News In Brief - The Straits Times Friday 24 Feb 2012

Front Page. Cronyism suggested by a blogger following PM's wife appointment as director of a large government financial concern. Denials yesterday: she was the best person for the job; nothing to do with her husband; &etc. Threats of legal action bring prompt withdrawal/apology. SG known for clean-hands politics.; transparency; &etc. UnSingaporean casting aspersions. (Current PM son of former nation-builder Lee Kwan Yew, reported a few weeks ago he was unsure whether his children had an interest in politics. And no grandchildren as yet appeared.)
* Protests gathering in Malaysia over a proposed Australian rare earths mine. (Linked to cancer.) These materials used in smart phones/LED TV's etc.
* Dept of Education alert to problem of teachers behaving badly (recent sex scandals besmirching the profession). Accompanying picture of 300 newly inducted graduates in academic gowns, fists on hearts reciting in unison the Teacher's Pledge. ("Engineers of human souls" in the old Soviet description.)
* Confirmed: no problem with problem gambling at the two casinos, report finds. Small increases in low income earners' patronage aside (addiction to excitement mentioned). Otherwise industry exceeding Macau; and here they have only been operating a year.

Bird Call

No kind of meowing of any sort has been heard from any of the Geylang cats over these many months now. Not once. This side of town the cats are certainly not plentiful. Occasionally one sees them in the shade stretched on their side on the paving, more dead than alive by the look of them. One never sees them curled up into a ball. Often when passersby stoop down to give them a delicate caress the signs of sympathy and pity seem as large as tenderness. Most of the poor old devils are unusually scrawny and decidedly slow-moving, when they are not playing dead on the pavement. None of this is surprising in this heat. Throughout the June/July durian season, old men could be seen almost literally on every corner stretched out in very much the same fashion. A five million enclave in such a location spitting distance from the equator goes entirely against nature and reason. Thanks in large part to what the grand old political maestro here, Mr. Lee Kwan Yew, termed the greatest invention of humanity—air conditioning—the place has prospered enormously. The environmentally sensible measure would be to return the island to native forest and transplant the population to the temperate zones to the north from which their ancestors came a short few generations ago. In the current journalese, that aint going to happen anytime soon.
The few dogs one sees—again almost never in Geylang in these nine months—have never let out a yelp or whimper of any kind whatever either. Once in a blue moon one hears the crows. It might have been once or twice over the term. The mynahs more so. These latter in fact have been causing a nuisance with their squabbling in the prime retail district of Orchard Road, where various schemes of extermination have been proposed by the traders. It has not been possible to establish whether it is the call of the mynah one hears from the rain-trees planted along the roadside in the approach to dusk. These repeated, plaintive calls startle a little in this environment. Once or twice in the evenings large groomed furry dogs have been seen on leads around upper Geylang underneath the condos, the kind of boutique TV and magazine dog favoured by celebrities. Through the day the dogs are of course kept within air conditioning. The problem is exercise, for which the maids can be called upon. You might see a dark, pretty lass checking her texts on a brightly illuminated screen that throws up its light onto her face, while at her feet the darling of the house circles a tree or strains at the trunk. A yelp on this occasion or any other never a once.
As previously stated, in order to see other life-forms in Singapore one needs to visit the zoos and other enclosures. A highly coloured bus on a run around Arab Street shows what looks like oversized toucans, storks and cranes at what is advertised as the World's Largest Bird Paradise out in Jurong, no more than ten kilometres from the western end of Geylang. In this temperature and with this rainfall, where the circle of concrete, steel and glass is closed, fecund nature no doubt rapidly reasserts itself. Otherwise cartoon canine figures stand mounted in playground and recreation spaces at the base of housing blocks. Exotic robotic animals figure prominently on the omnipresent screens in the buses at rush-hour. The bark of Barb and Ashley's corner dogs back home, the cooing doves, the crows and masterful magpies within the giant Norfolk Island pine that has completely undermined the house foundations—it has been a surprise how these meagre suburban signs have been missed here. The rattle of sheet iron, wind in the trees—there are welcome breezes in Singapore, but the towers must block much of the effect—the goods train over the sunken sleepers and the horns on the river... Much to ponder on the matter of the way of life here since the boom times.
At five this morning there was disquiet in the air such as has been heard at least twice before from this same hotel room. On all three occasions the direction the sound was coming from was impossible to pin-point. It must have come from within the hotel. Certainly on the earlier occasions that seemed clear. This morning there was some doubt.
The little cries and whimpers continued for something like a half hour. Perhaps the hard listening exaggerated the matter. This morning it seemed as if it possibly came from outdoors, the multi-level car-park, or else the vacant ground adjacent to the hotel. As the cries persisted they became impossible to ignore or dismiss. The window had to be opened to investigate. Then a second time shortly after again opened. Someone may have been lying on the footpath outside with no more strength than to cry out at these unusual intervals. A victim of some soundless violence, quiet enough not to have disturbed sleep at any rate.
The karaoke bar in front often brought patrons out back. One heard vomiting occasionally below the window. Discreet assignations took place on the rear corner, where girls waited for men to bring the car down from the car-park. No kind of violence of any kind has been witnessed over this period, and this in the context of a two or three kilometre red-light district holding perhaps one hundred liquor outlets that remain in operation until the wee hours. Nonetheless, the newspapers report regular outbreaks and deaths, the last at a favourite corner up beyond Aljunied Road.
The cries came again and again after what seemed a regular interval. The indescribable cries could not have come from an animal, almost certainly. Even in the dead of night, in the relative cool of that time, it is highly unlikely that the cats or dogs of Geylang could find voice. The short, choked length of the cry, its tone and timbre, discounted an animal of any kind other than a human.
There had been no particular reason for the waking on this occasion. At some point after the re-surfacing the sounds started and kept up. On both occasions when the window was opened the electric buzz of lighting and signage invaded the room and nothing else. There was nothing to be seen on the pavement below, nor in the grass behind the cyclone fence. The whimpering kept up, brief short cries impossible to translate. Volume, pitch and energy did not seem to alter. Were the sounds emitted in response to continued assaults of some kind? That seemed unlikely. The uniformity of the sound and also what seemed its set measures did not suggest a course of pain over such a term. The call was always almost exactly the same, seemingly undifferentiated from the one at the very outset. How could this be? There was no understanding it. As on the last two occasions, these were certainly not calls of pleasure. Not of any familiar kind. On the last occasion a few months before there had been a higher pitch and more force. On that occasion the translation to a plea for help had been very close. How had that ended on the earlier occasion? The same as on this subsequent from memory, petering out suddenly before one knew it.
Last night the cries arrived from a further remove. Once again the thought had turned to a call for emergency services, the police. Downstairs Jo-Jo was at the reception desk relieving for the more competent Myu-tu, who had returned to Myanmar to marry his young wife a second time, officially in the traditional way. Googling the number was the option. One might undertake a little preliminary detective work before the police arrived. Indeed, without that it might turn out a bit silly waiting with the officers in the corridor for the cry to restart. The corridor at the end of the first passage might be tried. It seemed more likely as the source. A few more thoughts spun in the cycle in the last of it.
On all three occasions the woman had made no effort to raise the alarm. It was of course likeliest a woman, a wife in question; and not a young one particularly. The likelihood was this was practiced, habitual violence of a particular pattern and form. The literature seemed to suggest that was the way these things took place. Did that mean the perpetrator was laying into the victim repeatedly, taking his time about it and no let-up? Not to mention the hour. Possibly the pair could have checked in after a flight arrival before dawn. At reception Myu-tu could usually get some shut-eye after three, he said. Of the regulars encountered at the lifts each and every couple seemed impossible candidates for such eruptions. In all cases, just as out on the street and at the eatery tables, it was always the warm and fine adjustment that was apparent in these mostly Malay couples. Never a sign of anything to suggest something of this kind. Of course violence in the family was often hidden even from intimates. If these were beatings of some sort, accusations and rantings must form part of the scene, whispered in this case in the dead of night. Muffling employed perhaps with pillows and such like. As on the earlier couple of occasions such cries had been heard, the scope, rhythm and tenor suggested an order and arrangement was involved. A long-term marriage perhaps, with set roles and patterns. Anecdotally, wife-beating was said to be common in the Malay community. Quite the contrary to the impressions at all the eateries, the markets and karaoke nights staged around the hotel. All together very much contrary.

