Indon Independence

An early meeting suited Rina today with the delayed celebration of Indonesian National Day taking place at the Embassy. Hari Raya's overlap this year on the 17th had made the event difficult on the first week-end, therefore the occasion was pushed back to the end of the month. For arrivals at the Embassy in the morning a food packet would be available, together with an attached four dollars token gift. Usually by eleven in the morning the food and money was all gone and late-comers were disappointed. Rina's friends were hurrying their morning engagements—at their hotel trysts Rina speculated. Texts and calls put through by Rina were all going unanswered as the girls were still no doubt fighting, fighting, Rina said. When the full complement arrived at City Plaza here they will share a cab out to the Embassy, $12-15 dollars working out to two or three for each of them. Only Indonesians would be admitted at the event, Rina explained. Bangla boy-friends would be barred after another kind of fighting, of the bare knuckled kind, broke out at a National Day celebration a year or two previously at the Embassy. No Banglas past the gate nor Malaysians either; Singaporeans would gain admittance Rina thought and Australians too after signing in with their passports at the office. More than a thousand Indonesian expats working here were expected at the gathering, many relegated to the grounds of the Embassy. A proud day that for a Yugostalgic recalled the 29 November trip the Southern Slavs in Melbourne made thirty and more years ago out to Lisson Grove in Hawthorn for their own National Day festivities. A comparable new nation like Indonesia not long emerged from foreign domination. How short a time the Non-aligned Movement endured—Soekarno, Nehru, Nasser and Tito giants of an age past. One can often happen upon stamps bearing some of these faces at the Thieves Market on Sungei Road.

A Song in the Heart

The old Indian-Malay at the corner table by the outdoor refrigerator has persisted in his morning greeting over two years now. Obese man of perhaps 110kg, mid-seventies, mostly a silent presence in his circle there where Osman the retired Phys-ed. teacher has a place and Jamal the mustachioed dart enthusiast. A couple of weeks ago Jamal bought tehs for the overflowing table after a $1000 win at Toto. (Haram strictly, though as some complain there is little strictness in Islam among the people here.) The old Indian-Malay is four or five years older than the rest of the table, clean shirt always and shoes rather than sandals, never seen up on his feet. Almost certainly the man would taxi to and from home. If he can catch the eye either coming or going a call is given and thumb raised, sometimes a little salute. Only this morning however was the warbling noticed when an unwonted table was taken in the back row. Alone and bowed in his chair, elbows resting on the table-top and hands clasped, the source of the tune could not be picked for a long while. There was no indication from the facial expression, nothing from the lips. Craning around numerous times failed to make the discovery. Road traffic regularly blanketed the tune without ever defeating; after every assault it returned. On the table sat a tartan flat-cap that had never been seen on the man’s head, steel watch-band glinting. Heavy jowls and blank expression masked an easy spirit within that had been maintained into these late years. Occasionally one catches a couple of old uncles in the bus Captain's seat cheering themselves in the same way between stops, granddads like the Sri Geylang Indian-Malay. In Montenegro they say, Ko peva zlo ne misli, he who sings carries no evil. A salute to the Indian-Malay.

