Stick-Up

 Biker Kath last night at the Willy café telling of her plot for Monday. A girl from Trentham an hour out of town, where she had settled with her husband. The pair had married in their teens and remained together ever since. Pete was stout and heavily tattooed, a daunting figure on the street; some kind of eye condition that needed sunglasses even at night made Pete more daunting still. Out at Shepparton in teen years Pete had been a footballer who had rebuffed the attentions of League scouts; the big league in Melbourne had never held any attraction for Pete. Bikes and then Kath were stronger lures – Pete had introduced the former to the latter. Always zipped in her weatherproofs, Kath kept any bodily artwork out of sight; she was far more outward and forceful in opinion. The strong antipathy against the Muslims had almost certainly started with Kath and Pete following. Pete did not follow Kath in her enthusiasm for Collingwood; when Kath went to watch games on the Willy screens Pete let her go alone and waited for her return at the end of the match. For the Monday plot at Trentham Pete would have no option but to support his wife. What exactly set Kath so strongly against the Muslims was not difficult to fathom. Kath had a lot of time for the mentally disturbed street people in Willy; for the Koorie people too. Little Paul on his tricycle won Kath’s compassion and support; beggars, drunks and even users might have been tolerated; gays perhaps. Migrants might be different and Muslims certainly were another category entirely. The way the last set themselves apart riled Kath. There might have been a mosque in Trentham, or at least one on the way out there. There was one makeshift one in Newport where Kath had spent her youth and been schooled; a second large one was almost finished nearby, designed by some hot-shot architect who had somehow become palsy with the Muslims. Pauline Hanson had recently worn a burqa in federal parliament, a form of dress that was every bit as offensive in Kath’s eyes. The burqa set the Muslims apart and was a slap in the face to Australian culture. The Muslims thought they were special; there was the spate of terrorist attacks, then the earlier horrendous beheadings. At Trentham Kath knew women in the bank who were forced to serve intimidating burqa-clad women who would not remove their cover. How were the tellers supposed to know what was hidden beneath that drapery? It was an appalling state of affairs condoned by the authorities. Monday seven of the bikers would enter the Trentham bank with their helmets and demand to receive equal treatment; nothing less would be acceptable. (Because Kath was brought up right she herself would raise her visor at the bank; if she was wearing sunglasses and had an encounter Kath would also remove the shades out of politeness.) It was easy to understand Kath and Pauline Hanson, the politicians in the US, the UK, France and elsewhere. The set of circumstances were straightforward; the politics of power blocks, the process of history and empire, was a complex and challenging study understood better by victims and the dispossessed. Good onya Kath many here would think, good show.

Publication News: Wives & Devotions - Orbis (UK)

Hello Readers all

A UK lit. journal has recently published a short of mine titled "Wives and Devotions" – another tale from Geylang Serai, Singapore.

Orbis #180 (Summer 2017)

Mail order is available from the publisher; otherwise I will re-post it on the blog after a decent interval.

Cheers & pozdravs

Pavle

The Elements (Dinka Again) 17_Oct24

Another Dinka man in company with a couple of regulars today. Majak was there regularly enough and the other younger, taller and handsomer man usually patronized daily. With this last there was a nodding acquaintance and occasional pleasantries. Today this developed to proper introduction. Man was named "Kur” – carefully spelt out. In Dinka kur was rock. It was not until hours later that the direct counterpart in English dawned. Of course, Rock…. There must have been many other than Rock Hudsons who carried the name. Kur smiled sheepishly giving the information. Almost certainly he had never heard of the old Hollywood heart-throb. Kur was the best dresser at the café – this in the old formal sense of suit, shirt, tie & polished shoes. The unfamiliar third was keen on the new acquaintance. A sympathetic Australian writer was just what they needed in the Dinka community here; someone to convey the community to themselves, the man said. It took some time to untangle the matter. What the man was seeking was some means of overcoming the narrow tribalism of the South Sudanese and articulating the commonality that the nascent country needed for nation building. Ah well! Much to say on that topic. A fellow with a Balkan heritage tip-toed mighty carefully across that terrain. With the rush of conversation the proper introductions only came later. It was a simple enough name in itself, but what did Rin mean in the Dinka language? There was some particular kind of import as usual, right?... This elucidation took even longer than the one earlier concerning the tensions between tribalism & nation building. Rin was the name of something. It was the term for discreet objects. House, country, road, car…. It was especially difficult to drill down to bedrock. Once we moved onto fire, water, sky, moon & sun the man began to be understood. In some sense rin was a grammatical term. The equivalent in English might be…. Essential noun possibly. Wasn’t it proper noun? Rin suggested. Well, being a bit rusty on the schoolboy stuff (of which there was little back in the day)…. The chaps warned  Google Translate could play havoc with their language; it could not be trusted. Father so-and-so had baptized Rin. (The officiating divine's name was known to Rin.) But for that ceremony Rin’s father had insisted on one of their own Dinka names. It was not to be Peter, Paul or John. An especially strong statement made in this case. The name of names insisted upon in fact.

