Keeping Time in Singapore

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ArtsScience Museum at Marina Bay Sands (where the chief casino is likewise sited) hosting a Cartier TimeArt exhibition at present. A week and more banners flying in the Arts precinct around Bugis and Dhoby Ghaut. No other place on the globe moves horological art from display case to wrist like Singapore. Full page colour ads in the Straits Times common, even after Roger Federer has slipped down the rankings (lord knows what his Rolex contract may have pulled). Cartier merely one of an extensive number of trading houses. Chap who founded "The Hour Glass" here — a Monash Uni alumnus incidentally — featuring in the paper recently after separating from his long-standing wife (also Monash - a downunder student love affair). "Horological Art" has been trademarked to this particular company. Jeweled time-pieces with visible inner mechanisms (a la Da Vinci) a large part of the sell in the trade in Singapore. Recent days our Academy star Nicole on page one caught in a lovely moment of abstraction with a thin gold band on her wrist. Her kind of English-rose bloom highly marketable in Singapore, you may be surprised to learn. And when Nic sells watches here the target is most certainly not the expat community. No, the refinement of the English overlords, their men of war, traders, clergy and law- and peace-makers, far, far from forgotten in Singapore. Indelible markings. Hong Kong must be similar, judging from some of the unfortunate name-calling of recent times across their water-way. (For further on this readers are referred to the posting entitled "Locusts and Dogs".) Whitening creams for example another big seller here, easily as large as blemish remover and anti-aging products. The blue and white striped shirt coming down Bras Basah Road this afternoon could not have been anything other than the original. One hundred metres prior the man had passed without blinking the Singapore Arts Museum (formerly St. Joseph's Institution—Jesuit) where on the lawn out front a slightly risqué plaster-cast melting Superman in oversized trunks lures tourists and courting couples with cameras. (Tropical sun more damaging than kryptonite.) Completely unflappable the chap striding by the contours of that manhood standing at about eye-level. On the opposite side of the road higher up the hill the Singapore National Museum currently hosting French Impressionists from the Musee d'Orsay (reported in a posting mid December). The Englishman had paced slowly down the incline from that quarter carrying a sunny look for his companion. In previous days he had patronized these and other museums and galleries — Singapore has a great number; the Englishman, however, a Londoner clearly from somewhere within the shadow of Big Ben, was highly unlikely to have seen on display within those walls anything to match the craftsmanship of the timeless ebony tie-clip he himself sported on this fine penultimate day of January. Early it had certainly been blowy.

Orchard Revisited (Voted World No.1 Retail Strip)

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Couple of months later another journal needed and no-where like Kinokuniya for fab stationery — kid in a lolly-shop in there. The books another matter. Difficult to buy a book at the best of times; in a contemporary book-store especially difficult. (Briefly and in passing: nothing has dislodged the top shelf of Essential Reads at Kinokuniya in the Takashimaya building on Orchard Road. As was the case two months ago, and two months before that too, the illustrious roll-call remains unchanged: Emma, Black Beauty & The Secret Garden. All out of copyright, could be the factor. The chain printing their own editions and creaming it with bucolic tales of easeful love for the hungry readership in Singapore.... Took a while for the penny to drop.)
         Same Marks & Spencer pavement cafe as two months before, elevated from the sidewalk. A perch with none to compare.... There might have been a Marine on Rec Leave in the bookstore with wife and bub leafing through some of the product on the display tables. Possibly merely a banker keeping in shape.
         On the Tang pagoda-like roof inserts the jade fading marginally. Purposely for the patina? The architectural play with the surface cover of concrete and steel here on Orchard second to none. The brightest brains involved.
         The volume of the ads from the screen opposite calibrated for the traffic; serving a useful masking function too. Nice syncopation effect with the churning machinery and rapid gear switches of movie highlights one after another.
         Motorized wheel-chair girl with amplified wind instrument passing the audition at City Hall for the prime spot back up on the Takashimaya corner opposite the larger, vertical screen. Two months ago most certainly she wasn't there. Always tinkering with the mix here, keeping it fresh, staying ahead of the game. Council lads due for another audit — she's cranked up the volume in the duel with the traffic and distorting without hearing. Skiing possibly or bungee jumping, if not coming to grief on these roads. Not difficult to see the sense in a deft touch such as this, like the retro element of the trishaw pushcart uncles with their ice-cream snacks.
         Hostage rescued from the Taliban on the march over some rugged terrain. One of the Special Forces guys, Navy Seals or as the case may be, over-stepping the mark and getting a whack of a slap — you don't notice the acoustic with the sudden camera jolt. Sent flying. That'll teach him how to treat a lady, even under duress. No excuses. Gal like that gunna take no nonsense from no one. Kinda lass you could take home to meet Mom, if they ever get outta that pickle in one piece. (Scruffy unshaven Taliban fellas raising the bar pretty high as opponents for heroics.)
         The old red-ragger Michael Foot with the mane of white from the back recesses of memory. Good to recall the long-forgotten old serviceable rebel. Must have been railing against the Falklands flotilla, sole voice in Parliament, the conscience of the house demonstrating the best of our democracy. Great hair-dressing on Meryl, certain Oscar for costuming and make-up.
         Veolia gutter-sweep undergone a recent uniform inspection. Passed muster handsomely. Impressive laundering. A sizable shock for her to see her colleagues on Geylang Road unbuttoned to the navel, grimy, long extended spit gobs in the gutter like for a circus act.
         Safe House. More action laid on. Every day the shoot delayed on the Osama @ Abbottabad a lost opportunity for these cinaplexes. With some decent luck — no more tsunamis or power station meltdowns, untimely Iranian heroics — a clear run might have them going all the way to Christmas and not out of the question into the New Year. Timed for Obama's re-election campaign, stills of the Operations Hub bunker at the Pentagon cut with the re-creation in the advertising.
         In the Land of Blood and Honey looks more terrorism (balanced).
         This is the spot par excellence for the Martian landing. A half hour here, dusted down and presentable, the survey of humanity in a nutshell. Paterson and Orchard Roads corner, premier shopping strip in the world. (See the official confirmation in the first Orchard Road posting of Friday 9 December 2011.)
         Coffee Club name of the place, 501 Orchard. (Possible Levis outlet in the bowels.) Finally got to the bottom of the charging mystery. The standard Latte confirmed $6 flat. However, 10% Service Charge and then 7% GST brings it up to S$7.06. Thank heavens for the Oz $ and the Chinese raw material trade. (A few days ago the Oz 74c to the Sing. — three years ago 10c under.)

