Hujan & One-Half (Dec25)

The rains had been falling on the other side of the world too recently. Up in the hills of Montenegro it had been preventing some of the works of mid-autumn. A few days ago Zoran, who worked up in the village where he was born full-time now, driving up daily from the coast, reported it. When there was a break in the weather they were harvesting the potato on Uble. Photos emailed from a friend in Australia showing a political rally of the ruling socialists had been forwarded to Zoran, with an enquiry how the long-time president of the republic was faring. Djukanovic was not one to let slip his hold on the throne, Zoran answered, like his father, not a fan of the left. There was a suggestion of thievery too, as in the time of Tito. Zoran was a supporter of the union with Serbia; opposed to the separation. In Johor, southernmost Malaysia, two days of big bash downpour—hujan besar. Streets flooded, drains unable to cope, bedraggled orang passing under the walkways. Some of the hard-bitten kampung toughs could be found defiantly stomping through the middle of the downpour, in one case a chap standing gazing up the canal, as if taunting the thunder gods. Two nights ago the dark had closed in well before 6 and a boat had been ordered at reception for the supper table. As usual the event had not been visible for a good while, only telltale sound & the flashes. Looking down from the fourth floor window onto a patch of concrete outside an awning, there it was alright, machine-gun strafing the narrow little square. For some reason best known to itself, a pigeon had the not very bright idea to peel off from under the roof of the hotel for somewhere across the way. Good luck to you little birdie! Beating wings, beating; making heavy weather of it. Crossing a couple of lanes later the trouser cuffs were rolled & paddle/waddle gingerly over to the far bank. The working gals around the front were keeping under the walkway, on this dark night a lesser crowd gathered. Come up? Honey.. The full range of the spectrum between the genders was available. Reminded one of a central Java gal down in the south, who believed love-making was the perfect response to a deluge. Barnstorming rain on the one hand, and on the other the smoky mountains nearby bursting with hot rock, encouraged amorousness where that girl hailed from. Habitually living with the past, these big rains often brought the question how in the old days the shepherds had coped up on the mountain sides. Over at Crkvice, not far from Village Uble, they had the second highest rainfall in Europe. The deluge on the Equator was in fact not dissimilar. One could shelter in the lee of a hill, beneath a rocky outcrop, or in one of the many caves of the karst. The sheep and goats themselves knew the terrain; they would find their own shelter. On occasion mother had said brainless sheep would simply hunker down in a tight flock, pretending they were stone, and patiently wait out the heavenly hammer.

Ready to Rock (Sept25)

A number of months now the young lad at Muthu had been pleading for a girl. A white guy in a fine hat, professional man of leisure & means, could manage it if he really tried and if he was a true friend. With the concentration on the page, ignored this morning at first approach. Lad stood against the railing opposite, waiting. Once eyes were raised the fellow had a question ready. Handsome?... You had to hand it to him—movie star delivery. Shortly after ten; a little late as usual for his shift. Freshly marked forehead and combed hair, slightly bleary-eyed after a long weekend shift and unslept. Even young as he was, the lack showed. The response however stung the boy: raised thumb & forefinger indicating the smallest measure immediately understood. Seeing the flash of hurt in his eyes, the laugh could not be suppressed. Fairly burst out… Oh. OK. Enough. OK, enough. Which was certainly not enough as far as the lad was concerned… Once he had recovered from his shock he retorted, pointing both hands at his chest. How many people like this?… Ha! First rate again. Well said son, good on you. An unmarried man of a certain age was a great puzzle. Hardly credible. Girlfriends were one thing, either before or after marriage, but what about old age without children? What then? It was impossible for him to judge age outside his own racial group; a number of times he had enquired, guessing. Not a clue. Some years of toil yet the lad would need before he could afford marriage himself; once satisfactorily equipped it would follow immediately. Like for so many of the Indian lads, a small child at one of the tables brought forth the father-to-be in the admirable young man.

Rock-a-bye Baby (Dec25)

