Two Viewing Highlights of 2018

Not being a miner of YouTube & the others, these two items were forwarded by friends, both in the last couple of months. Scott in Southern California and George in Melbourne.

Chris Hedges in the former case (Sacrifice Zones of America) and one of the most honourable Australians in the latter, John Pilger (Never Again).

The US at home and abroad the foci, which of course concerns us all; many of our home countries are involved in close alliances and parallel circumstances. Hedges' summation is masterful, while in his examination of the S. China Sea confrontation Pilger begins with Bikini Atoll in the Marshall Islands, progressing to Okinawa & Jeju Isle (Korea); a good deal of important fine detail delivered.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZBcOyv8LZ8s

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QXFProJC5FY

A couple of hours concentrated viewing in both cases.

Happy 19 one & all
Pavle

Galleria

Late morn too the Nepali guard in the chair by the Money-changer at the entry nodding off like a baby. Fellow had missed both the British Gurkha in-take and then the second level Singaporean immediately below, easy to see why. Along the passage beyond KFC and Dunkin the beautiful young Malay girl in her scarf and uniform wheeling her rubbish trolly without the slightest inkling of her loveliness. My Fair Lady easy flipped. Each morning on her rounds the lass kept close to the walls in order to give the shoppers the widest berth. (Do her chances in the lottery improve by her loveliness, or worsen? Hard not to worry for her.) This morning the deep intake of breath at the leather goods stand had been a little late, the pungency of the treated hides flooding the lungs bad. You needed two metres in advance and a long draught in order to make the clearance of the same length on the other side. Opposite the Info stand what was it called now? Secret Recipe KAFE. There were no hard feelings; no complaints had been made at the time. Not a great secret either: it was the ayam, the chicken that gave all the flavour to their Caesar there. Without it, for a vegetarian, what did they have? Lettuce,  croutons of a sort and diced hard boiled egg. The nervous lad serving had asked whether the dressing would be alright, leading to some confusion over “olive oil.” (Fat chance.) Perhaps it was best to put it on the side?... Good idea. “Wifi problem,” the lad smilingly confessed, rather too broad for apology, but no doubting the innocence. With the unexpectedly tasty minestreafter such a long stretch—a dish that brought back Sisto hacked down in the street by the wild Somali in Melbourne—RM6. Clearly short of $AUS2.

              

Galleria Mall opposite the Gurdwara, JB old town, Malaysia

Sumptuous (Naan & Puthena)

Following some weighing late afternoon Nilla it was that would be given a try for their nan. An initial look at the veg. counter proving underwhelming, a turn on heel and march out the door almost ensued. What stopped the progress was first the sight of the oven just inside the threshold. Well, that was a start then. But what would one get here with the roti, the baked dough, the nan? What about asking the lad at the CD counter opposite standing there like an advertisement hoeing with convincing relish into the very thing? Good timing my man. Here the platter held two servings, dahl it looked and was that some kind of roasted vegetable? No, not dalh, that was…. Poori.... Really? Didn’t look like, but of course the lad would know better. Blended maybe? The other was no good. Meat. Non-veg. What about they rustle up the poori, dahl and…. Leave it to him, sensible fellow one could see immediately. The young Paki chap who had been at Medina the year previous had reported that the Master Mumbai nan-maker formerly on the corner was now working at a stall in the side lorong off the main drag. A careful look the length of that dark passage had turned up nada. No nan. The fluffy, puffy nan at Reaz Corner ought not to be taken night after night for a fortnight. (Though in fact the stool remained all soft, loose and friable regardless. Excuse the info load those less curious.) Some variation notwithstanding. Muthu may have done a nan; it was uncertain. Immediately before coming out a Trip Advisor item had been posted in answer to a chap attacking the cashier at Muthu,an unjustifiable charge of dark looks, peevishness and ill-manners unable to be let pass. Easy to guess a Chinese up from the Republic. After the dark lorong and the less than inspiring veg. counter at Nilla the thought had been Muthu. Twice in the day was overdoing it, but never mind. The other Indian was a kilometre up Jalan Trus, Straight Road. Past half-eight, No to that. Whereupon the painted faux-clay with the gas bottle beneath and the heat radiating into Nilla's passage; lad bent at his tray advertising &etc. “Two,” the chap assumed. Thin young lad thinking the bigger white…. One enough then? One single disc done just so, dahl, finely diced onion in a milky base and the puthena. Puthena, not poori. The lad was responsible for the spelling. Some printed paper cut into little squares and held together by a clip sat in the drawer below the shelves of CDs. The whole of the four inch square was a waste: lad creased beneath PUTHENA and tore off the half-inch bottom of the sheet. Chap twigged the inquisitor needed his information in clear block lettering. One of the secrets to managing weight was slow consumption, chewing as the manuals advocated and savouring each morsel. Tasty fare helped. Almost a crime a heist like that—RM2.69 (sensibly rounded to 70sen by the Nilla cashier). Clearly under one Australian dollar and well and truly short of the George Wash. An old friend in a mail through the afternoon had reminded of our feasting at Chika Ante the Dalmatian’s Vineyard steakhouse in Acland Street, St. Kilda back in the day, the Texan-sized sides of beef no exaggeration. Made a turned-leaf vegetarian queasy now. There were no pisang at Nilla, nor halia tea either. Indian Indian; not Indian Malaysian. Reaz would fix that.... It really did need reminder: it was the Eve that had brought out the knots of people, for all that the State of Johor ran an Islamic working week, Sunday – Thursday. The day before one of the PAS heads here—the harder core Islamist party—had suggested Muslims not get caught up in their neighbours' Christmas. Even greetings a Muslim ought to keep to a minimum &etc., counselled the Divine. Given the siege in the malls and on all other imaginable fronts, could one really blame the man?

