Cutting and Curing (Nov24) ✅

 

Children’s Bible
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Difficult to move with the screens. Of course the story was now available in animated form. What hope secondhand paper? Sales would be declining for the foreseeable future; shipping in bulk to the Philippines, South Korea & Africa. 

The searchers in some corners needed actual human presence and voice, offered them by men like Tamil Joseph, who recent days had been doing a power of work at the Haig. Out on the sheltered walkway benches, or else concrete stubs on the Voids. 

Chinese usually were in greatest need, though Joe reported Indians & Malays too. A lady in the neighbourhood had recently thrown away her walking-stick. Another pair overcome kidney-stones and asthma. 

Up in Ahmadabad, Gujarat last month, there had been great numbers moved by the power of the Lord, Joe reported. 

Joseph’s was an evangelical church with some sort of reach. Hundreds of thousands in open fields, it sounded like, without the Hindutva bothering. 

Down in the basement at the library The Art of Cutting on the shelf opposite wouldn’t be of the destructive, contemporary kind. Made you wonder how young A. down in Melbourne was doing, picked up once with her father who didn’t have a car from a youth psychiatric facility. 

Here there was little evidence, the young possibly coping better with the family holding more firmly and something of community not completely crushed. 

Continuing slowly meanwhile with Baudrillard down in the basement on comfortable couches. The French Ambassador had gifted the Republic 50m of shelves a few years back, the hand grenades contained within harmlessly passing over the heads of the local mandarins. 

Wonderful flashes of the French lightning, naturally highly relevant for the polis here.

In terms of collective drama, we can say that the horror for the 4,000 victims of those towers (9/11) was inseparable from the horror of living in them—the horror of living and working in sarcophagi of concrete and steel... 

Were they cutting more than the strictly controlled media was reporting, especially with the curb on substances?

It (the complacency of the American position) comes from the fact that the Other, like Evil, is unimaginable. It all comes from the impossibility of conceiving of the Other—friend or enemy—in its radical otherness, in its irreconcilable foreignness. A refusal rooted in the total identification with oneself around moral values and technical power. That is the America that takes itself for America and which, bereft of otherness, eyes itself with the wildest compassion.

Had anyone put that better? Baudrillard, Debord, Virilio, Genet…

Was the CCTV picking up the regular foreigner leafing those volumes day after day? Perhaps the focus was on the Islamists. At that stage the goatee & moustache had not yet progressed.

The librarians seemed oblivious, just as most of them would have been of those authors they were managing.

Sangfroid. Cut the muttering. Steady on.

Down in Oz there was no such collection gathered like that in one compact lot.

 

 

                                                                                                                           Singapore 2011-24

NB. The Spirit of Terrorism, p. 41(Verso)
Hypotheses on Terror, p. 63 Ibid.

Political Theatre & Costuming (House of Bijan)

Scratch the fine Chicago Stand-up and former Pres. from your list of superheroes everybody, if you haven’t already!
         The store that manufactured Rosmah Mansor’s most luxurious, sumptuous and elegant bag includes the Nobel Winner among its clients. (The Norwegian committee cited the recipient for spreading peace among peoples, esp. Muslims; aka The Drone & Wall Street Pres. &etc.)
         We’re talkin Rodeo Drive, LA when we’re talkin House of Bijan, specializing in “jewelry and accessories, driveable art, fragrances, and wearable art.” Bags six-figures plus and shopping By Appointment Only. Hopefully Ros. paid by credit card and the next number of years she’ll need to pooh in a bucket in the corner of a cell, taking care with aim.
         “According to a report by Huffington Post, the House of Bijan counts Barack Obama, George and George W Bush, Bill Clinton, Prince Charles, Pierce Brosnan, Arnold Schwarzenegger, Hugh Hefner and Monaco's Prince Rainer among its client list.”
         Like poor old Najib, possibly the big O. was undone by Michelle and daughters. (Forgetting misogyny and thinking fashion victimhood, TV and mag. presentation and hosting VIPs &etc.
         Tireless Democrats Bill & Hill too no surprise. Environment and heritage architecture conscious Charlie. Arnie reference the surgeries.
         “(House of B.) was recognized with The Leadership Honor Roll by President George H.W. Bush, and it even has its own day - where The City of Beverly Hills has proclaimed May 8 as Bijan Day.”

NB. Business Times & Malaysiakini

The Value of Lit.

Changes here in the Literature O and A Level syllabus announced in the newspaper today. The Lao She Classic Teahouse had been phased out of the Chinese Lit. curriculum last year. In its place two works by an eminent local playwright substituted, the late Kuo Paijo Kun: The Silly Little Girl And the Funny Old Tree, and Kopitiam. (For foreign readers puzzling, Coffee-time.) The Min. of Ed. acting to “ensure Lit. remains relevant to students” and local works “provide not only a wealth of literary techniques and devices for study, but also a reservoir of rich local history and cultural heritage for reflection.” 
         Guide books and glossaries no doubt, and mark you, O and A Levels. Seventeen-eighteen year olds in 2018. 
         An old High School English Curriculum Coordinator scratching his head at the Al Wadi morning teh table…. 
         (For anyone who might think a book cannot be judged by its cover and title, go take a walk through any “well-stocked” emporium, including many of the Indie best.)

