Eyes on Stalks

Three beggars in the little stretch up toward Coliseum needed something on the passes. On the other side of the crossover outside SOGO a couple of others too were difficult to ignore. All five or six of them there had received the single blue ringgit at one time or another. After the first few days the three on the further side always received a note, one of them at the very least. Usual practise: blue singles were in the right pocket, the outer side of the little pouch (bought at the Thieves’ in Sing’); green fives on the other side. Red tens in the left against the Jogja batik pouch that held the credit cards whatnot; then orange twenties that were difficult sometimes to distinguish from tens, nights in particular, emerald fifties and violet hundreds zipped in the Thieves’ pouch proper. All in good order without any bulkiness showing. The young man in his chair with both hands and forearms gone selling tissues might have received less than the other pair there. Many passing on that path gave to the lad, who always returned a nice, easy smile with his thanks. Armless and such a countenance maintained. Down against a pillar an old Indian fattie with plastic cup before her made the finger-to-mouth gesture within the last stride thinking she was going to be ignored. Something about her contorted look was off-putting; nevertheless, age and stunted size made it a necessity. Children of course pulled on the strings of the most stony heart. The Arab woman offering tissues like the amputee kept her little girl beside her perhaps for that reason. This pair sat against the window of a shop with their backs cooled by the aircon within. It was doubtful that any tissues along that stretch were taken in the daily exchange. The Arab mother may have once been given even a pair of Blues. There was nothing exceptionally pitiable about this pair really, the mother and child; if anything perhaps the way the girl avoided all eyes and hung her head low. Once or twice the mother seemed to encourage the child to give thanks. Today in passing the mother had been writing on one of those plastic children’s blackboards with marker pen. What was that?.. Craning round to see.... NAGOYA?... It struck strangely. What did this Arab know of Nagoya and Japan? Where had she heard of either? Did she have even a day of schooling back in her homeland?... The woman pointed across the road at the sign above a shop…. Oya! In Batam, forty-five minutes by ferry from Singapore, the better corner of the island where some apartments were springing up, the developer responsible had settled on Nagoya City for his branding. A visit to the original had struck the man, they said. Not the usual caché of Osaka, Kyoto and Hokkaido recently, but this Nagoya that had been 75 - 80% re-built after the bombing through the war, a friend had reported, if the figure was remembered correctly. N-A-G-O-Y-A. Arab mother was delivering her little girl some rudimentary schooling, script foreign to the pair of course. In order to lessen the weight on the back under the hot sun removing the well-thumbed journal heavy with ink helped a little on the foot-slog. Down in Johor Bahru stickers had been bought from a young graphic artist with political nous who put up a stall at the night market. JB in a nice ring was on the front cover; rear the challenge to the last kleptocratic PM recently turfed out at the election and awaiting trial: CASH IS NOT KING. If one chose with care the young lad’s important message could be broadcast here in the capital on the hour walks up to the centre for lunch. Primary school teachers used what were termed flash cards for junior learners in order to reinforce particular information and knowledge. It had all happened accidentally in the course of passing hellos and chats and eventually became a dedicated practise. To date no challenge had been received from any quarter and indeed some appreciation. Certainly there were a great many eyes on stalks.

The A-List

Some palpable, superstitious dread penning the record of attendance at such a place: W____ Boulangerie Cafe. Sweat dripping after the slog from Chow Kit the aircon had beckoned... There really was no adequate justification. Polished concrete floor, render one side and the other wall exposed brick (though being new, unvaried product lacked the character). Wood slat table-tops and yellow steel chairs. A Rohingya pianist kept as a sex slave in back through the days listlessly tinkled old favourites. “Hot chamomile” looked to have surprised the Nepalese or Burma lad who had responded blankly to Tamil. (Unlikely a Bangla.) The mezzanine that held another dozen unoccupied tables along the railing remained unnoticed five minutes after entering. You  found yrself within such walls sometimes; sour taste bitten down. RM5.90, service charge likely sprung on top. (Lesser places cost RM10, granted.) Oh! Again unnoticed initially, the galvanised metal sheeting along a portion of the mezzanine wall toward the rear was painted a canary yellow that triggered phosphate islands formed by avian migration. On the chairs the sheen was pale and more muted. (The drink order had complemented.) IF YOUR HAPPY CLAP YOUR HANDS framed on the wall the other side of the roofing iron and London/Amsterdam/Paris &etc. columned in another frame. No doubt the owner was one of the UMNO scions who while the going was good had visited all the iconic cities across the globe, staying at the best hotels; a night or two in Trump Tower and pics to prove it. A few days before mention of a manslaughter charge that hadn’t stuck on one young UMNO scion a couple of years back had appeared in Malaysiakini.  Brief googling had shown the young lad’s escapades financed by his gangster politico dad who had lorded it with his cronies the last decade and more in this country of humble people living quiet, modest lives. (Foreign Thai staff at the bar/nightclub in question had been loaded with the rap.) Luxury sports cars, lip-stick girls on the lad’s online file, watches & wine. Uncaged young brute was a chip off the old block making the father proud, (party trumpeting Muslim credentials and defence of the downtrodden race). The last decade or two kept buried secrets that were highly unlikely ever to be uncovered. The dastardly corruption and shameless excess, manipulation and fixing, the political murders could not all be prosecuted. It was impossible and beyond the means of the country. Best hope was some of the chief offenders being exposed, incarcerated and the moral bearings of the community restored as far as practicable. Post-electoral upset, it was taking time to begin proceedings.