NB. Pudina possibly the received spelling.

                                                                                              Johor Bahru, Malaysia, Christmas Eve, 2018

Jingle Bells and the Seven Dwarfs

snowwhite small letters no spacing was the password at J. Co. in the mall here. Nothing in particular first hearing; yeah whatever. It was over the road however for the beverage, where the short busty Scarf recalled the customer from six months before. No need say, the woman had no English; but she recalled alright. Impossible not to be charmed by the cascading sequence of Thanks in three languages that rained down upon her head: makasih, shukrija, nandri. The woman smiled, only to produce ten minutes later a very much below par halia, flat and without anything resembling a bubble. Yes, yes, it had been pulled earlier, the woman affirmed. Coulda fooled me Love. Malay most likely; perhaps some part recessive Indian. They often stretched you here even after all this time. Hearing Trumpet on the screen behind about the shutdown of Congress over the Wall one couldn’t help looking around at the faces, scanning for any jittery knees in particular, or—counter intuitively on the Equator—ice cool sliding glances. The right/wrong kinda fella here would not hesitate to take-out a dozen of his co-religionists with his prized scalp. Scores of men and women from Malaysia had joined the ranks of the fighters over there. Both in stature and colouration the Mexicans and Central Americans would immediately be identified as allies in these parts, even if it had been Obama building the Wall or droning them. Giant Komtar mall opposite didn’t help and neither did the fancy hotel opened fifty metres down that incorporated the most fall-down-laughing Highland bar & resto in creation. (MacGregor’s.) The day before an electric piano Santa’s Helper had her amplifier turned up there spreading her seasonal cheer; the mute chorus of similarly outfitted locals standing off must have been house staff. Did the lass read the news the other day from Morocco of the pair of bright-eyed innocents her age? In the mall the staff at one of the clothing outlets rang little hand bells to draw customers. Red caps and bunting throughout. Last night around the back street by the hotel a half-dozen ladies comfortably spaced on the incline with the pimp on his chair by the stairs couldn’t be made out in the dark and were only betrayed by their bass voices. Best to give that pass a miss just at present. Another bomb in Somalia, unless the footage had been a few days old; followed by football on the screen. The jumpy guy was finally sighted back-turned opposite a Scarf who had fired out a couple of blushing smiles earlier that could only add fuel to his fire. Turning round a single glance was enough to identify his target. In the whiteboard scrawl there was an offering of NASI GORENG USA at this no-name place. They’d be waiting a while to see that delicacy delivered to the table. A bomb in the mall on the other hand would not go astray, clear out all the people first. A stinker if nothing else. Snow white for crying out loud! Was it a seasonal selection perchance? Certainly it could not be recalled from the July visit here. The request had been made wordlessly, simply showing the phone to the boys behind the counter. Without raising his eyes the lad by the barista had helpfully provided the translation to make it easier: Salju puti. (For obvious reasons unheard previously.)

Circumcision and the Pleasure Principle

Thus far, over seven years in the region, there had been no need to address the issue. Years ago in Melbourne Faisal at the Footscray café had dismissed the controversy as typical Western mischief-making. In the Eritrean and wider African community no one practiced female circumcision, suggested Faisal.

         Among the Singaporean Malays it had passed entirely without mention, and if the practice occurred in Indonesia it was a closely guarded secret.

         In Malaysia this morning’s newspaper featured a long item on its Letters page, where a female researcher and activist affiliated with the International Women’s Alliance for Family & Quality Education summarized the position.

         It seems female circumcision (FC) was a cultural practise that predated Islam; the discussion revolving around the Hadiths, the sayings of the Prophet (as distinct from the Holy Book, the Qur’an).

         Firstly, the writer made a hard distinction between FC and female genital mutilation (FGM), the latter being “forbidden in Islam as it would have an adverse effect on women.”

         Proponents suggested as for male circumcision, FC was compulsory; others regarded it as sunnah—an act of worship that was encouraged, but not obligatory.

         Various viewpoints from the different schools of law—Hanafi, Maliki, Shafii—were presented in the article, and passages of Hadith, which latter were graded weak (daif), or sound (sahih).

         Community and religious leaders were cited for interpretation, and the writer stated that the Qur’an did not condemn FC, “as long as it does not compromise the health of the female.”

         Two passages from one of the “sound” Hadiths reported the putative words of the Prophet:

         (To a woman in Medina who had performed FC) “Do not cut severely as that is better for a woman and more desirable for a husband.”

         And “Do not cut off too much as it is a source of enjoyment for the woman and more likable to her husband…. When you circumcise, you must not cut off too much as it is a source of loveliness of the face and more enjoyable for the husband.”

         In the afternoon over coffee an academic friend (female) reported that she was unaware of the practise of FC in Malaysia until it had been brought up at one of the UN forums since the recent election.

