Foto Op. (The Roaches)

 

 

Odd how it had not been more explicit, more clearly and simply understood. All this long while, right across the decade and more, you were tirelessly observing the family unit, the intact, functioning social group that had upheld human and animal kind more broadly these untold millenia. Retained. Coherent still. Excellent forms every which way you turned. Magnificent in short. The hidden, undisclosed had little consequence against all the abundant evidence.

Fascinating display. All the elements of ‘50s TV apple pie family drama was given a much more thorough, stronger form here.

            With Eid the narrow streets were thronged; the wider Malioboro same and the mall too. Ten years ago foot traffic at the mall had always been sparse. Eid must have been a large part, but likely the economy had significantly improved too. (Since Prabowo dipped again on many measures.) Nuclear families perhaps predominating; extended well represented, though not such a lot of the earlier generation. Gramps & grandma had been left behind in the kampung to care for the chooks & fish.

            The costume hirers were doing a roaring trade up toward Pajeksan opposite the handsome former Dutch admin buildings, high colour sarongs, scarves & headdress, with the play kris stuck behind in the men’s waistbands. The raised parasols were largely for effect, though of course even the morning sun was murder. Comic opera form; perfectly understandable. Everyone did it everywhere. Only it was odd here paying photographers. How else to get everyone in the shot it must have been, for those who could afford.

            The orang with tidy dosh filled the Hamza Batik resto on the top storey of the building. One tall, self-assured dentist most likely the other day hosting his wife & 4 - 5 kids, for what looked a routine treat. Colourful fruit juices crowded the tables with the food servings. After the repast, shortly before the paterfamilias wordlessly rose for departure, his eldest girl brought out a pack of floss picks and handed them round.

            Mas Adhi had reserved the usual room. There were precious few guests at the losmen on Gang 2, or any of the adjacent. All the foot & becak traffic came from the top of Sosro and the other streets, where the prices were more affordable.

            Ten or eleven days passed without a single request for a photograph with the bule,  the white guy in the panama (more than slightly soiled after 18 months daily wear). Then the day after Eid, three cannoned in one morning.

The first was a lad with his wife and another gal. A shot of himself with the fancy man was quite enough for that galant. The other examples were extended family groups, where young children featured with their elders & parents. In both cases the smiles exchanged with the kids had been noticed, which prompted and encouraged the oldies to try for it, the shy mites ushered forward. Go on, go on.

Beautiful, glorious children. Fabulous adornments to any life. Saviours. Startled of course by the uncanny warmth shown little ones like themselves.

            The people were honoured to have their progeny greeted in such fashion. Greatly honoured. Exceedingly grateful. A young 6 - 7 year old girl with two long pigtails radiated natural beauty. She and others were clasped for the pics, received hands on the shoulder, the top of their heads. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Sama, sama, sama.

            The foreigner speaking the language! How remarkable. The shots would be included in the family albums, a tale to tell.

            It suggested how far they had travelled for their precious holidays. Their kampungs were hours away, drivers needing to be hired for the trek. (Regular transport was still limited and difficult in Indo.) They would get the main news items out where they were, for those interested, though very likely not all the ins-and-outs of many of the horrors. The Epstein world was far side of the moon where these people had settled and were raising children by the fields, with the ducks & chicken. 

            From within Adhi’s room at Pinang Merah the calls from the masjid 15m across the way were heard only on rare occasions. It had been the same on previous visits. The amplification was never lacking and one or two of the younger muezzin were eager to highlight their range; yet there had not been a single wake from the calls. It was odd. One did feel entirely at ease in Adhi’s homestay. Overnight the snib on the door was left.

            More oddness again. Inevitably, it was going to sound fanciful invention.

            As the days had gone on the relationship with the roaches in the adjacent bathroom developed. To call the space an ensuite would give the wrong idea. It measured 1.3 x 1.7m, maybe. Pan, shower-head mounted on the wall and bucket below the little spigot. No basin, shelf, towel hook or rack. In one corner a tiny plastic waste bin; citronella one side and a deodoriser sachet the other on the floor.

            A pair of roaches, presumably M & F. There was an overflow hole in the side wall where in the early days the critters would exit when the door was opened. As the days progressed and the threat receded, one or in some cases both roaches confidently remained in place. It was unclear which gender was the more dauntless. One often chose the top of the waste bin for roosting and held firm regardless. One morning the posture of one had altered; it had been relaxing on its side somehow. 