Gold

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The advertising is interesting in the different culture. Nuance telling, language, image, presentation, slant. Jewelry likely features everywhere, from Egypt back into undiscovered time and out beyond us until other glinting rocks elsewhere are discovered. This girl is fairly representative of the type: virginal-pure in the chief aspect, either daughter, prospective wife or young mistress. Delicate, unobtrusive make-up for the role; long mussed hair; fine contemporary silk blouse — achieving the carefully constructed untarnished presentation. This gal deserves gold; it is in her, as the accompanying script states. The overlay is all product: more than a dozen chains in the fine, jeweled necklace; even more of bangles; wide band possible on these slender fingers. Only a clean blank canvas able to carry it all. Getting an extra glimmer on her ear judged a tad too much — and the fall of hair important in the composition. The fabulous lost vulnerable promising gaze coming to the top of the pile in the day's shoot.
The tagging likewise needs to be just right. Tricky in English, and doubly so for the S'inglish audience. Echoes of the adopted Christianity ringing clearly (newly elected — unexpectedly only by a whisker — President Tony Tan an Anglican for example).
i am gold
Gold is true. Gold is trust.
Feel it in yourself.
Find it in all that is Poh Heng.
(Clearly Poh reliably matchless in this city-state: Nothing Is Quite As Precious As Trust — Poh Heng.)

Locusts and Dogs

The China-gal on the No. 2 coming back from Bugis this afternoon made them pay. First seat from the door facing the rest of the passengers in their rows through to the back of the bus. Engrossed on the phone to a girl-friend..

Large, big-boned lass straddling the seat crossways, hard nubs of shiny knees and glazed thighs giving pointers.

An unbroken stream that seemed to issue without intake of breath. She's the sort they made the old joke about in the other country: —released from lock-up with her best friend after twenty years together, the pair walk one another home the first afternoon, then parting at the gate:

— OK, I'll tell you the rest tomorrow.

Smooth and steady. Room only for the other to give occasional murmur.

Five days after NY still a deal of red sported: ripening cherry shorts, crimson bands across the blouse and bag. Eyes slide unseeing over the passengers.

What does she care? Nothing to do with her. In the milieu from where she has come holding up against the passing tide was learned early.

First to share her seat gives her daggers, needles, shards of broken glass. Petite old Malay near eighty. Plenty of room for her small frame. But that's not the point. Can't this she-devil see?! Hasn't she eyes in her head! Dress like that and legs spread. Damned viper. Hussy!

Once, twice and a third time casts directly at her, rolling each time and back again. Toothless jaw masticating her disgust. Smelly fat so-and-so....

Grannie carries a good deal more make-up on the oval circled by her scarf than the Snake would put on in a week. But just look at her for God's sake. Alamak!...

All the rings, chains, bracelets and nail polish—latter run over the edges—are Grannie's side; but how well she's hung it. Not displaying her nakedness cheaply, denigrating herself and all her kind!

Knee prodding; the other bouncing in rhythm with her rattle.

Enough for Grannie. No more, thank you very much. That'll do. Even a side seat where you are tossed pillar to post preferable to the squeeze next to such a creature.

Next in line Mr. Dweeb homeward bound to the wife and kids. A later model in hand, fingering the screen. So much slimmer. (Unlike his lumpy self.)

Dumpy/lumpy; no time for exercise. Sweets, fries and starch. One cheek and only one third-part second makes it onto the seat surface. No bother him, glad to get off his feet. Took the first vacant soon as he saw. Didn't give a look. Davos Forum cut, wife choosing his attire.

Hasn't stopped jabbering. Is her interlocutor still listening?

Chap has received a couple of once-overs. Two secs. enough. No mystery there.

She's going to Geylang. Fellow wasn't going to win a wager on that bet. Where else was she going on the No. 2? He's going somewhere along the line, but how far?

Vibrations gone up a notch. She's planted the foot and going fast hammer, really rollicking. Something her friend said on the other end of the line? Maybe.

All this referred from the right against the window pointing into Mr. Dweeb's thigh. The jitterbug passing through the pelvis and down into the biggest bone in Mr. Dweeb's body — the femur.

Invisible to the eye, but no shortage of electric charge. No question drilling, if not thrilling.

Wouldn't know it to look at him. Stuck on his screen. Neither sense nor feeling.

At some point she might have become annoyed at the woodenness. Not a flicker.

            Nothing doing here, waste of time.

Phone done suddenly, when it looked like she'd never stop — like the rain here this time of year.

Enquiry she's got on that piece of his. Looks good model. Gee, pretty compact. Slip into your pocket easy.

She wants to touch the screen, but only teasing, finger dangling.

His Mandarin not so flash, and the road noise. On his thigh he draws the figure he paid for it. Got on promotion(“sale” in S'inglish).

She knows where, nodding.

Leg slowed during the fishing. She can't both prod and think. 

At the least he's got a massage out of it gratis. Otherwise nada; not a goer in this instance. Gave it a try.

Got himself off unnoticed and she a couple of stops later. Nice little show that cost nothing.

