Socratic Dialogue With Mr. Ee (updated Mar24)

Hearing Mahayana and reading the same on the page brought immediate approval from Mr Ee.

— First class Buddhism, said he, possibly a little surprised to have the term delivered to himself.

Westerners often went for other forms, perhaps. Nice horse-head nodding from the old, former reprobate sailor turned serious adherent.

Every few days Mr Ee went off down to the Tibetan Centre by Lorong 27; and every day the man carted what he called the Buddhist Bible, a thick tome that heavied his shoulder bag. A few years ago the title of the volume had been recorded in the journal.

Late-seventies and possibly even early-eighties Roughrider like Mr. Ee made an unusual figure bent at his book on the end table of the Haig out by the road. There was certainly no counterpart anywhere in that quarter, whether Buddhist, Muslim, Christian or other.

Paid up Roughrider membership no slouch during his days as a Pump man on the tankers in the region and the Gulfs of Texas and Mexico. Bars, dance floors, whores, the lot. A rollicking merry good time, with the specific segue for the other pursuit unexplored to date.

There had been numerous conversion stories heard in Singapore. Too many.

In the paper in Jakarta there had appeared an interesting piece on the Borobudur reliefs, a story of truth-seeking drawing on the Mahayana tradition that was illustrated in the stone. Once Mr. Ee had joined the table the mention provided a ready conversational line.

One particular detail in the old story included the fact that among the rank of the young seeker’s encounters with monks, nuns and traditional physicians, there was one high class prostitute consulted. 

In Mahayana it was underlined that truth was not the preserve of the usual class of dedicated thinkers and cloistered ascetics alone; truth rather was found in the wider domain and might arrive from anywhere, indeed from least expected quarters.

One of the first laws of Western philosophical discourse: dismiss not the drunkard’s voice, nor any of the other so-called lowest of the low.

Times past Mr Ee had spoken not only of compassion for the wastrel, the drunkard and the prostitute, but indeed understanding and respect. Mornings at the front table at the Haig Mr Ee sat bent over his book in the very midst of such-like all round.

Well, then, Mahayana offered something fruitful. First class Buddhism. Coming from someone like Mr Ee a certain confidence was inspired.

Thereupon, further elaborations.

Dharma constituted, according to Mr Ee, the sum total of all Buddha’s teaching that all we beings carry within ourselves day and night. The fullest, best, universal and cosmic spirit perhaps; in each to greater or lesser degree presumably, and of course in the Buddha pre-eminently. (Incidentally, a great Sufi like Zainuddin would include among Moses, Abraham, Isa and the usual other forerunners, the Buddha and Zoroaster too among the early Prophets.)

As for sangaya, well, even the Nepalese monk down at Lor 27 could not explain that concept. The chap concerned possibly had good grasp in his own language, but in English, forget it. (Mr Ee seemed to have enquired.) For Mr Ee’s own part he could include sangaya in his mantra without needing to drill down into the A - Zee.

Mr Ee’s lunch, a cheaper packet brought from elsewhere to the Al Wadi table—the Haig was still closed for cleaning—consisted of nasi, a brittle dried fish, some roasted peanuts and a sachet of curry that Mr Ee spent a long while working through the rice. 

A cup of teh halia was subsequently accepted. The illegal Gudang Garam was now $6.50; after his lunch Mr. Ee would take a stick. Seemed the man had cut down.

During the course of the conversation and after the Mahayana we arrived at epistemological questions, during the course of that in turn Mr Ee was delivered the old Russian perspective. 

The Russians held man sought truth and knowledge all his life; strived for it, looked hither and yon; yet unhappily, still in the end a fool went into the grave.

Free smiles from Mr Ee, looking up from his greaseproof paper, despite the fact an outlook such as that could hardly accord with the hopes offered a follower of the great sage. A serious, earnest, dutiful and humble right follower.

Therefore, once due acknowledgement was given the point of view—in the quality of the smile first and foremost—Mr Ee had his retort to such a wise guy as this old grisly Ruski.

Should a rogue of that stripe appear among us at Geylang Serai, Mr Ee would throw down the gauntlet. 

— Well my dear man, tell me then what it is you know,

Clearly Mr Ee would like to get his claws into such a fellow. Smart arse.

And following quickly upon that, would it happen that Mr Ee himself was asked the same question, asked to reveal the extent of his own knowledge, Mr Ee would not be left dumbfounded. Not found wanting. 

