A Slice of Pakistani Politics (Sept25)

After-work crowd. After a shower the air was cleansed, puddles less treacherous. Yesterday Lia reported a three hour wait for her bus out to Puturaya, where she puts up. At the stops on Jalan Ipoh and around on Raja Laut the frequency seemed much better. In this quarter only minor signs of sprucing in the office crowd.

A striking candling of a segment of the Petronas tower from the chair in front of Restoran Mehran. Unending cricket on the large screen, possibly Chappell the elder commentating, in that excruciating patter synced with the action. A long way from the MCG & the Boxing Day Test. Some tags indicated India and Pakistan fighting out another round of another Championship Trophy, though that didn't tally with the white contingent in one of the teams.

Guess was about right: Mehran & Ras Balouch down the road a short way divide on a regional basis. The latter catered for the Hyderabad crowd; here Karachi. The waiters were unable to provide much for distinction; as everywhere else in Chow Kit, there was minimal English. Karachi is the largest city; Hyderabad the textile Manchester equivalent, according to a fellow waiting on tables in Sin’pore.

The broadcast abruptly terminated; it had attracted little interest in any case. Pakistan could not have been playing. The game was replaced after a few minutes by a fresh-faced young man at a podium, before another large gathering, another political rally. A few nights before there had been similar on the screens at Mehran. (How long was it since there has been a real political gathering back home?)

Black-shirted. Camera on a crane drawing waves from the people in its passes.

The dough lad beside the earthenware oven wore long-sleeves under his tee. It was sticky enough watching him from a distance. Over the road at the bus-stop the commuters had thinned, the better dressed particularly. A servo on the near corner; Chow Kit LRT elevated the other side. Behind the Shell trannies awaited custom at the laneway corners, catching the lights of the cruising cars. No doubt, in the time honoured way, a full moon added benefit to the trade.

The young speaker could only have been a twenty-something, his cheeks knowing the lightest of razors. In the crowd red, black and green verticals on the flags held a central, yellow sun. It took quite a while for the wide-winged bullet-proof screen to appear—in the first 5-10 minutes the TV cameras had given no indication.

Here was a large picture of Bhutto on a hoarding behind, the former PM in her fetching scarf that must have been terribly torn and spattered after the shooting. That was the answer; finally the penny dropping. The son here.

Of course, those of the region recognised the young man instantly. Put the young man in the crowd at Mehran, one would never pick him.

These dynastic democracies throughout the region; throughout the world. Clan groupings and special interests; a clash of interests before anything else. Foucault was the teacher here as much as Marx. Gandhi, Bhutto, Najib (Razak), Lee, Park—scions of assassinated elders & murderous tyrants. Entrenched power on our side was able to perpetuate itself without necessarily needing direct hands on the levers of government.

Plush red carpet to the side for the dignitaries—valueless targets evidently, with no precautions necessary for them.

The Bangladeshi behind could identify the young man, but not the city hosting the rally. Along the bottom of the screen the Urdu was incomprehensible to him. Former East Pakistan was a long distance off; the reason for the split in the first place.

Clear mention of his mother eventually. Not a mantra of any kind; simple passing mention: Benazir Bhutto. Perhaps her name failed to carry much currency these years later. Five years was a long time even for such dramatic matters now.

Almost not a single skull-cap visible; a relatively affluent, middle-class business party, reflected by the crowd shots. Women unscarved; a population deeply riven. The men at Mehran, mostly cheap foreign labour, were without exception traditionalists.

Twenty minutes of fits and starts back and forth at the microphone in a nervous bustle, without notes. A young colt newly taken to the field, yet to get his line and length right. Nonetheless, one needed to hand it to the lad; something for the future in the debut.

Relatively minor interest on the street here in this corner of the diaspora, matching the mostly unenthusiastic crowd on the screen. Nothing like the energy of the other night when the fire-brand mufti of Islamabad took to the stage. An old, robed man, well into his seventies, crowned with a white Arabic songkok. Quite a magnificent little figure—one could tell the short stature—the passion and urgency something to behold.

Thirty or forty men at the Mehran tables had sat watching reverently, heads up-tilted, soundlessly absorbing it all. Completely transfixed and motionless; passersby on the street stopped to watch.

