Far and Near (Nov25)

Old pair of scarved ducks adjacent offering their plate of fried bananas. Excuse me. Excuse me, indicating with a shovel hand. Almost defies belief. Earlier a mid-seventies chap at that table after his meal rising to go to the counter enquired whether a drink might be welcome. Followed by this pair. Let us mark it down appropriately. Two quite unfamiliar faces, late-sixties, perhaps early-seventies. Possibly they have seen this mat salleh regular hereabouts. Many unknowns here of course have done so, many who come only periodically from some distance. That their little hub has been chosen by the outsider, a scribe of some sort, well-disposed clearly, is perfectly evident. Possibly they witnessed a brief exchange with the dotty waiter here, chap a bit scrambled, a figure of a little fun for some of his work-mates. Possibly the small exchange witnessed. The one this side bearing the mark of some Chin ancestry back somewhere. Flask brought from home—better drop likely than what they serve at these places. Cap shared for drinking between them. Like many others of their kind, forehead down on the table-top at some humour, the one this side especially, fully three times bending. Sisters or sisters-in-law; outside chance wives indeed. One has witnessed perfectly amiable wives sitting close together like this. Their positive joy and elation in company suggested something else. Shortly after on the phone Opposite pronounces kaka, older sister, whereupon the woman proceeds to hand the phone across to the other. Mystery thereby solved. The White outsider who keeps up his appearance, an amenable sort, gets an arm-chair ride, Indian & Indo friends have remarked. To be sure, to be sure. Najib and the other ratty types are not likely to be offered such grace and generosity. These will get alms and a purchase of their tissues now and then: not this over-flowing hospitality. Be that as it may, however, nevertheless. Inevitably the thought arrives how much had been lost to dear Bab divorced from brother and sisters in the long years of the second half of her life in the far distant foreign land. U daleki bjeli svjet, bez idje ikoga; in the far white world without anyone near. The far bjeli, white world was eventually assumed to derive from the phraseology of mountain peoples accustomed to prospects across great spaces, where the distance stood behind the furtherest veils of hanging light. Living in the midst of a strongly established, deeply rooted community has given rise to a good deal of similar reflection. A substitute ancestry standing in place of one lost long before. Turned out the flask in fact held no more than plain hot water, twenty cents per cup the charge at the street eateries.

Done with Begging

The stout old Indian-Malay beggar in his sixties turned to some gainful employment in recent time. Bicycle procured from somewhere, decent set of wheels, loaded up this morning with cardboard on the rear carrier that protruded a metre either side. Small stack like that not going to fetch more than a few pence, perhaps only recently embarked on the day's scavenge. A few months ago the man's usual routine had been playing dead along the paths here, up past the Changi Road lights under the trees where passersby needed to step round him splayed out just like in the Splatter flicks. Coming upon him unexpectedly one often passed in such shock there was no chance to reach into the pocket. A few times the same routine outside the Converts, where on one occasion he continued lying through steady rain. In the last weeks of that performance the chap would sometimes stare up at his fellows with a look of bewilderment seemingly unable to uncomprehend the heartless disregard. A distinct change: more than once he has been spied now sitting at table with a plate before him.

Cheap Rates

Mister Malayu jabbering as usual beside the table, this morning's chief mention a new, cheaper option for his Viet assignations. Sold on the Viets Mr. M., fine, dedicated treatment such as a wife would provide. No longer interested in the Batam girls, had enough of them; Viets far better. The 17th his last tryst — four days ago he counts off on his fingers in order to get it right. Tiding him over. Every fortnight: “old ready”, he explains. Thirty for the gal and at the new place up a "ladder" on Lorong 24, just beside the fruit-stand, fifteen dollar an hour. Going a little over not a problem there. Weekends the beasts at Four Chain View have upped to twenty. Monday - Thursday remains as before, but weekends they've got a cheek. Good the Viets, clean.... On the return from the market with the tapioca for his wife Mr. M. shown the note scrawled earlier on the newspaper. Hang on, no, not 24. It's number 34. He can show you there and then if you wanted to accompany him. First stop after Four Chain, just off the corner. Small sign, yes, that's the one.... Old weathered sign had been noticed a couple of years ago during the hunt for cheap digs. Open staircase up above an eatery on the corner, unlicensed and illegal now of course. White guy would raise suspicions no doubt. Hotel? Which one you look?... Rooms? Who tell you?