A little illustration of matters not dissimilar up at HK currently. There they're suffering under the pressure of the uncouth Mainlanders coming down wanting a piece of the pie. Getting a lot of newspaper columns the recent case of China family on the train letting their kid gobble and dribble lunch when the by-laws strictly forbade. Told the position by one of the locals, must have been a bit of a to-do. Kicked up. Someone took a video looking to shame the intruders. Soon a Lit. Prof. from Peking Uni was standing up on TV chat show for the true-blue (Red) natives who had never been the "running dogs of the British,” the lackey kowtowing and grateful for scraps from the high table. 

Hong Kongers pissed at the loud brash uncultured cousins descending upon them like"locusts,” pushing in queues, letting their children pee in the streets, suddenly wanting the health-care of those who had worked for generations.

Southern hicks, country bumpkins, mountaineers descended onto the Riviera; &etc. &etc. Sin’pore all over again. (The undeniable economic powerhouse of the Mainland however.)

That gal was a cracker. (For safety reasons the real thing banned in SG for NY or otherwise some while back.

Epidemic (Worse than Bird Flu)

Some of the marketing needs to be seen to be believed. In this case yesterday was full page and repeated today. Weeks prior same. The property market was such here that a full page broadsheet campaign can be sustained over numerous weeks. Supplementary TV, radio, street posters &etc. not difficult to conceive. 

the hillier

New York Tower

Over 80% sold! etc.

Unlike some of the ads for medium/high-end style—fashion and the like—here the happy young couple are discernibly Asian, in feature at least. 

The recent bride wears a kind of negligee dress, with soft cashmere cardigan righting the balance for modesty. Clasped close from behind across her womb. (Hopefully a child in the not too distant future as an outcome of pleasurable living.)

Twelve branch chandelier over the casual dining area beside the staircase. Glass balustrade, risers painted minimal white. On the upper storey the balustrade continues glass, but here coloured in the centre by a slightly muted Union Jack, one point two metre by 680. The flag on a pole was nothing by comparison. 

Shelving wrapping around the first intermediate landing holds the couple's chosen emblems: on the lowest row a red double-decker London bus. Further along miniature Westminster, Big Ben and a saluting Grenadier. 

On another rung the cropped study of the front of another double-decker plying the historical Edwardian streets of the imagination. (The contradiction of such aspiration projecting olde world plebeian public transport was lost here.) 

Four small horizontal stacks of books and one slightly fuller vertical. Titles illegible, but together with the thickness of the volumes, the mags face up on the sculptural furniture piece in the foreground—white angular half-cross—giving indication: ПАЗАР top-most, half-screening The NY Times. 

Far East

SO/HO

Space Evolves.

Some kind of S’inglish. 

Conveniently located minutes by car from a half-dozen MRTs, a nature reserve, malls and private schools.

Prices fr. S$768k. (Way out west near the Causeway to ML. Something closer to town add 45%.)

The fond hope that in the old fashioned, natural way children might be conceived in this environment, bloom and prosper. Problem was the sterility epidemic. For some reason people seemed to be refusing to have children in Singapore. Something was amiss, the authorities knew.

Straits Times, Mon 23 Jan 2012. (First day of CNY.) Page A5.

NB. Inner pages an eye-catching double-page spread of blue river/lake/canal and sky sandwiching the WATERTOWN. On the corner down the road here meanwhile opposite Lion City Plaza, where Lion City Hotel stood a couple of months ago, cranes hoisting Duchess Residences.

NB.2 Watertown. Wednesday 25 January:

Full page teaser—"Coastal Town of the 21st century"…. Double page spread following. The proposed development situated in the far east of the island, SG’s first Eco-Town. Pulsating, transurban, integrated with the riverside promenade. Sky Patios, Residences, Soho Apartments..... Numerous proposed bridges to islands immediately off-shore, Coney the largest. Singapore, SE Asia. A stone’s throw from the equator.

Kick-off (updated Sept23)

Got a great deal going for her, Rina; her unaccountability above all. Nothing studied or vampish; entirely, all-up natural. Tall, slightly buck-toothed, glasses & long straight hair. Highly deceiving. One might guess some little part of the hidden, but Rina exceeded expectations.
         As soon as she got into the room, two steps inside the door, a little skip had her sandals off beside the bed. That was for starters. Quicker than you could say Jack Robinson. Little laugh in the action. Or was that when immediately after, uninvited, she gave the bed a provisional inspection, dropping to test the mattress? The resulting bounce pleased her. The little stool beneath the dresser might only have been noticed later.
         It was the girlishness that was striking. Another would have remained standing a moment, chin in hand, metaphorically at least. Sat on the corner, knees together. Not Rina. There was definitely a giggle there. 
         These were chartered waters, quickly the sense of that grew. But Rina alone piloting. Had she come to a decision on the stairs and along the hotel corridors? Or was the action itself the decision, plopping on the mattress?
         Running into Rina by chance that afternoon brought it all back, all too clearly. Two weeks ago another encounter where she had no time, nor inclination possibly. This afternoon was more hopeful. There was a chance she would return.
         On the last occasion, the last morning, her reaching out early in the piece was another of those surprises of Rina's out of the blue. That was always preferred, a lady of her own mind and freely exercising. 

         Her big already had been more than a little to blame for the premature coming into her mouth. 

         It seemed as if the surprise of the largeness had aroused Rina. 

         Understandably, it left her out of sorts and resulted in this long month and a half pay-back/lay-off. A pity, when we were getting on so well. Previously we had always traveled a good distance together. 
         Rina's unexpected leads, coming out of no-where, always made you marvel. Rina led from the front. 

         On the first meeting, in very short order, finding it with her mouth, when ten minutes earlier there had been nothing to indicate. 

         Before you knew where you were, skipping along merrily. 
         The move was like the tending of a wound; bending to the rice stalk—motions from Rina's kampung carrying the meaning of the ages. 
         The first encounter down at the Teh Tarik tables when she had circled back and hovered just behind the shoulder, waiting to be noticed. A moment longer she would have gone, turned on her heel and disappeared, just as she had now. 