Lazy Sunday Morning

Gone eleven, low-fives with the uncle at the nasi kandar corner because of his short stature and the seated position. These people can sense immediately when they were met with some fondness, first glimpse straight out. Interesting that strong instinct. A grizzly old bearded Tamil perhaps even one’s junior here, only a few teeth remaining, wizened prematurely and sporting either beanies or b.b.-caps. Under a dozen that hour in the queue; soon after noon it would double, snaking ten metres out onto the street and around the corner. When the sun powered down the line did a loop around the tables and out under the veranda. There were at least half a dozen nasi kandar places in the area, the queues here by far the longest. Earlier Mahshushah’s recommendation at the market was found in the first row entered, easy to remember Ibu Ayu. A couple of long tables there were entirely full of middle-aged women with their children, Indons like the owner. The rujak lonton M. said was sedap at the Ibu’s, she had come out especially for it from the university many times—a good vegetarian option. Along the way to Kudu bin Abdul, the kandar place, a not uncommon sight of an ancient shuffling along with a bag over his shoulder and make-shift walking stick that might have once been a broom handle, at each footfall his cracked heels off the back of his sandals as he slowly made his way—he knew where, the old Montenegrin storytellers would say. Did the man no longer feel the hard concrete surface through that toughened skin? His mind so entirely preoccupied?... A week later he was recognised by that particular shuffle of his: on the approach a flash of a face recalled and looking around heels and sandals confirmed. Chap was first passed almost directly in front of the pharmacy where the pretty Scarf served and where more often than not the old Indian string-bean Sec. Guard slept in his chair by the doorway in his white, twin-pocketed shirt with epaulets and SHARK FORCE insignia.

Kader Inexhaustible (Day 4)

Most of the first option polished off today, the choice fell on the pongal, big full yellow tray sitting out front on the shelf, freshly made by the looks. So why was the Gurkha-not chuckling like that, sharing with his friend the seemingly inconsequential circumstance, certainly for a waiter you would have thought? Pongal.... They must have the same in the high country back home, peasant food. And here was this tall White fancy man ordering. Whadyaknow?!... Easy as pie cutting through from the main drag no false steps second time round. The Jackal was the landmark tower — minus the “c”and wrong second vowel. (Punjabi?) Noted again on the Chow Kit Street earlier, like everywhere else in the 1st/2nd World, hospital staff was 3rd, underlings especially prominent. Handsome railway and municipal uniforms had been worn proudly by the newly risen class in Yugoslavia back in the day. White with green piping this case. A first in any of these Indian places seeing a platter of tatters like we served them back home, rolled in butter (ghee) they may have been and perhaps pepper; parsley was it too not so finely shredded on the side and a sambal or chutney in a dish. Mari poori or puri. The lad held the plate beside the little boy he was petting eating with dad, well-to-do couple a class above the usual clientele at Kader. Gold trader was the first guess, the wife and mother sent home to India to see her father taken ill. (How else to explain a working day the delightful cherub out of her clutches?...) Odd the way the old ancient opposite eats everyday with spoon and fork, dressed like that and all the signs. No wonder the lad forgets to provide and she must ask especially. Fourth if not fifth gen; the day before it had been the same. Lad giving the name of the dish was gifted one of the postcards bought yesterday at the Islamic Museum. Flicking the pages of the journal for recording he had caught the flash of colour within and asked to leaf back. A couple from the Islamic Gardens series, one Syria and the other Iran. Nice. Close study given. The enthusiast was offered his choice. Then, again like the old Yugoslavs—certainly old Montenegrins—the lad twice politely declined the gift. No, he wouldn’t. No, he wouldn’t. Ghost of an embarrassed, blushing smile. Pressed a third time.... OK, thanks then. Accepted. One knew how that went. Continuing, going so far with the offer, meant the gesture was genuine; the person extending the generosity was in earnest. Only then could one proceed to receive the offering.