         Just a wild guess, but what chance the Head Of Department at MOE here sports a dye job and comb-over, sitting in smart shirt and tie at a desk overlooking a neat garden-bed out front of the building, landmark sculptural piece and fountain?

Fair Assumption (Sept24 ✅)

This is going to sound a little bit like falsely dramatized writerly rage, much ado about nothing, storm in a teacup.

         Site the gathering around the screens last night at Tasvee for the football. Lots of regulars assembled, the keenest staking out their prime places early for 8pm kick-off.
         Indians, Banglas, Chinese, some few younger Euros preferring the cooler tables indoors where a third screen was mounted. Neat casual in the main; a few Chinese biz types in shirts and shoes had sat before the second screen just inside the entry.
         The screen drawing the largest, keenest crowd was the one facing the street, in-between the hot-plate and the cashier where 6 - 8 tables seated two or three dozen. Like archers behind this row, the Bangla lads who avoided the cost of the dollar teas bunched close for a look at the action. In-between the outer pillars there were two dozen of them, all of an age, size, stature and colour. 
         It had been a surprise to hear of the keen interest the Bangladeshis took in football, all of the different leagues indeed across the globe. A poor country like Bangladesh seduced by the lures of global sport. Raj at the central gaming HQ at Bugis reported their heavy gambling on games.
         The Sri Lankan National Youth Rep. had been absent a couple of nights now. The man was Singapore-born with hardly a word of Tamil; he had not missed a World Cup series since the mid-Sixties Bobby Charlton English triumph.
         In his corner to the left the Sri Lankan’s compatriot crane driver in his usual chair. This man had chased the bigger earnings in Papua at an Exon-Mobil site that was soon abandoned because of the danger.
         Local Chin contractor hosting a couple of his crew at the prime table front and centre. What was interesting here was seeing the warmth and hospitality across the racial lines, Chinese man making sure all the chaps were comfortable and had been served their beverages.
         One new man offered a seat beside him for a second round there after an hour had been taken on the PC at Feidu across the road.
         No, you would not be in the way of the chaps behind. Someone had been seated there a moment ago.
         Fellow was keen for companionship. During the conversation he did not give the screen a single look.
         And the man was not new at all. The night before he had been in attendance, just there at the next table seated with his pal So-and-So.
         Man had taken note of the crowd that night without having been sighted himself.
         Early seventies he revealed through the course. Tall, corpulent, drab dress. Two walking-sticks lent against either knee-cap. The man sat with feet spread directly facing the chair beside him.
         Both knees had undergone surgery at the same time and the recuperation was coming on well. Carrying weight as he was it would be an uphill battle, but this reflection had been withheld.
         The chap did much of the talking. He had little interest to hear anything himself.
         A handsome kind of filmic face, good looker in his time. A camera would like those Eurasian features.
         No, fellow answered, indicating his Chinese ancestry with the slit-eyed gesture both eyes, when in fact there was no natural slitting.
         Ah, OK. But that was not the half of it, right?
         No again. Father in fact was Sri Lankan.
         Well, you could’ve fooled me.
         Excellent English, schooled better than average. There had been a good stretch in Australia, Perth where a brother remained.
         And the merry-go-round underway after the short preamble.
         Beachside Perth. Big house right on the water, if not in it with a boat moored and a boardwalk to his front door like in the advertisements. Sunsets. Sand. Place had been bought for so much and sold at the peak for $2m plus. (Two mil. six or eight-hundred thousand. The precise figure had been given.)
         Man drove a particular Serial No. Merc now; it was parked just around the corner there. Back in Oz it had been a head-turning particular Serial No. Porsche. A racist town as it may have been the WA capital, for a slitty-eyed Chinaman driving such a motor there had been no obstacles.
         The fairground music coming over the top of the merry-go-round.
         A friend here who inherited big, big bucks from a father-in-law happy with his daughter’s choice of husband drove an orange Bentley. Unmistakable. If you saw one around it could only be him.
         Something or other had been worked to good profit in Perth and Fremantle had provided more opportunities. A Darwin way-station and Bangkok too, though no bars and girls in the latter. There was a hint of truth here; this man had not needed to resort to the dark and deadly arts in Thailand for his treasure trove.  Very likely entirely clean dosh.
         Assets here in property $20 - 30m was it? That was nothing compared to the orange Bentley friend with a row of shophouses—of the better kind—out in Mountbatten Road, not far from where we sat. Or might it have been the other way around in actual fact, subtly implied for you to draw the inference?
         Other details of the same kind had slipped overnight: dollars, property, motors of particular model and Serial No. Batam now was the retreat of choice, a particular corner there where food was good, wandering minstrels talented (there was no more of suchlike in Singapore), the owner a notable of some notable kind.
         How in the heck had one earned the avalanche of favour, all this glorious gold raining down like a monsoon? Success, profit, Monopoly rows, investment, low tax rates, absence of capital gains and no end in sight. Models of autos were always difficult to receive with the requisite glee and enthusiasm.
         All this to an ordinary ruffian in worn sandals, watchless and without pendant gold. (Fair enough, the man had said he believed in modest deportment himself, no matter what riches and attainment.)
         In the last few nights possibly the man had seen some scribbling at table; there was none other working pen & paper at Tasvee, that was for sure.
         Truly a sense of violation. What in the blazes had one done to deserve the privilege?
         Colour may have had something to do with it. At the best of times a white guy was a lure anywhere in these parts. Was there a lingering whitey on the territory here in Singapore uninterested in upper end motors, property, tales of success & riches? Mite hard to find. The chap’s assumptions had been fair. As far as attractive tax rates and fin. services went, this haven perhaps outdid any other spot on earth, hazard the guess.
          The big-noting he seemed to have thought subtle. Modest appearance after all, showiness eschewed. As for BS, that could be discounted too: at the end the man made a point of giving his unusual surname. All that had been divulged might be easily verified.

