Ring Girl

 

A jumble as usual this morning with Mr. Hussein. As on earlier occasions, the man had rocked up suddenly, calling out on his approach. The rains had kept him confined the last few days. It was only when he went for his ciggie that the electric blue trousers were sighted, the white leather belt & shirt. Attire from his younger days, most likely, though the older Malays & Arabs too often decked themselves in flourishing fashions. The matter began after the man had been provided his beverage. As a few days before, sweet Horlicks, if you please. Against the cool now the hot instead of iced. Back in the day long ago the concoction in the blue tin was recalled in one of the households of the neighbourhood in the South. Along with Milo, Horlicks was popular here and available at most of the hawker centres. (Milo was in fact ubiquitous, drunk more by adults of all ages, rather than only children.) Ceremonial thanks from the Arab came once, came twice, and on the third occasion was elevated supremely. Jesus bless you, and Noah too, John!... Gee! Almost a buckling at the knees there. Checking himself a moment later, Mr. Huss asked, You are Christian?… Told in the local vernacular, Last time, the man tried again. Muslim? A spontaneous belum was offered as a sop to the old man. (Not as yet.) Third guess was the logical step: Free-thinker. That covered it pretty well, yeah. As a matter of fact, he himself, Mr. Hussein, had been one of those, last time. A Muslim Free-thinker. Something that had not been encountered before in the region. And moreover an Arab. Mr. Hussein’s father and mother had travelled to Singapore from Ambon, one of the more remote islands of the Indo archipelago, where back in the day, Mr. Huss had recently reported, enemy heads were taken and victims roasted on the spit. As Mr. H. spoke his flipping hand had signed. Rather brutish of course; against which one would put something from the other phase of Mr. Hussein’s life journey. Back in his boxing days Mr. Huss had mentioned his mother’s opposition to his chosen profession. During the amateur period at the local Badminton Hall the mother had been gotten round somehow. However, after turning pro and the trip to Bangkok presented for a couple of big fights, Ma had protested. When you hammer men, you hammer Allah. Pleading and begging eventually won her over. Reluctantly, the old woman agreed: two fights in the Northern capital. The proceeds from which went to the lady and financed her hajj pilgrimage. That was the end of that. Career switch thereafter, one that ended in 27 vinyl records, together with trips to Malaysia, Brunei & Southern Thailand for concerts of Tom Jones & Engelbert covers, as well as the Malay repertoire. But where were we?… Religion, free-thinking, Mr. H.’s phase of the latter. That particular period may have coincided with the pro boxing, or else the crooning. Yes, Mr. Huss began forthrightly. We are men. We see for ourselves. Not someone tell us this, that. Some Joes had gotten into Mr. Hussein’s face back then and the man did not like it. Siapa kamu?… Mr. Hussein had sat up straighter in his chair. Siapa kamu? It was nice to take that in the original without need of translation. (Though Mister did oblige.) And who are you? Who in the heck are you?! Here without the expletive; the Malays generally did not use them. Some trumped-up dude pontificating. Along with the free-thinking a period of drinking was owned. Mr. H. mentioned beer, but there may have been a little more than that; and more than liquor, possibly. The exploration seemed to have been wide-ranging. Smoking started; not previously. Also girls, naturally; at least one particular girl. (The sense was more than one.) This girl had been a beauty queen, one ranked No. 10 in the world, if that was right. Thai beauty. And on his side Mr. H. had been a right handsome lad too. The B&W in his youthful pomp, bare-chested with fists raised in the stance, had been placed in the files. More than capable of pulling a beauty. The babe had been a ring girl. Number girl, or card girl. In the swimsuit holding up the round numbers for fights. The last of the Horlicks morning tumble/jumble had involved the President. Shorthand here for the local kampung guy, husband of the previous office-bearer in the Republic. Another Arab the Pres, one of a big group of pals from the former settlement there where the market now stood, stood catching up. A few years junior to Mr. H. As well as the boxing and singing, Mr. Hussein had been a masseur of some repute, his most famous client none other than the former World Heavyweight Champion, Modh. Ali. The President had his flesh pressed on numerous occasions by Mr. H. Fellow Arabs.  Two bull Arabs indeed, sadly falling out in their last encounter. Mr. Hussein had provided the usual service; afterward recipient proffering the agreed sum, as he thought. Thirty baht. When in the provider’s mind the agreed had been three hundred. Bad confusion. Well beneath the dignity that of a proud headhunting islander (by ancestry). Keep the change, returned the senior to the junior here. Stick it you-know-where, in the Australian vernacular. Even in this day it was easy to get lost in currency redenominations, revaluations & devaluations.