Handsome John!

Nice compliment of course, at this ripe old age. Ta very much buddy, Ya. Chin chap in his early forties from the Geylang Serai market. Dad must have begun the stall years ago, one of the few "purely" Chinese in residence there. Fruit and veg. in the first row from the main Western entrance, most late mornings the old man nodding off on a chair in the corridor out of the way. Mum was still fit and able dicing, ordering and serving. Younger bro usually the Fetch-it man, a fine family operation. Older goes out regularly too in order to escape briefly, over to the Haig Road food stalls for lunch. Can't be married either of the pair, case of no-where to house a wife perhaps given tight living quarters. Quick with the chat, never mind the highly limited English. Simple modest living, established clientele with the orders known as soon as the face was sighted. Typically frank greeting, not the first of its kind. Chap fired it off striding past without stopping, keeping his head erect on up the footpath. Further conversation of any kind would be impossible. Hello. Ni hao. You good? Hujancoming; or panas—rain/heat. That was always the outer limit. Slight reddy tinge both lads chosen, eschewed by dad whose snowy white sat just fine for an old chappie.

         The common moniker had long been owned of course, not a problem, and far from the first re-christening over the journey.

Scam

Noticeable difference in the number of Chin Grannies up and down ceaselessly with the tissues in the two month absence. Likely this is what has made the Convert Najib more pushy recently. Some little exasperation with Najib difficult to restrain. Poor devil.
         Zainuddin was telling last night after an encounter while he was escorted up to his bus. After accepting a tissue pack from Najib in front of Darul Arqam a difficulty arose as the latter's offer had been of the wet, scented kind of product — more expensive than the usual dry paper. The seller Najib attempted to explain this one was superior, good for refreshment in the hot afternoon, motioning awkwardly in the dark to sign wiping face and brow with his heavy bag weighing in the other hand. Nine PM, traffic noisy along the road made conversation difficult. Najib was attempting to explain further. Zainuddin straining, leaning forward, failing to comprehend. In sifting his coins for payment Zainuddin had sought a fifty cent piece. The usual offering was three packs for one dollar. Like most of us, Zainuddin would take only a single pack, for which fifty cents ought to have been a fair deal for the vendor. Yet here was Najib bending toward the dim street-light and turning over the coin in his hand. Short, he discovered. The single wet went for one dollar apiece. Zainuddin was struggling to follow. Poor ol' Najib dudded by a co-religionist.
         Ya, poor ol' Najib, when we had passed. Word was he was given a daily tally by an ex-wife with whom he continued to live, and the new partner into the bargain. Some compensation money had been diddled on top of that. Twice Najib had converted to Islam; the story a little muddled. The conversion had caused turmoil in his Chinese family. Najib was on medication, disappearing every couple of months when he went in for a rest. 
         So many pieces Najib needed to sell in order to reach his assigned target and satisfy those at home. A year or two ago there may have been a whisper of some beating. Every night Najib needed to present his earnings back at the flat. Eight or nine o'clock Najib could become particularly anxious. Zainuddin was reminded of the sharp practice, the net within Najib seemed to find himself entangled. Poor Najib facing that dragon.
        This ghostly demon was usually roundly reviled by all and sundry at Geylang Serai. Najib always got good pity at the Geylang Serai tables. A Chinese convert: some little added consideration perhaps. Poor ol' Najib a slave to a rapacious witch who had installed the new lover and only endured Najib while he brought in the cash day after day. Typical Chinese. They would sell their grandmother for a handful of coin. Stolen traditional Malay lands. Turned the island into a concrete jungle, destroyed the kampungs and relegated the population to the bird-cages. The indigenous population, the original people second class citizens.
          The dependable old Social Worker and Drug Counselor Zainuddin however hesitated to blow-off the usual condemnation and outrage. Held back. Unexpectedly, though perfectly in character, extended his understanding to the Chinese harridan at home too. The woman was caught up in her own predicament, attempting to survive. She had a story too, all her own. Hardship all round, widely shared. Pity and understanding for all from the dear goofy Sufi grandmaster Zainuddin.
         Off the man went to fetch his Olive from the Jamiyah orphanage office on Guillermard for their trip back to Woodlands.
         Rich down at Aljunied suggested the Chinese Mainland Grannies were run by local operators, groups brought out for so many hundred on thirty day visas, which enabled them to earn so many hundred more on the streets here trooping morning until night. A tidy sum in RMB to take back home. Down at Geylang Serai they knew the pickings were richer among the Muslims.