The Antechamber

 Mr. Ng’s health failing a little, long walks now leaving the man outta breath. A visit to the National Heart Centre showed a weakened pump, medication prescribed, pacemaker installed and a reference to the local Polyclinic requesting an eye kept on him, Mr. Ng reported. Therefore returning from an outing to the Haig this morning Mr. Ng would take the No. Such-and-such to Marine Parade, from where he would hook back on another bus to his landed property at the rear of the Haig Blocks. The latter was now too far to reach from the market up front. No, it was not the dark clouds closing that had Mr. Ng worried and led him to this circuitous route home; it was the heart. Pointing skyward at the Haig Road corner lights from where Mr. Ng had hailed his friend, Mr. Ng reinforced his fearlessness where rain was concerned. This, declared Mr. Ng—this delightful cool from the cloud, the whisper of breeze and the coming rain itself the man must have meant—is better than god…. So said the old man Ng on that corner this morning: better than god. We had just passed Hari Raya. Finished, Mr. Ng had replied when he was offered the season’s greeting…. Ah. Indeed. Yes....No time to tarry Mr. Ng, work waiting. It was impossible to shepherd more of these deserving to the other side; a power of that service had been done already and started at a young age. (There was a granddaughter newly enrolled in NUS Psych: little doubt the old man had cast some light in that direction.) With Al Wadi still closed after the Muslim New Year and Starbs dribbling re-mastered Satchmo classics, it was a front table at the Haig Food Court over an average halia from an Indian in a back stall for watching the rain come down. Mr. Ng had always been a flyweight; always something to spice up a conversation from his side. Had Mr. Ng once said he was a little partial to Daoism? Buddhism Mr. Ng could take or leave, from memory, and certainly no burning of paper money or the like for him. That was clearly recalled, delivered with a wagging chin at one of the kopi shop tables where Mr. Ng had pulled up a pew. Mr. Ng had excellent Bahasa. The Malays were OK, he had said. As for Islam itself, well.... Didn’t want to say too much on that score Mr. Ng. (Not in the present climate when they were under such siege on all fronts perhaps, was it? Mr. Ng.) A goodie this old man nearing his eightieth year. The Dao; Zen—Mr. Ng was a pretty good standard-bearer for that old tradition that dispensed with the need for gods.

Media Survey Mid-June 2018 (From the Little Red Dot)

Here in Sing’ plans to rejuvenate the recently global retail-winning Orchard Road shopping strip. An Australian firm (Cistri), helmed by a Mr. Jack Backen, has been tasked with leading the charge to ensure the precinct’s continued relevance as a vibrant lifestyle destination. (Characteristic Straits Times vocab. and phrasing that reprises the elevated language of colonial administrators.) While locals have been staying away, the area continues to be visited by foreigners (from Sh_thole countries in the main bereft of such exclusive emporiums offering top brands??). “Experiential retail,” food trucks and more entertainment on the street early suggested innovations.

A Malay regional leader up in his fortress stronghold (Padang Rengas) in the north-west of the peninsular sporting his big watch and bigger rings, insists in answer to a young UMNO reformer who has called for a change of culture in the party that recently lost the election, that on his own patch he will most certainly remain the warlord he has been and continue into the foreseeable future the same. (Umno Supreme Council Member Nazri (sic.) Abdul Aziz.) Malaysiakini.

Melania Trumpet’s concern about children separated from parents on the Mexican border shows the attraction she held for her husband over and above the fine figure, nice upstanding tits and long legs—lady of generous heart.