NB. The friend above subsequently forwarded a recent Youtube posting that treated the position more fully, without mention of the Prophet’s insights.

https://youtu.be/4Q4_q8n45Ys

New Sunday Times, 23 Dec 2018

Art Star 2# (updated Oct23)

Reminded of roughhouse Greg - Shantaram - Roberts turning into a cad after his great success, Hollywood adaptation; &etc. The karung guni abstract painter caught on the No. 2 on Victoria Street must have been coming out of Immigration. Unsighted initially, it was the woman with child that caught the attention, entering and edging along the passage. Aduh! Down with the sneering and superciliousness; totally uncalled for… Tall, well-maintained Chinese with a nice dye tone and street cred, were it not for the camouflage cap carrying the six inch brass/gold SIXERS on the crest. In Asia, or SE Asia at least, arty types were permitted flaunting. WTF? Cop this, people! Watch your eye-balls don’t pop out now…. (Perhaps it was the same London & NY at the upper levels.) The old painter had picked her up on the Mainland, HK or Macao maybe. Graduated from rag ‘n bone to commercial galleries across the region, chap was a bona fide star now. Ah well, good luck to you Joe; man had certainly earned his stripes. The old bachelor who had been put up by an indulgent brother many years would make a good father to the Sixers’ young lad. Would HK, Shanghai and Shenzhen put an end to the dazzling output? It was a question; in the lap of the Art gods. As regular readers will recall, the tip to buy had been given early on, well before the fellow had been taken up. (Now Eric at the art supply on North Bridge Road wiould be getting back the owings from his years of quiet support.)

NB. Art Star 1#, the compatriot performance artist and portraitist Mike Parr, had been met at a Sing. cafe couple of years ago. The self-portraits available online give a good indication of the stature. Tan Chong Bin is the name of this other.

Publication news: The Minangkabau - Bitterzoet Mag.

Hello all

A US lit. mag. called Bitterzoet has recently published an item of mine titled “The Minangkabau.”
A short free online, see how you like it —

https://bitterzoetmag.com/2018/12/15/the-minangkabau-by-pavle-radonic

(Bitterzoet is Dutch for bitter-sweet; the Minangkabau are a large matriarchal group located in Central Sumatra, Indonesia.)

Salam & shanti
Pavle

Dirty Dough (Prosperity) updated Oct23

The string of garlic immediately attracted. Rather beautiful to behold now, lovely as an orchid. How long had it been? Was the last sighting in one of the garages down in Melbourne, the Calabrese Sig. Niccola a few doors down, or Frane’s perhaps in Seaholme? Here you sometimes see purpled baby garlic in small baskets in the markets or provision stores; rarely was it tasted in the local food dishes and certainly not the lashings we Mediteranos use in our kitchens. At the Haig in front of Mr. Lim’s fruit stall, in the flower stall on the other side of the passage, numerous strings were hung close together holding 4, 5, 6 or more whole bunches and wrapped in blood red netting. Kinda risqué Santa socks sans foot hanging arrow straight. Well, decoration of some form or other clearly, though doubtless edible too. The Haig is a Chinese market; some of the food stalls in front are Malay and Indian, but the Chinese predominate. So, go figure…
         It would be unfair to suggest Chinese, or even diaspora Chinese in these particular conditions on the Equator, favour anything over family, clan, homeland; &etc. Perhaps if anything was to come close it was coloured paper, possibly. In Hokkien and likely Mandarin, Schwan—soft vowel as in arc—was in the costermonger’s boy Mr Lim’s translation, “calculation.”  Of course calculation equaled one thing only. The characters for “garlic” and “calculation” were different, though they were articulated precisely the same. Schwan. For the New Year, Mr Lim explained, presumably meaning the international—CNY was not until early February. The flower seller was preparing for the early birds. Nothing was more dirty than money, the Montenegrins held (because of all the hands grasping).

Wages of Sin

Replay. Impossible to guess the number of repetitions. It was not really like it was a serious survey or investigation. Simply, you meet one of the guys and chat in passing. They look tired or something, the natural question arises: Either, when did you start? or when do you finish? And from there the follow-up. So-called “native” people, kampung folk, were used to straight talk and no shyness. (On the other side, how many times had you been asked by a perfect stranger, Are you married? Or the like.) Here the nice short Tamil stationed either at the rojak stall or collecting the plates and glasses. In this instance around at the entry to the bathroom washing out his dishrag that was used for cleaning the table-tops after collection. (Some relief to see those filthy rags washed occasionally by the way. Usually caked in grime from the regurgitated scraps &etc. left on the tables.) Started this morning at 9:45. Unusually precise answer. Oh! And finishing 10 was it? Reasonable guess. No. Not in this instance. Twelve. Midnight…. Oh. I see. Fourteen hours. Long day…. Something in the look returned led to still another enquiry. Rat smelt. Usually everyday fourteen? (Hardly likely, but the look was indeed such.) Bang-on. Bulls’ eye. Yeah, that was the term of servitude alright. Finally, and this was perhaps not 100% to the last cent: That’d get you, I reckon, say.… twelve hundred. That was what the chap got. One day off a month was standard for the foreign workforce. (Currently, in the last couple of weeks again, the question of a minimum wage raised here. Costs. Benefits. Dangers. Comparisons over the globe. A notice in this morning’s paper of a Sunday feature where the case would be argued by a proponent and a naysayer, the latter a former union head. YOU READ RIGHT. That is the state of labour-government relations in this republic.)