Waiter 1 : Diner 0

Indian waiter magisterial this afternoon at Paul.
         Table secured against the window looking down across the paved concourse onto leafy Orchard Road. Lamp overhead, the Little Sparrow piping, Chin millionaire if-not-better wives with big curled hair.

         Wallpaper, windmill landscapes (understandable confusion), cold fire-place with brushes, pan and poker smoothing the creamy latte. ($5.90.)
         Change-wallet delivered like a missive from a brother prince over the hill in the neighbouring valley. If you will allow Sire, almost curtsied.
         Thank you so much my man, my fellow. Smile and raised hand half-way into the air. (Lacking courtly French both sides dumbshow must needs sufficed.)
         Black leather (surely not vinyl) touched the table surface for a brief, uncertain moment. Was the man’s hand removed for an instant, finger detached and lifted? Too quick to be sure.
         Look of appraisal bent close at elbow, cheek-bones poked. As if a hidden switch had been thrown, eyes beaming; brow-gleaming like a rocky promontory after rain.

         The momentary blinding enabled the article to be whipped out of sight.
         — ….Hey! What?... Come back here with that you.....
         Choked in back of throat.... Gasp. Swallow. Splutter. Damned cheek.
         Hail him then if you wanted to demean yourself, if you wanted to collect your four dollar ten cents you Cheap-skate, let everyone hear. Call the manager, go on holler your lungs out best you can, be my guest. Big flash tipper.
         — .... Oh. Here you are sir…. Oh!... Let me get that ten cents that’s rolled…. under your shoe sir. Sandal.... There you are. Have a nice day.
         Was he on four dollars an hour here? Costumed in Figaro servant-gear that was counted an added benefit of the position, new guy unsighted previously almost gypsy.
         Eleven dollars ninety for six week old LRB— priceless excoriation of the second-round Martin Amis on the Holocaust by the German poet/translator Michael Hofmann; another $1.70 for Pilot WinGel 0.7. Kinokuniya recently down-sized and relocated on the fourth floor at Takashimaya. (History and something else equally inconsequential chief casualties, as well as Foreign Language.)
         Ten buck average slurp like you would pay at authentic Paul on the Champs Elysees—established 1880 something—here on the equatorial plantations white sugar in brown sachet.

Driving Oxen (Jogja) Oct26

Rumah Seni Cemeti

         Cemeti Art House — or House of Art – Cemeti. 

         The surprise was in the noun—Whip. Cemeti in Bahasa Indonesian.

         It defeated the Madurese guide, Mahshushah. 

         Why of all things “whip” for an art gallery? Whip? Like... drawing a shaft and strands in the air, closing the fist on the handle.

         We talked whips for a bit just to be sure we were on the same page; then livestock and villages more broadly. 

         Up in a European mountain plateau village posing for a photograph, the author had once held a whip behind oxen—the equivalent of buffalo here—and in the play made the mistake of twisting his wrist slightly. Thereby the beasts set into alarming motion. 

         With firmer belief in the truth of the tale, Mahshushah—Susi for short—might have laughed more freely. 

         On the island of Madura they used bulls instead for ploughing, and staged races across the fields. There were competitions for beauty in cows too. Whips were common. 

         The difficulty in explaining the usage for a gallery remained however.

         A Footscray, Melbourne artist with an Aboriginal heritage had recently completed a residency at Cemeti; we had come to see the outcome. Too late unfortunately—some kind of cock-up in dates. 

         Some of the same questions and impulses for a contemporary Aboriginal artist would have been shared with Javanese. The work of this artist that remained on the long wall at Cemeti featured images of a boxing and speared kangaroo, fractured smiling/gaping skulls, and LOVE/HATE finger tattoos either hand. Space astronauts/invaders landed on the ground of a kampung, in the case of one of the locals in the storeroom.