To this question Mr Ee would know what to reply.

An implicit challenge between times. Opportunity here provided to submit one’s own position... 

Be my guest, Mr. Ee invited by his prolonged silence. Lay that one on me then…

No way. Hardly likely unprepared like that. Such angled exchanges with old lions could never take other than the particular ordained course.

Well, Mr Ee my friend, the field is yours. If you will.

— ...I cannot answer, Mr Ee slowly, eventually, unburdened himself of his ready retort... 

I cannot answer, Mr Ee would reply were the same interrogation levelled at himself, what I do not know.

Nicely done. A little package that one knew immediately even before full import might be grasped. Stopped you in your tracks and left you pondering. 

As often with Mr Ee, a good deal of Socratic method seemed embedded in the works. Most particularly it was the wonderful Death of Socrates that returned to mind recalling the conversation in the hours later.

Later too in the night one recalled university days, early university not long after football and its related had finally been put aside. On the one hand there was the unexpected intellectual excitement of that period. The questions the great writers and the philosophers had always considered were precisely one’s own; the crucial ones not all properly formulated, but nonetheless, concentration and delving into the very same. Yet many of the lecturers and tutors were in fact arrogating to themselves presumption of deepest knowledge and insight; those turkeys were making claims for themselves by their airs, by the way they conducted themselves in their fiefdom of good and evil, love and passion, fate and tragedy. Such gumption and highest pretence needed challenge.

More Days Than Life

Took a numbers of years figuring this. Whenever Babi used the expression she never provided any kind of gloss, leaving it entirely up to you to catch her meaning. And in this case it was not an easy task. Vise dana no zivota—in mild exclamation. Usually of course one needed to get on with it, chop-chop; get a move on. Ne ostavljaj za sutra sto mozes uradit danas—which in later years would be playfully twisted around for prodding, Better leave it for tomorrow and we can do it then…. Latter days the first occurred much more frequently, if not for the first time in fact after her mellowing had begun. Once Bab had accomplished her life task of saving, protecting and shepherding through she could afford to be more relaxed and sanguine. Vise dana no zivota. More days than life.... The life term was short: the days stretched far beyond. It might wait for the morrow; let it be, enough for now. Likely it was her mother’s expression. Nothing that had come down of her father, nothing of his talk or action, nothing suggested from the forbidding photographs, would suggest the man could have uttered anything of the sort. Last night on the bus from the airport after there had been a delay following a thunderstorm and an unnerving holding pattern, looking out at the remarkably, utterly other Singaporean streets around the stops, another of Bab’s sayings had returned. It must have been the sight of some figure plodding along into the night; some everyday sense of hardship and labouring along toward bedtime. Nije bog nikome sve dao, niti sve odnio. Neither did god give any all, nor take all from any…. Years that had not been recalled. So long now, with the six years on the equator submerging segments of that past world. Bab used the expression both for cautionary reminder and at other times also to show gifts and talents where none might have been expected. A few days ago on ABC online in the review of demented Charlie Manson’s life his early years of utter dysfunction with his hopeless mother had been reviewed. Like all such examples, in the most notorious criminal justice cases there was no room for weighing formative moral squalor and degradation. Looking out the dark Singaporean window the thought firmed one could not remain long in this milieu, not this time. Twenty-five days had been recorded on the immigration declaration. Even that would be a stretch. A few years ago the average stay in SG had been reported three days. The authorities were attempting to devise ways and means of detaining visitors with more attractions, discounts and tie-ins. Not long after emerging from the Changi tunnels a hoarding for a cafe it may have been had teased with prospective uplift of the soul; one of those striking examples of unsophisticated, junior grade Singaporean copywriting. Then soon following, not two hundred metres on, pasted sheeting anticipating a new gym opening with a range of activities for the whole family. The encouraging tag prompted with the same religious fervour, Rejoice in the Facilities.