Going Under Cover

This was how the thought process unfolded: Shortly before 8AM the hard slap of the flip-flops going past the house, a few words called out to someone going the other way. Ah! the plastic container man around on Onan Road…. The curious posture as he went along each morning uploaded lying on the bed staring at the ceiling. Highly unusual. Not done with the image, in the bathroom a few minutes later an inward smile was produced. Encountered later in the day around at Wadi or on Geylang Road the man didn’t bend like that, snout forward foraging as in the evolutionary charts. That particular carriage was only on the march to work in the morning, opening up the shop first thing on Onan where across the road a competitor could not be allowed to steal a march, so to speak. Back in the room following the ablutions some short while later the sequence concluded: ….By golly! You know what? Here in fact you had another Eurasian before you that in all this time you never ever ID-ed as such. Never an inkling; passed entirely under the radar. The man had been signalling Han Chinese pure and simple how many years was it now? when of course one close examination would have made the case perfectly clear.  Chap had bought you a couple of teas, paid for them from his position in front in the queue. It had taken a year to return the favour, only the other week in fact succeeding. Never twigging. Some of the lads in a neighbouring shop said the man was loaded. If so it was old form money-bags, nothing whatever to indicate. Spoke good Bahasa as well as the Hokkien it must be. Somewhere in the Haig blocks behind he lived, never sat out in the evenings, neither at the market nor at Wadi or the other eateries. Perhaps you now knew why. The gait alone ought to have told you something. Particularly strange. This morning his passing was heard from the bed on the other side of the wall, window closed and aircon blowing. Breakfast had been a little earlier and the plastics man the other side of the fence was missed in the back garden. All the oldies roundabout would have known; the youngsters on the other hand perhaps no more than you. Possibly even his children if he had any might be in the dark.

Tourist Playground

A photograph of Nekula’s St. Moritz in today’s newspaper—the usual touristic piece funded by commercial interests highlighting adventures & food. The photograph however came as a surprise, the kind of loveliness on display quite unexpected. All the luscious green firs up immediately behind the town, sturdy buildings and no sign of boutiques and fanciness. Not at all what one expected. The very wealthy were preserved from crassness possibly, the cultivated, seriously wealthy. (Possibly they still existed and visited such sites.) Jewellery and watch makers in this alpine town were likely hidden in modest shop-fronts without any advertising apart from the family name perhaps. Glitz and dress-up excluded within that locale. Examining the wide angle shot over the morning tea one understood better how cousin Neki had spent thirty years in St. M. and developed such an affection for the place. In fact it presented a very close counterpart to the Montenegrin coast. There were always the mountains, the stand of firs ringing round and then the lake—Neki had mentioned a lake freezing over in winter and skaters taking over. Here the water was on the doorstep of the compact little town, like our village in Boka anchored to the life-giving source. Human presence and behaviour could only impact so far in such setting; visitors would be forced to adapt to the environment, adjust their rhythms and quiet themselves. There was an other worldly feel to this display, an uncanny absence of modernity and ugliness. The Sound of Music was filmed in such a setting, but the truth was the mountain domain exceeded the solace of music. In a recent mail Neki had been told he could be visited now in his adopted new home of Zurich, when St. Moritz had always been assumed to be impossible.

Aircon X

The Great Christmas Village was still being erected in the forecourt of Ngee Ann City, a merry-go-round out front of Tower No. 2 playing Auld Lang Syne. (Spell check deleted an extra “e.” Good luck to the locals with that favourite number beneath the aircon on the Eve.) Pacing along the stretch by the department stores and then from the window of the bus there had been no sign of the Disneyfication that the church groups were complaining about; nor a single elf or reindeer visible what was more. It seemed very odd. In the front window at Paragon, in the Raoul display it may have been, an eye-catching heavy knit in bright verticals on a cream base lured wives of men lucky enough to be able to take the season up on the Swiss Alps or Monaco. At Takashimaya the tree inside the entry was complete, all the scaffolding removed and a hundred or more illuminated decorations hung. Up at ski lodges in the Northern Hemisphere tall firs laced with snow would catch moonlight in a similar effect. One recalled the Kiasu man Johnny Lau, wondering whether he may have been responsible for the arrangement. (Johnny had worked on McDonalds and 7Eleven briefs here, which cachet could easily segue to the giant 3 - 4 storey fir that always drew the cameras.) Slow on a Monday afternoon, understandable with the event still a full month away. As usual tourists from the region seemed to predominate: Indonesians easy to pick, Mainland Chinese and Filipinos. Many places in China would still lack the full Christmas production. A Paul baguette would suffice on this particular day. Usually there was a brief pass through Kinokuniya before the stop for the bread, then prior to the bus the raid of the essential oils at Miu Miu Paragon. A sudden fit of cowardice had taken hold at the prospect of what may have awaited among the stacks at the bookstore—elaborately outfitted animation characters from the best sellers, celebrity chefs with egg-beaters on stage, minstrels trooping through. You could be caught completely unawares even a week before the end of November. Indoors at Paul the maitre’d in his baker’s coat had recently opted for muted orange, or mustard-loquat perhaps; just a wee suspicion of implants. A latte might have decided the case one way or the other. In recent months it had been difficult to venture again at Paul. Paul posed problems difficult to ignore. One could take a chair near the table where three years ago Neet had made her entry and sat nervously for coffee. What a presence she had made, never an inkling of her own beauty among all the Parisienne branding. Within a minute she had begun begging for departure, or at least never again to be forced to meet there. I beg you P…. Unforgettable. There was never any kind of prospect for the ladies at Paul. (Was it Orwell who said attempting to shag a rich woman would entirely unman a man of principle? A man of democratic leaning.) Sitting against the wallpaper surrounded by the fawning staff, beneath the faux chandeliers. The faux fireplace with its implements on a stand, the windmill prints. (Perhaps in fact the campaigne did have windmills dotted around after all? It could not have been a confusion of the designers surely.) At the takeaway counter a pair of Chinese staff were squabbling and ignoring a customer in a fine panama. The lad inside the door at Juicy by the escalator had sagged in his posture and would need to rise from a depth at an entry. Before scurrying off a mental note was made for proper survey of the area nearer the time; firm resolve and no dilly-dallying. The translation for an authentic tropical Christmas always held interest.