         Gray volcanic soil and ash was evident in the gardens below a twenty foot jackfruit tree, which closely approximated a walnut. 

         Caged pigeons, sculpted stones and a well-shaped, upraised timber was fashioned into a bench-seat.

         WARRIORS / Come Out To Play had not been immediately legible at the Australian’s entry portal.

         The chief building at Cemeti was a modestly impressive work of art in itself. Originally the structure had stood out in the area of Imogiri, about forty kilometers from Jogja, where a burial ground for the Sultans had been sited. Under the supervision of an architect the house had been disassembled and reconstructed in this art precinct not far from the Sultan’s Palace. 

         Six wooden posts hoisted the building, the refreshing ventilation coming from wide openings front and rear. Above bamboo lining immediately beneath the roof-tiles provided surprising insulation. 

         Old, weathered, barn-like doors, neutral tiling and simple annexes for extra space. 

         No need for actual whips to press the point—their presence hanging on one of the walls or behind a door was suggested.

A Glimpse (Pak Muh’s Jogja) Oct26

 

When Pak Muh bought the land out at Pasar Kalasan the price was Rp600,000sqm. The restaurant and living quarters behind must have cost a pretty penny too. A farmer, as Pak Muh described himself in his surprising English, turned the rear of the allotment into a large vegetable garden that included tomato, chilli, banana trees, and on one side a couple catfish ponds. 

         Some years before Pah Muh had a regular Californian patron at his Beringharjo food-stall, who settled permanently in Jogja. 

         So long, Pak M farewelled his visitor yesterday.
         The son-in-law painter, Luddy, was tasked with the fish: feeding, cleaning the ponds, arranging the trade. Without the regular pellet feed cannibalistic catfish would turn on each other, Luddy said. An easily manageable responsibility for an ambitious painter, who had been picked up a few years before by a high-end gallery in Sing. 
         The farmland around Kalasan was attracting hobbyists and retirees like Pak Muh, the motor-cycle traffic steady on the road. When we needed to turn-off to the side-road for Luddy and Amri's house, it was safest from the gravel shoulder. 

         Artists' dwellings were often exceptional abodes, but the example here for a young family was unexpected. The witch's hat cone roof followed the example of the local Sultan, Luddy explained. Unrendered thin brick was laid flat like pancakes, a carved jati inner screen separated a small reception area from the rear domestic. The tiling was no doubt Luddy & Amri's design, but one that was founded on a wealth of local tradition.
         Lush wide greenery below a pressing sky at Kalasan presented like some kind of mental puzzle after more than a month in the tourist hub of central Jogja. For one thing there had been no more than a couple hours rain in the whole of the term. 

         Mornings with a clear sky saw Merapi volcano in the north, according to the hosts. The Prambanan temple precinct was a short ride away. In the yards of the house small, shapely plantings and stepping stones stood amidst the grey volcanic soil & ash. 
         Dusk pressed early and rapidly there as in Singapore. Luddy needed to fetch a second helmet for the lift to the bus-stop. Waiting in the driveway, the colours across the wide expanse shifted with the cloud and the waves of the paddy in the breeze. The undulating visual field seemed to breathe contentedly at end of day. 

         From numerous directions the magrib prayer was being called in a strange, unintentional choir of voices that was a kind of homage to the setting.

 

 

     Yogyakarta, Indonesia

 

Publication: Small Wonders - East Lit.

A relatively new online literary journal focused on South-east Asia, Eastlit, has recently published a short piece taken from this blog.

 "Small Wonders" was written during the second Ramadan in the Malay quarter of Singapore, 2012. (Posted on the blog late July 2012).