Niqab Portrait

Niqab woman arriving late for breakfast was one of the teachers of a small group of mid-teens. Four girls sat at an adjacent table and a half dozen others separating themselves down at lower ground. A madrasa excursion perhaps, though these were not of the lower class poor. Traditionally many poor families sent daughters to a madrasa at least in part to relieve the burden at home. These were middle-class girls, well-dressed, albeit modestly and covered. All wore the scarf, though none followed the example of the teacher. The pillar screened the girls at the near table and mostly the niqab teacher; her male colleague sat in direct line of vision. Bringing up the plates there had been pagis, good mornings with the girls in passing, both at lower ground and by the pillar. Late arriving, the niqab teacher had not witnessed that exchange. An experienced woman of course would notice the altered state of her charges, the alertness and tone of the giggles. Shifting in the chair now and again through the course of the meal the black niqab came into view a number of times and once when the woman had lifted her flap for the food. Earlier the eyes and segments of forehead had suggested a woman in her mid-thirties, which was confirmed by the jaw and mouth. Male colleagues and other men would develop a relationship with the niqab woman reading expression from her eyes, her gesture and tone of voice. Smiles would be suggested by the stretch of fabric; annoyance by subtle hints beneath the glossy black cloth. One could not help wondering whether the woman was disturbed by the presence of the bule.

Woody & Elie

You find yourself in some crazy situations. Your girlfriend has a gig as a set designer for a community theatre compliments of her ex-boyfriend, the one you displaced. Oh, gee! How exciting. Endless prep and brainstorming, rehearsals, alterations, working into the wee hours, supervising the carpenter (you got him for her cheap). Dizzying. Woody Allen—the particular item escapes right now. A Jewish theatre group annual show; a second run after the year before something a little challenging had been met unfavourably by the audience. She's German, intensely professional; Elie like Woody is Jewish, the star of the show. (You smashed a fine reconciliation of hopelessly, disastrously, impossibly contradictory assumptions there.) Elie will do Woody better than Woody does himself; no need faking angst, disabling incertitude and self-doubt. Weeks of nothing else but fretting, hiccups; an illness almost derailing entirely in one fell swoop. Opening night was long looming threateningly. Oh my gosh, can we get everything done on time? the right Op Shop props and authentic furniture? books from everybody’s shelves at home? time for the paint on set to dry? All the work on display for the gathered masses and their easy criticism. Then one morning suddenly the house phone at your mother's where you stayed the night rings. Turn on the television, quick. Something terrible. Catastrophe in New York, plane hit a tall building; then confirmed another, a second plane. New York. In the midst of all their endeavor only a couple of weeks out. Act of war. Horrendous inferno. The flying man. From the kindergarten Bush went down into his bunker. America will respond in due course to this act of cowardice. Sontag wrote what she wrote, pulled it after the pressure and recanted. Whispers of cheering across a range of countries, jubilation — that story was killed rapidly too. But they did hate our way of life, clearly. In Melbourne what to do with the show? It can't go on surely. How can it? What, after this? However you looked at it. Disrespect to the victims wouldn’t it be? For another thing what about the skyline outside Woody/Elie's apartment windows? Long ago it was decided as the obvious no brainer scene-setter. It would not be the same any more. In the midst of the grief to put on this little piece of fun?... A super graphic skyline from an architecture office in Docklands with a GINORMOUS printer had been blown further still somehow, perfect backdrop while Woody/Elie took phone calls from the girl, readied himself for the date, his best friend might have visited for angst-mulling; then, oh my god! the date herself at the door when he wasn’t really ready; legs crossing and re-crossing on the couch, W/El mixing drinks, flipping nervous chat and on his knees no doubt pleading. The details actually cannot be recalled; it was bad enough witnessing once during the performance. What to do now? That skyline could not possibly be used in the aftermath. Come on, you’re not serious? You can’t all pretend the thing never happened, surely. Maybe you can pretend about the whys and wherefores, but not that for crying out loud. You mean to go right ahead and ignore the whole thing, all of you?... Trickling details emerged of the coward pilots — on the contrary Sontag had initially called them heroes to some. In fact they seemed to have enjoyed some of the Western lifestyle and values, drinking, porn, nice tailoring. It wasn't that maybe they wanted to bring down in burning ashes. While prep for the show went on, war prep in the Western capitals. Bush elevated to Christ the Redeemer by the ally in London (the ready Australian Deputy Sherriff turned man of steel; former double-plus whimpy suburban lawyer). Remarkable footage of Bush/Blair meetings; the fawning, the sanctimoniousness. Brilliant performance beating down the carping opposition; Colin at the US General Assembly useful in that black skin, with Condie support. Cover for the crew in Melbourne striving to put on their own show. The show must go on; we could not let the terrorists win. (Yet to be adopted at the time that particular line.) In South Yarra the hall had been booked, tickets sold. Gala opening might have been early October. Evening dresses, heels, possibly there may have been opera glasses. Celebrations followed and thanks to all and sundry, including in the notes to the program the new b-friend of the set designer for something or other, infinite patience perhaps.