The last day or two there was almost no scampering out of sight; fright at the entry had receded, the flicking of the light and most recently even the bucketing of the toilet was often taken in stride by the pair. It had been a minor point of honour for the whole of the term that there had not been a single cistern flushing of the toilet. All of it turned out could be managed from catchment—from teeth-brushing, hand-washing, during bathing by angling the shower-head hard against the wall and re-positioning the bucket. How many guests were going to go to that trouble? Gold star.

Unfortunately, the enviro credentials had been spoilt the other day when the A/C had been left on 2 hours for the ITO supper, around in Mataram. (The wife Tri might have noticed on the return when she passed the open door.) Through the nights it had been impossible without, same as afternoon recuperation. 24C.

It was Mutalib in Sing who had told of the special care that was needed inside with roaches. Injure, or god forbid squash, a cell mate’s roach, you were in for it big time. The story had emerged in novels too over the years, possibly Genet.

 

 

 

                      Yogyakarta, Indonesia

                                                                                                                                         Eid / Lebaran 2026

 

 

 

Unaccountable

 

Gone half 4 @ Tanamera. Light lunch was taken @ Beringharjo, after one of those delightful rounds of the old women at both the baju & fruit/veg. The usual human element numerously. Perhaps a week, or even a fortnight was needed down in the great southern land in order to tally anything of the same number… Well, that has to be a gross underestimation, don’t it? No question. Where would something of the kind be gathered out and about in those parts? Let’s try to enumerate: the fine young Viet at Brunetti’s with the bass OZ strine calling the numbers. One or two minor cases at Scarlett in Foots. The Viet bakery around the corner in Hopkins Street from the girls serving behind the counter, even when they were harried. Possibly a fellow cyclist walking his bike. One of the foreign students at the market library—not Flinders Lane any more. It was wearisome attempting to stretch it further.

 

Publication news: Salute! (Tekka Market), published by Modern Literature

 Hello all

Here is another old piece, dating from the third year on the Equator, recently published. The Indian Quarter of Singapore again, appropriately placed up in Chennai, Tamil Nadu, from where a large part of the diaspora hails. A few years ago an earlier, longer piece was published by the same people at Modern Literature.

This one runs a little under 1.2k words and is centered on the wonderful Tekka Market on Serangoon Road, a greater attraction than any of the promoted big-ticket places. Free to read on the site,—

https://modernliterature.org/salute-tekka-market-by-pavle-radonic/

Svako dobro, all best

Pavle

Splash (Jogja)

  

Hooded against the heat, the kampung lad brought a bucket of water over to the horse & cart. A drink first for the beast, then each of the shod hoofs was splashed, following which the tail that rested in a sling stretching from its hind quarters to the front of the carriage. Reddy-brown, thick, long & handsome tail, taking a curve in order to fit there. The coat of the horse was a couple shades lighter, with less of red. In the light of the late morning sun the colours glimmered. A little puddle remained in the sling afterward, where a portion of the tail rested. Banyak, many times this was done for the beast through the course of a day, the lad answered the question. Standing & trotting in the hot sun throughout, understandable. Early evening last night, not long after maghrib when setting out for the meet with Mahshushah, another horse on Malioboro had become unruly and climbed into the potted plants along the gutter. Couple dozen spectators with cameras had gathered to watch the men settling the animal, one in front at the horse’s head as it swung and bared its teeth; another behind was turning the sling that had been twisted round. In front the horseman in his fancy attire may have gotten a little nip on the hand in the process, as far as the bit in the mouth would allow. Unflustered, the man continued, calmly and patiently. Again, skittishness under the hot sun all day perfectly understandable. How people coped so equably themselves without ever any kind of temper or annoyance recalled in how many visits to Java was the question. Not a single eruption, nor anything like, a year and more altogether. Čeljade trpi što magare nebi, Bab used to say surveying the human scene. A person endured what was beyond a donkey.

 

 

NB. It took couple days to get to the bottom of the sling. It was not to confine the tail, stop it getting into the spokes of the wheels; the tails were not that long. A carriage delivering passengers to Ramai Mall solved the mystery. The horse’s poop was valuable; catching it also kept the streets clean.

 

 

 

 

 

Clean Sweep

 

Touch before quart past landing @ Tanamera. Slow-pacing along the left, shaded side of Mangkubumi, where some of the last little shopfronts were still standing. Within the A/C-ed walls of TM not a single soul at the tables, unsurprising during Ramadan. There had been a narrow miss on the Tugu crossing, because of a motorcyclist shooting along on the opposite side of the road, as they do here.

            A spectacular WA from Sak arrived before leaving the room. 

            The pic of some blouses for suggested gifts had looked unappealing to the gal; looked like male attire. Couple jokes then following. After which Sak requested another item; a completely left-field other. No exaggeration—it was spectacular. 