Here is the link:

http://www.eastlit.com/eastlit-november-2014/

Malioboro - published by Panoply

revised text titled, Anonymous, published by Panoply

Many of the impressions need to be passed over and absorbed as a matter of course, swallowed whole as it were. People have seen such images on television and in abundance elsewhere. Walking past this particular chap every night has forced the issue in this case, the regular sight at the upper, dark end of Malioboro beyond the train station where the kopi jos stands are to be found could no longer be ignored. (Recently Faris the Arizonan convert was introduced to the coffee with the sizzling coal insert — a man of forty years acquaintance with Indonesia who knew these very stalls where the becak drivers and transvestites took their refreshment, without ever having come across this particular beverage.) The lesser density on the upper end of Malioboro make the poor and homeless more prominent there; on the tourist strip the mass of people and all the colourful wares inevitably blanket them. This particular man always stretches full-length on a 70 cm concrete ledge under bright fluorescent light no doubt for safety and reassurance; a few metres along wedged against a pillar lie a couple who could only be father and daughter. (An unbalanced marriage like that surely could not have survived so long on the street.) This man drew attention for his particular form of anonymity. From the torso and legs one would guess middle-aged; shorts, tee and flip-flops against the shutters beside which he usually stands his make-shift crutch that he has cobbled together from oddments of wood and an automotive plastic component of some kind possibly. The bright light keeps the man secure, amongst his community where he goes begging like the others no doubt holding out a plastic cup; nevertheless the powerful emission creates a disturbance that the man counters with two long broadsheets reaching from his pelvis up over the top of his head. Every night the man is stretched flat on his back in the same posture, arms straight at his sides reminding of the suggestion of Confucius to avoid the corpse posture in sleep; the paper carefully positioned and the overlap of the two sheets neatly aligned as if someone had performed the service for the man. Three weeks, twenty or thirty passes between eight and eleven at night the man is always found there: between times often one forgets him and gulps a little at the reminder. During daylight hours a Hyundai outlet operates from the shop-front. One hundred metres up the road where Malioboro terminates the Tugu monument creates a little roundabout where youth gather to picture themselves beside the landmark. From the first visit to Jogja last year the enthusiastic congregation at that paltry backdrop left one pitying the kids for their poverty of opportunity and lack of something more substantial. Stands and cameras with telescopic lenses carted to a little three metre finger painted white with gold inserts only to be found in a provincial town erected by the local chamber of commerce. Then just the other day Faris the Arizonan convert again surprised when he commented positively on the aesthetics of this modest municipal marker and one was forced to look more closely and reconsider. A recent newspaper item concerning stunting in the population of Indonesia—across the archipelago numbers currently run to eight million—put the daily street scene in another perspective too; growing obesity at the other end of the scale.

NB. https://panoplyzine.com/anonymous-pavle-radonic/

Muslim Mourning Oct26

A silly, unthinking question.

Since his divorce and move to Jogja ten years before, of course Paijo had slept in his becak. Where else?

What was the measure of the seat was the real question. Paijo had complained of a crick in the neck on waking and demonstrated his exercises to loosen the tightness. 

The gathering at the drinks stall near the station maintained satu stanga, one & a half metres. No one had a tape measure handy.

It was incorrect. These people were little over 1.5m themselves. No, couldn’t be.

Eventually an older hand had rescued the situation, announcing authoritatively 80cms. Much more like it.

Zainuddin’s first father-in-law in Singapore had been a becak driver, in the early, hard days of the Republic. When Din first came courting, the old man had recently sold his becak, but traded on the reputation when he warned the young buck chasing his girl.

You know I’m a gangster, don’t you?

A few weeks before the farewells for Jogja, Zainuddin had reported the old man’s lack of reaction at his younger brother’s funeral.

Before the connection had been revealed, the accident near the library on Victoria Street had been noticed in the newspaper. A lorry—a concrete truck it may have been—had run over an old Malay cyclist; in the common way, without realising what had happened for some distance.

The man had lingered a few hours at the hospital, too, Zainuddin added later.

In fact the brothers, like many Malays in Singapore, were Javanese, hailing indeed from somewhere in Central Java, where the becak still featured prominently. If Paijo could be believed, there were 5,000 registered in the city.

The elder brother who had become Zainuddin’s first father-in-law had buried his daughter early, followed by his wife and an earlier younger brother, who had preceded the other to the grave. Now this subsequent loss must have stabbed the old man deeply, as the pair were close and saw each other regularly. 

A sudden, unexpected death. The old father-in-law would certainly miss this brother.