Highest Principles

Honey Bee used a similar yellow for their branding, if not indeed the precise tone. There was no bee fluttering here, though the side door of the van was open and only part of the sign was visible. RECTITUDE emblazoned like that was a surprise…. After lunch at Aljunied the chap was happened upon in the lorong leading from the MRT, seated in the side with feet in the gutter and cardboard for softening beneath him. Banks here used a similar form of language, and not only banks. (Of late the latter here, like elsewhere, had come under scrutiny for funnelling ill-gotten gains and money laundering from the neighbouring politico chieftains, industrial Tzars whatnot, the trouble catching up even one of the PMs.) Probity, irreproachability, integrity: that was supposed to be how it went in banking. Sing Post aimed at similar high-mindedness in its advertising—difficult to forget their delivery van UNDETERRED BY DARKNESS. In the present case Rectitude Pte. Ltd. promised utmost scrupulousness in their line of safety boots. There was indeed an illustration toward the rear of the panel in what looked like attractive alligator skin. They stood firm behind their product at Rectitude. No surprise the orang China taking a short break under the shade of the tree frankly confessed he did not have the faintest. “Rectitude?...” Search him. There was a web site on the card…. Manufactured in Thailand admittedly, but clearly under closest direction and supervision. Even military regimes could take their biz posture seriously. And no doubt a different campaign up in the north to suit that market.

News Digest – Today’s Straits Times

How much of this high voltage politico smiling can a public endure before demoralisation and utter collapse? Raising glasses over dinner, embracing at podiums, greeting fellow notables, movers and shakers.
         Yet another orchid here named after another foreign eminence. The US No. 1 could not make it down for another gabfest, not after WWI commemorations and festivities earlier in the week in Paris. No. 2 therefore substituting and receiving the honour. One needed to put in the effort coming on down here to get this particular gong, it could not be bestowed remotely, that was not how this particular arrangement worked. As a consequence, no exotic botanica named after Mr Trumpet and Melania; instead Papiloncenda Mike and Karen Pence into perpetuity.
         A few years ago our Julia had likewise been honoured (without the formal marriage, Chief Dude No. 1 omitted on that occasion). That the revolving door operating in the highest office down on the Great Southern Land might have the National Parks Board here hesitant on further honours would be understandable.
         A report a few weeks ago supposing impeachment stood some kind of chance in the States had suggested Vice Pres. Pence in the White House would be even worse than his boss.
         Meanwhile, a Ms Goh letter-writer to the ST Forum page expressing her appreciation for the Disney-themed Christmas decorations on Orchard Road. There had been criticism from traditionalists at the Disney characters replacing the earlier motifs and bunting. A great number of Ms Gohs here accompanied by Mister counterparts wheeling pushers and sporting the tees bought for them. (Bare Bears a recent favourite spotted.)
         Not an ice block’s chance in the Tropics stopping this runaway train by any means of human invention; in other global locales the true position was masked and hidden.
         Two pages on in the Saturday edition a pic from the files for the recent Picture This feature series showed 700 yoga practitioners with their colourful mats at a riverside location worshipping the iconic MBS standing tall in the background.
         A feature in Life (the exclamation mark left off for good now) on the home gyms set up in the HDB flats ranging from $2.7k – 10k forced one to the conclusion we are well and truly beyond, far exceeding the predicament of Johnny Lau’s Mr Kiasu, a graphic novel published here some ten years ago centred on competitive ostentation. (The film adaptation was currently in production by Sony in China, Johnny revealed at his laksa place nearby a few days ago.) Far, far beyond.