NB. Turned out mari poori was rather more elaborate, little roti cups filled with the tatters and a couple of chutneys on the side, sweet and spicy. Kader was a restaurant after all.

Family Politics

After the war Uncle Jovo had refused to return to the new Titoist Yugoslavia and his younger brother could not abandon him, abandoning instead his wife in the old country. When the new Ustashi regime assumed control in Nezavisa Drzava Hrvatska, the Independent State of Croatia Uncle knew he needed to flee the territory post-haste. On his flight from Gospic up in the north of Lika he saw a recognised figure in a wanted poster offering so many new kune Dead or Alive. A year later when the killings of the local Serbs intensified, his wife, Aunt Anka, left her flight with their infant son Pavle too late and the boy suffocated in the rear of the lorry. (Uncle’s nephew Pavle, son of his steadfast younger brother, would be born more than a dozen years later in the “last continent”, the one as far from the stari kraj, the old quarter under Commie rule, as possible.)

         Around a quarter century before Uncle’s flight from his gendarme HQ in Gospic, granddad Rade, mother’s father, had, like many of his hill tribe, served Emperor Franz Joseph against his neighbour Montenegrins—always shooting over their heads from the trenches, he later maintained.

         Uncle Petar who had been with his two brothers at the Italian farm in Lanciano working as indentured labour had been pressed to return home. There were wife and three children left behind, as well as the aged mother. Petar was the one who should go back. Only to find himself a short time later pronounced a kulak by the new authorities. 

         “It’s a sorry state of affairs,” Petar told his accusers, “when you have none better than me and so-and-so to crown with that title.”

         Tetak or Dondo (Italian form) Nikola, an uncle by marriage, earned a nice fat pension for his teenage heroics during the war, often telling his boozy story of riding a horse beside the celebrated Montenegrin fighter Sava Kovacevic—the name comes back—beside him mounted on his donkey.

         Rade’s son and mother’s brother, Maternal Uncle Djordjo, George, postwar became a local functionary, despite the fact his father continued to hang the picture of old King Alexander beside that of the new ruler in his house; continued to celebrate his Saint’s Day and stand as godfather to the newly-born of the clan. During the war, his house situated against the massif beyond which the Partizans had their lair in the first, early phase of hostilities, Granddad Rade had been President of the Communist cell on Village Uble. Mudri Djed Rade, wise Granddad Rade, said by his advocates capable of carrying a thirsty man over water.

         Another photograph of the tragic king hung on the wall of Great Aunt Jane’s house in Kostanica, on the coast. There it was discovered by local functionaries who had grown too big for their boots. Challenged by the men, local fellow peasants, Rade’s sister Jane—pronounced Yane—recklessly threw in their faces, “Give me your Tito and I’ll hang him instead!”

         Brat od Tetke, Brother of Aunt Cousin Peko, served a number of years on the infamous Goli Otok, Bare Isle in the Adriatic, when post-’58 he would not reconcile to the break from Stalin. Under no circumstances, wouldn’t hear of it. Thereby condemning wife and children to years of hardship and discrimination. Before that jail term, young Peko, Pete came down to the Montenegrin coast to see where his parents were born. During the stay the young eagle had attempted to shock mother, his Aunt Jelena, telling her of his Albanian victims’ blood he had licked from knives in Kosovo. Peko’s parents, Aunt Gospava and her husband Kosto, a Solunski dobrovoljac—Thessalonika volunteer in the First War—had taken up King Alexander’s offer of re-settlement in the former Serbian heartland in the mid ‘30s.

         The cowboy Partizan Uncle Nikola on his handsome steed was one of many from the village who took up Tito’s offer of resettlement in the houses of the Magyars who had fled or been herded from the Vojvodina after WWII. After re-settlement back in Boka some years later, his son Miso told of their fine house up in the North, the metre-thick walls, capacious rooms and fancy window-shutters.