Najib’s three day Langkawi trip with wife and family carting thirty pieces of luggage has immed. set off panic among the Malaysian citizenry, concerned that a bag of $$$$ could easily procure a speed boat escape to a neighbouring country and protracted extradition thereafter that would delay the keenly anticipated trial for his many crimes. Staying at the Langkawi branch of the St. Regis chain which recently hosted the North Korean leader in Singapore (Orchard Road, with the worst kitsch street sculpture on the pavement — and that’s really saying something!), the former PM hopes to get in some golf during his stay. (Sunset Royal Villa from MYR 18,255 = $AU6k.)
(The author admits hourly checks overnight for any bulletins from that direction. As for thirty pieces of luggage, certainly no big deal there when one recalls the haul - 43 pieces - carted by the Prince of Wales on his recent weekend retreat to the monastery of Mount Athos in Northern Greece.
http://www.dailymail.co.uk/femail/article-5511397/Prince-Charless-remarkable-travel-demands-revealed.html)

Routine, uneventful Monday otherwise, impossible to procure a comfortable seat at a teh halia-serving outlet. Yesterday two pots of delightful Jing Si tea at a Buddhist books & cafe establishment a couple of kilometres from Geylang Serai, served by sweet aunties in classic attire and busy yesterday with Indian auditors, young tech up-and-comers seeking purity and calm on their rest day and a couple of other tables fitting the profile. Buddhism for the well-heeled with gold-painted figurines on their shelves at home. (No sandals in evidence.)

Hopes Raised

Fine, graceful gesture from the bent old fat beggar with the walking stick. During Ramadan he had donned a songkok and shirt rather than his usual scruffy get-up. The group at table had just dismissed a tall Indian perfume seller with a nice open face and bright smile. Short shrift you would have called that reception, though not disrespectful of course. This fellow on his slow approach had received a couple of subtle once-overs from the chubby young chap on the end of the table. Malay–Indian possibly himself: not dissimilar in size, aspect and feature—age aside. (The earlier Perfume man deviated from this norm—likely an outsider come down from Malaysia for the pickings.) One look had taken in the brown paper bag the Beggar clutched in his hand. Fries; not perfume or tissues for sale. Neither this look nor the other general survey that followed appeared in the slightest encouraging. You would have bet nada at that table, slimmest of chances. From where the Beggar stood however there was sunshine. The man’s more acute antennae sensed something in the offing from the outset and against the visible evidence hopes had been raised. Bent at the table and leaning in, the man even ventured to lay his hand on the table-top for support. A little Whack! Whad’ya think ya doin? in another locale similar circs. For an instant there was some concern for the old bugger here. Rapido from that point and difficult to take in altogether: slight slackening of the firm features at the end of the table; the wife beside stirring in her chair independently it seemed; and flowering smiles from the Beggar that were not any kind of added inducement. Some little understanding, acknowledgement, shared spirit had descended. What really made the occasion was the gesture of thanks it might have been, bundled with something else like perhaps good expectations or hopes from above. With the broader smile and mimed words only, the Beggar first clutched at the young man’s forearm, following which he raised his hand to his forehead. Covering and then wiping his eyes in a kind of cleansing motion that suggested a purification of some sort perhaps, one that would redound to those at table. It did seem offered to them, to the man on the end in the first instance and radiating from there. Benevolence to the needy delivered good of course; that was explicit in the community of Muslims. Pity, active compassion, aiding those in need was not only a good in itself, but gave hopes of benefit beyond. This was a green fiver too—not coin or lavender Two. That denomination though was not as a consequence of the performance—the timing and sequence was out for that to be the case.

Food, F-Bombs & Foolish Questions

Oh jeepers! These Yanks rabbiting on about food, young heavyweight fatties chewing the cud. Did they come in with the attendants, the media? Cooks, chefs working here possibly, though that kind of expertise was attained by all of the long-term practiced travelers. Ooohh. Ahhhh. This and that. Can you taste the .....? I prefer the .... Good choice. (She had either chosen the dishes or Komala itself to begin with.) The day after difficult to stomach; sudden queasiness in the guts. Really impossible to adopt an easy, friendly, even neutral posture; relax those facial muscles. Canna be done, simply canna. The same seats on the return from Osaka was a good thing or bad? It was unclear. Heading over to the Sweets counter was dicing with trouble, you would have counseled, No. Try a drink of water instead. De Niro F-bombing his and their President overnight at some film or TeeV award event. Tut-tut. Below the belt Roberto. Did Trump alter so much in fact? Did the Americans need their foreign policy packaged more palatable and the showmanship deliver a bit more finesse and style? The middle-class who don’t do drugs in the States do food, stands to reason, haute cuisine and down. Here with the giant prohibition, noose and cane, food was big. Which place serves the best fish-head curry, nasi lemak, dum bryani??? The local guy here became rather rattled in a CNN interview from reports. Freedom of expression not what it might be in your country, sir?... Well, the electorate recently made a judgment. When the electorate begins seeking further freedom, then hopefully.... But sir, the recent case of.... We have Hong Lim Park if anyone wishes to spout &etc. Man would have been toweled down in his corner by his handlers after that round, unused to such lines of questioning, certainly on home turf. And elsewhere it was all trade deals, investment options, fin. deregulation—not this freedom jabber. Sounded quite unlike the smiling face meeting and greeting the uncles and aunties at the food courts across the island; much more like big brother that his siblings were complaining about recently, manipulating their poor old Da’s will.