Syed Introducing Whitney in Singapore

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Called out once more last night from an unseen corner of the dark. In this instance it was from within the middle of the Haig Road hawker stalls, almost all of which were closed at that late hour. The lights of the eating halls before the Haig Road housing towers might stay on all night as a security measure. The old Malay hobo who has tipped seventy needs to move from under there for the dark of the public benches beside the bus-stop when he wants to bed down. An old drunk might remain at one of the tables and sometimes cleaning crews pass through. One's name had not before been called out from that echo-chamber.
         It was Syed. Stopping a moment was enough to give him encouragement to rise from the table where he sat with two fellows. Sun of a Beach he sported on his white, clean and bright tee. Syed was always careful in his grooming and attire. An erect posture, raised, steady head. Months before a nodding acquaintance; then a few words and finally one or two conversations. News of the death of the American singer had brought Syed to mind earlier in the week. Syed was surprised and a little dubious. The surprise was all the greater when he was told that this famous voice had never been heard. It seemed extraordinary to Syed. Syed was a Music man. In the talk he had mentioned some of the performers from the roll-call of rock and R&B.
         Syed gave his testimony on the quality of the voice. The god-given natural and the heart he mentioned. Immediately Syed brought out his iphone, a $900 plus job. Not two seconds he found the track he was after. Understandably in the last couple of days Syed might have gone back in homage. The ear piece he handed across. It took another few secs. to adjust the volume and in the end we had Whitney large as life.
         I Will Always Love You — on the feet standing ten thirty pm two or three days after the singer had passed away in a hotel bathtub by reports. Testing had not as yet established substances. It was the substances that had recalled Syed; that and the music dimension.
         After five or six years without almost a single tune, none personal and specific (the incidental and unavoidable, such as that offered by the neighbouring supermarket, aside), the effect of the music was without exaggeration narcotic. It was a particular kind of in-studio recording Syed had found, rather over-produced. Nonetheless the swell and rise of the voice, the reach and rhythm, had the head swimming, the eyes closing at more than one passage.
         Syed stood close holding the phone. The lines were not long. The music worked so powerfully there was hardly space to cast eyes back to Syed no more than eighteen inches off. A counter on his screen, perhaps some measure of pitch and bass, had him following at a remove.     