There had been no exaggeration in the case of this young Lampung girl, easy to see. According to Razali she might have been up almost 12 hours already. The girl managed on two or three hours sleep a night. Razali had said the lass could sleep on her feet. One had seen in the telling the man had good evidence to support his claim and there was no exaggeration. Sure enough, here she was after the busy lunch hour seated at the corner around the side of the shop, weary head sagging toward the table-top. Sagging, sagging. The phone before her was attempted cover: fingers half-curled over it and turned toward the wall, her hair providing some screen—the boss would come around from behind and call out something first, if she was to be berated. Junkies down South were the closest counterpart, inserting themselves at the edge of a cafe's pavement row and drooping in the chair. Eyelashes prominent on the angle here and no extensions in the case of the Lampung girl. The old post-war generation had remarked on the soldier asleep on his feet on guard duty—na strazu. Found out, such dereliction was a capital offence. Listening in childhood, it sounded preposterous. How to sleep on one's feet? With the Post Office closed on a Friday in the new Islamic arrangement in Johor, instituted by the local Sultan couple years ago, the observation was kept up. After twenty minutes the head was bent couple inches from the phone on the table, strands of loose hair slipping. The older waitress, a Javanese, came around and draped her arms over her young compatriot, whispering in her ear. Unable to be roused. It was only the boss, the Chinese auntie, who could rouse the young girl, a single word would have her hopping. The woman was strangely keeping off. In the more than half hour she had not come around once to that side; perhaps she had gone off on an errand. Earlier over lunch the auntie had been chuffed to hear what a spitting image was her youngest boy, this year waiting on tables himself and entrusted with collecting monies. RM1.50 for teh O kosong; a new system of marker pen on the table-top. Some banana cake would be a nice treat for the girl and her fellow workers, when she came to she would enjoy that. The queues at the bakery across the way had cleared, small pack about RM5. Still the lass dozed and still the auntie kept away. The spitting image young son, about the same age as the Lampung girl, came past a number of times without disturbance, passing indulgent smiles. When the lad was called inside he did the same as junkies down south before entering office buildings: ciggie dropped beside the doorway for retrieval later—in this case the raised planter for the beautiful, broad-leafed tree that was currently losing its crimson flowers. Nearing three another wave of customers was yet to appear. Fully three quarts of an hour the lass had sat, jolting her head back every so often, but also some good shut-eye achieved. Toward the end of her siesta when she had abruptly started and focused more strongly on the phone, the cake was offered, only for the gal to refuse. Pressed, she refused again. Pressed again and again, the plastic box knocked against her arm, the girl would not be budged. Mau, mau, mau. "Want" in bahasa Indon—the lass must have been biting off the negative. Only fifteen minutes later when she had re-surfaced again was she successfully prevailed upon. Again mau initially. But then soon after relenting and taking a piece. Makasih. Makasih. Not long after that when the voice of the boss sawed from around the corner, up the Lampung lass leapt and around to report for duty. Later in the night, after midnight and nearing one am, when the light had been put out after Heidegger's paragraph on Van Gogh's shoes in his Origin of the Work of Art, the answer to the riddle of the young lass's stout refusal tumbled in the mind. No, no, no, no — Mau, mau, mau, mau. Totally defeating tiredness had overpowered the girl and made even delicious sweet banana cake for which Singaporean tourists came over especially and queued, of no interest to her whatsoever. A young girl like that from Lampung in South Sumatra, on slave wages, would never be able to afford RM4.80 mouth-watering cake, no chance. Yet that was no nevermind in her condition; in that state of collapse the treat could be dismissed as of not the slightest worth or value.

Suburban Safari Southernmost S-E Asia

The No. 5B bus from JB Centre beneath the Checkpoint the one for Taman University campus, not any old Skudai town one. Luckily an alert and helpful driver put that right at the outset. Aboard the 5B another considerate driver who knew Jalan Kebudayaan. Ya, ya, rest assured. As it turned out Kebudayaan was tricky with the numbering, poorly signed and the rest of it.
         Going out amongst all the downtown dreariness patches of ground that gave hints of the former forest and even jungle. A woman up in Georgetown a few years before had memorably described sitting out front of her grandpa's house in childhood and hearing one evening up behind from the jungle the terrifying roar of a tiger. In amongst the concrete and bitumen trees, vines and matted grasses suggested the hidden depths from which the beast could suddenly emerge to confront the innocent farmer with the hoe hung over his shoulder. 

         Hasan a former submariner, another chance acquaintance who leapt to pay the bill of the stranger he encountered at an eatery, had been a stout defender of the PM Najib standing accused of thievery. At the kampung table a fish on a piece of banana leaf for four to share in the bad old days of Hasan’s childhood. Now everyone had cars, there were queues at all the stores &etc. Who cared if there was a little light-fingering at the government till? As long as the people shared the advance.
         Glimpses of thick forest from the time of yore squashed beside ugly freeways, ugly housing developments and run-down industrial concerns. Another dead Sumatran tiger had been photographed the other day in the newspapers up in Perak, where the orang asli did the trapping for the merchants dealing in medicinal organs, skins and the rest. There had been a "sun bear" also pictured recently, a remarkable looking mammal with staring eyes that reminded of a waiter down at KV in Singapore. Same again for hunting endangered species—regulations flouted, ancient remedies and elixirs of life, the middle-man never the one apprehended. The sun bear too was another goner.
         A forty minute bus-ride filling in more of the picture of Johor State, the largest in the federation, birthplace of the UMNO party of Najib (whose father had never been accused of theft from the public purse). The local Sultan's palace had been passed the last two days in the buses. Near the palace a football ground where the Crown Prince of Johor was promoting a team; a golf course and country club was on the other side. There had been a report of a polo match in KL down in the newspapers in Singapore, the photographs suggesting very much daylight hours galloping with over-fed notables in the saddles. Every likelihood a field down here in the south. 

