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