         The song was well known to him of course. Whether he could hear any fragment where he stood was uncertain. For Syed there was a quiet, contained pleasure and gratification in the gift he had been able to bestow on his friend, his friend who was usually in a hurry, preoccupied and always pleading too little time. The raised, motionless head, a few blinks of the eyes and barely perceptible nods.
         Syed is usually heavy-lidded. The raising of the chin accentuates his blinking. It seems he is doing well. The fellowship helps an enormous amount. Syed attends regularly. Support from one's fellows is very important. An American woman who admires Syed's sculpted muscles has been mentioned a couple of times. There are others, seemingly Malays and Indians over-represented, but that may be Syed's particular circle. The five daily prayers are an important structure too. There is little other. Syed's parents, originally from Yemen, passed away some years ago. If there are siblings they play a lesser role than the members of the Fellowship and his friends around lower Geylang. Like for others from his part of the world, America is for Syed pretty much the Great Satan. Syed has a fair degree of political awareness. The alternative America, however, Hendriks, Housten, Franklin, Esteban—there were one or two others mentioned last night—is as important as anything else in Syed's life. Regular work helps with structure. Changi SingAir cartage presently, five and a half days, eight hours regular: $1600 per month. Hands at the neck in the choking signal as Syed dramatizes the position: In Singapore they give you just enough to keep you from drowning. Syed's English often employs the rhythms of rap and carries music and film references. Worth teasing out more often than not to get the gloss. Certainly more often than in the case of much of the conversation one hears elsewhere in this city-state in locations that will remain nameless.

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AirShow

Comic opera it aint unfortunately, more's the pity. This is true-life politics rather; politics clarified, the sharp, pointy end. Politics by other means (rehearsal stage and in costume). 
         It's the biannual Singapore Airshow 2012 at the Changi Exhibition Centre. Somewhere out near the passenger terminal they must have a handkerchief of reclaimed land on this island sufficient to host such an event. At this eastern Geylang end we often get a great number of fighter jets and transports thundering low overhead toward Changi. Gives the Malays around Geylang Serai a good look in case their minds start wandering. Seven or eight kilometres away taking in the display full throttle one can only imagine the frisson, the stirring in the loins for the petrol-heads and machine-gun fellatio crowd. (Our own Roulettes were here bursting the clouds and making nice pics in the days following.) The turnstiles were ticking over from day one, if the news reports can be believed. The real business however is enticing pollies and generals (always and everywhere — no exceptions — close cousins, if not one and the same) to get themselves some. 
         Long horizontal pic across the top of page 11 today (Straits Times) reminiscent of old Cold War Red Square footage of the tubby bears — Joe, Beria, the shoe-tapper Krushchev later — up on the balconey observing the parade. Being Singapore, in this instance the prospect is rather different. What is captured by the drammatic tableau in the gazebo at the Sing AirShow 2012 is an variant form of the predominant social behaviour on this territory; namely, the endless, utterly compulsive and completely (air-) conditioned festive shopping spree. What else in this city famed for its premier global retail strip! 
         Unlike the old drab Russian composition, this is very much a painterly group portrait. The chaps stand behind hoarding in national colours to make them feel at home, uniformed services in all bar two of the cases. The buttons are shiny, epaulettes starched, classic twin pockets favoured in blues and fawn. One General's seen it all before and is using his iphone to take a pic of his wife (rather than mistress, lucky for him). The Indonesian contingent are grinning skyward - they have just seen precisely what they need (in Irian Jaya perhaps). An Arab pair make difficult customers; not easy to impress. The Americans have them well-supplied with the best hardware of its kind, discounted specially. Still, can't help being a bit taken all the same, despite themselves; that arm akimbo will soon be signing a cheque. Another Arab in a camel tunic falls automatically into the posture of audience-with-sovereign: cap under-arm, almost fully at attention when he should be at ease. (Camera caught out of the corner of his eye possibly.)
         A casino visit at the Marina Bay Sands on the cards while in town. Up to the famous skypool to survey the spectacular city towers over drinks. Orchard girls. These dark lads would prefer blondes — Russians and Poles on hand if they can't get real Scandinavian. The Safari Zoo. Or perhaps not—enough nature, dirt and wilderness where they come from. That's why they're here: to buy and uplift their people into modernity. (Keep the autocrats safe at night simultaneously.) The wife getting her pic taken extreme right sports a leopard-print top. Prized in Lion City Singapura as most places. Is it from Tang's?
         The accompanying article concentrates on record-breaking civilian sales. Discretion required the other side of the ledger — as in Switzerland with monies: mum's the word.