         China State Construction in Danga Bay was as expected a large condo development with cheap assembly barracks for the labourers. It was a surprise to see a number of Sub-Continental faces in the vicinity: Bangla and Indian men might suit the Chinese operators better down here—the Mainland workforce was putting themselves out of the market.
         Half-way along the road to Skudai a couple of Indian or Bangla lads had boarded at one of the stops. Initially the chaps had not appeared a pair. One had entered first and the other may have been delayed paying his fare.

         Not construction labourers these two. One lad wore a long black ear-piece and both in neat, presentable office attire of the particular Sub-Continental kind. The laggard wore a maroon polo carrying the insignia on the breast of Taman U it looked like. A freshman best guess, not long in the country.
         The lads had boarded with a couple of old Chinese, a silver jubilee husband and wife fetching up to the home-stretch. In the quest for seating the Polo had taken a place that the Chinese woman had eyed for hubbie and herself—a pair toward the front facing the wrong way that were not usually preferred seats.
         Ear-piece had taken a single against the window directly opposite the back-facing double. Before the Polo had assumed his seat there had been a little brief dance in the aisle as the Chinese Grannie had manoeuvred for the place. Polo however had the inside running and could not be rounded unless the young man graciously gave way.

         In an awkward feint and attempted step-round the Chinese had tried to suggest a seat behind that might have suited the young man even better than the back-facing double. As there was no shared language the woman had smiled, turned her chin and half-raised her arm. Unseen by the fellow as he had turned away.

         From side-on it might have been perfectly clear to the lad what the woman was proposing; if so ignored by the young man and bordering upon rudeness.

         Another smile, no real grievance signed, off behind the woman turned, motioning her husband on and indicating one place for him to the left and she would sit opposite on the right, good as gold.
         Polo seated himself directly opposite Ear-piece. It took a few moments to realize even then that there was an association. When the pair exchanged brief words there was nothing audible.

         Chaps of an age, late 20s. Earpiece was receding early, thinner build, fatty face; Polo well thatched, stockier and a little more handsome. Neither sandaled. Ear-piece wore a shirt equally drab-coloured; watches and jewelry not evident. In his right hand Ear-piece held a bronze-covered smartphone that seemed up-scale, perhaps one of the new Mini screens. The piece in his ear looked to have been newly polished; fairly gleaming like spot-lit ebony.
         And for the remainder of the fifteen or twenty minutes to Jalan Kebudayaan in Skudai town the pair was kept under close observation and never let out of sight.

         With an arm back-stretched on a bar as if for bracing the observation could be extended without the observer coming under notice.
         There was no need to swing round for the monitoring, the pair and their sitting was clearly in view peripherally too. For the more full capture of the picture the extended arm screened out the heads of the lads.
         Earpiece wore dark navy slacks; Polo may have been more casual. It was on the navy cloth of Earpiece's left knee against the window that his friend Polo rested his right hand. Two or three fingers of this hand were free for his friend, countryman, clansman and townsman to clasp. Earpiece’s hand enfolded the offered fingers. In Earpiece's right the smartphone did not ring for the duration; had it done so the pair would have needed to de-couple…. Could Earpiece have kept hold of his friend and managed a conversation on a rollicking bus-ride?
         Earpiece knew the terrain, the lie of the land. Maroon Polo was the newcomer casting out through the window either side.

         Nothing really to observe, there was no feature of any kind over this passage. A Giant supermarket, bus shelters where people largely ignored the No. 5B. Pretty girls were nowhere to be seen. Lads of this kind did not ogle pretty girls in any case, mostly averted their gaze, the skimpily clad particularly. A dreary low-lying tropical landscape cut by the usual brute forms.

         Outer town areas in Bangladesh and India must have been the same, desert stretches aside. We all suffered the same. Still a newcomer needed to look; it was foreign terrain where it would be easy to lose oneself, rendered helpless without the language, little money and immediately become prey to unholy types. Perhaps the maroon Polo had not yet got himself a phone. Word too of the tigers would have come down.
         The close hold without any release, the body posture and flitting glances seemed to suggest the threat.