The old man had developed emphysema and was ailing himself; smoking regardless. A defiant old bugger. 

Yet Zainuddin was surprised there was no sign at the funeral, not a flicker of reaction.

Clearly Zainuddin had watched for something.

A Muslim, like stout-hearted Christians formerly, was not supposed to betray grief, Zainuddin very well knew. Still he was surprised, two or three times in subsequent weeks telling the same story of the old man’s stoniness. Nothing. Held himself, Zainuddin reported, reflexively raising a firm chin.

There were still becak uncles in Singapore, all a very tame and neutered cohort now. Hot afternoons the old chaps napped outside the Ritz Carlton and Raffles opposite, raising half-hearted enquiries of passersby. Large groups waited at the head of Bugis Street for tourists in the municipally approved & signed outfits. Around the historic quarter a dozen often peddled in single file, pointing out sights for photographs.

Around Beach Road & Syed Alwi housing blocks, the becaks were locked and covered over-night. In Jogja some years before Paijo had a becak stolen.

During the Balkan Wars the TV footage from Bosnia had shown the immobility at the grave-sides in that strange posture, presenting open palms. For the great keeners of Montenegro it was all very dubious and unconvincing. 

 

 

 

Splatter Flicks in the Tropics (May26)

The flaked-out sleepers on the streets through the Tropics still startle a relative newcomer, even after almost 3 ½ years. Lunchtimes the foreign workers under trees and over the concrete of the Voids of the housing towers show massacre scenes from gritty real-life movieland. Tonight going out for supper the woman who provided the buzz-cut an hour earlier was found slumped in the chair before the mirror, head-on-hands over the narrow shelf. Rp25,000 — $2.50, the woman's boss converted when she saw some hesitation. Over a coffee later with Paijo the becak driver, the standard price was revealed to be Rp6 - 7,000. In bule kampung, Whitey Village on Sosrowijayan, understandably a different scale operated. Marching up the street, the Western tourists at the massage places, the pedicure, the sightseeing offices & the bars need to be passed. Many of the young bule here would be inclined for some other type of experience, if not for the steering of the Tourist Guides. Buying a round of straight kopi tonight for Paijo and his friend, a fellow becak driver, and teas for three young early teen boys, the bill came in below the cut. The people on the other side of the rail-way line were more friendly, Paijo suggested. Sometimes the backpacker kids can be seen along that stretch too beyond Malioboro.

First Sighting - Jogja Return Visit

 

Cosy and settled at Gloria Amanda Hotel here in Jogyakarta, just off the tourist strip of Malioboro, where Mr Sulaiman Dufford has been joined. This Arizonan convert recommended by Zainuddin demands a separate, particular study—shortly, Insha’Allah, as the Muslims say. (Bab would always remind to add, Ako Bog da, If God wills.)

This morning over breakfast Sulaiman continued endlessly fascinating; one of the minor matters here.

The becak trishaw drivers are a sizable feature of the tourist experience of Malioboro. From the Sultan’s Palace to the railway station, and then the chief roundabout another kilometer on, there must be 300 - 400 awaiting custom in their beautiful conveyances, some now motorized. The drivers present compelling visages, full of character and history; it is difficult not to stare, which of course gives the wrong impression to a workingman on the lookout.

What Sulaiman added to the picture this morning was that all these men hailed from one or two kampungs some distance outside the city. A guild of a kind involved, which showed in the ornament and decoration of the vehicles. The men wheel in and remain in town, sleep in their carriages and return to their homes at the end of their term. All this without any jealousy resulting over the wives left at home, Sulaiman commented.

Taking a ride still difficult for this particular traveler; same for room-service and suchlike master / servant scenarios.

The other discovery today was finally, after forty months in the region, sighting a muezzin in the action of calling to prayer.

There is a narrow, winding lane that cuts through from Jalan Sosrowijayan to Dagen, where among the dwellings a small mosque stands. For the Friday sermon it had been filled to overflowing with worshippers, a good number of young lads among the rest. It was going out for supper, however, during the maghrib call, that the muezzin was caught within the mosque at a microphone.

There is no minaret at this particular mosque; the man was spied in passing through the open doorway of the prayer-room immediately off the lane.