Confucius, Beckett, Fyodor, Will & Walt

The couple of old fuel-pump jockeys down the road here at the Servo usually looking bright and lively, up and about. Tonight they were unexpectedly caught in resting pose, one on a pair of stacked plastic chairs against the corner wall, his pal using a red witch's hat as a leaning post. The supervisor must have gone home early. A pair of 1.60cm fly-weights, thin and bald, baby-blue polos with yellow collars and camel cargo knickerbockers to ensure their safety from the cars running in for juice. At their age they're not going to be able to leap out of the way that's for sure. (No joke here. Crossing a side street anywhere on Geylang Road, any one of the dark Lorongs, you get warning toots from behind from the car rearing up for the turn and not wishing to be impeded by a foot-slogger. As a ped. who can't afford the registration for wheels here — about $1500 minimum per annum — you need to respect your betters and take fair warning, Get the fuck outta the way, I'm coming. Women, men, granddads, their own grandma, all of them they'd run over in order not to be impeded. In the dark they don't recognise an ang moh. Think you're an Indian or Bangla boy, especially from behind. If they knew how well you spoke English and thought you were from London, might be a different story. But given the circumstances you can't blame them really. They've worked hard for what they've got. It's very much a look-out for yourself place. You're a visitor.)
The old jockeys have been at their posts at the Esso pumps two or three months, not more. At maybe four dollars per hour — they're unlikely to get more than the illegals doing similar work — it's a nice touch of valeting for those who can afford wheels, registration and $2.10 per litre. The equivalent of the white-gloved car-park attendants even at mid-range hotels like the Carlton on Bras Basah Road. Once the turn into the drive is made immediately the lads are on the move, straight to the customer. Before the driver can get around to the tank the jockey is waiting. Evening sir. Fill 'er up? (Twenty year olds in collars and with car keys receive the honorific here from toothless granddads every hour of the day.) The jockeys wear gloves too come to think of it, a little grimed. In Singapore you don't see cars older than four or five years, taxis and commercial vans aside. Mirror-finish duco you don't want even your girlfriend tainting with her fingerprints. Let alone old codgers like these.
Marching up to Tasvee evenings the men at their stations in their colours stand like birds of augury. Over the distance from the footpath acknowledgement is not possible. Once or twice mornings before their shifts they have been caught at the tables opposite Malay Kampong at the lower end of Geylang Road, recognizable by the uniforms that have lost much of their luminosity without the night lights trained upon them.
Most nights the old Malay fellow who pedals barefoot from Joo Chiat Complex where he lives in the HDB on top comes past the Tasvee tables. There is a hint of Malay in his features leavening the predominant Han Chinese. One never sees the man conversing with a soul down at the base of the tower back there. At the benches he can often be seen near his locked bicycle, drawn by the wind-tunnel effect like the others from their heat-boxes upstairs. Often the man can be seen communing with himself, but not any of his fellows, sociable as are most of them. Provisionally: touched somewhat perhaps. It seems in the nicest possible way, judging by all the pleasant, smiling greetings over the term. Tonight again an earlier sighting at the Haig Road public benches beside the bus-stop. This is a way-station en route to his ultimate destination further up the road, whatever that may be. Even though Haig Road is only a couple of hundred metres from his block, likely the other misfits and vagrants there are most congenial. There too he doesn't speak with anyone. It's enough for him to sit in the midst of an accepting crowd. (You know the feeling yourself well enough.) Received the greeting warmly when it wasn't expected. Shouted back something he thought of ten secs. too late.
Here at Tasvee just now twenty minutes later he crept up unnoticed and managed to get in first. A little hoarse roar and a nice smile. These generous greetings from the elderly are particularly precious — more so one could say than even that from a pretty girl. The chap turns his wheels slowly. Time enough to point his finger over his shoulder back where we had both come from by our independent means. The finger then twirling in reference to his wheel-power. And one more indicator yet at his wrist, suggesting the good time we have made. The latter accompanied by the crumpled mouth and chin and nodding practiced by all the good silent-era comic masters. Well done indeed sir. Each to his own. See you soon back at the ranch.
Dozens and dozens of times the man has glided by there without the full picture emerging. Such has always been the concentration on the communication that the style of the man's pedaling had never been noticed properly until this night. No wonder there was such a leisurely air about him. No wonder he had the air of the floating cloud. For some reason best known to himself, the fellow goes along making only half revolutions of his pedals. Half turn. Return. And the same again. The toes are somehow wrapped around the pedals too. Traction in place of stirrups? Every right to travel howsoever one pleases under one's own steam and by one's own lights. Perhaps he had always had his rear light rigged this way too, unnoticed until now. Some kind of improvised mounting over the back wheel has shortened the space for his seat. If he has any seat at all, it's not much more than a reference point for his bottom, no comfort whatever. The rigging is for the purpose of a carrying cage, a cartage provision. Doesn't seem to have anything inside tonight. The thing must be for the markets around Geylang Serai. Who's going to lug everything in bags hanging off the handlebars for Buddha's or Allah's sake! On the upper corner prong of this rigging a small, white, more or less transparent, plastic supermarket bag has been carefully tied off. In the operation some air has been left inside the bag, perhaps on purpose, producing an odd bulbous effect, as if it might hold emergency liquid. Floating somehow there the glowing red tail-light possibly low on battery. Most of the bike-riders here have neither helmet or any light whatever. Might have been a crack-down lately. This chap now sweet.
The other younger fellow from down under the Complex at the lower end prefers the foot-slog. This chap has been slogging a mighty long while. It's in his physique. A ferret or whippet. Some part of it possibly lack of nutrition. Way he keeps his eyes peeled in the gutters a fair clue. A long thin birch he has cut for himself helps him along. The man is never without it. In Oz he'd have a dog, a kelpie. Nothing in it of any discernible value. A thin metre long stick such as ethnic mothers back home would pluck from trees in boyhood to beat errant children. Very much the same. This one has had its end bound in gaffer tape. Proven its worth, the chap grown attached. Lost without it. Like a divining rod in this man's hands. One evening directly opposite Tasvee, passing the corner Lorong there without the merest glance to the side where the China-girls stand in the shadows, the man had raised his staff into the air before him, nothing short of a perfect image of the conductor with his wand inside his inner music. Definitely Malay. Doubtless sleeping rough. Never seen with a fag in his mouth. Must be coin he's on the look-out for. Once or twice he's noticed the familiar mat sellah from the other end of Geylang, given a little choked smile and nod, head still mostly bent. Usually like the street-sweeps here, never raises the eyes. Just now the same in passing.
Last night came the first, imperfect sighting of the tee right here at the Tasvee table, sported by a mainlander going back up to his dorm. There had been an inclination to chase the man down in order to get the citation right. Two consecutive impulses came one after the other. Wasn't to be. In the face of all the other billboard tees proclaiming a standpoint, declaring an orientation, over more than eight months, here was the great old sage who bestrided this transplanted civilization, writ large and bold as the day. Yet as fate and ill-luck would seemingly have it, unable to be caught properly, precisely, so as to be sure. A missed opportunity indeed. Then, counter to all likelihood, after all this time reading these lesser, often puerile statements advertised on the streets and malls, buses and cafes, libraries and festive gatherings, the very same Confucius returned in another display less than 24 hours after the first. There was a message in this for certain. One could get superstitious under the influence of such occurrence. Two different men. Had they both been of the same race there might have been some dubiety. Not in this case. This second display arrived after dinner on Changi Road compliments of an Indian man. A clear case of cultural fusion. It was dark, but not that dark. The man passed one way bearing his pronouncement on his chest like a hair-shirt; a few minutes later rounded immediately behind the table. The tees, the first the night before worn by the Chinaman, and now this on the Indian, were of different colour too. Citation however unmistakably the same.
Have No Friends Not
Equal To Yourself
And the ascription, Confucius. (Google has since made clear the line is quite well known, in Asia and beyond.)
From the night before the prompt had teased the mind like no other over this long sojourn. Because the text had not been absolutely verified perhaps, the proposition hadn't rattled as sometimes these suggestions are prone to do. Here now one was asked to grapple more seriously.
Certainly one can sympathize with the old master. Know what he's on about. But isn't this far too hard-arse a position? For one thing, how much agency can be supposed in such and like matters? Quite likely elsewhere in the Analects the philosopher too had other insights arrive counter to this. This could not be the final word on the subject.
Another old wise head, this one from the Montenegrin hills, delivered the understanding at which people of her parts had arrived:
All Men Know All Things, it was held there.
The old ancient teacher would have accepted the truth of that too, and its implications. Lots of equivalent knowledge and insight out there. A trick to know how to balance it all, reconcile like and unlike. Those of the party of Sam, Fyodor, Will and Walt cannot subscribe to such hierarchies. This is a Confucius tailored by corporate business culture, beware you Singaporeans.