Green Envy

The Classifieds Uncle impressively outraged this morning by the operator here “sucking the blood” of the young foreign workers. Wow! Really! Hats off to you Uncle. Nevermore any complaints about the man while there is breath in this body. Well-to-do chappie with handsome flatcap and bright baju turning up his nose at the layabouts and ne’er-do-wells. Best behaviour somehow managed putting up with the old codger. He was more than welcome to that section of the newspaper; it was better than recycling. A daughter trading in handbags and accessories making a pile was regularly treating mum and dad to outings across the globe—Paris and London to see the Queen (the common joke among the generation that had been brought up saluting the flag and singing the anthem); Japan where the people were so friendly, the cities as clean if not more so than Sing; Bangkok times without number and KL of course. A tendency to sneer at some of his fellow Malays; many at the tables in G. Serai fell short. Lazy: the Chinese prejudice was well-founded (Mahathir’s recent suggestion of the same needed proper acknowledgement according to Unc.). This man standing up for the foreign workforce against the local biz operators came as rather a surprise. One of the young Malaysian employees had answered Uncle’s question that he did not know what he would be paid. Working a week already and not knowing. How can he not know?!... Twelve hours on your feet for $700 – 800 commonly. Blood-sucking. Giving them a thousand would be approaching fairness. Over at Mr T. T. where it was a Chinese affair they all earned $1,200, Uncle had discovered. Impressive energy and ethics; genuine fellow-feeling. Well, congratulations on that humanity Mr. Nuisance Uncle, wouldn’t have thought you had it in you. No more resentment at the morning pestering, you can pull up a pew anytime…. There you are. Another reminder against rash conclusions. What the man wanted with the Classifieds he couldn’t rightly say, something mumbled and jumbled. The paper itself was the easy part; it was the taking of the seat immediately opposite that caused the nuisance. Why? was the question. The man was usually quiet the whole while, or else bad-mouthing someone or other and when he found no encouragement clamming up again. You could hardly deny, never mind there were fifty free chairs from which to choose every morning. Impossible too not to clear a few inches of table-top in order to accommodate the Bugger. True, that time of day one could be short of pals; the riff-raff not to one’s liking and sitting alone none of this kampung folk enjoyed. Well, perhaps. Still, the manoeuvre was rather odd. Another possible explanation for the behaviour, the reason why the man sidled up like that for a perch that would see him through till lunch, was perhaps suggested the next evening. Rather strange and difficult to credit…. An EPL game that had been heavily promoted in the paper and raised a bit of excitement among the local fans. In fact the info earlier in the day had been wrong: the top match would not come on until midnight; it was a lesser that was starting at 8pm. Nevertheless, joining the crowd every once in a while for a little football with the tea cups across the tables was worth something. A brief pause had arrived in the work. Short sit among the chaps enjoying the youthful ballet over the green, twenty minutes would suffice. Close under the screen at the edge of a table on the passageway was OK, chaps at the table welcoming. Shortly the man at ninety degrees started up. This and that. Which team did you follow? Australia huh? Opinion sought on the local food…. Middle-aged chaps in a group coming together regularly for the big games, Oooing and Ahhing in chorus. Some goreng pisang was OK once in a while. These guys would stay on for the second match too, yessiree!… Some of the lads further along the row bought into the conversation at the end of the table with lame comments and weak jokes. Rather inept, unable to sustain conversation. The fattie on the end, at ninety degrees, had been met previously. There was a vague memory of the fellow’s good English, bullish size and typical amicability. Interruptions in English and Malay from further along were a distraction to the man’s focus on the game and his near companion. They’re jealous, the man commented at one point when he was again forced to field remarks from the side. “Jealous” the operative word. The boys further along the table missing out on the contact at the end of the row would be jealous. As if you were a pretty leggy babe flicking back her hair and giving seductive smiles! Aduh! Raising jealousy…. This was not entirely unfamiliar territory either. No indeed; not by any means. A white personage read as some kind of professional, a fixture who had planted himself squarely in that particular community, was no mean prize. Plenty of jealousy for the lucky one who had been able to draw near, able to claim the attention of such a one. Colonialism and Post-. Enforcement of English. (How many apologies from yellow, brown and black here for poor English over the seven years!) Windsor Castle visiting regularly and given the red carpet treatment. Hollywood. The jets tearing up the sky coming into land at the nearby military airport too. Small wonder.

Frizz (updated Nov23)

Lovely little Princess given more spelling teasers this morning at the Wadi table. Whispered stabs at the words, bowing and twisting her head. Damnable English, truly. It was really, really hard. And she was stupid too, dumb. Princess knows what they say about her. Not smart at all; she cannot believe that. Once again reports of belittlement at school, a play- or classmate disparaging her father’s country. It was poor. Africa as a whole was poor. Princess knew that was not so. There was gold, silver and other stuff in Nigeria; the teacher said so too, backing up Princess. Not poor. Daddy had gone back to his country a couple of weeks ago and Princess missed him a lot. Six months before the frizzy-topped, flat-nosed, over-sized—she knows the word for it is “fat”—darling had asked a question at the Wadi table. A hard question she couldn’t figure herself. How do you be Malay?... That was hard alright, exceedingly difficult to answer. How indeed? Giving a possible three step process that would help her with the challenge, you might begin with…. Regularly picked on. Made to cry. Princess had no friends. Nobody likes me. Her Mummy was fat too, very fat. Like a lot of Malays, but extra in her case. She would die soon, Princess knew. Princess’ favourite doll was Vanilla—long slim limbs, high cheekbones, nice combed hair. From the newspaper advertisement on the Wadi table Princess recognised and liked Cinderella (was that how you spelt it!?), Elsa from Frozen (that was a film) and Ariel from Under the Sea (likely another film). Pretty Goldilocks angels all with wings, a tiara, and the third low cut velvet blue gown. Real princesses. They were the best...You remember the big tall Sixth-Former whose family ran the Milk Bar on Vernon Street wanting to ruffle a frizzy top, don’t you. Buying lollies he asked you to let him and once at school he told another big and tall Sixth-Former to feel the kid’s hair. The closest Spotswood got to an African back in the 60s. Greg McGorlick was dark-haired too, but straight like everyone else in his case. Correction: GARY McGorlick. Unforgettable. Had Gary been a masked Wog too, one of ours in fact? What kind of Scot was that? What was the tartan for the McGorlick clan? One of the biggest guys in school, football and basketball notable, who gave extra lollies in the bag.