            Here is the accompanying photo she sent:

 

 

            Well, the gal may have guessed by now the odd range of gifts preferred by her new beau, only her second partner since teen years: a tongue scrapper had been presented, a blouse from the JB night market, an A5 journal & pair of different coloured gel pens. The rest of it had been tehs & lunches at the street eateries.

            (The two month Bulgarian husband had complained about his wife’s halitosis; perhaps something to do with the changed environment in the Balkans, because back on the Equator it was all honied sweetness. Once Sak had taken a nip of the Listerine in the cupboard. The thought of the scrapper had arisen from that, though the gal had been given a clear A-OK otherwise.)

            Now a broom would be a pleasure to add. Small, hand-sized, easily fitting in the suitcase, Sak had gone on to explain later during some to-and-fro. (Assuming a case and not knowing of the usual small shoulder bag.) The article was needed for brushing her bed mattress, she said. 

           Outright pleasure. Truly. But best left for the return to Sing, where the pieces had been noticed in the passes of the older form provision stores.

            Frankly speaking, you needed such an item for your own mattress at Carpmael, too. All kinds of matter always managed to insinuate itself among the creases and folds of the litter, after tossing and turning night after night, dreaming, composing, fantasising still.

            Over the journey it had always presented a problem the conventional gift expectation—cards, wrapping, ribbons added—though precious few of them were ever bought any of the girls, sweet and fine every single last one.

            Lottsa probs with Sak and some of the others in the Tropics, but a whole other order of consideration there.

The Intercessor - published by Action, Spectacle Winter 2026

What are you supposed to do with a man who says he wants to die and lies down on the roadway?  

Nothing. It was impossible. Shield him from the cars from the three directions.  

At first he had been standing in the middle of the intersection and taken by the arm gave signs of violence, snarling and half-raising his hand. Eyes glaring.  

Soon he was flat on the bitumen, at first hands down by his side, then back above his head in the sign of surrender.  

I want to die, again.  

A Somalia likely, sick of the life there. His clear enunciation suggested he had arrived many years back.  

It left you stunned.  

Telling the man that this would only get him locked up failed to move him. The police station was on the corner, immediately opposite. Another cyclist who stopped tried gentle mockery, without success. It was a hopeless case.  

The fellow was not one of the regulars in Nicholson Street; he had never been seen before. The police were decent enough, as they in fact had been all those many months. Three of them in their rubber gloves comfortably carted the man over to the footpath by the pub.

Many of the cars wanting to take Hyde Street took other options; others passed slowly, looking and thinking, Accident victim.

There was nothing to do but wheel off and leave him; there was nothing for it. The other cyclist had voiced the thought that had occurred to you too, offering to take the man for coffee down the street.  

There was nothing else. Just the whole thing completely woeful. Months and months afterward it nagged in the brain, both the hopelessness and the shameful helplessness and ineptitude. Someone with some deft, natural touch might have managed something; at the critical moment sometimes people were remarkable. Sometimes the right kind of intervention, even some simple response for a case such as that, could make a difference, become life-changing even and the sufferer never looking back. You heard of such stories and read about them. The sort of people who could settle a disturbed animal with some quiet words, a particular intimate balm in their manner. In dire situations people could find a means of providing comfort, relieving the position almost immediately. In childhood illness one sometimes received that kind of gentling from a mother, or some other person of the circle. Though difficult to recall specific instances, it wasn’t imagination. You had done better yourself encountering some troubled circumstances, albeit less dramatic than this.  

Knowing Nicholson Street and all the challenges made it especially hard. Fakery never worked in such cases.  

 

                 Hyde & Footscray Roads

 

 

https://www.action-spectacle.com/winter-2026-part-ii/radonic

 

 

Dress

 

Fair chance it was the trialing of the dress that gave the disturbance last night for Sak. In the earlier, conservative black baju the day before, with the accompanying scarf, there was little issue; ensconced within that simple envelope Sak had sat easy & comfortable. The bright white and printed blue batik was a very different proposition, a very different venture—doubtful, problematic and hazardous. With the flat, lank hair on display further concern again was added, even though the new colour certainly suited Sak better. (At one of the early meets Sak had confessed she wore the scarf because she could do nothing with her hair. Far from a traditional Muslim gal beneath the persiflage.) Some acne was not able to be adequately covered by the make-up too. A testing circumstance, however you looked at it. Understandable unease was the result, which was perfectly apparent from the outset, even from the approach on the steps at the Plaza. An actor on the brightly lit stage before the public feeling very little fit for that role.