[NB. Late Feb. 2012 COE (Cert. Of Entitlement - equivalent to our car Registration back home) increased to $57k per ten year period; ie. $5,700 per annum. for 1600cc.

N.B. 2. Near the end of the collection in Analects a segment which might be taken as some part corrective and refinement to this earlier remark of Confucius's on friendship.
Book 19 Chapter 3.
The different opinions of Tsze-Hsiâ and Tsze-chang on the principles which should regulate our intercourse with others.

The disciples of Tsze-hsiâ asked Tsze-chang about the principles that should characterize mutual intercourse. Tsze-chang asked, "What does Tsze-hsiâ say on the subject?" They replied, "Tsze-hsiâ says: 'Associate with those who can advantage you. Put away from you those who cannot do so.'" Tsze-chang observed, "This is different from what I have learned. The superior man honors the talented and virtuous, and bears with all. He praises the good, and pities the incompetent. Am I possessed of great talents and virtue? -- who is there among men whom I will not bear with? Am I devoid of talents and virtue? -- men will put me away from them. What have we to do with the putting away of others?" Early March 2012]

Sleeping Rough in Singapore

Language lessons:

         Papi Ayam. Ayam is chicken in Bahasa. (Bahasa Malay chiefly under consideration here; Bahasa Indonesia varies somewhat, though much is common.)

         Nasi Ayam is Chicken Rice; Briyani in Tamil, the long grain basmati, invariably comes with chicken—ayam.

         Nasi Goreng is known. Goreng Pisang, Fried Banana, hugely popular as a snack and often in place of a real meal. At Mr. Teh Tarik and the other Indian-Malay Eateries the Fries stands do goreng pisang, goreng kentang (chips) and goreng cempedak (jackfruit).

         Diet a serious problem in the Malay community, as in many others.

         One doesn't know bananas in the South—nor in the North of course. In these middle parts, these are bananas like they were in the old days in the Garden of Eden. The size of them at Har Yassin on Changi Road lately something to send a shooting shiver up and down a cheeky lass's spine. Cheeky Lia—from Dahlia; syllable extracted from her Indonesian name—made the inevitable joke about receiving one that satisfied all her hunger, no need for anything more, thanks all the same. Little slip of a girl like that, yet no blushing.

         Lia's Chinese boyfriend—husband she sometimes called him when he put the claim of proprietorship on her—didn't know one of his friends was a Papi Ayam. Sightings of the man first of all by Lia on Batam. Suspicions raised. Soon enough word got out the man was recruiting—a Papi Ayam.

         Wasn't really ethical trying to hook Lia knowing the boyfriend; a friend of the boyfriend. But no harm done, nothing came of it. Lia didn't tell either. Later the boyfriend found out about his friend's line of business, but not from Lia.

         Knowing the scene down in Lorongs ---- and ----, the Indon beats, Lia wasn't at all interested. Lia wasn't naive in any case. Big money, holidays, new clothes—not even a kampung girl from the far distant rice-paddies fell for any of that blarney.

         Instead Lia got by here on house-cleaning when there was work. Camped out in a room in Jurong—not exactly cheap at $15 per night on the floor, shared with four others, one shower and WC. In Nagoya City, Batam, it was $100 per month in a private room, shared kitchen and other amenities with about a dozen others.

         Word of Era in the carpark beside the hotel surprised Lia. At first the pointing finger had her assuming a room in the hotel. How did she afford it? she wanted to know. When the carpark was established the surprise was the police. How?... Naturally Lia could guess the police would do regular rounds of carparks in Singapore. Street smarts were important when your livelihood depended upon it. The on-side Security Guard at the car-park Lia couldn't have guessed. Old Malay chap not on the make; did it out of simple kindness. He gave the word when the rounds were done; when it was all clear; usually eleven o'clock. The police were otherwise occupied by that hour. (Lovely horse-headed old fellow closing seventy; something of the traditional law-man in the face he turned toward the table when he was hailed.)

         The JB Malay lads working as shop assistants in the Complex slept upstairs at Geylang Serai. Another security guard sympathetic to his fellows, no doubt. (The foreign workers carting the long cardboard sheeting over their shoulders months past had been guessed right—good for softening hard, unforgiving surfaces such as the concrete at Geylang Serai.)

