NY in KL

Do the Malays have a Western calendar NY greeting? Islam naturally complicates the matter. Likely no, it does not translate. Cannot do so. Yet of course as a modern nation state they are inevitably enmeshed in the Western business/trading/holiday cycle. Will be expecting minimal courtesy greetings perhaps, as in the assumed case of Christmas just gone. (Awkward responding to the girl at reception at the hotel the other day on the matter. — You don't celebrate Christmas?... How to explain?... ) There might not be a single car hoot from the streets, though perhaps the young tear-away bikers will have something to say about that.

         Coming up the hill from the mosque the three or four tailors on the left this morning at their old Singers, cutting with their shears, needle and thread. Occasionally in Chow Kit one comes upon the ancient sight of house-wives catching the light before their entry-ways mending. Providing the help within the little tailor shops here are always males. In his down-time the barber in his booth amidst the rag-men sits with his newspaper. A tall angular man who eschews dye, sitting cross-legged within that tight space recalling the birds at the markets kept in cramped cages. Many of the Tamil barbers work in much smaller spaces, almost the proverbial telephone booths. These younger men come out to lean on a post when they are without customers. Not the tall, gray barber, sitting like an exhibit of some sort in a space measuring three strides and perhaps 1.5 width. As for the tailors, there is an outdoor seat in front of the barber's window shaded by the mosque from early afternoon. Perhaps the man cannot read in peace there. Going past this morning a double take was needed to verify a volume on his tight little shelf against the inner wall. Not a towel, nor tissues. No indeed not. Here was almost a replica of the four inch high holy Qur'an with all the commentaries gifted by Mr. Zainuddin down in Singapore. The red ribbon showed the first fifth—counting from the Western “rear” cover—had been passed in this current cycle of reading. (As in the case of fervent Christians reading the Bible in unending cycle a few generations past, here in this region numerous readers have been encountered reading their Holy text the whole of their lives.) A keener eye will now be needed at that window. To date it has always been the newspaper and cigarette in the Barber's free hands.

    Around in the side street a painfully thin, diminutive old blow-me-down Chinaman sits in his usual place a foot from the large flat-screen in the front of the white-goods shop showing the product’s best action-film colours. Judging by the perpetual grin and delight dementia has well and truly set in, brought on in this case by abandonment most likely; or else too long living. Against the pillar beyond the turn the early middle-aged Indian mother and child have not made an appearance for a couple of days. Normally the woman sits against the pillar with the baby before her, a spread of newspapers under the pair. The woman rarely raises her eyes, letting the figure of herself and child do the talking. A little plastic crimson receptacle provides the final clue for those a trifle clueless. Somehow the visuals to date have always been so gripping alms have not yet fallen there from this hand. In Georgetown, Penang the ubiquitous Chinese jewelers—invariably Chinese—employ security guards —invariably dark Malays and Indians—who perch atop stools out front nursing their rifles on their knees. Here in Chow Kit toughened glass cover the counters, leaving only a gap at the bottom large enough to allow notes to pass. Glass more often than grills. Transaction and closer viewings thus far escaped notice.