Kimbo and Donnie

Ya, Don within 8-9kms of the digs by the evening/morning. Presumably there’ll be an announcement: The Pres. has landed on the isle. Pity Melania is staying put, coulda given her some sound Slavic advice by-passing her hubbie’s pretty head. Gotta lunch Tue out at Chinatown, hopefully the Gurkhas aren’t gunna be spread that far. Makes ya nervous thinkin about. Hate to FFFFing go down in a hail of gunfire cos of a jumpy militia protectin the 43rd Pres. of the U.S. of A, could think of better. Recent days rare pic of him with hair mussed, Canadian photographer at the G7 maybe taking revenge as he climbed outta a chopper and before the stylist could geta hold. Comb-over clear as day, natty job with a patch like that big as Texas. What he must look like in the morning in his PJs splashing the gold-plated bowl top of the tower. Don’t think hookers. Four Floors might prick his curiosity just cos the name, you wouldn’t blame him if he wanted a peek in there around the corner from the ShangriLa after the heavy lifting with Kimmy. All the stories the generals & Corp heads musta told him. Go incognito with hair down/collar up. Were old Harry—Kiss’s best friend—still around no way the fella was gunna get off the territory without one little round at least on one of the courses on Sentosa. The island’s about the size of your backyard, but two courses, presumably mini six or nine holes, maybe like everything else here vertically arranged. Watch out for a Food Court Coke and nasi lemak, man-of-the-people like the best remunerated PM on the planet does here for his massage of the sweaty uncles and aunties. Tell you one more thing, this guy’s wife ain’t gunna get any compliments on how great she looks, what a marvelous figure &etc. You noticed the absence of the Southerners by the by. Who gives a rat’s about them? Moonie and that crowd. If the other mob recently jailed in Seoul was still in charge do you reckon we’d be sharing the peace pipe?

....Well, twelve hours later reality bites: they’re both on the territory alright. Pleased as punch the locals. What’s $20m giving world peace a chance? Supplement in the paper like they do for Windsor marriages and World Cups. Trumpet wants a few mins. with Kimbo private before the meet proper, look him in the eye man-to-man. The old wheeler would know from that how far they could go &etc. Even re-elected taking him through to 2024 would it be? fella wouldn’t tire waving to the cameras and signing agreements with his super charged gel. (Have you seen the bows and loops in the signature?) Landed at the local military airport just over the back here, much harder than Changi for any of the baddies to penetrate. (Though he’s gunna miss the dancing tear drops and other sculptural works at the global No. 2 airport. Seoul No. 1 matter of fact.) 9AM tomorra, steeling for the press release, pics, junior commentary from the local parrots. Last few days a couple imposters have been entertaining folk on the riverside.

NB. A political watcher down in Oz salivating at the developments up here received the mail.

Sunday Morning Miscellany (Last of Ramadan) June 2018

The terminal cancer and mental patient (carrying the sign front and back hanging from his neck) stopping for a chat with his squawking parrot on his shoulder. The latter had been gifted by the local zoo after the man’s $50k bequest, he said.
         Snatches of love and happiness songs, old favourites—You are my sunshine, my only sunshine—and rather artless self-composed that carried the same uplift.
         Nice chap. As ever it was difficult to confront the raw, gaping holes in the middle of his sunken face where once his nose had been.
         There were morphine vials in the bag on his stroller which he had shown a couple of years ago.

         — No need again, Uncle.
         In twenty minutes five or six people had stopped with contributions for his collection, almost all slipping in the notes from behind without troubling the man and he not even noticing.
         The chap collected not for himself, he explained, but in order to provide for those in need. For his own part he had more than enough money. What he sought now was some worthy recipient for one or two hundred thousand dollars he wanted to bequeath. Being assured of genuine need was important and he preferred the larger sums in order to make a real difference to beneficiary.
         This would be the last Ramadan weekend market day. Much traffic, many shoppers with trolleys and their own large bags from home in some cases. Fasters most of them, some of the children struggling and looking the worse for wear. One old joker manning a stall on the street who had been bought a couple of tehs in recent days came over offering a Tiger, or Carlsberg if that was preferred.
         Three or four niqabs passing might have been Indo maids, always a little startling, even now. And alluring of course; the underlying eroticism percolating. Small wonder the Parisienne fashion houses had taken the cue from this attire. Any kind of lady, regardless of age, fitted out properly in the various layers and covers, could be assured of good, earnest attention.
         A young wife came across to the adjacent table to return change from shopping to her Hubbie relaxing in his chair chatting with a pal who had come up. Under thirty the pair, the woman carrying their baby in harness on her chest. With the crowd the stroller was best left behind with the man.
         Two red tens and assorted the woman presented, coins on top and Hubbie fumbling a little collecting.
         What kind of monthly allowance was extended the wife here? A number of men in the neighbourhood had mentioned the arrangements, usually business chaps who proudly managed a sizeable sum to keep the womenfolk happy.
         Far, far too much Summit piffle in the newspaper. All the kudos claimed by the locals for the privilege of hosting the occasion. Cannons at some location, a great number of them from British times, had colourful flowers inserted by the event managers. The attention to detail was faultless. Foreign work crews had been labouring around the clock to ensure peace had its very best chance.
         At which iconic site would the two leaders have their photographs taken? There was a summary of the likely options. Melania would have been coming with the President had she not been recovering from a difficult surgery, almost three hours. What dishes might be served the two leaders? There were a dozen signature delicacies among the options, some highlighted by the celebrity TV Food man when he had visited Singapore, chap who had hung himself in a hotel room in Paris the day before.
         One safe bet was no round for the President on one of Sentosa’s exclusive courses. Even late afternoon under added lighting the heat would have proved far too oppressive. In Florida there must be particular periods in the year that allowed.
         An admission of a thought occurring through the flipping of the pages and observing the parade—possibly deep unconscious prompt from out Washington way: the painted lips under the scarfs in particular left one wondering about the force of the clamp in the various cases. It was never easy to tell in advance of course in any instance. Part of the intrigue and mystery. For the girls there was size, duration and quality always hanging as question. (What was that cheeky witticism naughty lasses shared? On their side it was like the snow: one never knew how thick it might be, nor how long it might last.)
         A second similarly aged lad now found doing the honours relieving the partner of some of the burden on the Sunday at least by carrying the tot on his own chest.
         There were numerous doting young husbands among this new generation of Muslims—hand-holding, carting for the women, petting in public. Were the old Arabs like the famous Montenegrins, mounted on their camels/donkeys, while the woman carted home the firewood on her back? In the land of plenty on the equator some of the sharpness of the old patriarchy had never taken root, one guessed. (Therefore the Wahabi complaints about the divergence of Islam in these regions.)
         A lady tying her daun ketupat onto the arm of her little trolley. The green leaf was an essential ingredient for the feast on NY — Hari Raya, Eid. A chap at the next Mr. T. T. table had reminded of the matter and given the name.
         Expert tying. Was this a kampung gal, married here from Indo, or the Peninsular perhaps? 
         Seventy-five and eighty years ago Bab and Aunt Andje during their hawking through Kotor and Novi had made expert knots like this woman. In the early years in Melbourne it had been the same for goods on the carrier behind the seat of the bicycle. In the first months here the old Chinese grandmas and grandpas turning the wheels on their ancient bicycles on Geylang Road had returned one to feather-light dreamy days of the past. Friends who used down in Melbourne needed to resort to illegalities for such comfort and ease.

