To be fair, one could not accuse the government of failing to deliver; that would be unjust. Deliver they most certainly do, in spades often. Sing’ can-do spirit; Chinese tiger variety. A couple years ago billboard announcements of two hundred kilometres of additional sheltered walkway to be erected on the little red dot hot spot. Duly accomplished it seemed. This afternoon Tufail the Kashmiri had messaged from his office in Toa Payoh, “finally some rain.” The mountaineer had felt the lack. It had not even been hot; the usual mild January. In Lt. India after lunch there had been no sign. From Rowell Street craning round in the chair at the Cyber nothing doing, nor any darkening either. Oh well, lucky you young Tuf. Wending back on the bus shortly after, after the finest of sprays footing across to Lavender, suddenly, belatedly, a proper pelting. Road noise and the aircon had made it inaudible at first. Gee! And no payung. It had looked all clear setting out. Well, a pisser getting stuck at a stop waiting. Bugger. Damn. There was work waiting. Can’t gripe now, steady on. One had Fanon in the bag. An excellent companion, come rain, hail or shine. Into the last quarter now, tremendous lyricism, of the kind that could only be delivered by someone with sizeable stake in the matter. Skin. Sartre’s Preface had been excellent too. Another volume Zainuddin had foisted. The Tariq Ali novel of Muslim Spain had immediately preceded; pretty crummy in that case, apart from the intriguing history delivered. So many gaps in the knowledge. It had been the battle of Poitiers that had stemmed the Muslim tide on the Western half of the continent; that show all over and resolved before the Eastern half had even gotten properly under way. Seven hundred years the Alhambra had lasted. Even Greece had only been occupied six hundred. Constantinople. Vizantium. Kosovo Field. Tzar Lazar… A Montenegrin found much of interest. Was Tariq in fact a gay man? Published thirty years ago, a great deal of concentration on that element. Not that it mattered either way. Dreary sex scenes—pine tree metaphors, coconuts &etc. Like in Tzarist times, slave girls/serfs taken willy-nilly brought Count Leo to mind. In Tariq A. a beautiful lass had avoided the attention of the young master of the house by pleading her menstruation. Girls raped and torched in India in the news again. Tufail’s parents were searching for a suitable wife in Srinigar for their boy. In his late twenties, it was becoming dangerous for Tuf being confronted by all the uncovered flesh in Singapore. A week ago the lad had escorted a Batam lady over to the market during a downpour. First time girl under my umbrella, Tufail reported back. It had not rained in fact since that day. Decent pour now. When the doors opened at the stops the strength of it was conveyed. Damn! Nuisance… But, hey! Wait on a minute. No. The 197 this was. Yes; it was not the 7 that continued along Sims Avenue. Here we were then, a ride on offer right the way round to Tanjong Katong Mall, where the recently completed sheltered walkway from the stop for your convenience… Not to fear. Cover virtually unbroken right the way to the doorstep. Thirty metres from the Mall to Geylang corner. At the join to the section fetching East for some reason a panel overhead was missing, one metre square only. Duck left there. Thirty plus thirty plus thirty metres—three stab passes of the football, that included a crossing of the service road for the carpark. The overpass at the Haig crossed the four lanes of Geylang Road—up, down and around by the stop. The market. The row of shops. Out the back by Block 10. It helped to know the way, otherwise it would have been a merry dance. Were one headed to any one of the 14 Blocks, you were home and hosed without a single drop on your person. Sheltered all the way; entirely cloistered. In this particular case, needing to reach a “landed property,” a bungalow, there was a final twenty metre dash. By Block 9 the high eave of the adjacent utility building gave shelter. Mind the pigeon droppings there! Pavers with good grip in order to reach the tree on the corner. From which point it was 15-20 metres to the front veranda of the house. Ha! Walk in the park. A breeze. Easy as pie. It was often said, by dainty girls in print dresses in particular, If it were not for the PAP, we’d be like Indonesia or Malaysia. In the sun and rain of the unforgiving Tropics, man had triumphed over adversity and obstacles like nowhere else.
Geylang Serai, Singapore 2011-2020
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