The Lakes - Taiping

Not difficult to understand the old Sikh on the night-shift at Cherry Inn in Taiping, part Security Guard and greater part dispatcher for the refrigerated goods the Inn does on the side. In fact the major business they run at Cherry is the cool-room store. Trucks loading at two A.M. four, A.M. and then through the day. Small wonder the rooms are so cheap. One learns as one goes along on the road.
         Why remain in a place like that so many days? The neighbouring Bird-houses added to the racket, more so when one learned one was hearing recorded and amplified nature (one of the means of attracting the birds). King Edward VIII School across the road. Even in the holiday term it somehow provided a lure. All the honorifics during the small window of reign out in the far-flung colonies in the steamy tropics. Up in the hills of Montenegro at the time they naturally blamed the woman for the ruination of kingship, bringing the handsome young royal—an old floozy to boot—undone so completely. A true, devoted lover would have sacrificed herself somehow in order to avoid such a fate. In the hills of Taiping the saga's development must have occasioned a particular kind of grief for the administration. One could not return to that time, but one could sit athwart it here in Cherry looking over the school grounds. The sitting-room on the first floor with all the collection of Chinese figurines must have dated from a time when the place housed a large, affluent and sprawling Chinese trading family. Normally they charged 120, or was it 140? ringgit, for the spacious rooms with bathroom attached, if the owner could be believed. That was before the refrigeration business took off. The sleep had not been good for a long time in any case. Somehow the old Sikh himself was an attractive ornament.
         Cheeky old devil. On parting the last night he must have known about the two A.M. upcoming. Took care to disarm with a warm handshake for the farewell.
         — I won't see you in the morning.
         He had hoped there would not be an irate encounter in the middle of the night.
         Earlier in the night the sky had dropped, dark come on early. The pattern since arrival had been late afternoon and evening showers, lasting not more than an hour or two. This despite the fact Taiping was said to have the highest rainfall in Malaysia. In the middle of December this year the monsoon seemed to be affecting the central interior and particularly the East coast. Tourist precincts on the Eastern side of the Peninsular had been shut up a number of weeks, southern Thailand and the Philippines inundated a number of times since November. Here in Taiping, at least that first week of December, one could almost get by with the trusty old panama if one didn't stray too far. There were, however, sights on offer. What would one report to friends of Taiping in the time ahead?... What, no Maxwell Hill? You didn't see the Night Safari? The famous Lakes you skirted in the dark?... (After learning on the first night of the Lakes close proximity to the Furama, the first hotel chosen, there had been a brief pass along the road-side.)
         Each day the quiet streets unfolded their crumbling old begrimed buildings that told of a thriving enterprise and trade some number of decades past—about a century past in fact. The people above all claimed a new-comer, particularly the older inhabitants, former tin miners and Indian rubber plantation workers. The transparency of large-scale migration movements, orchestrated by the colonial power in order to extract the valuable product from this faraway possession, showed history and the mechanism of power in the most stunning panorama. The hills that bore the ore still ringed the town. Some of the old men coming out for their cup of tea in the evening had been involved in the industry, gone deep into the hills with their picks and lanterns. One could not expect to see the marks of that immediately. Nevertheless, there was something of living exhibits hanging about the men. Much of that dark past seemed starkly on display even these sixty years later, a large part of the effect the physical fabric of place, the old wearing buildings and then the silent hills ringing round. Inserting oneself on those walkways, passing under the verandas against the drab walls seeking the shade, one walked in the footsteps of those who had come before. Characteristically for the region, midget hunchbacks walked tall and upright along those passageways. In Singapore the same uncanny sight posed questions about endurance and survival. Indians seemed to cluster among their own. They too had developed some kind of undaunted resilience from deeply rooted sources hidden from an outsider, a newcomer to town. Elderly bicycle riders—one avoids the recreational term—sailed over the bitumen in inner Taiping often without any noticeable sense of propulsion, as if they were mounted on a carousel. Such was the character and self-possession on display. A poet of the street, dear Reader, struck dumb with awe and wonder, striving to convey something of the impressions.
