't look now, but dweebs every side and more piling in. Guy walked past carrying his blue suit jacket over one arm as he wended his way through the tables with his brekkie tray—toasted wafers with a range of spreads, kaya, nutella & honey maybe. Loud big bearded old Sikh, blue striped shirt and light navy turban ruined the impression later with his broken plastic sandals. One of the U.S. publications on the stands at Kinokuniya yesterday with up-beat trumpet blaring on the front cover: New Golden Age, If Only We Knew It whatnot. Wasn’t Time. A nice neat-pin Chin girl was steered away from that when she took it up from the stack. On a positive note: two young American exchange students at Kinkun buying jewels that had been carefully ferreted out from the toxic coloured piles. Nick from San Diego with Huxley under arm & a Mukherjee on cancer (Pulitzer). Then Lone Star Austin, Texas Vy, born in Vietnam.... Wait for it.... No reader in the Western hemisphere could possibly guess the young gal’s inspired choice. Vy carried in her hand white-covered Svetlana Alexievich no less! Da-Da!...Never sighted previously by this author on any shore; Svetlana had only been translated into English in the last year or two. The Chernobyl volume. Big, big ticks guys! Done your country real proud.