Something was clearly afoot from the moment the cop rocked up on his cycle and assumed his position on the roadway. Motioning at first to a car that had stopped, it looked like he was about to cross North Bridge in order to deal with an infarction of some kind. Instead, the fellow planted himself in the middle of the junction of Tan Quee Lan Street directly opposite the Box. There he began with his directions, the gloved right hand thrust out at the car behind him, before turning to a couple vehicles which had emerged from the Bugis underground. A little guy full of authority, puffed up in his leathers. Thirteen, fourteen, could have been a full dozen & half heavily leathered, motorised colleagues came by in the 8 - 9 minutes in his wake. A couple of these guys gave a nod to their man, one rider dropping his arm going past. Sure enough, one of the others stopped at the next junction and commanded that post in turn. None here may pass. None may enter from the side street onto the main thoroughfare of North Bridge Road. Both men there kept their helmets on, boots & jackets under the direct afternoon torch. The PSI was a bit lighter that day, some way short of the the dangerous level. As well as the fires in Sumatra & Kalimantan, Anak Krakatau, Krakatoa Junior had send up ash the day before, with some kind of wind tunnel effect keeping the Republic fairly well preserved from anything really bad. KL & Jakarta were blanketed in smoke and dust, hundreds of flight cancelled and health warnings issued. Seven or eight full minutes the cops were required to hang tough. Initially, the matter at hand was quite unclear. Had there been some serious disturbance in the neighbourhood. There had been no shots or alarms. The government was always warning of possible threats. A number of radicalised youngsters had been apprehended the last few months, plotting attacks of various kinds. In fact, the twenty-five year anniversary of 9/11 was just two days away. On the Equator here it had understandably receded from memory. There was no apparent edginess in the cop opposite the Box, only some little impatience, perhaps. As usual, the afternoon was baking heat. Immediately this show was over the leathered lads would need a shower. The man opposite kept looking up toward Rochor Road, nodding now and again for messages received through his phones. Being unconnected to soc. med, if there had been some kind of eruption, the Scribe here remained none the wiser. Patrons at the Box’s tables gave no indication, nor any of the passersby. Only one small group with suitcases stopped on the corner gave any regard to the cop opposite. As the minutes slowly ticked by, positively dragging for the cop, it became apparent what was afoot. Rather than anything else, North Bridge was being cleared for some kind of VVIP, who was dragging his feet a wee bit. It could be nothing else. All the indicators suggested. We just needed to be patient and wait with the cop. But who could it possibly be here? The local President? Really?… The de facto PM (who had recently passed the symbolic baton)? Possibly the visiting Luxembourgian PM, who was pictured in the newspaper the day after? Jared K. was in Moscow and his father-in-law at home after his new hair colouring. The next dozen intersections at least on North B would be closed. The VVIP would have a clear run to the parliament building; perhaps that was it. Or else over to the Istana, the President’s formal residence, where heads of State & dignitaries like the Luxembou were received. Finally, eventually, belatedly, the mini motorcade appeared, only 3 - 4 vehicles, travelling in the right lane at a very slow clip. The chief, long motor was not particularly impressive; surprisingly modest. On the front of the bonnet the little fluttering flag couldn’t be caught properly. Behind the wheel there sat an ordinary, nondescript Joe. (Some leaders would require a more handsome & impressive chauffeur.) Had the passenger been the tall, gangly, slightly pop-eyed current Pres. (former Deputy PM and Minister of various portfolios), the man could not have slipped past unnoticed. That man’s was an unmistakable visage (mother’s love itself needing corroboration); with, incidentally, a striking, bewitching, counterintuitive Oxbridge delivery. (On LI some aspiring technocrats cheered a BBC interview performance.) Altogether disappointing. Hugely anti-climactic. This was nothing whatever like the alarming, the roaring, rocketing example on the narrow road from the military town of Cilacap toward Yogyakarta, 6 - 7 years before.