         One had observed similar tenderness between young Indian men on innumerable occasions down in Singapore. Indian or Bangla lads. Fine young good lads for whom one's heart leapt out reading about workplace deaths, seeing the large gangs transported nights in the rear of lorries like sticks of wood, passing as they toiled under the demon sun or filed off to lunch with their improvised shade under plastic safety hats. The street-sweeps and the groundsmen of the HDBs were often Indian, certainly the garden and garbage detail. (The old Babi had always warned street-sweeping or the slaughter-yard awaited a lad who neglected his school-books.)

         Brotherliness here on display in these parts that was difficult to convey for those on the other side of the divide and unknowing, acculturated otherwise and impoverished. Mateship, comradeship, neighbourliness and suchlike were something else.

         The point has been made previously: down in Singapore the younger generation of Chinese has been known to visit Little India on their own Little Red Dot Sundays for a spot of internal tourism featuring the carnival of the foreign labour.

Early Brekkie @ Muthu

Watching Yick Cheong over the road sweeping the entry-way to his store—a gold shop it had to be from memory. Brush-broom sweeping the lower entry and then upper pavement with a will, briskly, a shop-keeper in his early seventies. Tall, stringy version of the type, a former chain-smoker who had passed on the habit. One could not currently find any kind of help not from anywhere to swing a brush-broom with such earnest vigour; not from China, not India, nor even from Bangladesh or Myanmar. Rusted grill over the front set back two metres from the roadway and the rain; upstairs windows aluminum and darkened glass. In fairly recent time Yick had added the advertising board together with his neighbor Suria Creation perhaps. SMS Video Centre the other side of the lane and the old uncle and auntie Chinese fruiterers. Warna the prayer altar trader did not open till ten, the ripe and rippling pair of sisters or in-laws sweeping inside and out and following with mopping both entry-way and pavement above. Once the stage had been set there the prayers with bell and oil-burning flame began at the rear of the shop and came out onto the upper pavement. (Razali the Indian convert to Islam thanked Allah at each of the five daily prayers for having been brought the next stretch along the way in sound body and mind, he reported. In their rituals here the prayer altar gals were occupied otherwise.) The heavy old Indian security guard had fronted for duty at Yick’s—a gold shop no need crossing to confirm. A couple of Indian lasses, pair of sisters or mother and daughter, had second thoughts about breakfast at Muthu under the eye of the foreigner. On reflection they preferred one row back and partly screened in order to enjoy their repast in peace.

Hindi & Urdu Leaping Ahead Now

One of the chaps at Reaz who shaves every 4 - 5 days and never removes his small B&W beanie began recently with greetings and now confidently approaches, lays a light hand on the shoulder and offers, — Hello sir.

            A shock after such a number of visits across the five years.

            —   Hello to you too sir. Apar khabar?     

            Throwing his head back the fellow chokes off the baik and remembers his Alhamdulillah, Thanks to Allah.

The smile of exultation that accompanied the follow-up showed the rows of teeth top and bottom.

 — Lep’chi! Much relish in soaring well-being was the best guess for this unknown.

Lep’chi had been given once or twice in days past. (Never previously anything like the brotherly slap on the shoulder.)  This night’s offering however was delivered as if by a handsome stallion neighing upon a high mountain ridge.

LEP’CHI. Tossing his head back not wildly exactly, not whinnying, though a gambol for certain.

Short, impish chap who had stood off admiring the exchange confirmed it was Hindi. Further too: Urdu. Either; or. Both the same.

And the T doubly confirmed; not P. Let’chi.

It was in the vein of baik, good?

An unconvincing assent before the little fellow was called off to another table.

The lines of relation were confused at Reaz. Big fella dad and two grade smaller mum was clear; three steepling sons were likewise clear, all with good English. The lads on the floor were somehow different to the other wage earners in the kitchen. Mostly countrymen the latter and a good level of respect reigning; but the chaps out front were closer, inner circle. Cousins, brothers-in-law possibly; clansmen at the very least—they seemed a rank above trusted long-term servants. The in-law possibility seemed more remote as these chaps out front did appear almost to a man irredeemable bachelors. The Beanie if ever a wife was procured for him, the sour porky night-shift prematurely aged, the squeaky Imp in his own way, all of them would dearly treasure a wife and need her tightly wrapped and bound for protection from any possible thievery. If as it seemed they were out on two or three year visas they would need to wait on the return home to marry: the girls of the diaspora were highly unlikely to accept such suitors. Even handsome young lads like the Bollywood boy with the red/brown highlights in his hair for Deepavali would struggle in that regard. (The other morning he told of being pursued by an older local, destined to be declined by the proud young blade.)

Better ease and confidence with the lads at Reaz had taken some short while. With a white there was always Islam factoring (Masjid India was sited directed adjacent on that rise); then North Indian minority status in the composition here additionally.