Roundtable

A man of Darfur western Sudan, dozen years out after eighteen months’ transit in Egypt. In Egypt he had worked for five pounds it might have been monthly. Early sixties sporting a rust red dyed moustache. Overcoat against the wintry day with sunglasses that were later removed as the conversation progressed. How had he attained such good, confident English was unknown. Otherwise the man spoke only Arabic, understanding very little of the Dinka at the next table. Earlier days he had known some. All the current trouble in Africa was tribal-based, not religious, according to the man. In Darfur for example they were all Muslim. In greater Sudan everything stemmed back to the friction between the nomads and the settled agrarians. During the British period there had been a designated kilometer wide corridor for the nomads with their herds; after earlier trouble some decades ago in Yemen across the water an influx of refugees from the north had disturbed the equilibrium. The rust red man’s tribe was the Benihealba. They had the same bulls as the Dinka, though whether they were nomadic herdsmen did not emerge. 4pm the man needed to pick up his son from school; a madrasa probably. On parting there were brief words with the Dinka group by the door, the divide apparent. Apart from Mr. Aguar the Dinka at the window table by the door were not regulars today. The men had met by arrangement it seemed; the intent listening at the table suggested. As the turns to speak were taken the men sat quietly without stirring. There were no crossed legs; close attention directed at the speaker. When Faisal bought into the conversation from the side with some kind of witticism one of chaps responded in kind; indeed made capital of the opportunity and produced belly laughs from both Dinka and Tiggrinah in back. A couple of the former did have big bellies too; older men in their fifties and sixties today. The younger crew was noticeably absent. The youngest who had joined last was more than content sitting and listening. What would a junior like that know, for whatever he had seen? Toward the end of proceedings – Faisal apologized for having to close up shop – Aguar had asked the young chap about the book he was holding. Byzantine Jesus with an aureole on the cover. A nod the most that was given by Aguar, who may have been pure animist himself. Earlier in the year Aguar had been in South Sudan. He was another with a ready MS in search of an editor, in his case some kind of constitutional legality the focus. Principles had been taken from the UN charter, from the EU and the British legal framework, Aguar had said some days earlier. A half hour before closing America had been put down for zero at the Dinka table, and then Uganda the same—clear English zero. Aid most likely, or meaningful support. Six Dinka men. Suit jackets, shirts, shoes all. Two ties. The elder Morwell was still over in Adelaide collecting the remainder of his belongings. Morwell had made the decision to move to the larger community here; had he been in Melbourne no doubt Morwell would have been at the table. In Morwell’s absence Aguar and two others were the principal speakers. Listening the others looked keenly and drank in the words. After his turns had passed even Aguar listened closely. (In conversation sometimes Aguar’s concentration could wander.) The young chap would have learned much at the table today.

 

Gods and Spirits (The Dinka Again)

Reviewing community development assignment tasks for Ayuak at the café, 200 worders with the smallest defects of grammar and punctuation. Twenty minutes saw it done, Ayuak grateful for the favour. A tall, stout Dinka man named after his grandfather. Ayuak’s twin had died early and earlier in the year his wife had delivered him twins. Going by the sound, the name might have been rendered Awak, though that was possibly wrong. At mid-point of the correction Ayuak’s friend in the cloth hat and duffle coat arrived, chap by the name of Akoon. A previous nodding acquaintance over the last few months was now properly formalised. Pleased to meet you… A pleasure… Proper care required either side over the names. Two “o”s, – Akoon; single was “female,” or “girl” in Dinka. Akoon with two Os was elephant. Marvellous to hear. There seemed to be some pride in the man divulging, bright eyes flashing. Did they still have elephant men among the Hindus perchance? In the forest areas perhaps where there was the resistance to the loggers and miners. Some further pressing of Akoon. One needed to take one’s chances as they came; there was a certain ease and familiarity in the cafe now, and with the Dinka too. Christian or animist, Mr. Akoon?... Christian the response, looking away. Christian?... Yes, Christian… Well. Ah…OK. But, maybe a little bit—small measure between the thumb and forefinger signalled—animist?... This drew a small, sheepish smile. Nodding. To date it had only been young Bol, named after the twins that had preceded him, who immediately owned the animism. No hesitation in his case; no reservation. Somehow from the outset, from the first meeting, Bol had been confident and unabashed. Akoon was more of a regular at the café; Bol was pounding the books at the university library. When we played out a little more Dinka the introductory steps taken by the man, Mr. Akoon, were interesting. Firstly Akoon began with mach—fire. Akoon accepted the spelling. That was followed by pio for water. Difficult to catch and Akoon spelling. Interesting and suggestive. Indicative one would think. Thank you Akoon. On our side we could do with some more of the elemental surely.