         During the Milosevic period Third cousin Liljana—her name forgotten and coming back in the middle of the night—a lawyer, found a niche in the bureaucracy. Later elevated by the regime, Lilja sat in judgement on war criminals and traitors, delivering capital sentences, some of that branch of the family revealed with poorly concealed pride. Lilja’s sister Vesna, the less academically gifted, lost her husband in the Bosnian fighting.

         We ran into difficulties during the Yugoslav Wars of Succession, as the historians came to call them, with the nationalist position more often than not winning through for each of the various communities. Everyone had their own stories of atrocities committed by the other side. 

         Radovane, Srpska diko. Karadjic was Montenegrin after all. (Dika is “pride and joy.”) 

         Milosevic’s parents were Montenegrin Vasojevici clan, both suicides after the war.

         History and politics doomed us. We were steeped in blood.

         One of our villagers had taken a Catholic priest away from his Sunday altar up into the wilds where he was shot.

         A notable Partizanka from Upper Morinj was roundly condemned by our Marko Bakocevic when he returned to the country in the mid-60s for her own summary execution of an opponent. A true virago. Montenegro had many.

         Mother’s passport out of the country was said to have been the first granted by the regime in the mid-50s, when Tito himself was shamed at a UN meeting after a dossier of her particulars was presented. Passed the papers, the challenge to the President followed, “Does the security of your state depend on keeping a woman such as this from joining her husband in the foreign land?”

         A gendarme commander made Uncle a notable in our corner of Melbourne. We went to see the young dethroned King Petar when he visited in the late ‘50s or early ‘60s. The local Croat builder Janko Krismanic, a Yugoslav patriot like so many Croats of his generation, put on a dinner for the King at his house a few streets away. (Aunt Anka was invited to help in the kitchen, but not her sister-in-law, whose skills did not stretch that far.)

         In 1934 Mother had brought up from the coast for her father, Granddad Rade, the issue of Politika that carried the photographs of old King Aleksandar dead in the back of the automobile in Marseilles. Thirty years before JFK, it was the first assassination of a head of state to be captured in such graphic detail. 

         Place ko kisa, Weeping like rain, Granddad in his reading.

         There exists a 120k MS putting all these events in a much broader context, awaiting the right publisher.

 

 

Here in Malaysia we have a fascinating unraveling of sixty years of single party rule that in the last decade and more featured the worst kind of corruption, political manipulation, environmental vandalism and all the associated silencing of critics (killings included). Suborning of the judiciary and media and outrageous bare-faced mendacity. Hour after hour, day after day, Malaysiakini, an online magazine that began to challenge the regime in the last couple of years, run their brief 100 and 150 word stories beneath a zoological parade of the chief culprits, men now attempting every which way to save their asses.

         A remarkable, quite unexpected miracle of democracy has taken place here. But then similar has occurred not so long ago in South Africa, USSR, much of Latin America, and briefest of all in the Middle East and North Africa.

More Dining (Fawlty Towers)