 

 

NB. The story of Mr. Hussein Ali’s encounter with the great Mohammed Ali in KL before the Bugner fight will be published in the States by Hobart later this month.

Publication news: The Deaf’s Ma - Panoply

 Hello all

Another flash of mine has been published by Panoplyzine, the third on their platform now up in the States.

This one again comes from the hard streets of Footscray (Melbourne), gifted me by one of my street friends there.

Free viewing, 500 words —

https://panoplyzine.com/the-deafs-ma-by-pavle-radonic/

All best, 

Greetings from Sing after November in Yogyakarta 

Pavle

Moji rodjaci i Jugovici

Pogledajte na brzak. Nesto ce te uhvatil, uz Google-a ako ne drugacije

Zdravo i veseli bili!

P

Faithfulest

  

 

Ordinarily the street was avoided. Bars, karaoke bars, massage & nail joints, restaurants & cafes. Joo Chiat Road presented a remarkable contrast to the lower end of Geylang, just around the corner at the top.

There was never a need to traipse along J C. Little Farms down by Katong Point sold good Australian yoghurt & milk for an occasional treat; there was an alternative Indian eatery on Duku corner, now called Mr Mamak. But that was all.

For light exercise J C Road formed the return leg of the circuit along the canal, where Mountbatten made an intro to that other locale on the Southern boundary, sans the chief feature just along there.

In recent years the road had undergone a remarkable, a dumbfounding colonisation. In a short space of time there had sprouted perhaps two dozen puss places in little over a single kilometre. The stretch from Geylang/Changi to East Coast Road G Maps had 1.4km. Including pooches with the puss the tally would rise quite a bit higher. More and more the exercises now had dwindled to the short canal circuit, left at Mountbatten and, reluctantly, hooking back on Joo C.

Unavoidably, hard by one after another, these whiskered, waggy establishments; serious business concerns, presumably.

After the most recent passage, on the Sunday, when some of the interiors had been lit and weekenders could be seen tiptoeing around behind the glass, the decision for a proper accounting was made. The time had arrived to get the true scale of this thing; precise and verified numbers.

In order to do this properly one needed to step out along the line pen & pad in hand, slowly one side of the road and return along the other. Early the following week it was decided. A Monday or Tuesday would be less busy, much of the buzz died down, the high tables on the walkway less crowded and many places closed. That would make it easier all round.

Onto it then. The situation called for it. Cloud without rain in prospect that afternoon.

Just beyond Crane Road, 80 - 90m along from Geylang corner, the first iteration appeared, one that could easily have been missed even from the pavement.

There was only a small, modest sign indicating an establishment on the upper level, FYFY’S LOVE

The kind of love Fyfy offered was Strictly By Appointment Only.

It made for just a little uncertainty; some trifling doubt. But fitting the predominant form ahead and included among the number.

Mounting quickly after FL, in order:

2.     Beaut Fur

3.     Woof Loof (with Puppies Available)

4.     Bark & Bake; the balance between uncertain and what precisely might be the offering likewise

Hydro Canine was a double-fronted, handsome old shophouse. This was an affluent quarter. Rental at all these places would need deep pockets. Tall, blue surfy waves here in the graphic, which would be echoed in a similar establishment on the other side.

On numerous passes the pun in Pawsome Kennel had failed to register. When the penny dropped a literary type in handsome panama was caught on Joo C. Road contritely nodding his head.