Lambs to the Slaughter

Lunchtimes the Indian construction workers beneath the trees on Guillemard Corner make you catch your breath each and every time. With water flowing in the canal after rain and the humus from the ground there would have been added refreshment for the men today. The big plastic sheeting was stored on their site across the road and carried over lunchtimes. It was rare to ever catch the men at their lunch; in fact it had never happened. In the middle of the hot day weary as they were, there was no appetite; evenings after work their chief meal would be taken. Rare to find the men here other than stretched in a whole range of postures out to the world getting some much needed shuteye. A Napoleonic era battlefield it appeared, the outcome of some kind of recent pitiable slaughter, before the boots and arms were removed by the victors. This afternoon on the bus to Feidu for an earlier session at the PC a glimpse on the near side along the Geylang fencing caused an added start. What kind of figure was that there with so much uncovered flesh tone? Rising up a little from the seat in order to see properly over the rail along the footpath. What was that? Higher raising again like a jack-in-the-box that had the other passengers wondering. Eventually, with some straining, the big bare belly sitting like a plumped cushion or pillow could be made out in the group. Uncommon feature in this workforce, where usually the young lads were pencil thin. This chap on the contrary was a Fatso, with the look of a pregnant woman at his midriff; fair-coloured too, smooth and hairless from a distance. The bus having stopped at the lights there was ample time to make out the scene properly. Exhausted kids at football training sometimes pulled that stunt, bringing up the end of their jumper over their head in a momentary surrender to their weariness and the ordeal of the program. This man’s blue company issue polo was loose fit. Even under the shade of the municipal sign-posted giant trees along the waterway there was still too much light arrowing in. The other lads seemed not to have been bothered, spavaju ko zaklani, sleeping like the slaughtered, the Southern Slavs say.

This Girl

Haig walkway betw Blocks 11 & 9 was the patch of the four-eyes girl. The girl’s mentor, Auntie Helen in the front room at Carpmael, always brought up both hands to her eyes for the ID. This girl, Helen will say, making forefinger-and-thumb circles over both eyes. When Auntie Helen was delayed by her paid employment, the occasional JW gathering, or more occasional holiday, this girl was called upon to feed Auntie’s menagerie, both the privileged inside her room, and the outdoor. Auntie cooked organic chicken bought from the Haig butcher for her mogs, infinitely more nutritious than the supermarket fare (with less need of vets, cheaper in the long run too). Auntie had various coloured plastic containers for the Carpmael garden corner and others for behind the block on Onan. Without the financial resources of Helen, this girl neither buys organic, nor troubles with plastic containers. But then neither does this girl place her food on the pavement or the grass on her section of Blocks. This morning again a clean cardboard square holding the dry pieces against a pillar on the walkway. Ah, yes! Tell-tale sign of this girl! Twenty-eight and almost certainly never been kissed. In earlier years her mother had been a feeder too. Dad had now forbidden a house cat, not even a single one allowed indoors. (In lieu of a line-up and examination, the remainder would be guesswork. Strongest relevant evidence the Haig Estate itself: the towers with their shutters and grilles, stainless elevators, walkways & garden-beds maintained by the foreign work-crews. Little attention has been given to the effects of hard, adamantine surfaces in a living environment, and SG presents a useful case study.) This girl picks up casual IT work, invariably dull and dreary, she complains. The plastic-coated bright coloured sign at the rear of one of the shops in Block 2 requesting people not feed the two cats on that patch because of their kidney disease, likewise the work of this girl. Wangling. Helen had once slipped with her name...Calling an unassuming Clark Kent shipping clerk, let’s say, cook or mechanic, with an old grannie that he visits at the Haig. Look lad, how much care and affection showers down on those pretty felines. Bring a biscuit box one night and stake ou the garbage chutes round 8. No need much chat, don’t worry. 