         Nevertheless, for the better sense of place, a look at the Lakes at least on the last evening before night-fall seemed worth the venture. Best take an umbrella. There were no verandas and covered walkways in that corner of town. If it were needed, the Inn's, got from the Sikh, would provide ample shelter. Roll up the trouser legs; walking shoes, not sandals. A short round before dinner. Leaving it until after dinner the dark would have descended again and the street procession around the old market could not be viewed at perfect ease.
         A walk around the Lakes.
         In presenting the shield the Sikh had added some kind of incomprehensible mumble. A sturdy if slight man. In place of the usual head wrap a beanie served. One could tell immediately the fellow was a decent sort. Possibly he had annoyed the owner by quoting RM70 for the room. Just beside the Lakes the Furama charged RM85 for one much inferior. Cherry was closer to the market; a more interesting clientele. Lasses working at the hairdresser doubling as masseuses put up at Cherry. There seemed to be no middle-class Chinese from other parts bringing children across for the school holidays staying at the Inn.
         A quick turn around the Lakes just for the heck of it. Maxwell Hill could be viewed from the streets, if that was indeed Maxwell up above the northern side of the street grid. On Maxwell the English manager class had built their fine homes where the alpine air and greenery provided a refuge from the heat of the valley. In amongst the dark cover on the hill little clearings and houses could be made out. The bulk of that particular hill provided a sight on every pass and more than one table at more than one Eatery offered a compelling prospect of the ever-changing rise under the cast of light.
         The Sikh's English was more than adequate, almost as good as any encountered over the course of the week in Taiping. No, his father had not been brought over to keep the peace, or for military service. Of his own accord his father had come out from the Punjab. No kind of coolie or hired hand for others' dirty work. A little surprised, perhaps pleasantly, the Sikh, to find himself unexpectedly recalling his father.
         A repetition was needed. The grizzly beard made lip-reading difficult.
         — Have a bottle of beer you'll enjoy it better.
         The Sikh showed a good-sized container with his hand measure, a proper long-neck. Somehow he had been intuitively picked on the first night as a drinker. The mention had clearly caught the chap off-balance.
         — Work-hours I don't drink. After work I have a few beers, yes.... Blinking under the interrogation.
         Taking in sights went against the grain. One knew precisely what the old Sikh meant. One was supposed to walk around a lake, observe the water-lilies, the bird-life, the dotting of the rain on the water in this case. One was supposed to be calmed and refreshed by receiving such imprints. A pleasant Shikoku Japanese girl had had her Night Safari in Taiping ruined a couple of days before by some intemperate remarks an hour before she set off. It proved impossible for the poor innocent to enjoy the caged animals with the lights trained upon them after that. Guiltily the girl admitted as much the next morning. For another kind of experience, on the following day the lass went up to Maxwell Hill and reported back a cleansing of that other unfortunate venture.
         Paddle-boats in the shape of swans were out on the Lakes. In the branches of trees at one end iridescent white blooms eventually showed themselves as some kind of parrot. Remnants of water-lilies would certainly have disappointed a visitor keen to document their trip. Thick white ribbons of cloud clung to the lowest reaches of the broad-backed hill—Maxwell possibly. Air currents in the steamy tropics produced almost subterranean clouds. It seemed unlikely that the series of lakes could have formed of themselves like this in Taiping. One had heard of gorges from the tin mining operations that had been subsequently filled with water. Albert Park back in Melbourne came to mind. Tourist projects in Malaysia had been initiated by the former PM Mahathir; the island of Langkawi had been transformed into a tourist mecca with various projects. It seems nothing of this sort was involved in the case of the famous Lakes of Taiping. Taiping in Mandarin was Everylasting Peace. Here as in other scenic post-card locations there had been sited human poverty and drudgery, the grim trial of life, amidst a landscape from the dream world of First Creation. The Montenegrin coast echoed here in memory. Oddly in the shops there were no postcards specific to Taiping. Pictures of the Komtar tower in Georgetown, a couple of hours away, once the tallest building in Asia, were available in a box on a Stationer's floor, along with others of the Petronas Towers and the like. Nothing of the lakes, hills or streets, nor the people. These required the naked eye and patient regard.