Fun and Games

Trial now this kiddie hangout on Sabang, only 3kms out from Tanah Ab. The food chase and tolerable net the drivers; further exploration always additionally. The Nat. Gallery opp. the stasiun few days back terribly saddening for the hurry-hurry art catch-up with the first world. The foundation era architect, pal of Soekarto’s—Frederich Silaban, who was exhibited in one of the side rooms—had been commissioned to do the other catch-up for the newly independent city’s landmarks. Well, you can’t get a teh jahe with susu, ginger tea with milk to save yourself anywhere in this city, but the T. T. not damn bad. (Yesterday at the Nacional Perpustakaan—modeled on the Singaporean forerunner no doubt—in the little kiddie corner cafe there they actually produced the former on the spot it seemed, with numerous real ginger pieces afloat. Almost ordered a second. Rp23 here, close to 2.5 dolaro was cheeky. The aircon and low lighting had been the attraction from the street. Then the red velvet bench seat (all occupied) and wooden furniture. Clearly good wifi—the kids with expensive Apples arrayed. Curious passersby wonder to themselves from the other side of the glass whether they fit the bill, whether they are cool enough to be received indoors; precisely as you yourself had done in your own time you kampung boy from the Western suburbs. Before you turned into the koolest Daddy-Oh, hey ho! at least in these parts with such little, uncertain and inadequate competition. Good to see an older scarf join a pretty pixie co-religionist with her boy. Poor sweet and scarfed Anita back in Sing had been stung hearing an oldie say to her husband as we passed, Well, will you look at that. (Words to the effect.) Heavily Chin weighted you might have thought initially. In fact that was only the joined tables in the window with their 4/5 laps. Casual cool such an extent none of the staff could give a damn rat's about serving and it was fun to make the phones jump in their hands behind the counter. MBAK! got the girl’s attention alright, for all that the intonation might not have been spot-on. Shit a brick! Jogging round quick smart almost tripping over herself, while the lads in back re-settled again after the earthquake. Apologies for the lack of jahe, wished she could have made it magically appear on a saucer. As the paramount exemplar now laddie, show ‘em how it’s done with true style, effortlessly and natural pretty much, casting over the walls and out the window pen raised, you've got a strong chin and jaw-bone still, unpurse those lips thatta boy. Let them feast their eyes. Really serious need of the newspaper for the latest Setya episode. The railway station was out; hopefully they would still have one at Gramedia at this late hour. Seems the car accident was indeed faked. Presumably the docs at that particular Emergency department could be relied upon to write up adequate notes for the Korupsi Kommisars on the poor man’s tail. A fave of Trumpet’s no surprise, wanted a cut at Freeport few years back and when he was caught on tape answered it was all a joke. The US interests must not have taken kindly. Still, unlikely they can lay a glove on him here if he spread the dosh around judiciously. Poor ol’ Jokowi like Barack can sing Dixie for all his earnest efforts. Good theatre watching that kinda insect squirming now and then for temporary relief if nothing else, can’t be easy on the ticker. Hopefully Gramedia not sold out.

NB. The recent head of the Corruption Commission here was photographed in Singapore a few days ago where he is receiving eye treatment after an acid attack. Not so funny.

Blown Away

First drops climbing the stairs at Thambrin, followed by an unexpected pause and then wind. What passes for wind at least. Five and more years back one recalled a time seeking the term in bahasa. Sun, rain, heat had been acquired; wind was logically next. It took quite some while; and what was with those looks of bemusement on the faces? that long-faced angling?... Well, there was basically no wind on the equator, certainly nothing worthy of the name. An entirely abstruse question... In Sing the strongest breezes were generated by the fans mounted on the pillars over the famed five foot walkways. Were a chap caught at the head of a row of these he might jump to very much the wrong conclusion. How the real thing was missed! Strange but 'twas true. Did the blows exist perchance before the forests were uprooted and the concrete cover? One felt less a dolt now too over the errors reading the sky, where timing was concerned. Here the young barefoot ojek payungs with their umbrellas had come out prematurely. Thambrin usually offered rich pickings from all the shoppers with expensive baju and hair. Lads might be unlucky today, cloud actually blowing over and nothing to show for it. Such handsome items again held aloft by suchlike as them, nothing whatever of that disposable variety after a single use. Capacious, all bright colours and strong wires. Lads of course don't mind getting drowned themselves, you often see them tiptoeing unblinking through the deluge behind the shrinking ladies shielding themselves. One little baby by Lotteria might still have worn diapers.