Nothing beats the stumbled discovery, all without notice or any kind of fanfare. Coliseum Cafe Bar here this afternoon. First poking of the head you could tell it had illustrious history and famous guests years gone by. Somerset Maugham featured in a collage on the wall; a no doubt celebrated cartoonist’s sketches of various customers; &etc. Oh yeah! the aglio olio one lunchtime real soon within those hallowed paneled walls. Ordinarily, far too a la carte for this camper, but one did need to broaden the horizon occasionally. Certainly it was not going to beat the hunger for the uppuma at Kader today, not by a long shot. Finally, a simple route had been found from Chow Kit directly through to the inner hub, a roundabout circuit needed first time near Masjid India and the street market. Few hundred metres was all, made no never mind. Just got a sweat up in the heat, brow needing wiping on arrival, the scone, back of the neck, chin. Old faker Maugham back in the day would have tossed his wet kerchief in precisely the same way into his upturned hat on the table at Coliseum. There! Ah! Chap’s earned a lunch after that lot... Chin guy who wasn’t for the order got the uppuma part alright, that was fine. But for the drink didn’t understand nanti. What?!... Fixing on the second syllable, thought it was tea. Tea?... No, no... Well, lemon tea?... No! Nanti. Later... What was it with this guy, China orang was he? Made a couple of the Tamil lads smile. No, I’m not Chinese, fellow replied. Nepal.... Ah. Oh well. That explains it. The uppuma he got straight off, no problem. Waiting to tell him the three cylinders with the sambal follow-up. Another minor problem with terminology, but the man did get the general drift. (Was it in fact chutney rather than sambal that was served with most Indian dishes? Was that the proper term? The lad may have been right. In any case, all sweet. Google later.) The problem came not long after that first round. Wouldn’t you know it, you were not outta the woods at all. Here he comes with the cuppa he has decided for you, lemon floating on top. Oh! No, no.... What, now you don’t want it? he seemed to be flashing.... OK, he was ready to cart it back if that was your wish. Fella wants to be difficult... OK. OK. Give it here. That’s fine... Little relief. But some consternation in fact remained for this man of the high country. Looking at the platter where you had spooned all the “chutney” a question suggesting itself to the Nepalese. What, no sugar?... Oooo! No. Certainly not sugar, no. (The day before the same dish had been delivered by one of the Tamil lads with a tall, plastic container of sugar half way up the sides. That was the usual for uppuma, a right proper treat in Chennai. Lashings of sugar.) Here the variance caused the Nepalese some concern, and not difficult to discern why. Two pairs of eyes simultaneously turning to the cup of tea.  Beneath the lemon, heaped at the bottom of the glass and making a cloud, a little snow capped volcano... What, sugared?!... Nods sheepishly the former alpine sheep herder; needs must own. No, no. No sugar... No?... He’ll take it away then. Bounding back directly with kosong. Would that be all then? Everything to your satisfaction?... Customer was right now, yes. Thank you kindly, yes... Unable to recall the Nepali. What was it now?... The TE-ZU-DJE-BADE had been served up to him carefully rounded vowels. Lad had bent an ear, bent a second time and repeated the first syllable. Shook his head. Completely confused... What? He couldn’t catch his own lingo?... Ah. Was that right? Was...? Were these crossed wires then? Peninsular Plaza down in Sing. Ya, that was it. That was Burmese; NOT Nepalese. Bugger. Screwed up. Made a hash of it, completely flummoxing the poor lad. Not so long ago you had known the other, one little word at least in order to jolly the people a bit.

Traveler (Klang)

Four odd hours on the bus felt like more. Sealed up in the tin the elavator behaviour didn’t help, all understandable of course. Confession: Klang was endurable only for one single hour. Where was a sweet little teh place, Chinese would have done? What about a hotel for soft-feathered aircon refuge from the drab and dirty street? The only one visible on the round was a ten storey tower off a-way. Were the street people in this old port town foreign workers, or tough-living local Indian? It was hard to tell. The one single piece of relief was the frieze of Indian working girls in their colourful saris on a stretch of sheltered walkway. Picasso writ large and more colourful than the old Spaniard had known. (Gauguin knew better.) What man could resist an hour in their company in some sequestered nook away from the harshness on every turn. Grey, shuttered and dilapidated Klang. Even colourful advertising boards would have helped. No one smiled calling you sir. (Only one of the Indian girls.) At the auto supplies shop enquiring about a wheel cap for Arthur’s Proton Jumbuck the woman answered with a smile, But you’re in kota bahru here! The train station was very far for walking. Once-over suspiciously given the bulging backpack. Thirty metres around the corner a big silver bird with red stripes offering KL in one and one quart hours, RM3 - a buck. Kotaraya what was more, in the centre. (The bus from Muar had deposited us at some moonscape Sentral depot perfect for a refugee camp.) One day there will be a return and a stronger effort applied, if there was any luck in company with Mike Tong, who has not returned to his home town in thirty years after the government diddled him outta plenty biz dollars. Wouldn’t that be grand, if Malaysia Bahru really did live up to its name, turn a new leaf and was going to play straight and honest from here on?

Long-lasting Happiness

In the seven months of the year to date the brothers had sold ten of their caskets, when years past they would sell that number monthly. Down in Singapore the trade had dropped off almost entirely with the scarcity of plots, and elsewhere the preference at that end of the market had switched to brass-lined conventional caskets.

         Three weeks were needed to produce a new item.

         This morning after breakfast elder brother was found working slowly with a small hand-plane smoothing the curve on the long side of a wing that was taking shape. Their wood here was sourced from up in Pahang toward the Thai border, the mill giving the first rounding of the thick timber in preparation for the subsequent curvature.

         We shared some not very sweet mandarins after lunch, Pakistani the brothers guessed. One worked on a panel one side and the other another opposite. Neat joining fitted the six pieces together; there was no glue or biscuit.