                      
 
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Salute to the Man of Clay

In a proper downpour here the first shelter available. Previously the Indian prata place on Hutton Lane - Jalan Clarke corner was too close to the house for stopping, either out-bound or in. Coming back in the teeming rain last night changed all that. All very much usual and familiar: garish fluro lights from above and tiles below seemingly equally emitting; three or four stalls, twenty tables, backed chairs raising it above the common stool arrangement. The lad serving however can't recognize his own language no matter how the thing was turned, for all the care with the articulation from many years of practice.

         Classic Tamil. Unlikely there could have been any mistake.

         Short, boyish frame; mid-twenties at the outside. But with the Rudolph Valentino mo, neat cut with plenty of body straight from the Business pages and all the fortitude of his tribe, the emanation was of a man twice his age, settled and on top of the world.

         The final give-away head-loll that stamped the Southern Indian would have followed had the fellow comprehended. Tamils usually raise the wattage in the smile too. Even in the settled work-a-day countenance, it was easy to see it lurking close beneath the surface.

         — Eperi irke.

         Rising on the last syllable. Higher rolling on the first two. Lengthening slightly the second last.

         No dice. There was a barrier evident, difficult to surmount. Not the first time....

         Stretched out. Try for natural snap and ease. Same. All the encouragement to get the guy to ease up, relax, listen more and not allow his eyes to betray him, wasn't coming off.

         Ah! Nothing left for it but put the gun back in the holster. Not this time Partner. Never mind. Can't be helped.

         Move on.

         The order he gets straight-away. Teh tarik kurang manis.

         Some wanna tell you it's kula manis. Non-native speakers miss-hearing, the pedants say.

         Less sugar.

         With the generous dollop of condensed milk from the Carnation can, you don't need added.

         Six months of 2 - 3 daily one began wondering what was stacking on the fat rolls, love handles, the muffin contours. Care with the plate was cancelled out when one was sloshing teh tariks juiced up like that.

         Table-spoons usually from big ten litre tins that needed to be lifted onto the counter with knees bent.

         Chap returned five minutes later without the teh.

         The teh order had been conveyed to the drinks stand. Thirty-forty people outta the rain; there was a wait on orders.

         Leaning on the table-top—easy for him at that height—beaming.

         Leaning close.

         Still further added light from his fine row.

         — You say Eperi irke?...

         Ah ha! Chap from the near stall had been a keen observer. Given him the word subsequently back-stage.

         Fellow might not quite be believing.

         Confirmed, the young buck responds unapologetically:

         — You say wrong.

         He would say that.

         In fact the difference between the two renderings was utterly indistinguishable. Mozart's quarter tone discrimination could not have picked up the variation.

         All to do with the face before him; the expectation of the order.

         When was the last time a white guy here or back in Tamil Nadu had asked this young, forward bright spark or anyone of his tribe how he was doing?

         Never in all his born days, take it from me.

         Reader, a not insignificant first here on Hutton - Clarke corner, where the clientele would turn completely invisible should there be any power outage. A storm like that nothing to be wondered at, in Malaysia or anywhere else. Would have made it interesting.

         One excessively pale early-thirties Arab couple aside. Strange, unusual shade of pale, bred from generations of close wrapping under hammer-on-anvil sun.

         A single Chinaman very likely with some Malay cross-fertilization.

         One hard-arse early riser pure native, dead on his feet, still in his company livery work clobber, delivery or long-haul transport, getting fair shut-eye one hand on the table-top and the other arm across the neighbouring chair.

         What the heat can achieve in the matter of sleep posture has to be seen to be believed in the Tropics. Corpse-like figures throughout wherever you looked, every side. Concrete work-benches in the Fish Market after-hours after they've been hosed down. Tiled walkways, sometimes with a sheet of cardboard beneath. Sometimes another sheet improvised along the outer line of the walk-way—the famous Sir Stam Raffles five-foot walk-way—for privacy. Once a chained bicycle was seen used as the support for a ten inch high board stretched near three metres and angled flaps at both ends for stops.

         Slumping in chairs all over the town the same as in Singapura. Bottom steps of walk-ways more than once found adequate for a weary, resting head— a pillow of sorts.

         The famed Asian squat that is such a boon for posture (universal of course even three or four generations ago the world over), promoting suppleness and strengthening the lower back, can at the same time hold a weary bent head catching some serious shut-eye.

         Chap in his late-seventies, face heavily creased and lined, finding respite from the heat of the day for some precious down-time.

         Old timers back in the hills in the old country always had tales of the weary soldier on guard-duty, out on his feet no problem whatever. Not a figure of speech one can be sure.

         Tim, one of the hosts at the Artist's Residency here, thinks the Indian garbage collectors sift through the waste before it goes to landfill, or whatever. A longer term resident had it thus.

         Certainly the Garbos dive into the wheelie-bins to extract the rubbish by hand.

         On Penang Road the tall, mustachioed, big-bodied Indian employs a pair of tongs to empty the street bins. The refuse he transfers to large plastic bags before carting away.

         This Palace-guard-type Garbo on Penang Road was seen the other morning taking three or four bulging bags over to his motor-bike parked in front of the Police Station, starting up and steering one-handed down the road and around the corner.

         Four-lane Penang Road. Endless streaming and darting. Bikes making it trickier still.