Cup Runneth Over

The Santa caps have been brought out of the cupboard at Cold Storage here, yesterday the old Chinese cashier had sported one and also a young lass on top of her kerudong. Two days after Cup Day down in the south. The day after Diwali. Today in fact Komala will be closed for Diwali, although the officially designated holiday was Tuesday. On Guillemard corner Henry Christmas Trees had brought out their plastic firs over a week ago (the originals from the plantations up on the Peninsular arrive nearer the time); the CNY red deco will be out in early January (5 February for 2019). In Geylang the small Hindu market is not worth Henry’s while. Outside OneKM Christmas spheres with a difference this year, a kind of multicoloured Pick Up Sticks arrangement refreshing the theme, the Mainland lads with furrowed brows down on the tiles the other morning double-checking the plans and measuring their hanging ropes. A hard track had been the complaint a day or two out from the race down south; “ridiculously hard,” a connection of one of the runners had bemoaned, the man advocating watering. Then on the day itself a downpour arrived that spoilt the festivities. Another horse was put down on the day too, behind colourful banners in order to screen convulsions from the punters. 500kg. beasts under the whip running for their lives on ankles the size of those of humans, the Animal Lib. activists highlighted in an ABC online item that had been shared with Auntie Helen the Catlady. The gap between Cup Day—long a national holiday down there, recently joined by the AFL Grand Final, in Melbourne at least—and Christmas ever shortening. In Afghanistan and Syria the boys will be served pudding in their Green Zones and extra Skype laid on; perhaps a surprise visit from the new PM, Foreign or Defence Minister. The advertisements in the newspaper this morning had almost doubled.

Dyeing on the Job

Pompeo in the pic in Pyongyang fresh from a haircut and style on the plane jetting across. There was enough on top to comb over comfortably in this instance without the state-of-the-art glue and hidden threading whatnot of his Commander-in-Chief. The NK counterpart on the other hand appeared to have matched his colour with his favourite natty blue suit. Where Mike receives high marks too is for the canny dye—a foxy light ash that leaves some of the grey-white at the lower edges and the side-burns. (Pins and clasps deployed for the process.) Meanwhile, whatever critics might say of the political shenanigans here, the manipulation, trickery and hounding of opponents, the chief on the tropical island with pretensions to a Venetian inheritance does eschew colour. (The cut & styling might not be former First Lady of Malaysia, Rosmah Mansour’s $450 a go—which had included dyeing—but it was certainly accomplished.)

NB. A former federal opposition leader in Australia when he was found dead in a hotel room after a tryst with a call-girl attracted a headline in the Truth newspaper of the time: Billy Dies on the Job. Altogether a different kettle of fish.

Appetite

Finally a glimpse of one of the respectable and proper chappies caught frankly ogling, when really they ought not. No harsh criticism involved—Zahruddin the Wadi Manager can be named, here found at the edge of his hotplate doing the usual justice to his assigned role calling to the passing customer. Yes, hello…. Yes. Hello. (Standard among limited English speakers, heard hereabouts morning to night.) The trouble in this instance being—were moral crusaders hovering—between times the man was looking the tall Chinese woman she might have been in her shorts and singlet top standing before him, very much up and down; up and down. A full-bodied, mature and perhaps buxom woman in front. (An old friend in Melbourne, passed on now, would have said of a conquest of the same, Dje je goc uhvatis, zensko; Wherever you clasp, all woman.) One hand on the counter freely appraising while the lady scanned the display board; like a fish out of water our man Rudd opening and closing his mouth; opening and closing. Swallowing and perhaps gulping a little it did appear. Without mincing matters, salivating one could term it. (In Serbo-Croat “thirsting;” zedan.) One of the classical appetites of course, in Aristotle’s taxonomy.

Rainy Season

Shopping for breakfast fruit before 8am the tai chi ladies were found under Block 9 going through their routines, in the echo chamber there the co-ordinated rifle cracks of their bright red fans amplified. Putting that acoustic together with the later image of the Indian men sprawled across the same space going out for lunch a few hours later the connection was inescapable. On the bus on Guillemard corner some of the Indian chaps without plastic sheeting had laid themselves down longways on the path, leaving the passage clear for any shoppers taking that route to City Plaza. Within the room the early rain had been inaudible and it was only after emerging that the drips from the canvas awnings could be heard and some gurgling in the drains.

Signal Lessons

Beefy denying tiredness, a good sleep under his belt, he maintained. Last night the Sec. pal down the road had a cash job and Beef had been seconded. This suited the man: a quiet corner, aircon laid on, favour for a pal. There was no monetary recompense; the chap provided tehs and ciggies The other didn’t know through the night Beef had switched off the lights, the man wasn’t so good with switches and buttons. Beef crossed his brow with his forefinger: chap a bit slow, ex-Con working without a certificate usually cleaning; muttered to himself and hands trembling, fingers like playing an instrument. Ex-User, a bit gone. Beef had not much patience with that sort of thing, became rather irritated by it. The Malays ought be better than that, he thought. Fellow didn’t know himself—Beefy unexpectedly using the old Appollonian dictum, a rough-house, unschooled lad like him. One needed to get back to the square. Back to the square, back to the square, Beef taught the mantra to those who wanted to listen, his favourite nephew among them. Atas; bawah. Up and down. It needed to be understood. In old Montenegro precisely the same principle had been elucidated: Gore visoko; dolje tvrdo. Up was high; below hard. There was no out. “Simple as that,” said Beef. The man granted he was taught the lesson inside at the end of Changi Road where the “square” might have been the cell too and also compound. Foundation years stretched further back again one would wager.