         After the hand planing and some chiseling elder brother brought out the electric drill for a series of holes; the timber had split at the end and long nails were needed to prevent any further splitting.

         Their father had used a hand drill in his time, one that required a to-and-fro horizontal motion with a long rod attached somehow to some other pieces. Elder brother brought out the old rusty iron bit that their father had used. On the wall the long rod hung like a broom handle; how precisely it had functioned he too had forgotten. The other pieces of the assembly could no longer be found.

         In the dim work-room the gold character at the head of a pair of caskets against the wall caught the light. Two other units carrying the same character were given a red colour and plain lacquer respectively. The clients in question had opted for those variations; mostly however glinting gold was the choice of clients.

         The obvious question was the signification. What was a translation of the characters, one at the facing head of the casket and the other the foot? What final words would one choose for a coffin?

         In front the character was hock; behind so.

         It was not especially difficult to render in English: in essence a compound “long/happy” and “life” at rear. Both characters could not fit on the front medallion, younger brother explained. Why the characters needed to be of that large size was not addressed.

         After-life in question, one would have presumed. But it was not the case.

         The near coffin in the gold lettering had been ordered and bought in advance by a local woman when she had been in her early sixties. Now she had reached her nineties.

         The inscription had worked like a charm.

         This was the code: a happy, long life might be one’s fate with good and appropriate preparation; namely, warding off early death by this provision of the ready coffin bearing the inscription.

         The ninety-year-old ancient was one of many who had prospered by this means.

         Thirty and more years the brothers had kept that particular casket in their workroom for the day when it was needed. In former time clients would take their caskets home to store in a back shed.

         The elder brother who because of poverty had never married said for himself he would choose to burn. When he might craft his own casket, the man preferred fire. Younger did not express a preference.

         The characters were chiseled by hand front and back and painted according to the client’s wishes. For the characters there was no variance.

         Happy, long in a compound, life. What more could one wish? (One did not want one without the other.)

Skywindow

Middle distance the starlings crossing the sky can be mistaken for mosquitoes against the window pane. (At street level one often passed birdhouses in the inner quarter of the old town; one stood on the near corner.) Early morning before the heat with the wooden shutters fully opened the canvas of grey-white presented a meager offering; no painter would be interested in such a scene that lacked all colour and texture. When some blue did seep through the thin bleached wash was hardly worthy of the name. With the forest long gone it was only the starlings flitting about in the morning and evening cool. Two downpours to date, both late-night and only aurally received in the sealed room. Around 11pm the big digger on the corner started up with a night-shift of migrant workers putting in the new drains on Jalan Ali. Yesterday taking another route to the Cyber a marvelous home-stay was happened upon in an old traditional Malay house, the past imprinted in the timbers of the stair treads and the discoloured wooden wall panels where grubby hands had reached for support. One small, cloudy mirror at least in back might have once reflected the faces of the earliest occupants. There was a warm welcome offered by the Chinese manager who suggested a cuppa in the attached café in front. One had learned by now never to take halia in anything but a mamak shop in this region; only the Southern Indians knew how to portion the ginger. Told that the favourite tea was unlikely to be found in her establishment the woman immediately apologised. Sorry, sorry, she confessed, unfortunately they indeed could not offer Earl Grey.... Ah, yes! There you had it true enough. You were a right proper Englishman, don't bother trying to deny it!... The week before a friend in JB had noted it was the Indian minority feeding the pigeons and the other wild birds on the equator. Cats were one thing, but there did seem to be a divide where birds were concerned. At a couple of locations in JB this was borne out, and then yesterday in Muar again.

Undying Tradition (Muar, Malaysia)