         Older peds often rely on raised hands and eyes averted to get from one side of the road to the other.

         The overpass and the first traffic light at the northern end of Penang Road would be three hundred metres.

         One-handed, no helmet, three-four garbage bags in the left, not any kind of problem.

         Because Jalan Ceylon is so narrow the collector there comes along the street with an open trolley where he loads the bags from the household bins. These bins are the standard urban green wheelie bins. Here in Georgetown however, at least in this quarter abutting the Heritage precinct, the big compactor trucks for some reason are not in service. An ordinary flat-bed tray waits on Argyle corner.

         The drivers are mainly Indian too; otherwise Malay.

         A truck license is of course skilled work.

         Fellow behind the wheel probably has the radio on while he waits. Aircon unlikely.

         The other, the worker at the pointy-end, makes his way down Jalan Ceylon slowly, clearing both sides of the street at once.

         A daily operation. Still a good load every day by the time the Garbo reaches just past the mid-point, Numbers 22-25.

         No evidence of tongs.

         There might possibly have been one glove. Couldn't be sure. You couldn't risk too close a scrutiny. How could you?

         Up with the trolley to the truck and wheeling back empty.

         There is no re-cycling to speak of in Georgetown, Penang. Glass, paper, plastic—all indiscriminately in the bin.

         People take time to carefully enclose in a bag or paper. Everyone knows what awaits the Garbo.

         Chap in his late-twenties, rather handsome in a kind of deeply gouged, clay aspect. Long face and pointy chin. Beautiful row like most of his tribe. Very little sugar and sweeteners in traditional communities.

         Couldn't be sure about the South in his case; rather tall for one thing.

         Long arms a definite advantage.

         In Singapore it was invariably Mainland Chinese enticed into the lure of sweeping the streets. Here it Indian or Malay.

         Mainland Chinese Sweeps in Singapore not once in over seventeen months had ever raised their eyes to a well-meaning passer-by fully prepared to acknowledge his fellow man, never mind the grime and dirt.

         Someone had to do it. It was either that or join the rest of the crowd walking on by.

         Never happened; not once.

         Same might have applied for a local Chinese stung a bit by the whole damn thing; one who might recall his Coolie forebears who had built those streets in the first place.

         The Mainlanders might withhold from them just the same.

         In fact the average hard-working rat-race local Chinese might be to blame in Singapore for the distrust of their ancestral compatriots. Those especially with the shiniest cars who get their maids to clean them early each morning.

         Might be a harsh call maybe.

         In Malaysia Indian and Malay Sweeps and Garbos stand perfectly ready with a smile.

         No automatic chasm-gulf like the Grand Canyon impossible to traverse here.

         Do your part, the Garbo and Sweep in Malaysia will do his, take it from this Traveller.

         Unlikely the tip will be listed in Lonely Planet.

Striking Singapore (Nothing Like It)

Bulletin from down in the south: Singapura, Lion City; a world away. Something like two million foreign workers needed to keep the country functioning. Construction, shipping, factory labour (perhaps even necessary for the substantial armaments industry; one of the largest manufacturers of land-mines in the world according to some). Domestic helpers alone number over two hundred thousand. Precious few locals want to sit behind the wheels of the buses. In this case drivers enticed from mainland China. Trouble struck when these drivers learned of the variance in conditions for the local drivers, doing the same job. Same yellow colour too. Wouldn't swallow it. A rat-bag crew of twenty-nine it seems having the cheek to spring the first strike in Singapura since the nineteen hundred and eighties. Thirty odd year clean run. These Chinese suddenly unhappy with the wages they had agreed to in advance. Six months, a year ago, they had been sweet. Begging for the chance, down on their knees, sucking pisang practically. Suddenly it's not good enough for them. Two days downed tools. Climbed down from the drivers' seat. Aircon, clean, no need collect tickets with the automated system—still not happy. Back where they came from unmade roads more often than not. Aircon? The window open and arm hanging out to sift some current. Quite likely infected by the former Communism in the homeland, ideas of fair work for fair pay. Pervasive cancer in any country. How do they imagine Singapore was built? Did the common coolie ancestors press for wages at every little grievance? Short shrift they got, the authorities not allowing the canker to fester. On their way as we speak, repatriated to their own country, their grubby little towns. An object lesson to all, both the remainder and all those who might dream of following in their footsteps. Twenty-nine of them, Goodbye. Fuck off. We don't need you. Plenty more where you came from waiting in line, happy to get the nod. Work permits revoked; contracts voided. Two days out demanding better pay and conditions. In addition five other drivers to be prosecuted for taking part; which has to be read as locals who couldn't be kicked out of the country. In an ideal LKY wet-dream, any citizen breaking the rules like this deserves to be transported to a desert island and left with three days’ supply of coconuts and water. Bold decisive action should keep the road clear ahead the next thirty odd years. Strike the snake quick-smart; cut off the head you're on top of the situation. Poor commuters down there these last few days, innocent victims. The rabble-rousing Workers'-was-Party a concern in the time ahead. All the good work could easily be undone without the country pulling in the one direction. In the last election three or four Opposition candidates elected. Either on that occasion, or an earlier still a few years previous, LKY had been quoted as telling the particular electorate concerned they were in for punishment for their betrayal. Fascinating fantasy island. Much celebrated in some envious quarters.