Powers of Deception

The spectacle is the acme of ideology because it fully exposes and manifests the essence of all ideological systems: the impoverishment, enslavement and negation of real life. The spectacle is the material “expression of the separation and estrangement between man and man.” The “new power of deception” concentrated in it is based on the production system in which “as the mass of objects increases, so do the alien powers to which man is subjected.” This is the supreme stage of an expansion that has turned need against life. “The need for money is thus the real need created by the modern economic system, and the only need it creates” (Economic and Philosophical Manuscripts). Hegel’s characterization of money as “the self-moving life of what is dead” (Jenenser Realphilosophie) has now been extended by the spectacle to all social life.

Society of the Spectacle (1967), Guy Debord; a segment from the last pages, Number 215. (In the book pages themselves are not numbered and on the Information notice readers are advised: No Copyright, No Rights Reserved.)
The receipt chit from Kinokuniya confirmed the reading was begun in Singapore three weeks ago and the slim volume completed after supper at Reaz Corner looking at the darkened shop of Teck Seng Undertaker opposite, Johor Bahru Malaysia.
Reading as always was for requirements and prompted by place and time.

The Chiku Unmasked

Almost five years now since the first visit to JB and Reaz Corner beside the India Mosque. On that first visit and in the day or two subsequent taking dinner at Reaz the photograph of the Kaaba had puzzled and intrigued. The Kaaba had never been sighted previously, nor even attained a name. Arches and minaret forms gave hints of general location, but that was all. The sense of some kind of sporting arena, with what seemed to be a misplaced focus on the little black cube. The undertaker directly opposite Reaz advertised his product in the window. Here on the rise the interior lights there were left on overnight, unlike at the competition down nearby in Jalan Trus, Straight Road. At the undertaker around on the straight the chaps occasionally sold various fruits from baskets on the pavement out front—at least in more recent time the business had been developed in that direction. Today when a lorry made a delivery late afternoon at the old uncle and auntie’s fruit stall near the undertaker on Jl. Trus the entire chiku fruit was sighted for the first time. For a crate of small, pointy, potato-like fruit the old auntie presented the lorry driver one 100 ringitt note and one other high denomination that was not caught. A month ago at the cut-fruit stand outside the Chinese teahouse where lunches were taken there had been no chiku. Now despite the drought the fruit was plentiful. Steve the American writer and photographer who had lived in the region fifteen years and relished chiku had recently admitted never having sighted the fruit in its jacket. A day or two ago the fruit vendor at the teahouse had informed that chiku grew on tall trees and needed to be harvested; fallen fruit would be overripe and inedible. (One of Robert Lowell’s poems had memorialised an impeccable vegetarian who would only partake of fallen fruit.) In youth Razali the lame Indian food-stall holder at the teahouse had fallen from a tree picking fruit; a subsequent motor-cycle accident had done the rest for Razali, currently seeking a more affordable hip replacement in Thailand or Indonesia. There are small framed photographs of Mecca and what might be an awning-covered Kaaba on the back wall of Reaz Corner at present; not the large, dazzling earlier picture. The lads there at Reazare North Indian, conversing in Hindi rather than Urdu—and certainly not Tamil. (One had attained a modicum of expertise by now). The India Mosque immediately next door conducted services in the latter language. As in Singapore, the Tamils were the largest Indian group in Malaysia. Yesterday a Malay friend who needed to perform her maghribprayer after a couple of hours of café-sitting and chatting had been unable to do so at Masjid India, as the community there frowned upon unscarved women. Reaz has a barber-shop on the corner itself and the eatery sits on a platform above.  Marvellous naan and vegetable, raw onion and teh under RM10.

Well-Worn Traveler

Bugger. You do have to worry at the first, immediate guess of the waiter's at Paul, Takashimaya. As if he had drawn a gun from his white baker's coat pocket and fired a shot. Haven't seen you a while. Traveling? Worn, creased, tired eyes, the signature panama right there on the table-top. Thailand?... Pedophile was he thinking? Certainly he had never seen the busty young dark bikini babe paraded there before him. (Only beautiful demure Anita a couple of times in her scarf.) Beaches, bars, brothels. Catamarans, coke, caviar. That how he had you pegged?... At Tiffany & Co one floor down the old suited shaved-head guy behind the heavy glass door was waiting to deliver his own greeting. It would be really something at Tiff.
         When It Tastes So Good You Forget To Instagram It at the bus-stop on Kallang Road returning. High rotation there and costing a pretty penny no doubt.