Summiteers Once More

Rather than the Shangri-La it was the Capella on Sentosa Island for Don and Kim’s meeting, two golf courses adjacent should a sudden urge have taken the former enthusiast. (Kim would likely be forced to decline a friendly contest. Who was the Hollywood or golf star defending himself from accusations of palsyness with Donald recently, saying how was one supposed to refuse the man when he suddenly called suggesting a round?) Reports of Gurkha presence around the Shangri-La last week during another dialogue of other leaders in what was touted as a dry run for the upcoming event. In the newspaper on the morning a big spread on logistics and arrangements that included mention of heavily armoured BMWs that would be deployed, bulletproof, bomb-resistant &etc; in addition to being equipped for smashing through barriers and crowds, the report added. (Mid-East and North African specials.) One also recalled a few years ago a car-full of footloose lads with dope on them straying into the Raffles precinct while some of the Windsors were visiting. After panicking at the police presence and putting their foot on the gas, one or two died in a hail of gunfire — from ask-no-questions Gurkha sharpshooters, if memory serves. Soon after re-posting the Gurkhas piece last night on the blog ABC online (Australia) delivered an item on the same subject: the reliable Nepali force retained on these shores sixty years after independence and expected to play a lead role during the keenly awaited media beat-up Summit. Sentosa is in fact a speck of land that had been augmented with a couple of other islands in the 1970s, the whole increased with reclamation. Nearly seven years hereabouts, the place has been left well enough alone. In the pictures plentiful greenery was retained or re-introduced, which would screen the chimneys on heavily industrialised petro-chem Jurong Island opposite. Cashed-up partygoers who flock to the happy isle would have needed to shoot over to Phuket for their fun June 10 - 14. Difficult to restrain the wincing in advance at the President’s words of thanks to his gracious hosts, his dear friend Mr.... He and his party — uncertain at the time whether Melania would be attending — had enjoyed themselves immensely &etc. The United States had no greater friend &etc. In the end the locals were miffed to learn in a press release from the President’s office of the vague, sketchy knowledge of the geo-political divide down on the equator here, signing off on place with Singapore comma Malaysia — as if the little republic was still part of the Malaysian federation. Oh well, it was a long way off and a teeny weeny political entity in question.

Perfect Host (The Summit), with Gurkhas

Singapore, 3 June 2018

Security. Security. Security. 
         Without the very best guarantee this upcoming Summit here could not take place at all. Which other more or less neutral country could provide it in spades like the Republic of Singapore? Elsewhere flying in sufficient personnel for the US President would look like an invasion and could not be acceptable to the North Koreans. One can only imagine the exercises and drills out at Bartley Ridge here in Singapore presently.
         “Gurkhas - Kidnapped!” was written after an exploration of the Gurkha compound in 2015. Here it is again for background to the Kim – Trumpet Summit.

Gurkhas – Kidnapped!

An hour to circumnavigate the perimeter of the grounds. Full sixty minutes of the clock. First reports a week ago were revised downward.
         How could the Gurkha Housing compound in contemporary, present-day Singapore possibly amount to a dozen high-rise towers, ten or more storeys each?
         How was that possible?
         Beyond belief. What was going on here? A hidden Nepalese community in the mix in Singapore a couple of generations post the British withdrawal; post-independence and the dawn of the new Republic.
         Very difficult indeed to credit. Stretching credulity.
         Nepalese regiment of this order to police the cleanest, most peaceful and orderly island nation that has ever existed on planet earth?
         A middle-aged fit hard-body taking afternoon recreational exercise on the other side of the wire provided the number to the author and his companion: Two thousand ready and loyal troops.
         There was no language barrier. Chap concerned friendly and decent, spoke a crystal-clear Queen's English. 
         Two thousand—three zeroes—troops alone.
         A prospect through the fencing on a little rise showed something that looked like an ice-cream cone pictured in faded colour under the ridge of a roof.  Vanilla. A rude little drawing, too high up for child's daub.
         We had developed a thirst by then. There were no vendors visible.
         ….No. Not ice-cream…. The penny did eventually drop.
         Of course!
         Chomolungma in Tibetan/Sherpa; Sagarmatha Nepali.
         Better known in our parts as Everest!
         The mighty totem from the land of the forefathers; king of mounts reaching the heavens. Here a reminder for the foreign troops of the snowy peaks of Home Sweet Home.
         The chap on the footpath was immediately recognized as of Sherpa stock. His great uncle had gotten Hillary to the top of the peak, every likelihood in advance of the great Kiwi hero himself of course.
         The visa arrangement for these soldiers was long-term; not the usual seven years for the construction sector for example. 
         The Sherpa great-nephew had chuckled providing the correction: Long-term; effectively until a man attained the age of forty-seven, whereupon he retired on his savings back home—pension scheme unlikely in this arrangement—and his son sent out on the next stint if he was lucky.
         Who would have thought?...Remarkable. Many thanks to the pleasant, helpful informant.
         ....Were there truly so many billionaires, so many corporate heads, foreign dignitaries and trade delegations winging it here to Singapore in order to justify two thousand reliable and independent troops? Would Sing' keep such a force of such a scale cooling their heels and exercising in the yards so many decades merely in the event there was another outbreak of rioting like the one fifty years ago in the mid '60's?... Was that possible in the usual labour arrangements and work contracts here?
         Doubtful in the extreme.
         Doubtful too that the matter was covered in the voluminous memoirs of Mr. LKY that lined the shelves of the stores and better class homes here. Yet what to say on the indubitable evidence before one’s eyes here on Bartley Ridge?Incontrovertible.
         Ah! Luckily Gabriel had brought a water flask. A coconut palm stood nearby against which to rest, slake our thirst and ponder this site before us. (An elevation of sorts for the community of mountaineers.)
         Wondrous indeed. Under his Queenslander floppy minus only the hanging corks, the angel pondered long and hard, together with the author.