Politics in the Raw - ML (April26)

Another Sultan's turn for a birthday here today (which means a public holiday in the particular state concerned). On this occasion it is the Sultan Ibrahim Ibni Almarhum Sultan Iskandar, the Sultan of both territorially and economically the largest state in the federation—Johor down in the South. In rather ceremonially stiff and awkward oval portraits, the Sultan and his wife are presented in full regalia of sashes, medals, tiara and cap-crown, epaulettes and sabre in the former's case, in the morning's newspaper notices. An initial count had eight and one-half full page spreads of congratulatory notices taken out by various enterprises & associations. The assumption had been that the second half of the newspaper—The New Straits Times in this case—would not be the place for any more. In fact the final count of congratulatory notices on the occasion of the Sultan's birthday today was thirty-three and one half pages in total (specifically: seven full page colour; eight full page B/W; eighteen half page B/W; and two quarter page B/W), congratulating the Sultan on the attainment of his fifty-fourth year. Construction companies, marine & heavy engineering, transport concerns, energy interests, various holding companies, the newspaper itself, investment houses, agricultural enterprises, boat builders, business luminaries and notables, golf & country clubs, hotel & supermarket interests, KFC, tertiary ed. sectors, planters (palm oil) and Dutch interests. A great number of people wishing to convey particular & public salutations. A couple weeks ago an evidently much less significant Sultan attracted less than a third of this number of notices, at least in this particular English language newspaper.
         The Sultans are of course still very powerful in this federation. Mahathir, the internationally well-known and long-serving PM before last, is thought to have performed some much needed clipping of wings of the Sultans. Earlier in the year the Sultan Iskander of Johor came under notice for the purchase of a vanity number-plate for a price of around $US200K, from memory. A political commentator of some kind who suggested this might be somewhat extravagant given the still real poverty in the country was quickly and loudly shouted down, by one of the Sultan's sons among others. (One of the chaps in the cafe this morning reported tales which may or may not be true of this Sultan not taking kindly to being overtaken by heedless subjects on the motor-ways on the Peninsular.) In the royal way, on his birthday the Sultan bestowed various honours for public virtue and sacrifice, among the recipients on this occasion the Sultan's Princess daughter and her four younger brothers. (A competent spin-doctor-PR consultant clearly in need in the Southern principality.)
         The front page of this morning's newspaper featured our own Bob Carr (husband of a local) declining to become involved in monitoring the forthcoming general election after an appeal from the Opposition leader, Anwar Ibrahim, who has alleged possible fraud and corruption. No thanks, said Bob. Sorry. Afghanistan and Iraq are one thing; a rising regional player and trading partner of some account quite another.
         More raw politics within this morning's pages too: hearings here are continuing at the Kuala Lumpur War Crimes Commission into Israeli atrocities against the Palestinians. Witnesses, orphans and widows are giving evidence of the brutality suffered in Gaza; terrible stories and detailing highly unlikely to make it into Western newspapers. Certainly nothing of this kind of Commission could ever possibly be staged by any close ally of the US & Israel. A reminder in the same article covering the hearings recalled the convictions of George W. Bush & Anthony L. Blair for crimes against humanity here this time last year.
         This is a country of some weight and heft now in international affairs, 20m plus, a growing energy & mining sector, with a certain level of confident, independent thinking evident. A Muslim country of course, despite a sizable minority population, where because of an understandable perception of threat and contest, matters Islamic are always sharpened more acutely than in neighbouring Indonesia.
         The morning newspaper reading now takes place at another cafe which serves the best coffee in Malaysia, according to a long-term resident who was introduced to the place by the author, dear Reader. Nothing better than helping the locals better acquaint themselves with their own habitat. In fairness, in this case the cafe had only been open a fortnight, the discovery resulting from one of the lucky stumbles that have been highlights of the 18 month passage.
         As the morning of the Sultan's birthday wore on, the chap who had earlier added the comment on the said Sultan's expectation of precedence on the roads began to provide further back-story on the political scene here. How is it that one continues to be surprised by intimations of the most vicious and heinous skullduggery that invariably is acted out at the upper reaches of politics & power? Simple ingrained naivety and nothing else. Can it really be the case that our own politics is any less murky, any less corrupt & deadly than that of so-called rogue nations?