Fishing @ Grand Indo

Balik the mall after a week in Bandung. The latter’s mall nearest the station was nothing to compare to Grand Indo. Slight momentary disorientation at the landing on the third floor: Hang on a cotton picking minute, something not right here.... Check the signage on the arm of the escalator: Ya, 3rd. It was third for Gramedia, right? The East Mall... Planet Sports.com double-fronted sparkling like a jewelers, like a museum, ought not be there. Lad at the tee rack giving merry thanks for the patronage to a fellow hot-footing out.... Yeah, nah, it was alright, no need fear. The bordered-up place in that corner was open now, and resplendent. Toxic glue odour during the works had been dispersed by some means or other, not the faintest trace. Right you were bud, onward, leading with the chin and taking care the schnoz was not raised overly high. Infinite compassion for the shopgirls as is your custom. The first prayer in the slum must start them going at the make-up mirror, no payment for that first hour. Onward, softening the visage as needed. Cleaning lad retrieving a lost card with his rod from an awkward corner for a nice lass fretting beside him arrested the march. Swing back look-see.... No, wasn't credit, but still, something she wanted retrieved. You Can't Touch This tantalising new lure on a case in a phone shop, new release no doubt, breath activated if not brain wired. The compassion does not extend to the shoppers I’m afraid, one does need to draw the line somewhere; nor the cleaners and the lower rung. The latter were not in need; they knew what they were about. The former?... Well, not meaning to be cruel, but that crowd was impossible to reach, even here in this country that was only recently suborned. That crowd didn't seek your cheap pity in any case, not by a long shot. Tell you to FFFF off you loser! Who do you think you are?... Aduh! Disturbed by a boy collecting a scrunched receipt the scarved ladies had left on the bench—the bin was too far for them to stretch. Almost invisible, even on the black melamine, but not to a lad with trained eye. Super no doubt a proper prick. There were hundreds, nay thousands, like him waiting in line for a chance to grab a fine uniform, pace the aircon, eat with the lipsticked lasses on the breaks. Earned his spurs and ever vigilant this chappie. Rounding off after his scoop the
SA
  LE
sign by the escalator splitting TOTO Kitchen and erafone was spied not standing parallel and square to the glass balustrade. No good like that. One little hoof was not quite enough. Lagi. OK, that did it. Right as rain now. Off for further scouting yonder.... Going down Red Army Watches must have been newly opened too surely to god. It could not possibly have been missed on so many passes. Contemporary Putin nouveau riche & gangsters.

Publication News - Aethlon

In recent days a US literary sports journal called Aethlon has published a piece of mine titled "The Biggest Name of Them All," — a soccer tale featuring a famous old Yugoslav star. Aethlon is a print publication, about $US25 + postage.
         After a decent interval it will be posted here.

Indefinite

In lieu of an interpreter one was guessing here. Certainly there was no coloured paper presented by the old reed-thin chap in a kind of Chairman Mao navy twin pocket that hung on the ancient bones like upon the coolies before the foreign devils had been thrown off. Chap looked like he had not taken a meal the size dished up here by the boss — well, never in his born days. Takeaway fold with heaped rice, couple veg., sauce and whole deep fried fish. Feed a family of five this man's size and stature. Taut flesh on the bones in deep coffee. Cataracts suggested a blind man, yet on leaving a motor outside the door was mounted. 

         That was no daddy or uncle. Was he a kampung elder possibly? Fellow running a business could not afford these freebies to all and sundry that was for sure. 
         Forefinger & thumb rub enquiry was met with a shrug from the boss. 
         All indefinite.
         Worth a little play later too with the lad serving who avoided the eyes a quarter hour. Steered well and truly clear. That was a bridge too far for a lad like him. 
         Eventually attention gained, duly attended, an ear bent down. 
         ….OK, simple. 
         The plate of pisang was brought over. Naturally the lad was not about to break off a single and hand it over like to the monkey at the top of the street who worked the red light with his handler.
         And now sock the fellow square between the eyes he doesn't know what hit him.
         — Matur nuhun. BANG!
         ….How do you like that buster?
         Becak driver Paijo in Jogja had taught the old Jawi a couple of years ago and it had slipped since; until at least the whisper was heard from this same boy's mouth given to another ancient, an old woman in briefly to place an order.
         Slightest flicker at what he had received. Refused to be rocked at all, not outwardly; refused to betray himself. 
         The author has a mind to return in a day/two and give the fellow the Sunda variant for good measure, see whether the knees will wobble at that: —  Hatur nahun. 
         Let him mull that one too see how he likes it.