The Good and the Sinning

The small annoying daily aggravations living cheek-by-jowl. Mr. Toh up on the second storey had been irritated by Eric’s late night returns using the long electronic roller instead of the recently oiled gate for his entries. Grate-Grate-Grate12am, 1am…. Upstairs in our section too the young Chinese lad when he returned in his Honda neglected to close the roller behind him, leaving the driveway wide open all night. In the concrete echo chamber of the building Mr. Toh could hear the Courts salesman our side clearing his throat in the mornings, gargling like Niagara Falls. The sewer-tobacco odour might have become an issue at the store, manager concerned about customers being lost. It was certainly one hullabaloo that racket, sounding like the old snorting of the liquid through the nose and expelling mouth—unpleasant over breakfast. Mr. T. might not have been able to identify the culprit; at first the white Toyota had been suspected in this case and it had only been checking one morning for the car that the matter was established. Mr. Toh told too of the Toyota man on exiting the house each morning dropping a long string of saliva into the grate on the door step, a habit before he got behind the wheel. 7: 15am Mr. T. found himself looking out for the man. Sleep was always hard-won for Mr. Toh and the lounge-chair on his balcony provided second chance.

         Last night the Tamil Uncle whose brother was hung at Changi some years back stopped by Wadi. Having read the piece in which he featured many things had been “triggered” for him, the man reported, unexpectedly using the term. Memories, reflections, aggravations of his own.

         The Tamil Uncle’s parents had evidently been much in the man's thoughts these last days. As a youth the father had come out to Penang and met his wife, the Tamil Uncle’s mother, in Johor. A smile the Tamil Uncle gave re-tracing the fateful union of the pair.

         Good people. Truly good, the parents. As was the brother, the one who hung, the Tamil Uncle stated with judicial conviction.

         There was good in all, the Tamil Uncle proceeded shortly afterward. Man in general— Uncle nodding his head with the assertion.

         Turned-eye Reprobate Jack Nasri was known to the Tamil. That man too was included among the good. A good man, the Tamil Uncle affirmed; gone off the rails admittedly.

         For his own part the Tamil Uncle was a sinner, he admitted. There could be no pretence: the man had sinned and continued in his way. 

         Those who went to the gallows had sinned too, the Tamil Uncle also granted. But, the Tamil Uncle asked, what of those who sat in judgement? What could be said of them?

         The Tamil Uncle did not say.

         Likely the Tamil Uncle had arrived at these questions without any reading of the philosophical texts on ethics and morality. As a Hindu, these arguments had not originated in sermons either; in Hinduism there was no sermonising. Would a Hindu drunk receive counselling in the temples in Singapore from enlightened priests and holy men? It seemeddoubtful; questionable at least.

         It seemed memory of his parents had returned strongly recently to the Tamil Uncle, perhaps triggered by the record of his and his mother’s visit to his brother in the prison shortly before the execution, where his voicelessness on that occasion at Changi so strongly marked the event.

         Dreams being often mute, and more often than not as a man aged featuring the dead, perhaps the Tamil Uncle had received visitations in recent days, vivid returns of his mother and father and his brother. 

         There were indications the Tamil Uncle had recently passed through some kind of ordeal; some kind of examination.

         Recollections of the goodness of his parents and brother had overpowered the man. Having the good dead raised up only highlighted one’s inadequacy.

         The Tamil Uncle had trailed off.

         Snowy-haired and bushy-browed, an old scar gouged on his right cheek high on the bone. 

         The long white bristles of his brows had been left to grow out by the Tamil Uncle. Sitting with elbows resting on the orange Wadi table-top, during one of the Uncle’s lingering pauses the strands were pulled out either side, pulled smooth and into line during a minute or so of quiet. Loose tobacco was sometimes rolled into shape in somewhat similar fashion; moustaches of course. A kind of unusual grooming the Tamil Uncle might have undertaken now and then without any mirror. 

         Such gifts the Tamil Uncle had received and then lost when he had been unprepared. Overwhelming memories of goodness. After some years the memories perhaps needed triggers and what returned arrived as a shock like the unfolding of unaccountable events.

         Were the good dead still in life, the Tamil Uncle came to further suggest after the pause of the toilette, he, the Tamil Uncle, would not be like he was, he declared. Not sloshed, reeking of the drink, living rough and showing himself in soiled clothing, he meant. 

         The dead former guardians, protectors, guides and companions, could never be replaced. An individual was bereft without them, the Tamil Uncle suggested in his person, most strongly in his manner, gestures and expressions.

         Irretrievable losses. For a community, a social body, the calculated taking of life appalled a man of that mind, of one who found good in all. How could it be otherwise?

 

 

 

                                                                                                Geylang Serai, Singapore