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.
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