         En route to the room, the get-out: only friends accepting the invitation. 

         An unknown what was in store, for both of us. 

         The indicators were fair, but without the uncertainty, half the excitement would have vanished.
         Like many of these gals, Rina enjoyed the jockey mount. 

         Other girls simply adopted the position. In Rina's case she moved as if taking an unwonted step, eyed from a distance. 

         Once seated it was all systems go, foot to the floor. 

         So girlish the laugh in the bed-bounce. 

         Back home most of these Indon gals slept on mats on the floor. Even in the wonderland of Singapura, in the spare rooms the maids were given—sometimes the laundry floors—it might have been the same. Was a mattress such a novelty? 
         Removal of the glasses in advance, before anything was properly under way. Afterward it was clearly understood: a chap recalled who had once done likewise as a dispute was brewing. 

         The pretence of the reading of the blog was not long entertained. Signal of a change ahead, a hump in the road, gave more throttle. 
         As often the case in the tropical jungles, there was never presumption. No disrobing; steady, imperceptible progress without intervals or divisions. The unfolding would proceed with no hands, as it were; of itself. Always a boon. 
         Bright lipstick. Not always helpful; in Rina's case a strong element. 

         Otherwise, all minor key: inexpensive clothes, simple necklace, no make-up. Owlish glasses of the old-style librarian, the one unexpectedly prevailed upon to kick off her clunky, sensible shoes. 
         Wherefore art thou Rina!... 

         Twenty times her sister calling in forty minutes. (Phone on silent.) 

         Doesn't stop; doesn't let up. Entire in her pleasure. Quickly away and knowing the score. 

         A man-eater like you never saw before.

CNY - Singapore

All hands required on deck today. Streets and shops noticeably vacant, especially of maids: the clearest hint of the New Year preparations. All leave cancelled. Those who receive a free Sunday from their employer will be prevailed upon one way or another today. (In the case of the Chinese at least.) There will be storms cooked up through the course of the day. Culinary writers will give those details. Something called yusheng seems to be part of the tradition. Judging from a number of photographs in the newspaper, noodles of a particular kind (vegetarian "prosperity salad"), which in get-togethers are "tossed" with the other ingredients in company with those nearest and dearest. (In days prior pics of the President and his Lady gracing homeless shelters; in the usual promotion of ecumenicalism, today a media event of the same in an Indian temple &etc.) 
         The maids will be busy with the spring cleaning too, not to be left for the last minute. As in other traditions, a new clean start to the year ahead. After the winter and the year past, renewal: cleanliness of the house and peace, order and forgiveness in the household.
         The maids who have fortune on their side will get a month's NY bonus in their little red packet. Less fortunate may get a tenner or twenty. Some Chinese have even switched to the chief "bonus" coming at Christmas and only a token at NY.
         Junior family members usually receive a small amount; a superstitious even number: two dollars the bare minimum. Alfred the optometrist in Joo Chiat Complex will give his teenage sons a hundred crackers each; in a little parcel that reminds of the fire-crackers of old. (No one will be surprised: crackers are banned in SG without stamped approval, signed and dated by the relevant authorities.)
         Bigger than the hajji, the Roman Saturnalia festival, Chrissy and Ben Hur combined — on a global scale none other matches the pilgrimage of Chinese NY. This year as the diaspora, both internal and external, strove to return to their home-towns, records were set to be broken: three point two million trips predicted on trains, planes, buses and boats.
         Boxes of oranges have been mounting up at all the fruiterers in Geylang the past fortnight. "Mandarin" oranges specifically — a kind of in-between mandarin and orange. Somewhat larger and firmer - both the fruit and its casing - than our kind back home. Many are sold in prepacked plastic wrapping - an extra courtesy. (Fifty cents each; care as always needed in selection.) Ten days ago in the chief broadsheet newspaper, the Straits Times, a three quarter page advertisement from the Japan Food Export Co. for especially succulent, almost completely free of pips, luscious and juicy (sun ripened) mandarin oranges.
         GUM or KUM = orange in Cantonese; a homonym for "gold". More than enough reason to be taken as auspicious. Following the end of winter, plentiful in the orchards. In days of yore, before Orchard Road, the bright colour alone would have signified hopefulness.
         Again, pairs offered. When the parents are visited on NY morning, a pair of oranges is presented first of all. Only afterward does the red packet follow. The glowing orange orb a mini sun after all. Rather a difficult challenge for the contemporary imagination (obesity, gadgets, itunes, flatscreens &etc. &etc. And cameras of course.) The traditional cookies made by grandma might prove very difficult to present to the present-day youngster as a special yummy treat..
         Like church, temple visits have fallen away; together with vegetarianism. In place of the temple and prayer, more usually it is the mahjong board that comes out after lunch — for a spot of "dry swimming" (hands waved over the board, especially for a collect). Five cents a turn for starters. In the course of the day family tempers known to fray. Funny how the Chinese sound so familiar.
         The bright red long sleeved tee washed and ready for the morning, rain, hail or shine. Can't do new clothes on this budget travel, but intend to show the colour bright and early with the best of them.
         Happy CNY! (In all probability the dragon likely to meet the bald eagle not too far down the track.)
         .... Fair Price was closed tonight at 5pm. Not open at all tomorrow. The Post Office at Paya Lebar, regional HQ, at 1pm. (In the best tradition of the-post-must-get-through, from memory it was open Chrissy morning at least?) Nothing like it in almost seven and one half months. Far bigger than Chrissy; bigger than Good Friday easily. Nothing to compare. And all temporal holiness; the other kind entirely an add-on. You have to go back to mid October nearly a century ago for the benchmark; and CNY stretches a way further back. Shutters down through the whole of Joo Chiat. Now the natural allies the Malays and Indians and no one else.
         In our vacant streets back home one gets used to it. But here in this busy, practical, can-do anytime day-or-night town, everything-for-sale, the effect is something else.