Initially, the mufti spoke in excellent English, the denigration of nation one of his chief topics. The poor were duped and confounded; a loss of identity involved. The foulness which had overtaken the country could be sensed from the man's vehemence. One could not fail to be taken by the stirring passion of the venerable old man, waving his arms above the microphone, pointing his finger, swinging in his seat. A true lion.

Imran Khan another night in a couch studio interview was not a patch on the mufti. It was Imran from memory who had tried to claim the tag of the Lion—perhaps foisted upon him by the PR people. No chance beside this chap’s command.

The Lahore lad from the lunch place turned up shortly after at the end of his shift (12 x 7), complaining he was unable to buy himself a single fag. The wallet pockets shown held nothing but paper scraps. For his room above Resto Mehran the chap paid RM600; over a third of his monthly wage. End of month blues. (Lia paid RM250, but that was out in the sticks an hour plus from KLCC.)

PAKISTAN

LAHORE

Even with all the documents in his possession, the young buck failed to recognise either the name of his country, or city, in the English script. (Passport, work permit, &etc.) 

In the case of his name, he could write those five letters.

AMJAD, the second syllable short; "d" elided.

 

NB. Turned out the fifth anniversary of Benazir Bhutto's assassination was chosen for the launch of the son's entry into the political arena. None as yet charged over the killing.

Official statistics put the number of Pakistanis in Malaysia at something between fifty and one hundred thousand. In the newspaper Indonesians were estimated at two million, officially.

 

                         

NY in KL

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

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

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

The Lakes - Taiping

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

                      
 
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The Ice-man - Ipoh (April26)

The ice in the saucers at the base of the teh tariks was a mystery in these eateries. In the 5-6 earlier Malaysian towns, it had not been encountered. Cooled the teh just nice, presumably, according to local tastes. 

There was an ice merchant couple streets from the hotel. Out front a Malay was  working with an electric power-saw on a little tower, pushing his blade in at shallow 45 degree across the face. On delivery to restaurants, hotels and eateries, like the corner place on Jalan Dato Onn Jaafar & Naina Mohamed, the block could be broken into smaller, more manageable pieces. 

Behind the young Malay the older Chinaman paced back & forth. This man was now the sole ice-merchant in Ipoh, the worker informed. Made plenty & paid his staff little, we joked. 

Behind the Chinaman smirked, unprotesting. 

In one of the tourist brochures showing the architectural highlights of Ipoh Old Town, an ornate pile featured had been built early last century by a prominent ice merchant. Despite refrigeration & aircon, in the Tropics ice was still silver, if not gold. (The price of tin collapsing in the ‘80s had greatly affected the towns in the centre of the peninsular.)

The Malay was a kampung lad. They had lived in an atap covered hut, shared among a score of extended family. Durian trees, palms, bananas, vegetable garden, herbs & spices and chooks. Tigers may well have roared from the jungle behind—more than one repot from persons only a few years older than this fellow had borne witness. 

The family compound shone in this chap like in so many of his community.

This was the opportunity to relate Uncle Niko's early trading in ice from up in another village, on the other side of the world. 

The chap had heard of Europe, of course. Europe was a hazy, cloudy concept for this man on the other side of the world. Up in the caves high above the European village—this other kampung—there was ice to be hacked from the walls & floor even in the height of summer. Two baskets either side of the donkey were loaded high, covered with straw and sack-cloth. 

Once fully prepared, young Nikola, eldest son of the family, was inserted between. 

3AM descending slowly, guiding the beast. By six they would reach Hotel Boka on the water. 

Cool, refreshing drinks for the tourists. Ice would keep the catch of the day fresh too, just like in Malaysia. 

Young Nikola may have been 5-6 years old. The young street urchins here made close counterparts. 

In later years Uncle Niko told war tales of mountain crossings with the great Montenegrin hero, Sava Kovacevic, starry-eyed Nikola high in his horse's saddle and Sava beside on his donkey. Fighting the Fascist invader.

            The Malay listened patiently. Not everything was lost on the Malay. Even the boss, continuing to hang back behind, seemed to have taken it in. Story-telling on his time was not a worry. 

            Ang moh white fellows were rare on the streets of Ipoh. These went to the islands or Cameron Highlands for sights & entertainments. If they stopped in town it was to ask for directions. 

Ang moh was red head in Cantonese, used for the Dutch & English overlords; mat salleh the Malay equivalent. 

Attempting to get either to see the difference between olive and true porcelain was difficult. One certainly did not want to be blamed for others' crimes. (We had more than enough our own.)