Paws & Whiskers was another discreet sign with arrow for upstairs. Not from the top drawer the copy there.

Even with good care and footing slowly, you could not have absolute confidence each and every last one here would be listed. Still, this was serious accounting.

Tiara Pets.

Ah, yes. Yes. One had sighted a number of those parading out on the street with doting owners; or more carried in arm.

Tiara were Premium Puppies from Japan (in case of emergency…).

The Japanese fashion wave had receded somewhat, but perhaps less so in the more affluent quarters. If memory serves, a wartime mention had the Japanese officer brothels along this strip.

Again a doorway only for Tiara. Like Fyfy before it, there was again a passing thought about the operation here too. Nevertheless, entered on the list until it could be proved otherwise.

Paw Mrkt – Wagging Tails, Happy Pets. Little of inspiration. Older mom & dad operators, possibly.

The Dog Grocer was similar. Disappointing. If one was seeking custom in such a precinct, putting your best foot forward on the shingle might have been expected.

Snow Pawttage.

On its own simply mystifying. At least for a non-doggy hombre. What?…

Luckily, explanation was provided: where Samoyed meet friends.

Without checking, one confidently guessed the photogenic, fleecy husky from the Pole that was popular in the urban Tropics. Ten years ago on first sighting the breed in the neighbourhood one had wanted to harangue the owner. As the number kept mounting it clearly became impossible. It seemed too it was not only the condo crowd captivated by the breed. Many of the pigeon hole dwellers had joined that fraternity. Aircon 15 - 16 with booster fan 24/7, presumably.

Hey Good Cat was the last in the section up to Dunman Road corner.

Trifle pooped by that stage truth to tell. Not by the 300 - 350m walk; more like psychic pooping. (So far as literal poop went, all clear on that front. The middle class could be counted on to observe the bylaws. Certainly the domestic helpers could.)

One deep breath at Dunman. From memory this side of the road was the larger portion.

Often Dunman could be crossed against the lights; locals pretending not to see such bravado.

Breakfast at FLUFFY’S.

Somehow the hints of the bordello failed to tickle in this precinct. (Was it Orwell reporting limpness when a lady of means presented herself to a knockabout lad?)

The Bakery Singapore, where without the fine print opposite one was barking up entirely the wrong tree. Only the Best for Man’s Best Friend.

Couldn’t they have tried a wee harder? Flat, blank offerings of this kind took the wind outta the sails.

How many was that altogether? Fourteen. Fourteen in 650 - 700 metres. One side of the street. The further cogitation needed to wait.

Another small sign on a pillar for upstairs.

CONNOISSEUR.

The added helped: Cat Connoisseur, Redefined For You.

In another life one would venture.

Whatupdawg had long been viewed from the Mamak place opposite on Duku Road corner; it had been one of the final prompts for the survey. Turned out for full information it was the upper-level street sign that was needed at Whatup. Premium Bulldog Specialist.

Which of course suggested the remainder of the strip ought to be reviewed, if one really wanted to be certain of one’s numbers. (Note for future researcher.)

Hunger & thirst was mounting. It was a strange exercise, more testing than expected. Was it the alien subject? A pet lover, someone with some kind of acquaintance, might have found it easier going; enjoyable even.

Dapper Dogs.

Dapper was not exactly fitting on Joo C, not at the present time. There had never been the suggestion. That line was more the Orchard precinct, the upper diplomatic quarter especially. This here sat couple rungs down.

Pat-A-Cat was pretty piss poor again, as the older Australians would say. Lacklustre.

On the other hand, perhaps it should be taken literally. An event a year ago somewhere along here had been attended by Auntie Helen from the house, who reported class distinction dividing the enthusiasts nursing their cups of tea while a number of handsome puss wound between their legs.

Brighton Vet was not strictly part of the cohort; and rather a surprise to find only a single case the length of the road.