News In Brief - Jan 2012

Worries over increasing labour costs particularly in the construction industry as China/India boom. Construction bosses tell of ten and even twenty percent increases in the last six months alone. With only slightly better wages on offer here, Singapore is becoming less enticing for the foreign work-force. The new frontier is Myanmar. In China too recruitment is shifting to more remote regions. "Instead of its usual "hunting grounds" of Sichuan, Henan and Hubei", the remote villages of Jiangsu are being scouted. Mechanization and automation have been adopted wherever possible; still operators are needed for the machinery, the bosses explain; and machines not always the best options in some areas.
         Page one PM Lee hoping for the usual boost to native birth rates in the forthcoming year of the Dragon. (PM Lee Hsien Luong himself is a Dragon.) Judging by the scale of the prostitution industry, it is not copulation per se that is going out of fashion here. Historic lows in the Total Fertility Rate: this last year up slightly to 1.20 from the all time nadir the previous year of 1.15.
         Suspicions too that financial incentives and other stimuli are insufficient; the "social climate" identified as an area of concern. The Government now in the unusual position of facing an opposition bloc of six in the new parliament.
         Slow news day otherwise on CNY Eve.

JB Again

Numerous stalls of secondhand shoes, smiles and greetings from inquisitive passersby, working girls almost without exception Indian, and again a disproportionate number of cripples and amputees—all vivid and strong impressions over the three days.

The shoes were carefully cleaned (sometimes a double take needed to confirm); highly polished in the case of leather, which revealed the creasing. Where new were mixed the latter wrapped in plastic to highlight pristine condition.

Lunchtimes and rush-hour the Chinese appeared from the office tower; otherwise thin on the ground.

The first, most pitiable beggar did indeed retain one limb intact. The other leg was severed somewhere in the region of the knee. Even with both legs whole the man would have been short, around 160cm. With crooked good leg it was difficult to judge.

On a low stool he perched. At the base of the foreshortened leg he wore some kind of home-made cover the size and colour of a horse hoof. It had a look of leather, two or three inscribed concentric lines of decoration.

The short sleeved shirt was invariably clean and ironed; pocket always crammed (the blue of the single ringgit). Going by on one occasion at the end of the working day, the stall-holder closing, a glimpse behind a post suggested the man was using his teeth on his pocket. As in Singapore, common motor-cycle accident victims—first generation riders.

The young Kerala MBA helping out at his paternal uncle's eatery had the teh tarik coming as required now: kurang manis, less sweet. Handsome, dapper lad sticking to shirt collars. Newcomer to JB, with no Malay and good English, which served little purpose among uncle’s clientele. The girls in JB the MBA finds not to his taste. Make-up, revealing clothes, lacking the naturalness of Kerala lasses.

At one point the Kerala MBA had gone off and returned a little while later with a chap who looked like a mufti or ustad; or else perhaps the imam from the mosque. The mosque stood spitting distance here from a Hindu temple; another Sikh temple shared the precinct. On the higher rise a kilometre or two off a handsome church raised its cupola topped by a cross. There had been a number of Thai monks in their saffron robes, one mendicant among them. Like the Chinese, Buddhist temples were unapparent in JB.

The mufti was all in white, cap included. Around his shoulders a checked red and white shawl. The walk he displayed was that of an eminence, though one in a hurry. When he took a seat at one of the tables it was soon clear this was no ordinary guest. A woman in expensive coloured satin appeared and took the chair opposite. It could only be the mufti's wife, or relative attached to the eatery possibly. The mufti was early or mid-forties, learning making him seem older.

Soon the MBA was bent beside the man. The lad was tall, the tables made to measure for the average here. Low the Kerala MBA bent. A carton of Ribena the mufti had chosen for refreshment. (The absence of alcohol anywhere around another contrast to Singapore.)

Bent double the Kerala boy.

The plastic straw often sticks in the wrapping. Mufti awaiting his refreshment. The first few jabs missed. Eventually the mufti could drink.

The Kerala boy next proceeded to fetch the food. Grace, respect, deference that had disappeared from our laissez faire democracies a number of generations ago.

Another matter too; it takes some while to see things aright. In more than sixty hours now between January 18 - 21, one single photographing has been witnessed in Johor Bahru, the southern-most point of the Eurasian continent. After the mania in Singapore worth remarking.

Peep-hole glimpses only off the main roads, where little shanty-type living can be seen in overgrown greenery, make-shift walls and leaning corrugated iron, mothers nursing young children and boy-sized men sprawled on tarpaulins.

....The mufti in disguise turned out a friend, not even a relative, from Kerala.

Johor Bahru

Took some foot-slog to find Hotel Meldrum despite googling beforehand and sketching a map. Close to the Immigration Checkpoint, JB City Square & the waterfront. Reviews online turned out reliable. Four star seemed a bit rich; nevertheless, at RM100 it was $10 cheaper than Joo Chiat and double the size of room.

En route condo estates in the west of Singapore like encampments in acquired territory: Bukit Timah, Bukit Panjang—where Yati was holed up with three of Ma’am's kids in the room with her, while Ma’am sleeps peacefully with Sir—and Woodlands. 

Astonishing the number of churches, strategically spaced liked the McDonalds, which might have been lesser in number. Attached to schools, free-standing on the highway with large parking allotments, one modernist example with a nautical flourish for the Latter Day Saints. Strange the motor car-dedicated ministry.

Second feature: along more than ten kilometres of heavy equipment roadworks, the dark labour gangs in clusters down on the grass in the shade, relieved of yellow boots and helmets. There must have been over a hundred young men staring out vacantly, the look of noonday cotton-fields in the States a couple of generations ago.