         Lia doesn't possess Era's "little-little biznis" capacity. When called Era cleaned houses too; cleaned aircon elements for a tech when he called. But on top of that one could do a bit extra if a sharp eye-out was kept. Era and a pal, a biznis partner male, came over on the ferry together with large bags stuffed with kachang garuda—peanut snack-packs. On Batam 40c per item. One of the stall-holders here, a hawker up at Geylang Serai, finally negotiated with the pair 3 x $5. Not much. Little-little. Something. A pair of shoes at Lion City Plaza carrying a $40 price tag Era knew she could off-load in Batam for $60. Not a big profit; not to be sneezed at either.

         For Lia, Era and all the Indon gals the same pestering at Immigration each time:

         — You working in Singapore?

         — No, shopping.

         — Shopping? What with?

         Flashing five hundred did it. Not a problem, worked like a charm. Risk-free for the authorities: either a good for the retail sector; or otherwise the labour market.

         The local shark provided the cash, 10% per 24 hours. The day before departure see the man to collect the moola. Once Customs was  cleared in Sing’ same-day returned. (These fees naturally added by the Papi Ayam for the girls to work off. Oftentimes the Chicken-Daddy and the Shark were feeding from the same trough. Fact, could be Jaws and Papi-O hadn't been separated at birth.)

         Cleaning a flat brought $50— seven/eight hours, depending. (The nice Filipino lad at the Net place who turned a blind eye to the printing charge, collected not 10. Not 9, nor 8 or 7 an hour. No. Four flat. Good English, moderate IT skills. Ten/twelve hour days, depending.)

         Even so, Era, Lia and such girls would not stoop to the chicken-yard. They would rather go without. They are used to that. Survivors.

         The Malay man out nights in front of the Islamic Converts building opposite Geylang Serai wasn't difficult to pick. The fold-up stretcher in the bag beside him rather a give-away.

         General cleanliness, frank smile and good nature raised the doubt. But no, after midnight there somewhere near-by he had a possie away from the traffic and the lights.

         No dew in Singapore and the rainy season, the so-called monsoon, lasted no more than a fortnight this year. The surprise was that the man was an ex-cop, on a pension of $1300.

         Like so many others, in a spirit of full and frank disclosure, Mr Yousef gave the precise figure immediately and unasked. Colleagues of his in the Sixties got lucky when Christmas Island, where they had been posted, passed from Singaporean to Australian sovereignty. Immigration, citizenship, passports all falling into their laps. Now excellent pensions and large houses over there.

         Twenty five years Yousef had been separated from wife and family. That was the other surprise. Not all of it living rough however. A second marriage in Indonesia provided a refuge in the years of sere. (Jakarta in this case rather than Batam. Many men Yousef's age remarry, or—Don't tell the authorities!—take a second wife on Batam, a forty-five minute ferry ride away.)

         Transferring pensions was the problem. How can you trust the authorities? Yousef didn't explain which; perhaps and likely both. Here in Sing’ citizenship was possibly put at hazard; there in Indo money simply siphoned, go try get it back if you can.

         To and fro then. The weather was on Mr Yousef's side.

                                                                                                                                     Geylang Serai, Singapore 2011-2019

                           

                                                                                             NB. This piece was written in the first year of the acquaintance.

The Prophet's Birthday (Maulidur Rasul)