Endless Politics

Bodyguard…. bodyguard, one of the older men at the big table repeated, a former journalist, Abdul Razak later revealed. There was no word in Tiggrinyah for the term. Back home the leaders must have had them on all sides, making themselves impregnable. Opposition cells were many, especially in the émigré communities. Haile the handyman led one here that met monthly. For meetings with his brothers Khartoum was the place for Haile; there could be no return to Eritrea under the current regime. In his mid-forties, Djamel had recently embarked on a migration agent course. Among the other motivations, he needed to get himself away from the ceaseless politics at the café tables, Djamel said. One recalled the old royalists in the neighbourhood in early days, the sober men sitting close in the kitchen chairs, carved features and speech sharp as a knife-blade. Chika Radivojsa with the photograph of young King Petar on his wall. A Croat was not permitted to cross the threshold at Chika Rad’s, all in the neighbourhood knew; the second wave of immigrants raised by the communists were highly suspicious too; callow youth ignorant and brainwashed. What a fate it would be in that house to have a daughter abandoned by a gay Orthodox priest; they could never have told old man Radivojsa. Reading Svetlana in the window seat of the café among that congenial company an extended segment arrived of an old Soviet mother’s grief at her teen son’s suicide. The boy had imbibed a death and transcendence wish from the Russian soul of the era; at one point the bereaved mother blaming her own mother for it. – You Tolstoyan monster…. you raised us to be freaks just like you…. At one point through the reading two young women either side of the street passed with half-sized blankets wrapped around their shoulders and heads like peasants used going up the hill with the herd. Never mind a scarf, you needed better in the biting iron cold. Since beginning on this third volume of Alexievich she goes in the bag each day a constant companion. Startling voices orchestrated from a recent past that has been left far behind in this remarkable acceleration. During the morning there had been a new London lit. zine briefly investigated, the most recent piece opening with an erection: – a bureaucrat at his desk interviewing a woman…. From the opening line the reader’s attention seized in the way editors favoured and writing classes taught now.

NB. Secondhand Time, Svetlana Alexievich, p. 145.

Lenin had termed Tolstoy “the mirror of the Russian Revolution,” p. 146

July Springtime

Sun-lit gull winging over the roof of Abdul Razak’s shop. In the morning there had been birds flitting through the lemon too rapid to make out – green-breasted sparrows possibly. Lunchtime at the side fence down the street with Arthur unsighted raucous crows seemed to be mocking the old pair of geezers chatting below. (Arthur had smiled in agreement at the likelihood.) The last was after Robbie and Arthur had shared something about bush mechanics who could start motors with shotgun cartridges and also with a spurt of compressed air from tyres (which in the case of trucks held over 100 lbs per sq. inch). A burst of early spring on the last day of July in what has thus far been the driest winter on record. No need for the heater beside the PC the last few mornings; the scarf abandoned through the afternoons, together with the woolen vest that is much in need of wash. Over a week there have been pale pink buds on the almond out front of the studio – too late for any further pruning now…Five years were needed to realize there were no gulls on the equator. Such an archipelago holding such abundant bird life, without any seagulls.…In Footscray
next day a surprising sight familiar from the streets of Singapore: a black African girl was keeping to the shade of a shop awning while she awaited lights at the pedestrian crossing.

NB.  'Warming conditions commonplace' as Australia records hottest ever July.

A Bureau of Meteorology report to be released later today will show the country's average July temperature was at its highest in more than 100 years, forecaster David Crock says.

ABC online. Tue 1 Aug 2017, 8:23am