Bargain Basement

Two comics—graphic novels; young Malay hipster and one dowdy Chin HDB lumpy lad following each frame of INHUMANITY with a close myopic concentration and also a frown. Three screens. Three newspapers brought from home that happen to represent the chief ethnic groups—Chin, ML & Indian. (Two different English periodicals; bearing in mind the one single company in this republic owns and produces all, the whole box and dice of media—print, radio, television and what have you.) Correction: four graphic novels, two in book form—upper teen girls the latter, one needing to cover irregular teeth in soundless laughter. Earlier old Chin uncle reading columns of Mandarin A6 book form before a short doze. Far fella on the end of the couches difficult to judge either race or reading matter, Peranakan possibly. Larger conventional book form perhaps, an impression that is bolstered by the Timberland walking shoes and cargo pants. Fattie lass prematurely aged beside Inhumanity  had only been glancing at her book: plugs, screen and drowsiness quickly overcoming. The one true, indubitable book belongs to a younger mid-aged woman draping a woolen shawl over her shoulders; bare legs. Beside her Hire….something Head hardback might not be hers. In hand mystery-suspense best guess by the colours and artwork; after a half hour put aside for the screen. Dreadful tame institutional artwork on the walls will pass without mention. Silence encouraged in graphics of two forms, one strip and the other voluptuous lips crossed with forefinger. Late afternoon on a Monday seats as usual difficult to find. Through Soviet times in Eastern Europe libraries were a refuge from the cold; in this republic on the equator the other. (Hire With Your Head discovered on departure; lady may have felt it an intrusion and thoughts of further enquiry dropped.) The author’s taste ran to Guy Debord’s Society of the Spectacle, purchased a couple of weeks ago as the copy on the French shelves in the Basement had gone missing a number of days. Slow going reading the old, enticing and brilliant Marxist/ Situationist with a pencil, chewing phrase by phrase. (A process of thick reading that has long effected one’s own form and output.)

Only the Lonely

Popular old guy with fair savings. Savings rather than child-support as one can tell the difference from the threads and extensive accoutrements /accessories. Fine pin striped suit trousers, giant polished rocks each finger and possibly the thumb on one hand and some kinda bracelet the other. (Buddhist, though chocolate beads rather than jade.) The small clutch bag might have been leather. Bright red Giordano polo; ornate silver handle on the walking-stick alone spoke volumes. Almost a queen or cross-dresser in certain aspects. Earlier the man had attracted a couple of mid-aged youngsters who raised his hand to their foreheads and delivered food and drink to the table where they sat soaking up the pearls of wisdom. Some of the visiting Batam veterans (as Jafaar calls them) knew uncle was good for a plate of fried pisang and sweet teh. Bright smile never failing; salute accompanying. Fine, generous spirit. Soon after the last of the acolytes had departed Granddad began collecting his belongings and rising slowly. Farewell something something. Couldn’t be caught. Balik huh, uncle? Back to the digs?... Pray, the man corrected…. Oh! Solat, OK. Fair enough…. Sorry. Apology that was from his side. The old man was sorry for what one might reasonably ask? What did this chap have to apologize for on point of departure? Go on, can you guess?... Granted it is not easy; not from your vantage there reading of this little episode on a Sunday afternoon on the Equator…. A man leaves a chap alone here in these parts, leaves a fellow in the lurch high and dry solitary, constitutes in fact far from fine form. Desertion. Abandonment. Reprehensible conduct. A lone figure here is rather a pitiable circumstance. Sorry to do it to you my man, uncle meant. I go first, the people will often say too half-apologetically. (Certainly a fair reason for it in this particular instance.)

The East Coasts (Nov25)

Not to be wondered at the young accountant recently in from NY finding the heat punishing. Five years in the Big Apple and four plus in college over in the States leaves a shock here on the Equator. Late 20s, wife & mother at the Al Wadi outdoor table. As soon as he leaves the hotel wet through. Camping out in Orchard presently, looking for an apartment in these SE parts. Chief requirement, proximity to a MRT, don't really matter where. Sorry to find the market opposite closed and not re-opening until November. The only surprise in this case the nationality—Indonesian; Chinese-Indo from the Jakartan furnace. Complaining about the heat? Decade in the States, East Coast. OK, maybe. What would a bule feel though, hey?! Innumerable the biz-admin-techno class here relying on the genius of aircon—the greatest invention of science, according to the former, recently departed visionary. The saviour of the ice-box flitting between apartment, train, office tower & mall. The gym. Tennis courts, certainly out in Orchard. Indispensable for the good work in the republic and the wider region. East Coast here by Marine Parade a short walk away, popular among the foreign talent and local aspirational equally. (The whole of that portion of the island reclaimed: earlier in the year they were raising one of the roads in the vicinity a metre.) Yesterday rain throughout, torrential early and then showers remainder of the day. Today's cloud cover made it more than comfortable. Chap might be in for a proper walloping, KAPOW, shortly.