        
....In the morning after the return from the trek, another added surprise, and not unrelated.
         The poor old dear mum of a local tycoon, kidnapped only 24 hours prior on that very same terrain we covered further up the track beyond Bartley. What?!...
         After the refreshment under the palm off we had trotted along the Seletar River on the Park Connector, drawing the fine air and observing the bird life on the water. Spitting distance almost on the very same day, the anxious tycoon son, fretting about his mum, was high-tailing out with the bag of cash to free the precious darling.
         No cruel dalliance with the reader: not to worry, mum safe and sound; villains captured red-handed and cash restored.
         The whole drama had taken place under the very noses of the explorers almost, completely unbeknown to them.
         The Straits Times delivered exceptional coverage, the story bolstered by compelling footage: darling mum permed; mogul with the hair-part above the left ear. The Honda & VW driven by the villains. The very tree too under which the bag of moola was deposited. The notes looked like lavender twos. In fact $1000s that had not been sighted to date here. (GULP! Nearer to town and Orchard Road the ATMs presumably dispense.)
         Initially the ask for the restoration in one piece of the poor mum was $20mil. The former pig farmer turned supermarket mogul had not made oodles without a nose for bargaining. 
         Following negotiations two would do.
         All's well that ends well—except for the damnable perpetrators, facing either the noose, or life if they were lucky. Caning in addition for the younger.
         The point here: Mr. Lim Hock Chee, risen from pig-sty to serious platinum, was ranked at No. 35 — net worth $US515mil. — on Forbes Singapore's 50 Richest the year prior.
         Gurkhas must have been on stand-by even as the two wayfarers were skirting the perimeter of their encampment the previous day. Had there been a suspicion of Abu Sayyaf, straight into action without a doubt.
         Two thousand troops. Add say another five-six for family. Small price to pay for any eventuality.
         Presumably the first one hundred and fifty Forbes can look forward to A Grade double plus government assistance. Add the extended First Family, hangers-on, Corp. heads &etc. &etc. Plentiful occupation for sturdy, reliable hill-climbers.


NB. Late news on the street, omitted in the newspaper and no time to verify properly. The said mogul who was the victim of this dreadful affair pretty nicely connected it appears: daughter married to the PM’s nephew. No doubt a small platoon was busy there too.

Burning or Marriage?

Burning or Marriage?*

Aboard the No. 23 one of those brisk Chin wives expertly marshaling the poor doddery hubbie. God save the man! All the angels hark! Having claimed the prime seat herself the lady—he was too slow—fitting only one, she points him out another behind. There, there. Which leads to an exchange with the woman sharing. Oh, really. Getting off? Craning round to her lost sheep, where had he got to now?... Here, here. Lady leaving. Sje sje ni. Much obliged. Pegging over guiltily the will ‘o the wisp. In any sort of wind lady would take hold of his belt make sure he wasn’t blown into the clouds. Pegging over and into position, blinking and nodding, the strap of her bag behind looking for a moment like a seat belt that she was attempting to secure to her charge. Settled and safe at her side. On the Selegie turn waiting for the lights the Thaipusam Ellie from earlier in the year, plastic garlands faded in the sun and rain. (At the base of the second the creeper had been blackened and shredded by the traffic.) Look at that. Hey! The gamboling pair with trunks raised couldn’t be more cute. If they had smaller versions that you could keep at home…. In the hills of Montenegro they helicopter fling such creatures from the highest peaks without chopping or mincing, directly into the beaks of waiting vultures. Here numbers of the type rarely ever encountered in any other place on the face of the earth. (To be fair to the woman, there were numerous selfies daily in front of the elephants there from all-comers and all colours.)

NB. 1 Corinthians 7 : 9*