*







Squeaky giggling of this kind highly unusual in these parts. The fact that it arrived from the night, nearing ten o'clock, added to the surprise. A child's squeal is occasionally heard hereabouts even in the midst of the alarmingly low birth-rate. The scavenging pigeons around the Mr. Teh Tarik lunch-tables often excite young children unused to such forms on this island. (Pets are uncommon among a vertically arranged community; almost any animal other than the human require a journey out to zoos and enclosures in Singapore.) This remarkable kerbside piping inserted into the dark street and its churning traffic was not a happy child's pleasure. Without the evidence of the eyes, before the source was located, one would have guessed an early teen, a young lass relating something for mum and tripping over herself in her narration.... The beautifully behaved and mannered young teens down the other, lower end of Geylang Road can never be heard in the shrill, piercing register of Western youngsters. Teenage-hood in the Western sense—one wants to say does not exist in the traditional Malay community in Singapore, even in these current times. Certainly the display over these eight months opposite the old, now fenced-off Malay Kampong, beside Geylang Serai, strongly suggests such a conclusion.
This woman at the corner Tasvee table tonight, sitting with the three Chinese Singaporean men, was in her late forties, if not crossed beyond. The voice belonged to her and no one else. Yet in the first moments one looked on for a time disbelievingly. Remarkable and unusual for certain. One is hard pressed to recall anything approaching this woman's counterpart back home, either in voice or manner. Certainly in the last forty or more years in the large cities. Safe to say the example is exceedingly rare on our shores. Here something similar has been witnessed previously, perhaps not quite at this level of showmanship.
The woman was likely a mainlander; a local Chinese was longer odds. Rarely are the local women of that age entertaining a table of men in these quarters. Nevertheless, at the same time her age spoke against the working China-gal. These are certainly older than the other working girls, the trafficked young girls from other neighbouring countries. But the mainland girls in Geylang are usually mid thirties at the outside. This woman was at least ten years older.
My how she was brightening the evening for these good fellows. How grim and funereal they would have sat without her there, like all the others chewing their tasteless cud. Like schoolboys almost she makes them smile, grinning and bending in their seats. Under her power one can see the schoolboy in each of them. The oldest was the quiet, impish one in what schooldays were available back in his time. Thin, sharp and pinched features, something of the parrot added by the brushed-back hair. From the middle band at school the youngest came; not remembered for anything in particular; good fellow with a ready laugh. When the woman worked her magic the crows-feet around his eyes goughed deeply. Ten years younger than the other he may have been, entering his middle sixties. That was another remarkable matter: seeing such free and light spirits amongst men of this age. Uncommon anywhere, outside of play-acting for grandkids perhaps.
Newly laundered white slacks; blue, mauve, pink and lavender in thin stripes across the synthetic top, the colours stretched a little thinner over her broad back. Later a string of tight pearls were revealed at the base of her neck. The drabness of the men's attire beside these feathers was the visual counterpart of the aural.
A sudden streak of an exotic flock over a barren landscape. Precious water improbably bubbling in a desert. Cooling air arrived after a scorcher. (Old man Lee Kwan Yew here has aircon as the pinnacle of all human invention.) More than anything it was the voice that broke all the usual bounds of the nightly Tasvee workingmen's gatherings.
The woman is not the garrulous type. This is not ceaseless jabber. Though they can't be properly heard or differentiated from the general tone of the others, the men certainly partake in the exchanges. When the woman enters, however, even before the uplift of her laugh, an entirely new element announces itself. The lightness and lilting rhythms cut the night like a meteor. Without warning the startling high note of the mezzo pitches into the flat recitative, runs on its rise and further stretches out and beyond. The trilling elaborations of her laughter following carry her notes away from the listener, who is sent scurrying in order to keep up. These lucky chaps receive the woman's cantabile like stage-extras at their posts, smiling faces turned up to her though she sits lower in her chair. In the kitchen on the other side of the rowdy shop and out at the back wash-stand men surely turned to look over their shoulders, young Indian and Bangla lads who thought they were missing an eyeful somewhere.
Love in a marketplace among the produce might have been her theme, the boy and girl and none able to stand between. Nevermind the dirty street with its cars and lorries, the cheap prata and curry she has just finished while the men waited on her.
La-da-di-da-da-da du-du-du-di-di
And then her self-pleasure and delight in her ringing laugh tinkling onward and further.
The old buggers certainly comprehend the bounty bestowed. This is no casting of unappreciated pearl. Like the lady, all three chaps have dyed their hair. (Not for the occasion: rare is the Singaporean under seventy who has made peace with his aging.) The elder sits cross-legged; middle leaning against pillar beside his chair pretty much out of the picture. The youngest on the other side is the one faced directly by the woman. This one gets her chief attention; the overflow to the elder and the other the referred pleasure. Gleefully they collect her pealing voice. Almost the entirety of their own contribution arrives in dumbshow two tables off.
How does she keep up such continuous theatre at that pitch? How deep is her reservoir of fine, tireless spirit? Like a pair of birds her hands raised over the table fluttering together more than once in the delivery of her lines. Elbows crooked, arms at ninety degrees and fingers dancing as if in backward piano playing. There was no wave of hands. The hands remained steady. It was the fingers in motion, very much as if over a raised, imaginary keyboard. On her face the men kept their gaze while she dazzled like that, the fingers something like the shadow blades of an overhead fan on them. A virtuoso of that rank unacknowledged by any of the other tables.... It seemed improbable. The other men, certainly the older, in pairs or singly, were doing their best to ignore others' merrymaking.
The fellows certainly share their companion's sense of humour. Perhaps something of their own witticisms was what had at least in part inspired the woman. The light-hearted ease, the largeness and expansion, was entirely her own personal gift and talent.
The old fellow on her right gets a good squeeze at the end of a fine, rollicking passage. Sitting with one leg over the other close beside the woman's chair, she can easily let her hand fall on the blue trouser leg. The wasted calf beneath the fabric fits snug in her little palm just at the merry end of what she was saying. There!... Comradely in equal part to the tease. One can be sure the elder parrot of the company retained feeling in his limbs. The squeeze delivered shot up that leg a certain distance known only to himself. However, it was on the woman's face that the man kept his eyes for the after-glow transmitted. One of his elbows rests on the table. He sits swiveled facing her, slumped in his chair but head erect. She and the youngster tete a tete; the other getting the scraps. This last fails to get a direct look from any of them for the duration, while the company holds. Never mind that; he is very much within the circle.
At one point the elder-parrot had attempted to get himself off for a ciggie. Out of the pack the intended cigarette had been drawn. From the table the man had risen, taken two or three paces, before promptly returning. For the remainder of the time he sat mindlessly clutching the unlit cigarette within his palm. That was better than returning it to the pack or dropping on the table. Absent himself was more than he could bear.
At an earlier point still he was concerned the woman might be sitting parched. The remainder of the prata had still not been cleared, a can of Coke beside. The man repeated his offer and showed his earnestness by turning toward the cigarette stand attendant and extending a finger. It was toward the can that the woman politely pointed with gratitude, his generosity fully acknowledged. But, no, thank you very much indeed. In danger of springing a leak here. Much obliged.
One or two of the men had been sighted at the Tasvee tables on earlier occasions. At Tasvee each night the men sit quietly over their food and drink. Some in the younger range keep a look-out over the road and either side for one of the China-girls passing. The duck-head elder's craning neck seemed familiar. This lady here was certainly a rare catch. She may not have been able to reprise her performance in a smaller space, but surely it was worth the venture. At some fit point one of them — the youngster was well-placed, or perhaps the cagey shy one unexpectedly — would draw this artist from the table and away. Instead, at what seemed like a mid-point in the evening, the trio surprisingly let her rise from the table and step out down the road toward one of the Eateries on the other side. No chase given. No sense of ship-wreck resulting. There should have been a much stronger picture of disappointment. Amongst themselves they start up a little chat, a spot of de-briefing, and don't even look after her, completely missing the lovely marching gait, arms swinging, but not in the soldierly fashion; rather laterally with outstretched hands across her thighs. A fitting exit for such a star.... Ah lads, my dear dunderheads!
The diva had made off toward Khadijah mosque. Twenty minutes later the crowd was still emerging from the mosque, awaiting their rides on the roadway and hailing cabs. A family group on the other side ran for the No. 40 bus that rounds back east to Bedok, mother and daughter out front and the older dad making up the rear. Under the sheltered walk-way grandmothers were clasped by the elbow as they passed, because of the dark and the uncertain steps. One hundred people stretched along the roadway in their simple finery. Many a year our own devotional crowds have lacked this kind of dignity — Quakers and Amish perhaps aside. Preparation of stretched plastic shading over the forecourt of the mosque had been erected in days past. Tonight was the grand occasion, the Prophet's birthday.