Vile Regime (Feb26)

Mid-morning rain two days in a row, fierce little storms that lasted about forty minutes a time. Teeth-brushing care was taken with the faucet: these urban agglomerations all over the globe continued to cause scarcity. Precious water even in the Tropics. The ancestral village in the hills of Montenegro was originally chosen for settlement because of its springs—named after them in fact; Uble—spring. And away then and racing in the same vein for the duration. We had scampered along Northbridge yesterday on the way to Peninsular Plaza for the chapbook printing, the first coloured cover trial. Two short crossings had us all pretty well drenched and laughing at ourselves. Up at P.P. a wait as the Myanmar Cyber was still closed. Two & one half hours in all, up / down to the printer on the second level, checking pagination, numbering, text breaks; &etc; &etc. At some point hammering at the PC the woman unexpectedly delivered a sheaf of print-out. No idea about that. But auntie, I didna print!…What?... This immediately roused old uncle in the corner. Short tubby, mid-70s: shoes, trousers, shirt & singlet against the aircon. Handsome old devil. Possibly auntie's husband, rather than father or uncle; looker last time. She was tall. Seat the uncle at a polished table before a bouquet of flowers he might deliver an interim report on the government's latest measure to combat... Real good front-man. On the TV the stumpiness would not be apparent and the fellow would take care with any photographs exposing shortcoming. There have never lacked reminders from uncle's particular visage, the older gen. of exiles from childhood at the kitchen tables, mulling over the past, their predicament in the new country, church-building; &etc. Here at P.P. the uncle was putting on the strongman's severity demanding payment. What in the blazes did you think? How do you imagine the print came out? Did you think we pressed the button? Bucket-loads of gravel as if he had turned up the highway. Stern gaze, jowls trembling, if not shaking. For the first half hour after the print it seemed quite impossible one could be charged. Certainly there had been no intention. The pages delivered had been all scrambled in any case, text over the top of photographs, misalignments, a proper hodgepodge, for which uncle thought he ought be compensated. Two-three rounds of jousting, wrestling & wrangling, before unc abruptly ended all discussion. Now there would be no more about it. Enough, done. Uncle was not interested in any monies in any shape or form. Perfectly decided: not about to accept any kind of payment however it was turned. The man had been pushed too far. A meeting half-way, call it $5, rejected. No thanks, you keep it. No, no, no. Impossible to budge. Heels dug. Aduh!…Not all top of the range ire and slowly coming down a peg... What the old Burmese wanted was due acknowledgement, owning up responsibly, and no evasion. Uncle's English decent, little grappling involved. His father had been a teacher in one of the schools the colonial rulers had founded to raise the natives from their condition and provide a bureaucracy. Fair kind of operation at P.P. handling a number of maid agencies, which relied on both the computer skills and also the familiarity with the Myanmar embassy protocol. (Burmese maids made up a small, but not negligible proportion of the domestic workers; add the male labour gangs.) Turning a fair dollar, Uncle. Repatriating home no doubt; hardship a plenty remained there in the nascent democracy. An unexpected rhetorical flourish from uncle toward the end of the imbroglio rather surprised. We had negotiated safe ground pretty well; auntie who usually collected the dosh audibly giggling at a number of points. Burmese compatriot looking on from the side, smiling through his spectacles. A fair kinda theatre; much respect accorded and delicate care with an elder, of course and always. As we were fetching up to simmering, heat down, low, the old uncle fired a shot from behind a hedge in order to give you something to go on with. How do you think it was for us so many years under military rule, then?... Fairly gobsmacked, no shame admitting. A long second & one half T-I-C-K-I-N-G over... Well, golly gee! Ah… Never intention to deny that uncle. Most definitely. Dear me. NO. They all loved their saviour of course, whose photograph graced every shop on every floor of P.P. (Remarkable expat colony of so many storeys.) You did not want to diminish the cruel hardship of authoritarian military rule. Fierce no doubt; brutal and capricious in Confucian / Buddhist Asia. There might not have been any careful, artful management up in those parts—gun barrels, sabres, jackboots. Cold storage-porridge. How precisely it was relevant right then and there in our predicament over the inadvertent printing of course was not immediately clear. Nevertheless and however. Well, we were soon done. All good & well. OK, no money. All would be well. A regular, polite customer after all over a number of years now. What were 7-8 double-sided prints in the larger scheme of things? Certainly the uncle had not resiled from his position; justice very much his side. There had been no explicit acknowledgement offered: a partial possibility floated that went some way to satisfying the old uncle. Maybe, just maybe, the left hand unaware the right… Uncle’s jowls stilled, vestige of a smile. There were not too many white guys at that shop or P.P. generally who had ever managed a single word of Burmese. TEH - ZOO - DJE - BADE. Paced properly and liberally sprinkled set the plaza alight wherever one dropped it over a counter. Utterly charmed; a delight. Warming the most flinty of hearts. Many thanks and see you again, then. Fairly took the breath away in the first instant. Going away and thinking later in the room and then over dinner, in the morning once more, one could begin to accept this was not such a long bow either of the uncle’s. Hardly. Quite understandable. Matters were on the improve to be sure, though other kinds of sharks were circling the homeland now.