Checked at the Checkpoint

.... Something, something "office" said the young chap at the booth. After leafing carefully through the passport some kind of red flag had come up on his screen. Almost thirty-nine months in and out of the country, often coming through the Causeway gate at Johor Bahru. If you flew into Changi on an Australian passport it was likely a different matter. We would be escorted to the office. Just wait where you are. Five minutes later another young fellow with a gun in his holster arrived on his iron horse to show us the way. 10 30 PM on a Sunday, it had taken half an hour to reach first base at the Checkpoint.
         What are you doing in Singapore?... Long time you have not returned to your country.... Can I see your return ticket?.... A writer? You write about politics? (There had been no prompting; the man was not making small-talk either.).... No sir. Culture, the social scene on the streets and at the Eateries.... religion. — What you write about religion? Askance glance and eyebrows elevated.... Oh shite! That was wrong, wrong. Like writer was immediately suspicious and wrong, but what else was one to say? A romance keeping one here? Romance with the country perhaps?... Well, the Analects, the Hadith, Confucius.... A few months ago I went to Shivaratni and wrote about that. (Was the fellow Indian or Malay?).... Under the interrogation lamp the reversion to weasel cockroach was automatic.... Give me the address of your blog.... There you are sir.... How much money do you have with you? (S$250 providentially.)....Take a seat outside.... Would "Ibrahim and Ismail" raise suspicions? Unlikely the man would burrow through the mountainous pile to "May-day Singapore". No way. Two Viet lasses waiting on the orange chairs, one pregnant Nance said. Possibly trying to have her brat on the soil here.... A Food Writer. A real Travel Writer taking in resorts, beaches, the shopping experience, that would have been different. The faded old tee from the night flea market at Chow Kit in KL likely didn't help..... A riff-raff kind of writer without gold chain or even watch. If he asked to see the old Samsung cell-phone with the worn pad Zainuddin had gifted we were sunk.... You're definitely going to Jogja end of next month? And then returning to Australia?... Stating only a 40 day stay weighed in the matter. (Old hands had warned it was a mistake to put the 90 maximum on the form.) Definitely leaving?!... Almost certainly the Viet girls were returned.... A couple of years ago after locking horns with an expat American writer here the relative standpoints needed to be identified: there was the grace of a writer sailing a boat adrift on the breeze—the viewpoint seemed to suggest art for art's sake, beauty, elegance, release ultimately; opposed on the other hand to one delivering some kind of matter from a pulpit. Oh alack the day!....

Thieves Thieved

Dear sir/madam
I would like to voice my concern at the reported move and possible disbanding of the Sungei Road Second-hand Market.
As a regular visitor here over the last number of years I have often gravitated to this market in order to seek out what is difficult to come-by in this rapidly transforming country. It seems to me such seemingly negligible quarters of cities could in fact constitute jewels of their own kind that weigh more precious than generic big budget tourist draws and entertainments.
The vivid display of history, culture, enterprise, spirit of endurance and community offered by such locales as the Sungei Road Market should not be casually under-estimated.
A plea for the voice of the traders to be heard and respected for the sake of the city itself.
Sincerely yours

PR

Thursday 31 July 2014 Straits Times letter to the editor in response to a news item of the day before. Judged not palatable enough at the editorial desk. Some oddness in viewpoint possibly, a note of irascibility.

Hard on the heels of the penning this afternoon another captivating royal performance at the Thieves. Again a sense of having stumbled onto a stage-set beyond the looking-glass. Here is an old thin ancient child-size on her haunches trading from a piece of fabric opposite the two sisters on the corner of the main thoroughfares. (How did these sisters own that prime location? By what arcane right?) Before the woman on their own haunches two sisters of the younger generation, lovely middle-upper Primary twins from a Normal stream. They were twins alright; no mistake. Appeared; perhaps the first pair in the three years in the small gene pool in this oddly composed city-state. Loose strands of hair pulled behind an ear, bare crooked knees, fledgling bird-like features in fine plumage as if on a branch. The pair were apprising a couple of bright toys the old woman had among her spread These white uniforms had not been freshly laundered; the pair lived in either the Rochor block behind, or else the similar at the end of the row in front. First a coloured tin car that might have been a secret money-box, splitting down the centre so that a thief would never know. To close you needed to bang on your knee. Neat. One tried and then the other's turn, all shared and in consultation. Good too was a small ten inch red periscope: look in the bottom to spy over the top of a hedge; around the corner of a balcony. Third was some kind of red miniature on wheels. It was the last two they were particularly fixed upon. (Money-box too rich.) A brief to-and-fro with the old vendor, in size and proportion a perfectly fitting third party. The woman had cut her queue long ago; not yet the girls. Wrinkles didn't stop the old lady smiling: the urchins here assuming the closed, expressionless visage…. Where were they making off with the goods like that!?
         —  ….You gave it to them Auntie.
         —   They no money have, the woman defended herself.
         Ooooh, gee. Shucks....
         Woman wouldn’t take the two dollars compensation.
         —  You buy. I no take your money, indicating the choice array spread before her.
         Woman traded in fifty cent and one dollar items, she was giving it away; selling herself short. Twice refused the offering.
         —  Very kind auntie.
         —  You very kind too, a chap down on his haunches beside suddenly inserting himself. Where did he come from just then?...
         Auntie couldn't be moved, shifting her attention to a Bangla man crouching over her wares. The woman was a trader not a beggar. This was her treat.

NB. The Sungei Road second-hand market is also known as the Thieves Market, the term proudly claimed by the vendors themselves.