         The real surprise in this morning's dark political tale was the direct implication of the currently serving PM Najib here, facing election within the next few months and seemingly doing well in the polls. For some reason too it has again taken a good while for the penny to drop and the realization to arrive that, like in so many other places, in Malaysia one is confronted by a dynastic regime and entrenched circles of power. In fact Najib is none other than the son of the founder of the Malaysian federated states in the post-colonial period —Tun Abdul Razak, the most revered luminary of the old guard. As Australian schoolchildren might recall from their hodge-podge history lessons of the ‘60s, Tun Abdul Razak was the fellow in the funny hat, thick black-rimmed glasses and showing a rather dark, oily complexion. Another royal then this Najib, of the newer stripe; and indeed much more powerful than the old regional Sultans, who were no doubt creations of the British in the first place.
         Slowly, as the chap telling the story at the cafe went on, the lurid tale vaguely came back from the meager reportage of the time. Australian newspapers certainly did not provide. In France and Europe more broadly, it may have been different. It is an old story of a powerful politician—Najib was Deputy PM & Defence Secretary at the time—a pretty young girl (Mongolian), and an important Defence contract. In this case developments allegedly led to attempted extortion and finally murder and an elaborate cover-up. The purchase of two new submarines was being negotiated in Paris. Najib employed a French translator/interpreter. The Mongolian beauty also had brains: she aided the process of negotiations. Perhaps she had indeed been promised the $US500k that was touted as her subsequent demand. Given the huge sums involved—€140m secret commission on the deal—such a payoff might have been a simple matter, had not the girl presented a larger danger. Naturally sex was a side-issue in the tale: in the pictures the poor girl looks fairly irresistible. There is some suggestion Najib's wife took personal responsibility for the liquidation of the extortionist-blackmailer; that she was present in person when the girl was shot. In order to cover tracks properly, a particular explosive was subsequently used to atomise the corpse. Against the odds, fragments of tissue found in a forest area near a dam outside KL enabled DNA testing.
         The bank account details pointing to the payment of secret commissions were uncovered by the French side. Key witnesses presenting highly incriminating evidence and sworn testimony eventually made retractions and quickly went to ground, one particular crucial fellow proving completely untraceable. Even last year the suggestion of a mooted re-trial was said to be pending.
         The court case provided the usual hoop-jumping. So far as Najib was concerned, case unproven. A host of circumstantial factors prove nothing on their own, of course. Fragments of a young corpse blown to pieces by a highly controlled explosive substance; unsubstantiated presence of the said translator in Paris in the official documents; Najib’s personal body-guard convicted; paper trail difficult to follow & money the same. One must pause in final judgment. In all the photographs the scion of Tun Abdul Razak—in the shadows of the tower named after him, once the tallest in Asia—Najib presents cherubic innocence. Very difficult to imagine the man out of costume.
         That such a matter might possibly be buried by the upper-tier here in Malaysia should not come as too much of a surprise. If Western political interests can be advanced by war-mongering media that usually passes as independent and remote from government, then a more or less sufficiently well-concealed political killing in a frontier setting should not astonish. Certainly the case raised against the Opposition leader Anwar—homosexual trysts with a driver or butler—can be seen in an altogether different light in this context.
         Our brutalities and corruptions are different to their brutalities and corruptions. Circumstances, local conditions, phases of development, historical arrangements and alignments, our sophistications and refinements, produce outcomes of a different order. Our Reserve Bank currency affair, our Wheat Board affair, our refugee policies, our participation in the Anglo-American pushes presented to the public by earnest former choir-boys far, far more adept and polished than Mr. Najib, enable us to bury and manipulate matters without recourse to political murder.
         Does our innocence down on the remote great Southern continent stand up to scrutiny?
         Equally surprising to have the former leaders Bush and Blair convicted of major crimes here, while on the other hand the local PM can avoid some very serious cross-examination. (Fruitless attempts were made to have Najib give evidence at the relevant trials.)

