Ol’ McDonald in Penang (April26)

 

 

At the earlier hour the street market was busy, the cool overnight leaving the faces less drawn and haggard. Mostly older crowd on a working day, more hand- and arm-holding, even for those not needing physical support. 

One had become accustomed to the sight of the maid doing the shopping, escorting the elderly and helping them along. Quite often able-bodied Madams were taken in arm precisely as the girls would do back home with their mothers, aunts, sisters & friends. An Indo this morning relieved her middle-aged Ma’am of the shopping bag, transferred it to her left hand and taking her charge with the other, the pair setting off in stride. Thus these two took to the outdoors each day, a settled, comfortable arrangement. One brief glance from the girl showed her puzzlement at the gawping.

On the first round a newspaper vendor in her yellow & red company bib, holding her stack against her chest, called out in such an odd chirp that a look was needed to make sure the sound was indeed given by the lady. A small bird landed on one of the branches above would not have surprised. In her turn of head the woman strongly suggested the bird; tone, pitch and repetition likewise. 

Wags always enlivened markets with their quips. One fellow that morning sat with what must have been his mother at a fresh sea-food stall, Ma down on a stool prizing open cockles, working with a gloved hand and the other levering with the tool. 

The lad sat taller, behind a cleaned, nakedly white turtle or crab of some kind.

A foreigner made an easy target.

— Water chicken.

On the return leg an older Chinese opposite the same pair suddenly broke into song. 

            You needed to recall the distant past back home for anything comparable. 

Carrying a song while walking the street, or in the course of daily tasks was nothing unusual in these parts. Songs here came entirely from within—no radio or other device involved.

This particular chap stood at his stall. What he sold was missed. Square-jawed, a larger build than the average Chinaman. 

This husband and father could have fed his family in younger days with hard, taxing labour in the mines or plantations. Coif dyed a lustrous jet-black, bushy eye-brows matched. Recently the barber had been paid a visit. 

An older Chinese woman had stopped before the vendor and was turning over some of the articles. No need engagement. Instead, the man turned a little aside, lifted his head and perhaps took a breath, before sending the old staccato he had retained from younger years into the narrow passage-way.

Ol' McDonald HAD / A / FAAARM... 

Faultlessly in the established clip-clop of the schoolroom, pulling out the final vowel. The man bit off his last note too in the way children elsewhere had learned, chorusing the old favourite. 

There was no more. Subsequent lines might not have come so easily. 

In the kind of transport the tune had induced it would not have surprised if after that the man had passed to the full repertoire. Mary Had a Little Lamb, the Twinkling Star; &etc. 

British administered GeorgeTown, Penang, before the successor Federation of Free Malaysian States fifty and more years ago had followed the established regime in place right across that old Empire on which the sun never did set. 

Still, it was surprising in that Asian guise after such a time, with such radically other ways and manners evident.

 

 

 

Ink in Penang

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

Finest Fruits of the Region

Five tables of covered Malay gals without a protector in sight in a place on Jalan Hutton in Georgetown, Penang. Impossible to ignore on the return after lunch. A cup of tea fitting; quite sufficient to gain entry. 

            Lovely all in their own particular way.Fine array. 

Everything young is beautiful, an old teacher had suggested from her world of knowledge long ago, Peace deservedly be upon her in the place she must have long attained by now. 

Office girls most likely; not shop. A certain kind of inner light suggested. Of course you needed to proceed carefully. 

The chosen lass soon aware of the admiration without having to lift her eyes. Stabbed the chicken on her plate, hesitating to raise the fork. Something her companion said needed attention. 

Could those lips have been carrying some discreet stick that was impossible to discern?

Many of these Malays have what you would swear was a natural ruby tint from these glorious vegetables and fruits of their native habitat. Luscious tones in a definite close match. Add heat, the monsoon and associated moisture, The sign of health, vigour and elan. 

Surely the finest pencil could not follow the line of lips so perfectly. Unnatural exactitude.

Patiently waiting for the gaze to shift from her person. The open mouth, teeth, flesh of chook lying on her tongue an instant before she clamped down—like the most maddening, strip-tease. The final bite like a curtain going down on the scene. 

Following presently for curtain-bow, finally, a small, precious reward for patience and right, delicate regard. With the luncheon companion's brief look to the side, a direct gaze over a single intermediate table, smile widening that artistry of line, a gracious acknowledgement offered, chin rocking briefly but unmistakably. 

Howdeedo? Very kind.

Kafe SIMPLE on Jalan Hutton, a short distance from Tim and David’s Cherrycake Studios.

Umbla Anne

Umbla is a local fruit in colour and size not unlike an unripe green walnut. A sour plum perhaps, from which here in Penang a tarty cool drink was made. Despite the lighter colour tone a newcomer mistakenly thinks, Thai green tea. At two ringgit worth a try. On Penang Road - Kumpung Malabar corner Anne Wong calls it her "signature drink." Two ringgit. Convent educated Anne. The pendant on the end of her gold chain not a cross however—conversion had been avoided. In the end Anne accepted she had not in fact learned the expression in the Convent, certainly not in formal classes. In the case of a daughter Anne's mother wanted to name her child after the Queen of England; (one year in fact after the British withdrawal and independence). Fond mother. Innumerable cases of sequenced rhyming English names bestowed on children the northern end of the Straits the same as the southern, where the Chinese were concerned. (Not the Malays or Indians.) An Ipoh Chinese housemate of a number of years ago by the name of Sharon had siblings Darren and Karen. There were innumerable examples down in Singapore. Of course Anne here in Penang should have been Elizabeth. A difficulty though. How was an illiterate, fond and loving mother supposed to get her tongue around that twister? Even Lizzie must have been tough; and not the same thing either. Fifty-five and more years ago good Queen Liz had become the mother of a daughter. Horsey Princess Anne unhappily taking her Greek father's features. But that was a quibble. Anne. There must have been baby pics in a crib even here in the steamy tropics. God save our gracious Queen / Long live our noble...Fair bit of talent for finagling bestowed with it too you would say judging by the regular trade in tehs and umbla at this particular corner last few days. Woman ought to be retired. Office work it had been earlier. Product of good, earnest, mid-twentieth century aspirant former coolie stock found it hard at home with the crossword and daytime TV. Cooling on a hot day, the little stab of sourness much preferable to all the heavily sweetened beverage. Warmly recommended, perhaps particularly for those poor backpacker kids totting their kits around the bars on Chulia Street on the next corner. After the temples maybe follow the locals and try some meditation over a cup within those walls on Penang-Malabar, guys.