Traditional Chinese coffins of the same form had been seen up in Chow Kit, KL five or six years before, the man at the shop there saying they were sourced in Penang, or Ipoh it may have been. The two brothers here in Muar were possibly too pricey.
         One of those doco-perfect scenes of doughty old tradesmen with their ancient implements that had been wielded first by the grandfather back in the Mainland. The father had come down to the region in the thirties as a seventeen-year-old and established the enterprise on Jalan Mariam. Since the place had remained untouched; perhaps in celebration after the war and independence a bright blue had been pasted on the walls.
         Miraculous entering the past like that, stepping over the threshold as if behind the looking-glass. The Teo Chew men were pleased at the guest’s keen interest; impressed too at the evident knowledge and scraps of their language.
         — Only toh kays get this luxury, right Uncle?
         Early-seventies, bright-eyed leathery old man could only agree.
         Ten thousand saw you laid out in one of their products and about forty years housing in the ground.
         The old Viking chiefs might have been set afloat off the coast of some Northern promontory in handsome caskets such as these.
         The pair was working on a new item in front, the brother on the left chiseling a border line for a decorative panel and opposite the other with an adze scraping fine ribbons of wood for the curvature. Behind the pair against either wall polished and painted finished product awaited a great man’s exit from this world.
         Surprising to the men, we had an acquaintance in common, the chap who ran Great Eastern Resto around in the next street.
         Yes, yes, he was still operating. Roundabout eleven he would open. Yesterday—the Monday, would have been an off-day. But working still.
         Which brother was the Abang here then, the Elder?
         — Ah! No. Same, same. They were one company. They did not have that there.
         Not all the old customs carried down; no precedence for the Elder in this particular casket business.
         (Were the pair communist sympathisers perhaps?)
         The more leathery still smaller man sitting to one side of the entry might have been a long-term employee. A little older again and incapacitated: one hand was missing. It was the right in fact.
         The arm had withered somewhat, though no doubt the chap could still make himself useful.
         There was no machinery of any sort visible in the shop, not even a plane or sander it appeared. It turned out the brothers did now use an electric saw for the thick wood.
         Noticing the observation, the one-handed man moved to hide his stump under the point of his elbow.
         Photographs were permitted, there were no objections. By all means.
         It would be utterly impossible one knew in advance. Even a practitioner of the highest form would struggle to capture anything meaningful here.

NB. On the weekend Hiroshima Day had been anticipated; then yesterday with the travel the commemoration slipped from memory. In this morning’s New Straits Times a short column of 250 words was carried. There had been nothing on ABC online.

Catfight

Unexpected the holding off of rain the entire afternoon. Perhaps it had been carried over to the East, toward Pulau Ubin and Mersing. Every likelihood again of a downpour within the half hour, but that had been the expectation at least two or three times earlier in the day. Before going out for lunch, while there had still been clear skies overhead, some kind of disturbance on the street below perhaps twenty or thirty metres away had carried up to the room. From the vantage on the third floor the narrow street was only visible directly in front; the option of opening the window and leaning out had not occurred at the time. What was transpiring down along Meldrum over toward the mall was judged by the reactions of the woman from the corner store come out to observe the event. The lady had taken a few steps forward in the direction of the disturbance, planting herself firmly with arms crossed on her chest and craning a little as the action shifted before her. There was clearly much to see. Initially there had been loud, bitten-off shouts and a couple of short percussive claps of stricken flesh. That was soon over; for the remainder it was the woman’s movements and eager attention that hinted at what might be transpiring. At one point the woman’s husband, or employee he may have been, came out to look too. The pair of them away from their shop, however, was unwise and the man was soon sent back indoors with a little chin wag from the lady. It was precisely disturbances such as these that thieves found advantageous. The man behind, the woman’s husband or employee, initially only stepped back a couple of paces in order to check on the indoors; before a few moments later withdrawing entirely. The fellow knew better than to completely disregard a directive from this lady. No police sirens or other interventions forthcoming. There was a large police centre just a hundred metres away down in the opposite direction toward the water. Hooligans and street brawlers here might expect a cuff behind the ears, or boot up the bottom at least, notwithstanding the Malaysia Bahru — the New Malaysia. (It made policing and keeping the peace easier, it was generally agreed.) Reform in the new political set-up would take some time. On one of the earlier stays here at Meldrum Hotel a memorable catfight had taken place on the street involving a couple of the Viet ladies who patronized the double-fronted Chinese eatery on the other side of the street. At that eatery the old local crocs were pampered by the painted ladies who drank with them, massaged their tired limbs while the men sat in the red plastic chairs and milked them for all they were worth. The ructions on that particular occasion had been sighted just at the point when the pair of women had reached a temporary stasis with a clump of each other’s hair making any further movement excruciating. The picture had reminded of footage from the wild where beasts took a grip of each other and the kill that followed remained at that point still suspended and uncertain. Usually Jalan Meldrum was a quiet, sleepy strip. What the quarter had been in the earlier era could only be guessed.

Publication News - The Volcano

In recent days an online Irish literary journal by the name of The Linnet’s Wings has published a piece of mine titled "The Volcano," a longer work that unfolds a trip out to the sleeping old giant, Merapi outside Yogyakarta, Central Java.