Tyranny of the Hairdresser

Unmentioned to date and deserving is the loose, colourful scarf worn by the Sultanas parading here in their Sunday finest, tied securely at the throat, but billowing either side as they pass along the pavement. Even with these faintest of zephyrs on the Equator, a blooming-blossoming that almost lifts them off their feet and the observer leaping to rescue. Round, chubby pumpkin heads that ordinarily might fail to win the favour of any male eye, suddenly transformed. Reminds a lad of the wings of the dauntingly chaste nuns crossing a courtyard, suggesting flight & heavenly glory. The severely tested Western gal, nakedly displayed with all her flaws by comparison.

Swiss Alps on the Equator (April25)

The ALPS Residences

(In prime pancake country, mind, where all the hills were levelled in the mid-60s for easier housing construction and land reclamation.)

...The Peak of Living 

Long horizontal pool featured with covered entertainment verandas one side, screened beach lounges another, and within the water & palm row the long side too. (Routine 96% humidity.)

Design Inspired by The Swiss Alps.

(Meters, spitting distance from the Equator.)

Perfectly unremarkable condo porn, full page in the dependable Sunday Times. 

After a few days in the poor cousin Johor Bahru (Malaysia), five hundred metres over the Causeway, one begins again to ponder the full ramifications for this little red privileged hot spot dot since the separation in ‘65 that made the budding autocrat-in-making cry (crocodile tears, according to some). Ramifications for the assumed victor; and not as usual losses the other way round.

 

 

NB. A Sea Horse outlet on the rear of the same leaf of the newspaper hints at the reality in the pigeon hole HBD sector: a range of floor mattresses, 50-70% off. 

 

Reality Kills the Novel

Quart six at Meldrum on the ledge by the window, curtains opened. The fly-over, rail-tracks, couple of old hotels and what might be a new under construction—the ugliness of any city back-corner on the planet. Some narrow strips of uncovered ground with grass sprouting alongside the rusted iron of the train tracks. An hour later supper as usual at Reaz Corner for naan and veg., served by the motley band of North  Indians beside the mosque first discovered five years ago. Last night Steve and Sayuri joined, both relishing the plain, simple fare. For the break in the day's photo-shoot we went for toddy at a little place in the midst of a construction zone where a Jack Sparrow and some other lads entertained the foreigners. (Steve was able to reference the movie character.) Jack told of his 2 1/2 hour crossing on his motor-bike over the Causeway to his job in Singapore; his younger companion took a half hour longer still. Five plus hours crawling along at the two Checkpoints inhaling the toxic "kerosine" fumes, Jack termed them. The toddy shop had operated on the same premises between Wong Ah Fook and Jalan Trus from the 1920's; in occupation himself since the early 70's, the present owner showed his pleasant side once Jack had assumed master of ceremonies. In front and along the side of the building broken clumps of concrete needed careful footing; indoors in the stark room with concrete floor tables in three corners and old wooden bench seating. Unrendered walls, grilled windows, a young black bitch in the store behind with distended teats weary and sore. Up in Georgetown the toddy had been the familiar whisky brown; here in JB coconut from Klang produced the desired sweet/sour balance. Eleven ringitt jugs. We managed three, the last gifted by Jack’s young friend. A merry interlude with bar-room chat of the usual fine order. Through the next afternoon an Emerging Writers’ competition winner down in Australia had been read in two sittings. It was too much reading a thousand words of that type of work in a single gulp: richly fem matter presenting a great deal of ecological filigree and maternal solicitude of the TV drama form. In a threatening storm the chief character soothes an alarmed child with the pretence of a tree-house seclusion after the pair had taken refuge in a basement; through the worst of the event a reading of a Peter Pan episode for distraction. One could not help thinking of the refugees of the past number of years in flight and making their perilous crossings over land and sea. And then the example of last year’s Nobel Alexievich with her altogether different treatment of trials and hardships—Chernobyl, Stalin and the rest. In settled, peaceful times one might more easily accept worked up, manufactured entertainments and diversions.