         Old Java was highly interesting wherever remnants were found: in the script, the lingo, the hints of the animist past pre-Islam. Fabulous glimpses here and there in the folk passing through the cities.

Negotiating Alms

Coming down the bridge from Tubun a woman on a crutch with a stump cut below the knee, thin and withered. Two or three paces were needed for the impressions. The refuse bin roadside was her object; she was carrying one of the white plastic gunnies and readying to lift the lid. In the pockets the memory was clear: Rp100Ks left and in the right only Rp50Ks and two or three 10s. There could be no hesitation, the woman could not be ignored. Of course she was not begging; she was quite unaware of the tall white panama tracking close behind. Once the woman was overtaken the lavender Rp10K was presented. She may have already opened the lid of the bin with one hand and caught mid-movement. In the deadly blaze at the fireworks factory in Tangerang, West Jakarta, by last count forty-eight women had lost their lives. Cheap, unregulated and underage factory hands toiling for Rp40K per day. At the time of meeting at the airport Ni had still not heard the report; in the days following she had watched numerous TV features on the story. A program called The Lawyers Club had raked over the event at length, an entire episode devoted with unpolished performers for the most part from the second generation of the profession here. There was a good deal of raw feeling, awkwardness and stumbling for words, even head-scratching from the compere at one point. The stumpy picker on the bridge could not earn half the rate of the cheap factory class here. Every morning one emerged from behind the walls of three star Kalisma the testing immediately outside the gate awaited. Touting of course needed to be carefully avoided. There were few hard looks and often greetings and smiles. It was the size of the denominations here that confused; every so often one needed to remind oneself two thousand rupiah was twenty cents Australian.

Impeccable

Following a little tummy upset in the East Mall, camomile this morning at Djournal after the newspaper was fetched. No never mind, gloriously appointed crapper state-of-the-art, couldn't wish for more. Sing’ standard cleanliness: subtly perfumed air freshener, 2-ply paper & finest quick-dry. In/out of the cubicle the attendant mopping smiled broad welcome. Almost certainly nothing untoward, one part Corp. training and one the boy's fine, native spirit triumphing above all. Quite remarkable nonetheless of course. A first job, uniform laid on, pretty girls every side. The pressure in the faucet did give a start!... By jingoes, how deep were they drilling into the water-table for that level of splash! In the hotel bathroom there was no more than drips that made it impossible to clean the turbo blade shaving. On the second morning there had been a resort to the charcoal toothbrush, following which of course the problem of trying to clean somehow afterward. Cloudy mirror and recessed bulb behind in the centre of the ceiling; best option in the circs there was the Lenovo flashlight—that item's chief feature. (Gifted by Nance in Sing from her Mah's leftover.) Holding over the forehead in the left hand and trained down one tight plane at a time—cheeks, jaw-bone & neck. Around the mouth slow and careful, blindman fingers for confirmation. It was impossible to be at all confident of the lines of sideburns in that murky hollow, especially with a fortnight old insert always clogged. One would not want to get caught short in the no-man's land between the mall and Hotel Kalisma on that narrow, busy lane through Thamrin and Tubun. There were public utilities near the top by the turn toward the bridge over the river, "Russian" (we used to call them) squats behind a row of old, stable-like doors. Guaranteed paperless, water in a pail and cope best you could until soap was found. With a bung knee easy to imagine the ordeal, dear Reader. Slavo used to recall a pal in Nis, Serbia they called Gary Cooper for his fine, perhaps not quite ten gallon hat, white cowhide presumably. Inevitably the chap coming a cropper in a Ruski thunderbox and never able to live it down, poor man. The bathrooms by Gramedia in the West Mall were first noticed a couple of days prior when a young, uniformed lass was returning to the floor after her touch up. Hair back in place and shirt neatly tucked. As the girl rounded the corner swinging boldly forward, she had balled up her fists and cocked both wrists, holding tight horizontal to the floor for re-entry. Showtime under the Fluro ready to turn it on.