Originally posted on the blog in 2014, here is the link — free access: https://www.thelinnetswings.org/?pageno=8&sid=31238

Hope you like it.

Pavle

Star_ucks

The no. of tees they sell here with the branding, esp down in SG. WowWee! Every mall in Sing hosts one. Yr pal here even must own having maybe 7 - 8 cafes within the walls, digitally remastered Satchmo & Frankie easing the ride, lie to pretend otherwise. Can’t quite recall, but think it was the Maccas franchise HQ from Arizona whatever that praised Sing for being per capital global leader in its outlets, KFC, Dunkin Dos & Starbs junior grade jerks trailing far behind. Yr never far from a double burger or cheese in the Republic; they have Deliveroo and all the others if yr time-pressed, straight to yr door. Corporate capture state of perfection, U degrees devoted to the manipulation of the markets: how to sucker the Joes and Jennies? reel in the hesitant customer, lick bums clean for the loose change rattling in pockets. (Never under-estimate the worth of a few loose pennies.) And etcetera. Post-grad. studies and scholarships offered, export Ed. of course like down there. (Did you notice, Victoria’s largest econ. sector of late was not tourism, agriculture, mining or the service industry. No, Ed. Ed. Ed. They can’t get enough of it the foreign kids while living in the world’s most liveable.) What happened to the flagship Swanson Street store down there, esp with all the foreign students up the road? Mugs they sell here at the counter, toys, blow-up dolls. They just re-deco-ed the outlet in my neighbourhood down in Sing, doubled the seating after they muscled out Superheroes next door. Super had been flopping of late, they’d squeezed the market about as far as it would go. The excitement over the Batman spin-offs wearing thin, range of colours of the big SSSS that Lois patted in her wet dreams had been tried in Sing. Even the kids were jaded. So, Starbs. doubles its floor space, signs plastered No Lingering At Tables. The conglomerate owns Super of course, as well as Diggersite, Yankie Candle &etc. wasn’t hard switching. Here in JB walking through the mall for some aircon you stiffen as you pass the Maccas queue, the lucky people on the bench looking out from their shelf and the young kids in the red & yellow livery readying smiles for the White guy approaching. Whiteys patronizing adds glamour, encourages all the brown and yellow. Jaws dropping to the floor at the pass. Typing this at J. Coffee & Donuts at the said City Square mall couple of doors from Starbs. Frequented in Jogja too for the wifi and aircon and assumed they were a Sing chain — in fact, surprise, surprise—Indonesian, though that means little in this global network. Congrats to old Melbourne for riding those hombres outta town. No one kidding themselves though, the battle for a half tolerable cafe down there has been murder the last 20 years. Therefore the African where women were excluded and that pokey room on Barkly Street. Certainly wouldn’t buy the story we resisted down there bc of all the class and discernment we’re always oozing. (I’m assuming that might be a big part of the ABC feel-good line. Can’t actually bring myself to read that kinda palaver.)

NB. A friend fwd-ed the news of Starbucks failing down in Australia. (Not just Melbourne in fact.)

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_FGUkxn5kZQ

Why Starbucks Failed In Australia | CNBC

Hot Fandango

Stinging hot pepper in the morning for breakfast. Who would have thought? You have well and truly become an old hand at it now Bud, water off a duck’s back. Many intrepid travelers could not manage, abseilers, mountaineers and free divers included. Hot water too for soothing and washing down, a common beverage in these parts perhaps harkening back to late colonial era when it was a novel treat to the kampung folk. In SG the usual charge was 30c for the latter; here it ought to be the same in the local currency — 30 sen. But not for a rusted-on regular at Muthu on Jalan Trus, Straight Road. “In the computer” that was the rate, advised the nice cashier there when the man was quizzed on the matter. Glimpses of the bills left no recall of a charge; it needed proper confirmation. Honey pre-coating the tongue and gullet prior to ablutions was likely an aid. Uppuma and pongal traditionally in the South of India are breakfast dishes, always of course for the haves. At KV in Bufallo Road, Singapore three times out of four there was one or the other left over for the lunch crowd and Friday’s sweet pongal added. (Interestingly, in the same KV family’s outlet fifty metres away on Serangoon Road where tourists and a better class of clientele frequented, there was neither of these dishes available. Traditionally lower caste fare possibly. An upper ought not find such offered at their establishment.) Even in Eastern Europe they didn’t take hot chilli early morning, certainly not in the South-East. Mexico and Latin America it might be different. Set one abuzz from the get-go ready for anything.