The No. 170 was a nice surprise, one of the rackety old things from which the Brits used to construct TV comedy. 

There was ample evidence of a good bit of vacant land remaining on the west of the island for more condos and shopping complexes, another golf course and zoo if needed.

Confirmation too Singapore was the world-beater in the beautification of road-side verges. Neat, regular trimming over the length and breadth of the island.

Past the Sikh temple (a significant Indian community in this corner of JB). Right by the mosque loudspeaker. Under the shaded walk-way one glass-fronted shop—many of them beautiful old-style magazins—held a range of blonde wood coffins. 

Nearby was the joss stick shop. It had been passed on the first round searching the hotel. Candles were available there, the smallest in their holders perfect for remembrance.

An hour in the afternoon the light burned beside the dead TV, and again bedside in the evening. A flame helped fix the mind: four years now that mother passed out of the world.

Supper was taken on Wong Ah Fook looking down the crossing to the old railway station. Around 6 a small rush-hour unfolded. Bus conductors called out beside old wagons in deep reds and oranges, even older than the 170. The rapid dusk softened features and accentuated colouring,

All the while the drama of an approaching downpour like the swelling sound-track beneath a film sequence.

Back a way the first beggar in his mid-sixties had both arms off at the elbows. There was a stump for a leg too. It was on the stump that he rested, while the other leg was crooked. A free-standing posture like no other.

The look in the eyes had prevented closer scrutiny. Once the man could be passed with mouth agape and pocket untouched; not on the return with the newspaper. A boy ahead showed how it was done.

There was no receptacle. It was the shirt pocket, already well stuffed. At home the man would get help; or else from the young chap from the stall where he waited.

In the evening in another case it was the adaptation of footwear that struck. 

Footwear was a misnomer, as this second man had no feet. On one stump there was an over-size track-shoe fastened somehow back-to-front. The other limb was longer, its end encased in a sheep-skin that had been crafted for purpose, shaped in a kind of flute or ski form. The first gave the kick along, while this second slid over the wet roadway.

The man had been spotted crossing the intersection. Five minutes later he suddenly appeared at the side of the table after having somehow rounded from behind.

Both these men appeared at least part-Chinese. Earlier a few Chinese had appeared here and there. As evening fell there were none. 

Walking up for dinner and then again through the course, the realisation struck more and more what an oddity Singapore was with its Han majority. How large was this Malay sea in which they were marooned, after not much more than a thirty minute bus ride.

Winding back slowly on the return, the night market was found. The girl said it opened every night, 7 - 2am. The snippets of bahasa Malay became useful; delivered with the right timing, the stallholders were charmed.

A downpour it proved indeed, just when something called the dry portion of the monsoon had been proclaimed down in the south.

 

 

                                                                                                                                    January 2012

Beggar Aunt

*


This beggar was a novelty. A Chinese woman in her late fifties presenting the plastic cup in her hand. A few silver coins sat in the bottom. Bending herself to table level, her broad, clean face loomed close. A large gap showed between her ground front teeth. There were no teeth missing; such was her dental structure. Wordless of course before the ang moh, but not a mute, as her thanks demonstrated afterward. There would have been no English whatever in her repertoire; her social class was immediately evident. The glorious smile she offered said more than any language could. Dear lord how she radiated. The fondest, most doting aunt of the old style could not have out-done her. A treasure. Magnificent. A smile that was learned in a large, fortunate family living in an established community. There was not mere pleading in this smile. Half a century there had not been witnessed anything of the kind in that oldest of continents back home. Only on the streets of Fitzroy on the faces of the oldest inhabitants. Or of course among our own people in our little suburban quarter back then.
          Opportune on this morning of the re-election of the Kuomintang government in Taiwan, aided in no small part it seems by the leader Ma's wife, described as the "aunt next door" type for her humility, warmth and grace. In these communities up here everyone instantly knows the example. No mystery, or oddity, or rarity.
          Opposite Geylang Serai on Changi Road mid-morning in the run-up to CNY.

A Two Hander

The two fellows are near forty if not tipped over, tall and short. To compensate the latter is up on the footpath, his friend down in the gutter on the road. At first encounter they had both been up on the footpath, holding hands and smiling at each other without cease, one up to his friend and the other down, a little shyly it seemed. They had not been caught from the very outset. By the time the observation had fallen on them the linking of hands was almost by the finger-tips only, a striking chain of union like for a pair of lovers, securely toying with each other. Certainly not youngsters this pair. There was no grey as yet, nor thickening. But the working life, early rises and long days showed them a little older than their years. An unexpected encounter that had stopped them on that corner; acquainted from earlier days on one of the building sites here, or even back home. The cheap digs in Geylang, the eateries and drinking holes, and yet they had not encountered each other how long was it now? The smiling would not let up. A switch had been pulled and would not dim. Beaming at each other and still clasped. The short was more of a natural smiler, a little more free. Tall had never had much to smile about; his wife rarely saw it. Still, he was stretching it here, encouraged by his friend. How could he possibly resist in the face of that? And the chain unbroken had to be three full minutes, four possibly. Fingers interlocking, both stretched a little by it, full of their pleasure. They had reason for their delight in finding each other, something proved and established. There was a good deal of it here among the foreign workers in Geylang far from home, far from family, both the Chinese and the Indians too the same. Hard long days, industrial accidents, dirty, taxing work down in holes and up on high scaffolds, sleeping fifteen and twenty to a room, queuing for showers. There was no natural right for free, easy, relaxed spirits, laughter and clasping. There was precious little of it nearer the town centre here, you would be hard pressed to find it trawling through the streets one after the other the live-long day. Three or four minutes this clasp was observed. The length of the smiling unquantifiable—twenty full minutes if it happened at all. Heartening watching. The short guy was really stretching his friend. The former seemed to have some authority, or seniority. A direct raised gaze straight and clear. The other slid a little left and right, unequal to the task, clothes a little more drab, lacking the wrist-watch of his friend. Down from the footpath the tall had stepped as if to give required due. Somehow the chain was broken, uncannily. The eyes had not been taken from them for an instant. The smiles remained. The tall held a tightly packed plastic bag, which now goes from one to the other hand when both were free. Northerners possibly, the Mongol invasion their heritage, certainly the short. When they turn to lean on the rails of the lorry parked beside them (illegally parked a metre from the corner as always here), the latter remains on the footpath, the equality retained. A third man happened along briefly, tall better known to him. Got himself off without intruding. One more going past gave a friendly slap to the short without the merest glance returned, without a flicker. Finally a phone call interrupting. Slapping hand over on the short's shoulder, off they trooped together. While the man talks on the phone the connection was retained with the resting hand. The surprise encounter and the talk had held them on the spot. In fact both were headed in the same direction. Hail fellows. Well met.