                                                                                                 Grand Indonesia, Jakarta

Valuable News

Golly! When one thinks it out properly has to be 600 - 700, even possibly 800 paces through those tiled halls alone for the newspaper, rough guess. No need invest in the biometric gadget. Counting from the East entryway and mostly walking up the escalator, Permisi! hand held out in front for indicator and sometimes dropped shoulder for the aged most particularly, as one has been taught here. The traffic attendants with their table tennis rackets were left untroubled, operatic doormen receiving apologetic thanks in passing, — Kind of you boys. Quite the case now no survey whatever of the girls going by — the mall and its fit-out crushes all that completely and utterly, not the merest skerrick remaining. In the midst of all the faux-eroticised merchandising with its gaudy colouration, the entirely reverse effect. Cruel to put the poor darlings off balance and to the sword of course beneath the eye of the White panama too. All the expensive get-up, tailoring and heels fails to overwhelm that critical, destructive scrutiny. At Grand Indo in a hat like that the man might easily be a movie star, notable fashion photographer or rocker from the foundation era. After all, how often on the street was one mistaken for John Travolta no less (in his heyday presumably), and less flatteringly Mr. Bean? Three gen. passing bunched close together over the plaza at Thamrin City footing over this morning were quietly slayed by the vision. Grannie's pointing out had been missed by the mere fraction of a second, her shoulder caught in retraction and humble, warm and approving smile fully blossomed over her face, scarf unable to hide. The daughter may have been bare-headed, and most certainly the tiny tot between the pair could not hide her abashment looking out as if from an inadequate thicket. Arrived from the kampung shopping in the capital, perhaps lunch at one of the eateries before returning on the afternoon bus; the oldie would have something to report. More often than not a single item in the paper was sufficient, two or three utmost. Usually the matter could be read at a glance: the oligarchs and political elite were steadily clawing back after the reversal of the democratic people's president, still riding high in the opinion polls and soon to marry off his daughter in his usual, modest style. Jakartan governorship was now restored (Christian/Chinese Ahok jailed), SBY scion preparing for a proper tilt in 2019 and Megawati's daughter no doubt canvassing the numbers across the archipelago. The day previous a summary of the unsolved murders of journalists in the last decade tallied near a dozen. There was less need of cunning and subterfuge here. Some Sriwijaya potted history today attempting to recollect the portion of the English reading public to the old harmony of the previous era a millennium and more past.

Reader Going the Extra Mile

For the newspaper a bag X-ray at the East Mall entry, body scan and escalators to the 3rd floor. Starbucks gave the orientation, a little island in this case on the passageway whose seductions the serious reader must by some means decline. Coconut Island on the left no need wincing. Some little astonishment was overcome at the extent of the undifferentiated lure across the tiled floor — what did it take to manage a sense of individual style and attainment here between the offerings of the little stage-sets? On the slingshot return a split banner in a window shared a couple of mouth-watering getaway locations: Hello Dubrovnik/Istanbul. (Well, the old fortifications in either case did make for a logical pairing.) In the store mags were easy to find; newspapers more challenging. Follow the girl snaking through the piles to a cashier who had laid across his counter a single Jak Post in a sheaf of half a dozen other newspapers. In Indonesia the era of print media was well and truly past. Toxic glue in a boarded corner by the escalator again where a uniformed handsome boy stood guard armed with walking-talkie. Down four levels — including Upper Ground — and escorted across the roadways by other uniformed and helmeted lads who stopped highly polished cars with their little table-tennis racket signs. Another X-ray of the bag and body for the West Mall, “Sorry”from one of the older Security chaps who knew it was not tall Western gentlemen in fine panamas presenting concerns. Journal awaited just around the corner, on this occasion the girl at the counter missing the entry and thereby the fanfare was lost. Wifi at Journal today needed "Morrill" for username & "Franklin" password. A "Y" added to the name on the chit was perfectly forgivable: PAVLEY — same lad as yesterday, when he had immediately got it right. Chinese representation in the chairs was less evident today, though as lunch hour approached the proportion was beginning to be restored. Vape clouds that were produced outside the window in the garden seating created the effect of London fogs, Turner waterscapes and Christmas on television; magicians in the early perioid of TV had never benefited from such cover for their routines. The mall took a toll of pretenders, particularly young naifs. Exhortation for local food was carried in the chief article in the Jak Post today. A large part of the continuing incidence of malnutrition and stunting in RI was due to the ignorance of indigenous food-processing knowledge, the report suggested. The "ancestors used to learn from nature. Such skills have disappeared now," the specialist lamented.

