The Tartan (updated April24)

A little odd, if not bizarre. The matter emerged slowly over a cup of teh on a lazy afternoon, when thoughts had been entirely elsewhere. This particular old uncle had only announced himself in the last month, though evidently the man had had an eye on his quarry for quite some time. Handsome old chappie in his mid-seventies. Good English, good head of hair and good trim; the man had not allowed himself to go to seed. Sidling up for the first acquaintance ready with Shakespeare quotations. Mark Antony’s oration over the body of Caesar was gotten wrong way round on that first occasion, and then also the second. I come not to bury Caesar, but… Undaunted by the correction, another fragment of another famous speech had followed, with an attempted scouring of memory for third. Not bad for a primary school teacher retired fifteen plus years. That the chap lived in Tampines had not been difficult to guess; most of the Malays had shipped out one or two stops along the line. What was surprising was the regular weekend stay in the hotel behind Wadi, $85 a pop and maybe even $95 weekends. When the bus to Tampines was a half hour. Escaping the pigeon hole to give the youngest son who shared the run of the place it may have been. This unmarried lad was waiting on some funds from the intended bride’s side before they could marry. Eldest boy formerly married with a couple of children was now separated. Matter already a done thing. Uncle’s wife, however, the mother, remained in the dark. Uncle asked that the information be kept private. The lady, the wife, would only be met on the third or fourth encounter with Uncle. Usually the old man left his own table and approached for a little chat. The middle child, the daughter, had done well, an IT grad. of a foreign U earning $6-7k monthly; dutifully presenting dad $600. On top of the pension a comfortable existence. Collars, shoes and trousers—Uncle made a dapper chappie, taking an occasional ciggie over beneath the tree outside Wadi. One little peculiarity—not the only case encountered in these Tropics, where the blazing light wreaked havoc on optics: Uncle was one of those incessant flexers of the eyes. Men rather than women here seemed to be afflicted. During the course of conversation the Tampines Uncle regularly screwed tight both eyes together in a kind of half-grimace. Otherwise, again another Malay that you could safely parachute behind the lines anywhere in the Balkans, and lots of other European territory. His was an ancestry that included more than the former forests and river estuaries. Something about the uncle suggested he had never capitalised on his former good looks; unlike the wife, from the report that was eventually presented. The woman betrayed impatience with her husband; a kind of charge he had slowly become with memory lapses and little confusions. (They were going up the street, not down; man could not be entrusted with her food order; &etc.) Though not apparent on first sight, lady was ten years younger. Taller than her husband, it was in fact she who had been the real pretty. There had been a career in the police force; a definite looker in younger years, Uncle had added. This had been heard previously. One chief criteria it seemed for entry into the forces for females in these parts was good looks. A lass would have had a hard time getting in the door otherwise. Fact had been simply stated a number of times; such had been the case. (During one of the Indo stays the Jakarta Post had made mention of the matter. What was more, some time back during discussion of police affairs, again in the respected newspaper, as prerequisite for recruitment into the Indonesian police force, virginity had been stipulated. There had been testing. Muttalib at the Wadi table had suggested it was a means of reserving the career path for males.) The retired cop, Uncle’s ten year younger wife, was still working; in an allied field out at Changi, issuing visitor passes at the airport. Another curiosity too. Harking back to former times again, this Auntie had in fact been a musician. A pipe her instrument, Uncle said... A pipe?... Clarinet and flute signs were met with shaking of head from Uncle. Screwing of eyes Uncle. Unscrewing and screwing again. Bag Pipe. The auntie, this man’s scarved wife in her bright Islamic baju, with thick gold bracelets and over-sized watch-face, had blown the old Highland tunes. What was more, the lady had visited Scotland. In her scarf and dress presumably. Thirty-three years before after a seasoned bagpipe player from over there had been out to check proficiency. Edinburgh. Off she had gone with her fellow pipers for an entire month; extending the trip over on the continent too. Uncle screwed up his eyes at the Scottish capital that he had forgotten. Ya, Edinburgh! (A mouthful.) A Singaporean band back in ‘86 delivering The pipes, the pipes are callin, on real moorland to notables who were doubtless much struck and politely appreciative. Good show.

Putting the Wind Up You (April24)

Five or six days in the last fortnight uncharacteristic wind-blow here on the Equator. On two or three of those occasions it had been of such strength that the flutter of leaves on the trees was audible—a first for the region and bringing the reminder that in other locales people had words for a range of winds; winds through bamboo in Japanese, and the like. Japan and other northern countries had an extensive vocabulary for snow for example. Kicking against the wind in junior football matches returned as a shadow memory; only a semblance of memory, because the example here was of a very minor kind; some greater strength up in the trees than at ground level. Attempting to mark the football too was much trickier in the wind, and not so much because it affected judgement of the ball flight, but more so because of a kind of rattling of the brain and body. Wind returned like an old friend in a couple of passages crossing a bridge over a river once or twice, the slender reed of the trunk like a sail on a dhow. One had wanted to lean into the adversary as one had done in other places. Sometimes the larger leaves brought down by the wind here, after a day’s baking under the sun, scraped like plastic on paving and made you turn round in case you may have dropped something. This afternoon rounding the base of J. C. Complex a tunneling effect was created through the walkway beneath the pillars; a good stern barreling such that the old Chinese chap at the carpet store on the corner, an old compulsive smoker still, adjusted the collar of his polo, where the plastic blow-hole in his throat had evidently let in gushes of air.