MBS Mark II (Moshe Safdie)

*












Remarkable and spectacular icons of the concrete, glass and steel kind can be expected to be replicated and copied willy-nilly. Nothing you can do. Everyone wants a piece of the glory, wants to get into the act. Emerging catch-up nations and cities particularly, eye-sore industrial wastelands, no-man lands, pig-sty agricultural precincts of shameful former time &etc. &etc. Left behind too long, here is available a pole-vault leap into the centre of contemporary chic. South-west China is on the move like nobody's business. Boom-towns like none other — Shanghai, Guangzhou, HK and the others was just the start. Coming now to a prime river frontage in Chongqing is a thinly masked replica of Singapore's very own, unique and inimitable (previously) MBS. Da-Da-DAH! The Marina Bay Sands hotel, resort, casino, playground/dreamworld rolled into one — or properly three towers. More home movies and snaps feature the MBS than Disneyland, the Great Wall and any beach-side palm-fringed spot on the globe you might care to name combined. The architect responsible for the original landmark not done yet. No need to fear charges of plagiarism and mimicry when the principal and creative designer par excellance is himself brought on-board. Cost was no object presumably: Moshe Safdie by name, please come forward and take a bow. Richly deserved. Ladies and gentlemen, raise your glasses.... Another signature feast for the roving eye. Spectacular. Towers that curve and sway, dance almost. When the water beneath is sparkling, a double rumba in the reflection. The unforgettable skypool atop the original MBS replaced here by platforms, shafts, jutting spears of green crowns that pierce the heart. Moshe's mum would be proud of him. No fear of the charge of repeating oneself. This has been taken to another level. An icon to hang your hat on; it would not surprise if Moshe put the cue back in the rack after this. Unsurpassable. Possibly the sky-traffic the only worry with the mesmerising effect created. A tiny spark of glory robbed from the original here the only thing. You get that with ground-breaking forerunner art and science. Ball back in SG's court to strive for something better again, another unmatchable trump card to keep ahead of the game. Tough ask. But not beyond them here either. Imagination Only Limited by the Strength of your PASSION — half-caught on a passing bus the other night, if it was got right. (Second thoughts that mighta been a newly released condo on the market. Mixed and confusing messages aplenty here.)
Good luck to the city of Chongqing. Will keep you posted.

Today in the Straits Times a pic that no doubt only goes some part of the way to catch the allure of the marvel soon to enter the architectural fray. Wednesday 11 Jan 2012, p. 10.




*

Clean (has to be said)

Sweep appearing beside the table suddenly out of nowhere, thin air, like a bird of augury somehow decked in his yellow feathers and sliding bright-eyed glare. Almost a gasp escaping at his silent, unannounced arrival. Two feet out from the gutter a single, solitary butt had been invisible until the man sprung into action. One and then a quick follow-up second sweep with his brush-broom straight into the pan held in the other hand. A hole-in-one. The second sweep had been unnecessary, went in first time. Under arm the rake, handle rising above his shoulder (long rakes standard municipal contractor issue - no excuses), yellow wellies and vest. Don't want him run over; every reasonable precaution. Under the baseball cap salt and pepper top and deeply tanned—possibly from the streets, or just as likely the hill village from which he originally hails. Quick looks down the lorong opposite where he knows the girls lurk in the deep shadows, the glitter of their wear occasionally caught in the lights of the cornering cars. In all and everything quite deceptive: the man has some way to go to forty; signs of maturity beyond his years. Won't make it back home for NY. Remittance dollars will sweeten the event for parents, wife and child back there; for himself perhaps some comfort found in his favourite local gal. Seven full months without a single, solitary look returned from any of the street-sweeps over the whole of the term. Not a one. Passing through completely unheeding like a dignified desirable woman in a room-full of men. Table here ten inches from the gutter where they work, where they seek their hoard, their special province. How many of them come and gone over the course, without any meaningful distinction between them: age, size, stature, colouration, firmness. Never raising their eyes. Keeping the streets clean an earnest project here; justly deserved fame for it; badge of honour, source of pride. How many foreign visitors going away to sing the eulogies of Singapore's clean streets.... The antiseptic charge falling on deaf, uncomprehending ears. What can those foreigners be on about?... An elevation above the muck, their inheritance. Shows how far they've come; in this wider Asian slum. Feature writer in the ST today concentrated her tourist piece on the grime of India: for all the colourful temples, street scenes, cheap shopping and culinary experiences, the dirt and grime, toilets especially.... It's alright in the hotels. They're up to scratch, the better kind. But fair warning, you wouldn't want to be caught out on the streets if you could help it. Unwanted constant reminder of where they've come from.