Follow the Leader

Ring-side seats here after lunch better than a title fight. Those spectacles are for brutes. The old chaps in this crowd are lovers, not fighters. A sprinkling of youngsters across the tables this afternoon, because of the Saturday perhaps. And some younger gals too; a new group may have landed recently. The slip of a lass moseying down the incline just now still unused to her drawing power, carrying a bashful smile head down and hair screening. New local conditions in a foreign land too perhaps take some acclimatizing. If the chairs here at the tables aren't turned wholly on the angle facing the corner, then the men side side-saddle, none too shy about their observation. They are all gathered for the same reason—no bones about it. Tables of acquaintances in a couple of instances; but for the most part singles having to share tables because of the limited seats. For the new-comer, the foreign observer, watching the men trailing twenty or thirty metres behind the lass of their choice leading the way almost more entertaining than anything else. An old granddad a half hour ago understandable. No doubt he was on safe ground here, foreign territory with little chance of being spied by anyone known. Nevertheless, going upstairs with one of these lasses who is certainly younger than his youngest grandchild, calls for a certain circumspection. Early eighties the best guess, able, nimble on his feet, no stick nor glasses. A venerable type. Wife, children, grandchildren no doubt ill-equipped to understand—perhaps the wife understands best of all. Virtually all the fellows hang back for the walk down the slope. The first block behind on that side stands four storeys high, windows facing the street blackened. The attached awnings would have little effect against the afternoon sun. One lass now seemed to be making clear professions to a chap ostensibly sauntering off home. Button-holed him nice and proper. A kind of black low-cut evening dress, matching high heels—heels are common in these parts in what is otherwise a land of sandals and thongs. Narrow footpath makes it easy to press close, looking solicitously into the man's face. With the heels they are about the same size. Left hand lightly striking her sternum in her insistence that she is as she says, worth a try. Fidelity, frank dealing, no tricks, he can be sure. Slapping flat-handed just below the collar bone in her iteration. Slight raising of head to indicate, Just there, first turning. Little wonder the fellow—middle-aged this one, stocky, dark, hints of the Peranakan—acceded. Ten full seconds. In Iceland this one would sell to the Eskimos. One older fat chap seemed to be directing traffic up on the corner, rattling at one girl after another. No particular thinning immediately discernible. Can't have been an alert for the cops. When the cops raid around on the other side of the main road and the pimps give their warning, the illegal younger girls stream across the main road helter-skelter, little shrieks and bustling with the appearance of schoolgirl hi-jinks. The great majority here darkly and recently dyed, Indian and Chinese both. No Malays apparent this afternoon. Difficult to tell whether the teeth are likewise false. One fellow has chosen a rust-red spray to distinguish himself from the crowd. The older Malay — if she is Malay—kitchen-hand at the middle hawker stand has decided on an alternative fashion statement. Late forties seeming older, squat and heavy, cheap grimed tee and baseball cap. How the dozen prominent gold rings shine along the rim of her ear three quarts around. As the Malay drinks waitress passed she stuffed her front pouch with a handful of the vegetables she had just diced at the front chopping block. Lovely camaraderie—almost without exception the norm on this street from one end to the other among staff who would not earn more than three or four dollars an hour. (The beer-girls receive commission per item and line, which on a good day can boost it a bit.) No room for the chopping board within their stall. Tight passage and heavy traffic. Never a problem. The lasses fishing regularly pass through too, toying with the customers. Many take their lunch here, likely at a discount rate. This young chap in-step ten metres behind the Fidelity lass as if called up to the headmaster's office: eyes on the pavement, frowning, boyish floppy hair. A dimple when she smiled, turning briefly to see whether he was indeed following. Prior to granddad she had shown the dimple at an earlier success—perhaps another young chap, someone who might have circled around the back. How far might the aged, liver-spotted old men travel in the hands of these girls? How simply they accept the task. Nonetheless a younger man might be a feather in a cap. And here right on cue, a cockney flat-cap too! Leather or vinyl, far too heavy for this climate. The fellow might have reprised it from boyhood in the fifties. Studious dark younger man reading Dan Brown—No, Dawn French! The angle and size of the red-dot advertising on the cover making it difficult to discern. If he's interested in a real embrace, it'll be after the chapter that has had him captivated this three quarts of an hour. (Dawn has to do tame sex after romance surely?) The old Indian here dyes his moustache to match, no doubt about it. The slightly comic effect had been missed in earlier takes. Cheap hair-dressing in these parts, set-ups before the old run-down rooming houses late into the night, chairs, mirrors, lights on leads and queues. Two or three dollars max. Any city, no matter the affluence, the same. As elsewhere, the landlords making the money. No up-keep on these cheap and nasty flats behind..... A well-earned smoke at the chopping board. (Customers need to get off the footpath.) In fact the woman Chinese Singaporean, the Malay waitress confirms. Sisters regardless.