Bump Out (updated Jan23/Mar24)

As befitted a lao ban of sorts, five or six day wake for one of the brothers next door in the four storey Carpmael house. Tenting had been erected in front last week and the procession had included a busload of office girls Friday afternoon. After the sun had gone down, as usual Auntie Helen was feeding her outdoor litter and we two stopped to watch the stream round the corner from Onan Road, where the charter had parked. Black tops in the insurance company uniform it may have been that the Carpmael brother ran, a lucrative operation clearly. In front of our house the cul de sac had been filled throughout with gleaming motors. The casket sat up beside the entry door to the Cassa, tables and chairs arranged in the yard covered in white cloth. Fans and perhaps portable aircon units; still in the heat you wondered about the volume of ice that had been needed for the body. For the last 2-3 days there had been the expectation of a wrap-up; they had surely done enough in that forecourt. Chanting monks had attended a day or two before. Only this morning though had the hearse arrived for the final journey. With the larger truck and vans that had been parked there it had not been noticed at first half way inside the gates. What was noticed this morning was the tune filtering out from one of the trucks, it seemed. The lads had the radio on while beginning on the disassembly. An odd kind of bump out; not the thing at all. It’s now or never… Volume low; whispering almost. And this was not Engelbert; not pianissimo like that. Come hold me tight... There might have been a suite of songs chosen by the bereaved family, favourites of the deceased, Jafaar at Wadi later sensibly suggested. Like many of the Malays, a big fan of the Indian crooner, Jaf. No points awarded a few minutes later when the man added that a more appropriate choice of farewell may have been Please release me… Jaf had been a performing and indeed recording vocalist in his time. Leeeeet me goooo… A diabetic and dialysis patient, who always kept his pecker up.

Boyman

You have never before seen a President of any description in downtime rock up to his usual watering hole—in this instance Al Wadi; oasis; or in fact literally, valley (where water may be found)—in his sporty little runabout. Late Sunday afternoon we were sitting over our tehs chatting, the evening coming on more rapidly than in other parts of the globe. (On the equator all the phases of the course, dawn, noon, dusk, passed in upbeat time.) Two door glossy red soft-top, the driver like many others—perhaps of that particular stripe especially—parking right on top of the stop sign on Geylang corner. For some transgressors exceptions might be made; certainly for the President. Or at least in this case the chief Dude; the President’s paramour; legal husband & father of her children. (Often on our patch the declension was ignored, man referenced with the title himself.) First off, naturally, we surmised a young buck popping over to the fries stand for his takeout; borrowed dad’s car, roof down cos it was still hot. When the older matron in company, who was awaiting her own husband in their motor, had her gaze directed toward the newcomer, the woman initially agreed. Ya, some fast lad taking liberties. What could one expect? Slightly turned-up lip lady showed. Turned aside a moment afterward, the woman needed to be called back to see her error… Oh. Not the expected junior at all. Nor Chinese either, as might have been supposed. One of her own. Indeed a grey-beard; sere of years. Nimble, slipping out from what would be an awkward position ordinarily for a man of that age. Produced an altered visage now the companion; almost blanching, poor love. Oh! Oh!... Lady knew this man very well of course. (Little did she know her companion likewise knew.) She had not been about to divulge the ID herself, why only she could say. Oh! You too know?... More surprise still. Last sighting in the newspaper the chap in question had been giving out parcels to the poor at one of the Muslim charity events, $250 vouchers for the lucky ones. Batik shirt and dress pants for the cameras. Receiving foreign dignitaries and the like, the PM here dons his own fashionable batik; otherwise canvassing among the folk at the hawker centres, the attire invariably follows the ordinary Joe drab grey polo and off-the-rack trousers. Over in Sixth Avenue for his personal use the man keeps his own Porsche, whether cherry red has not come down.

 

 

Hammer on Anvil

On the clothesline out the back of the house the arms of the plastic pegs break off slowly one by one. Under the awning on that side of the house there is direct sun only for a few hours in the morning, but over the weeks more than enough to wreak damage. Currently the cars parked outside the window for the wake next door remind of the usual recourse with the wiper blades in this region: lift the arms of the blades up so that the rubber does not become ruined stuck to the glass of the screen. A few days ago here an article in the newspaper seemed to have let the cat out of the bag regarding green credential in the Republic. How a small island treated its recyclable materials was a question. Shipped up to Malaysia was one possibility. Would there be enough money in such venture, making the transport and handling worthwhile? We all took care, many of us, separating plastic, glass and paper in the hope that something might come of that, only to find it all wasted effort: all household waste, including all renewables, was incinerated and the remnants buried in landfill on an outlying island. No resulting storm as yet from the nascent green/enviro/nature-loving movement.