Prayers Answered

Surprise couple of mails from Serangoon Yatie this morning completely out of the blue. Calls, mails, arrangements had all been fruitless where Yatie had been concerned the last month and more. Once or twice she explained briefly there were family problems with which she was pre-occupied. No details and handled solo as usual. Prayers and fasting had been the assumption, more or less confirmed in this morning's exchanges.
         Presently the eldest brother in hot water. Difficult to get the story properly over the telephone. Seems Awang Widodo, the brother, was caught by the cops riding an unregistered motor-cycle. Not the first time caught; five months the bike had been unregistered. Cops had drawn a line. A recent visit had laid it down.
         — You gunna pay this fine or come with us to the jailhouse, boy?
         Threw the poor sis into apoplexy. The good, loving, reliable sister, saviour of the family. Eight or nine years was it? in Singapore sacrificing herself for the others. Ensuring better for sisters and brother, mother and father. Spinsterhood one of the accidental outcomes; pretty fine spinster that she makes, Yatie, in her early thirties.
         Prayers on their own had been insufficient until now. How to get the money? Yatie had none just now. Everything she had all accounted for in her many, various outlays: one sister's nursing school fees, another's trade school (an accomplished seamstress), the father's brick kiln, up-keep of the house Yatie had built for herself in the kampung where she would retire soon to attend to her aging parents. Perhaps Yatie had sent chocolates to the sister encountering marriage difficulties a little while ago. That was the most recent family trouble prior to this current that prevented Yatie going out the last month and more.
         Prayers and proper devotion take time and energy. Focus. The thin, slight frame had long given hint. Fasting integral in the performance of devotion and supplication. It wasn't just Ramadan and the high marks of the calendar Yatie met with the fast. Hope for God's intercession needed dedicated engagement. Certainly six hundred a month here wasn't going to solve all the day to day dramas of a large and growing family back home.
         How to get the money? To whom could Yatie possibly turn?
         Difficulties for the sister beginning two or three weeks ago had come from the usual direction. Husband straying, caught out in an affair. Sister outraged; devoutness likely running in the family. Threats of divorce, immediate separation—mentioned by Yatie in the morning's call.   
         All torment and despair in poor sweet Yatie's head. Unknown as yet, but possibly the situation rescued by Yatie's wise, patient counsel. Counsel and of course prayers and supplication.
         The new problem had now supplanted the former. The way Yatie spoke on the phone suggested the brother was front and square and there was nothing else of concern.
         How to possibly get the money? To whom to possibly turn?
         Yatie had never been one for friends here. The girls in Singapore, the compatriots working as maids, could not easily suit a girl like Yatie. So much dissolution; many of the girls were young.
         For some reason as yet unknown, the French employer, with a young Indon wife the same age as Yatie, could not be asked for a small advance.
         There was good understanding and respect between maid and employers. The Indon wife had been brought back to Islam through the good offices of the maid. Young daughter of the union likewise now leading an Islamic life; through the patient good offices of the maid Yatie. Yet in this time of need, this time of trouble and torment, neither Sir nor Madam could be approached.
         Likely it would muddy the relationship. There would need to be explanations, all the troubles to unfold. The respectful, professional distance broached and unable to be rescued. For all the possible explanations that might be conceived on the matter of the hesitancy to approach those of her household, nonetheless a surprise. Finally Yatie's steadfastness it may come down to. Some other way needed to be found.
         Overnight or this morning Yatie's prayers had been answered. At least the message had been transmitted, the hint given.
         — Yes, do. Try ---------. Go ahead and give it a go.
         ….To be mentioned in a communication with God can never be taken lightly. Certainly a privilege. Not to mention in this case the unfamiliar, unknown power of the Musilman in question. (The Montenegrin cousins would be horrified. In the neighbourhood of Geylang Serai Yatie prays in the Muslim Converts building, a stone's throw from the hotel. God almighty forefend!)
         Not only the whole of this foregoing; in addition the mention had been from upstairs coming down. That's what it sounded like on the phone. The name of one's person in the very mouth of the Almighty. Almost like being admitted to the ranks of the elect…. This one named and specified can be approached. Not likely just anyone can win that kind of implicit trust.
         The wise old Shakespearean injunction, good old well-meaning Polonius sending reminder to his son against lending and borrowing, had certainly not been forgotten. But then what to do in the face of the higher power? How to reject pious entreaty?
         ….If you can't that's OK, Yatie had said in the mail.
         A nice, polite enquiry in broken English. Not the language of the on-line frauds.
         The date with Western Union at SingPost proceeding pretty much without a hitch. Luckily Barak had come good with part-payment of his back-rent just after New Year. Some fat there.
         Upon strict confirmation of identity, PAY the said Awang Widodo of Indonesia (address unnecessary) the sum of Two Hundred and Fifty Dollars S$250 ONLY.
         Lady behind the desk had asked whether the recipient was known to the sender.
         Yatie had it about 2mil. Rupiah. Not far wrong: 1.724 today's exchange rate.
         Should be more than sufficient for cops bent or otherwise, registration, a mechanical once-over on the bike and a celebratory drink of sugar cane thereafter (again the assumption the devoutness runs smooth in the family).
         It's not going to come cheap either. The scribe hesitates to record it against his person. Is it a little shameful? In the interests of truth, sincerity and fair-dealing dear reader, frank disclosure.
         At the scheduled date of repayment on Sunday 14 Januario (as the employers are back in town Yatie can't get away on the Saturday when she gets her dollars), Yatie Widodo will be requested, rather than taking her prayers over at the Converts, instead to repair to the room in the hotel and there please complete all that needs to be done in complete peace and security. 
         A green kiblah on the ceiling gives the direction of Mecca. The tacky carpet can be covered by a couple of fresh towels. (Room service gals and guys have long been on-side.) Bed moved if necessary for space. No kidding. No profanity. Nothing nefarious. An artist, entirely respectful, with his subject before him and nothing more.
         Condemn if you will dear reader.
         Could Yatie possibly assent?
         Holy prayer. A devout worshipper, faithful honest maid at her orizons.      
         Never mind the thanks. More than enough recompense, should the wish be granted.
         Reader, watch this space.