                    

Ink in Penang

 

The parking attendant in Hutton Road was difficult to recognise out of context this afternoon. Mornings he trooped up and down the street issuing tickets. Instead of meters, in Georgetown ticket attendants were assigned particular streets and issued compliance tickets. Possibly they fined illegal parkers if any such got past them, which seemed unlikely. 

Almost two weeks now, morning greetings had been exchanged on the walk to the cafe. Beside the 7/Eleven on Penang Road this afternoon, it was difficult to be sure about the up-raised smiling face and nod. 

On the way out from the shop the checkerboard drew further attention, a flimsy particleboard one of the players must have brought from home. 

Second time round the man kept his head down. The game was at the crucial stage. 

It was not the board so much as the pieces that in fact drew attention here. At first the size seemed to show the usual disks of contrasting colours. A closer observation brought an abrupt stop. 

Rather than regulation local fifty cent-sized checkers, the men down on the footpath here were using bent and twisted beer bottle tops, green Carlsberg for the attendant and silver Tiger his opponent.

As was the case in Singapore, Carlsberg might not be especially expensive in Penang.

The usual gestures and postures for board-game players, perhaps of a particular cohort: forcefully driving the pieces; airily fingering possibilities at other times, forefinger flipped for anticipation of the opponent's responding move; clacketing the tin in place finally. 

(Historically, we are in the heartland of earliest industrial tin production after all: Kuala Lumpur, Ipoh & Taiping.) 

The parking attendant was in his late-sixties; partner same. The latter perhaps a sedentary occupation, judging from the fleshiness. 

Parking attendant displaying more prominent Malay features; the other Chinese. 

Barefoot both: attendant sitting on his footwear for softening; in fact the other the same, in his case the cushioning barely visible.  

With the panama before him the Parking attendant had clear advantage. Likely he had raised his eyes while the street was still being crossed and was therefore ready for the greeting at the shop.  

Green Kangol hat his case, which may or may not have been his usual wear on his Hutton Street rounds. Small black figures of kangaroos spotted the surface rather like flies a plate of food. 

Wide peak made corroboration of identity difficult and it was a long time until the man raised his head a second time.  

What put the matter beyond doubt was the shirt, a light yellow nylon sleeveless that was hardly adequate in these parts.  

The shirt was part of his daily wear on his beat. Around the pocket, above the pocket and on the outside beside the buttons, as well as the bottom of the pocket itself, dots, blobs and strokes of the pen which the parking attendant deployed six days a week on Hutton.  

As down in Singapore, it was a National holiday in Malaysia. Deepavali, the Hindu commemoration of the victory of light over darkness, if that has been gotten right. Post Office closed, quiet streets, the backpackers still counting sheep—or more likely beer bottle-tops, if the evidence of Chulia Street could be taken as guide.  

Eatery tables were much less crowded. Took a while to realise what was going on. 

As down in Geylang Serai, the game here had the additional spice of a few ringgit at stake. Looked to be in the favour of our guy, two or three notes slotted into that streaky shirt pocket.