Untouchable (update Dec22)

Another Sweep refusing a drink. Thrice asked, the man could not accept. At first he sat rather shocked, dumbfounded, pulling back his red baseball cap and alternating smiles and quizzical looks. Following a pause in pleasantries/hostilities/mysteries, he called out something two minutes later. Possibly there was a drink in his kit that stood against the pavement tree; that may have been it. A prata at Wadi was a dollar something. Quick bite. Couldn’t accept; there was no time possibly. Farewells, season’s greetings and thanks—Xie xie. Twenty minutes before the man had been watched sweeping the near gutter along toward Changi Road. It was a surprise when he swung back and took a seat at the table. Rare indeed to sit so close to one of the Mainlanders toiling on the roads, certainly during work hours. At the intersection behind where the street sign could be captured he must have taken a photo of his gutter to send back to the Super in the office. Following the renewed offering after the man had again politely declined a second time, a touch on his shoulder immediately established he was wet through. Swimmers up from a pool could not have been more saturated.

Banish the Thought (updated Jan23)

Funeral for the chap next door in the giant four storey place completed a couple of years ago here. Three brothers, one of whom had only a short time to enjoy the fruit of his labours. A case of rapid decline according to Auntie Helen—rapid weight loss, hair loss last sighting and in a wheelchair. Same day another one too over toward Katong opposite old Mr. Ng’s place, where a middle-aged son or grandson of a local spring-roll king suffered an unexpected heart attack. The latter event had been featured front page of the Home section. Meanwhile, all the while, upstairs the old Chinese uncle who drives the well-washed Toyota saloon continues his stabs at life with his cycle of young Karaoke lasses. A couple of days ago the latest young lady appeared early twenties first sighting, in her white pleated dress, long reddy tint and wide, half bashful smile. The front door was tricky for newcomers, the thin latch hidden and awkward to reach through the grill. At her exit that first morning the lass needed to be escorted out the back door and shown the path around the side of the house. This morning the poor thing fumbled again out front and was encountered at the side gate while taking out the garbage. Brought from there around in front, a quick demonstration showed her how it was done. Early or even mid-thirties on closer inspection, lines on her face covered with make-up. Thank you so much was usually Filipina form, though this woman was taller than average. Maxie had told recently how in the early hours the hostesses might be picked up for even $30 or $40; doubtless for an overnight stay some more was needed. Had the uncle upstairs calculated how many years he had left; years of some kind of good function? Lonely nights difficult for him to endure? There was some kind of theft of youth in such unions in Chinese thinking. In encounters the man only ever mimed helloes, never uttering. Once weekly his white Toyota got a thorough soapy washing.

Guiding Light

Some crossed wiring yesterday with the Chinese and Indians kinda on the same page, for all that there were different texts laid out before them. Unexpectedly, at lunchtime a queue had formed inside the entry at KV, crowded tables in both of the rooms. When a place was eventually found the old Tamil opposite came to tell of his textiles business story; in childhood the man had lived a few doors down in Buffalo Road, where in the 50s the whole street had been wall-to-wall sari shops. Nothing but saris. That particular Buffalo branch of Komala had opened after the success of the first restaurant around the corner on Serangoon Road. Lots of women at the tables, pretty ones here and there what was more. As a consequence some confusion arose about the public holiday: Was it Monday, CNY Eve, and then the Tuesday, the big family dinner, for the designated national holiday?... No, the cashier Auntie informed. The Eve was usually a half-day holiday for the Chinese, many of whom would take the whole day off. The designated holiday was the day following, and then the next; ie. the first day of the new lunar month, Tuesday, and the day after, Wednesday. Alright. Sorted. Truth be told, in fact all three traditions, Buddhist, Hindu & Muslim, were up the creek without a paddle here pretending there was a moon riding the clouds upstairs. All highly elusive that orbit on the Equator; notional more or less. On the equator the new moon often failed to appear in any quarter of the sky when it was supposed to. The physicist Mr. Mohd. from Georgetown, Penang (studies in Adelaide) had some years before regulated the Muslim calendar, establishing for the S-E Asian Tropics the proper, mathematical phases of the bright lamp. Still, for all that, some of the die-hard Muslim traditionalists insisted on optical sightings, simply could not reconcile to other than eyeing the heavenly body themselves. These chaps, deeply pious, venerable religious heads and the like, climbed up into towers and searched from rooftops high and low across the skies of the cities here in the old way of their forefathers. With the same new moon marked on the Hindu calendar, the cashier Auntie at Komala explained, the people had that morning gone to prayers, and lunch later following. Therefore the unexpected crowd along Serangoon Road, outside Tekka and in the restaurant. Just as elsewhere on the island the Chinese were hurrying along with their boxes of mandarins, their pomelos and red hangbao packets.