Standing shuttered was Cat Socrates, which needed Googling, as from memory there had been a bookshop of that name in the Arts’ pages. (Speciality & gift, with feline theme prominent.)

That was the entire stretch, from Geylang/Changi Roads corner to East Coast Road. The Southern half of J C.

Turn and return. Back the other way on the opposite side for the short leg to Duku, where food & refreshment awaited. During the first years in the Republic the exercise circuit had stretched from Joo Chiat Hotel up to the National Library & back. Ninety minutes/12kms.

First cab off the rank on the Northern was Art of Pets.

Mutts & Mittens Active – Swimming, Daycare, Boarding neighboured. Possibly with the water graphic. (Not every last detail was necessary.)

Done.

The second section from Dunman to East Coast Road & the short return to Duku, opposite the bulldog. Done.

The last section of the street could wait until after a Mamak supper & teh. From memory the remainder was lighter. Shower and rest under the aircon back at the ranch.

Recharge at Mamak. Briefly. That was better.

Again, an inconspicuous pillar for Miss Mandarin’s Cat.

As well as the brothels, back in the day J C Road had been notorious for its dens. The fashionable long pipe. British overlords had been generous in furnishing.

Almost as soon as one turned into Joo C. from Geylang the preponderant fact on the ground became obvious—the Han takeover of Malay soil. A teeny, tiny island of Chinese, in a vast archipelago of the indigenous people. So it went with empire. The East India Co. and its successors masterful manipulators.

Weetail Therapy took a second to get the head around. Birdie lightbulb initially… Ah! Top marks.

Onward there was window glass covered in large caps, THAT DOGGIE IN THE WINDOW. The first part of the lyric had been lost somewhere in the darkness, possibly.

There was a good deal of foreign talent in Joo Chiat. That too was quickly obvious on any venture. Very likely the contingent had a hand in the naming here, if not operation proper. Brainstorming over brunch at the cafes Saturday mornings.

Wellness for futuristic pets. Difficult to comprehend. Cos surg?

Wag a Tail pet store. Perhaps again an older mom & pop op.

            Pawrents. That was good too. Deserved high marks.

            Well. We were done now. That was all; a complete record. Readers can do the math themselves.

It was an inexplicable divide. Both the contrast from the neighbouring Muslim quarter, and also along the street itself. Was the divide something to do with sun & shade?

Muslims kept dogs and puss of course. There were proportionate numbers of feeders of strays. An explanation here would need a real estate agent specialising in the area.

Meanwhile, a literary gal either up in the States or UK was due to release a book on the global cat craze. Amidst the rest of the contemporary upheaval not perhaps fathomless mystery.

 

 

                                                                                                                Joo Chiat Road, Singapore

Faintest Glimpse (Myanmar)

 

Boy! Had that cheap Myanmar house painter landlord Tan found somewhere ever crawled outta some jungle. Vibes blasting like radiation from that inner core. Six years here, via Thailand. A spot of clarity in the exchange brought out fighting now in his own region too, after Yangon and Mandalay. Short, stocky, elaborate tattoos with a symbolism outside any of the known, inked in forest hideouts by experienced urban artists. (How crude were the JNA tags of sixty years ago—Jugoslovenska Narodna Armija, that Frane the Dalmatian & others needed to live with well past their use-by dates.) Late 20s-early thirties. Ijin, he seemed to say for his regional centre, where communication lines with parents & family were still open. (Nandar from the Korean dessert place on North Bridge Road reported nothing from Mandalay city itself these three year.) Stretched fingers of the hand at the ear for the saddle of the phone. Mone Yin it was perhaps for Ijin. On the Shan Plateau would be about right, couple hours north of Mandalay, Chang Mai 6-8 week march. Bab had been hesitant to follow Olga Ilic over the Northern border into Italy in the early ‘50s. This young man no doubt had been left little choice. Te-zuh-dje-bade lit him up nicely, boyish suddenly on the second hearing. Again, a pic, from close by the round of the shoulder, face turned away as if flinching or reeling, chin pointed.