Visuals (Blind Beggar led in JKT)

What was unusual here was the bare feet. Both parties unshod. And more unusual still the hot-trotting from the angkot along the bitumen and down the dark lane. The hand on the shoulder of the woman and off the pair went. Chap like that had no right to smile so brightly, but smile wide and bright he certainly did. The blind were commonly escorted in Indonesia by their kin for begging. After alighting from the angkot the woman might have needed to explain herself and her companion to the driver: some brief words before they turned and went without need of payment. Down the lane the first few stops failed to produce an offering—a chap seated on a motor-cycle and stall-holders declining. Following a brief exchange the third or fourth enquiry brought alms and after that the woman needed to be called to stop in order to be caught. Why the trotting was the question. Had the woman left something on the fire at home? In the earlier angkot the scene outside the rear window had captivated as usual. Again in the midst of this humanity in Tanah Abang the returning thought had been what could possibly be the value of portraiture in such a setting. (A young art student back in Singapore was embarking on serious study and there had been a good deal of conversation on the subject.) The telling visuals here would be the carters on the roads: the lads with their heavy fabric piles on the trolleys, the old women carrying on their heads and the food-cart vendors with their adapted bicycle wheels crossing over the top of the road dividers. The traffic in Jakarta was familiar across the globe; still a shot out the rear window of one of the angkots taking the motorcycles pressing close after maghrib might deliver something, especially the faces of the riders inches from the glass. The cheap street prostitutes on the flyover on Tubun deserved some kind of memorial too. For them the invasive camera was out of the question; some kind of contemporary Picasso frieze the only possibility. Some of the lipsticked visages recalled Albert Tucker's postwar social meltdown with the introduction of the American GIs and their chocolate bars and stockings. Yesterday afternoon a stout threesome had parked themselves on a bench on the turn from the river for the bikers rounding there, garish athletic tops red, orange and yellow it may have been like a traffic light sequence. Ni had never seen such scenes as we had passed in the Tanah Abang slum on the first morning. Only on television, she said.

Grand Indonesia (Five Years Later)

Bags x-rayed and the body scanner. The day before the Workers Party, a lad had called them after some head scratching, passed through the road dividing the East and West towers. It was unlikely that any of those chaps had ever gained admittance to these polished halls. A Gojek man in his livery coming up to Cafe Journal's counter to collect his order was about as close as that sector would get. The service class could not be debarred entirely of course, cleaners, dishwashers and attendants. A young Arab pair with a local lass reverted to their own language for their jokes and hijinks that culminated in their version of hi-fives. The page 4 NYTimes photo of a burned out car on an Iraqi street they had grown up with in their region. (Kinokuniya in the basement had discontinued their subscription of the Jak Post; Gramedia might be tried in the East Mall, the girl had suggested.) Like a party trick, on page 1 Ariel Dorfman recalled once more the killing of Pablo Neruda. How many times had Dorfman rehearsed that tale for the Western media? The threat posed by North Korea had returned to the table the limited nuclear strike option. (Saddam must have given the earlier provocation.) Another example of resistance to the Trump agenda was the tale of migrant success in America. The journalist disliked the “melting pot” metaphor and another equally unsatisfactory; a third of his own was presented as more appropriate. After the successes of the Greeks and their diners, the Chinese laundries and Viet nail salons, one of the new rags to riches stories was the Burmese sushi ventures. Not Korean or Japanese this new brand in the supermarkets—Burmese/Myanmar. (While it was recalled: the famous Gudang Garam clove cigarettes here was itself an odd example of branding—house or building of salt literally, according to Ni; spice or relish presumably the point.) More resistance to the new tabloid President supposed the furor that would have resulted had a black incumbent fathered five children to three women, attacked a grieving combat widow and exploited the office for personal gain. Circling past Thambrin City en route to the mall a man mounting the steps of a mosque again recalled something from Ni. The night before she had delayed the outing for supper until after maghrib. In her family, if not the kampung as a whole out near Magalengka, the evening meal needed to wait on maghrib. Even without prayers after the calls one ought to perform the ablutions, Ni recalled her father's teaching; that cleansing itself was beneficial. Seeing the tall man crowned with his songkok, white shirt and darkly patterned wrap, the picture of cleanliness and the deportment in the approach to the devotions recalled the wisdom of the father teaching the daughter. For the great unwashed of the kampungs, the rice paddies and vegetable gardens, the ablutions and prayers were a reminder of better selves, of true, inner spirit.