A glance had caught his solitary figure in the corner and a few steps back were needed to confirm the matter. In the very back right corner, the man stood like an adult version of the errant school-child disciplined by teacher a generation ago.

Average-size in B/W batik, early middle-age it seemed from the rear and from the timbre of voice.

In old movies from various locales across the globe among traditional cultures, one sometimes saw singers or town-criers place one hand over an ear while a call of some kind was delivered. Here in this instance in the back Jogja lane, the muezzin stood with the microphone in his left hand, while his right he placed behind his head just above the collar of his shirt.

The close corner position itself was striking, and then the unexpected hand for bracing and stability of address, it must have been. A limp or even stiff arm at the side was no good; neither of course hand-on-hip or in the trouser pocket.

Allah is great, Allah is great, the man declared in that particular pose in his place there.

This evening the voice of the muezzin was the lesser part of the effect.

Sulaiman too happened to favour Chow Kit above other neighbourhoods in Kuala Lumpur, the Pakistani mosque there and its muezzin known to him. A trained concert pianist, Sulaiman also revealed this morning it was captivating Iranian recitation of the Qur’an that had been a large factor in prompting his conversion.

 

 

                                                                                                                        Yogyakarta

More Food - Uppuma

Chap comes in especially for uppuma. Cashier with the daughter who had studied Marine Biol. on the Gold Coast, near the colourful Reef no doubt in danger of destruction from Climate Change, turns in this direction to enquire. Asking at the Sweets Counter is she? A waiter in the back there around the corner?... Ah, no. In fact directing the question at the Australian regular, the scribbler, who ought to know. He had ordered it again this afternoon. A week or two ago one of the newer Chennai lads had rounded on the man. You wanna give something else a try one day maybe? Pongal very similar, rice flour instead of semolina. Very nice. The fellow had indicated a chap at the long central table who was also fixated on uppuma. Uppma, uppuma without fail whenever he visited. But on that particular day this chap had accepted pongal. (The last portion of uppuma had been served shortly before to you-know-who.) This might have been the very man: age, height, light colour, neat blue biz-shirt were all about right. Difficult to be absolutely sure. This same beefy waiter loves to clown, limited English no reason for shyness. (The above conversation must be understood as paraphrase of course—practiced readers will have twigged; the original with all its stumbles and mumbles could not possibly be reproduced.) Clowning in the lad's nature. Nandri, he offered the other day when he had been handed a plate or something else in order to aid his clearing of the table. Nandri, nandri — he had got it on numerous occasions and heard it liberally dispensed all round. Nandri and nothing else. Mocking. Another time the fellow had approached the table for a longer chat that began with the matter of the slow—in fact unmoving—Tamil acquisition. Two years here, soon to sign a further three year extension. Married, wife now pregnant. (A brief visit presumably.) Six or eight hours out of the city he was, still within Tamil Nadu. Mock military salutes, rapid steps over the floor, often sweat on the brow: proved his value to the employer. Out front the uppuma chap had been ready to turn on his heels in the event there was not available what he was after. A substitute would not do on this day, neither pongal nor anything else. The raised finger of the cashier had been misinterpreted and the fellow was beginning to pivot — spinning on a six-pence, the old chaps at the football club used to say of the earlier generation of deft ballerinas on the field. No pongal in any case today: earlier in the piece Beefy had said it was finished. Come down from his office tower the man, or on his way home, only the one dish would satisfy the growling tummy on this particular occasion; and take-out in fact today. Usually uppuma is a breakfast dish; two or three times a week one could get lucky lunch-times. This was getting on now: rare good fortune for the fellow. Coconut and green chilli one side, dried red the other with onion and tomato, split by a watery dahl on the silver serving tray. Uppuma does not in fact appear on either the display board at Komala Vilas on Bufallo Road, nor on the menu. A lucky chance found it once on the small Specials board opposite the register. $3.00, preceded for this palate by rasam soup served in a small stainless cup. (Add $1.50.)

NB. There are numerous Komala Vilases in Singapore—all off-shoots of the original—and apparently one or two established back in the homeland it seems (Chennai). Bufallo Road the tip, opposite Tekka Market.