Antecedents - Malay Village Again

 

 

 

 

 

 

Some of the faces at the tables at Mr Teh Tarik straight out of Cafe d'Afrique in Footscray-town, Australia. Light skinned particularly displaying their Arab descent. It was the Hadhramaut traders from Yemen that brought Islam to this far corner, to the Malaysian Peninsular, the Indonesian islands, southern Thailand and the rest. 

Faisal and Fausi, the brothers who run the cafe back home, must have felt very much at home in Malaysia on their recent holiday. Of course on Malaysian territory proper there must have been countless echoes for them, many more than in Singapore. Here it is the area around the old Malay Village, more than anywhere else, that casts back into the history of the island.

Other histories apparent too in some of the dress, the behaviours and mannerisms, familial and gender relations, and much else at Mr Teh Tarik.

The old scarfed Malay great-grandmother across a couple of tables tonight showed many familiar gestures and mannerisms. In this case age a great leveler amongst peoples. Endurance and overcoming was the old woman's display, same as with so many aged here and elsewhere. Hers was a triumph over life, the ultimate attainment. Settled and patient. Resolved and adamant. Pointing the way.

The scarves the women wear present a fine ennobling. Such a powerful fashion accessory too in so many ways. Even some of the older women into their sixties create an allure. This old babushka sits opposite her daughter or daughter-in-law, their meal having been completed. Babushka's finger goes under the rim of her scarf, making a little half-circle over her forehead. Relieves the pressure of the band in front. With a tug at the back the scarf more comfortably seated now. That's right. Crumpled tissue used through dinner dabbing at her crumbs. Nothing worse than a disorderly celjade, our Baba at home would rightly say. Disorderly being or person.

Babushka's finger under her eye giving a little rub. The rhythm of the motion. Not much more than a jab. Lifting the hand up and out shortly after to declare, Enough. Let's away. For which daughter-in-law her prompt.

Without false teeth Bab was spared that endless discomfort. Never would she have endured them. Lifting the plate regularly to relieve the gum. Tonguing reflexively. Never at peace. Somehow Babi would have disposed of them. Flushed them down the toilet. Lost them somewhere where they would never be found. Kill me better, she would have demanded. It will choke me, she would have complained. Just like a horse! Certainly she wouldn't have borne it. Not Baba.

This old great-Babushka had managed.

Family scenes completely captivating. Ten or twenty groups nightly. Great Babushkas and granddads, sons with their numerous children, daughters-in-law. Relations between the different tables sometimes. Fifty or more tables every night packed tight.

Tonight the two kids opposite, the elder well into her teens, were not asked what they wanted to eat or drink. When the trays arrived with dad and dad's friend, the pair find they have placed before them an iced teh tarik each. Smiles subdued. All in the eyes. Cross referenced pleasure in brief flickered looks. The pause prior to digging in might have been waiting for the go-ahead from father or mother. Given in fact by dad's friend. This fellow was the host tonight. Earlier he had awaited their arrival. A Chinese. English the language of communication.

Naturally the kids know to keep quiet through the meal. They eat. The talk of father and his friend washing over their heads, little that can concern them. At a couple of points mother bends an ear. Some English in her possession.

         Earlier at table the Chinaman had asked the man how he liked Singapore.

 

 

 

Ex-offenders

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The Indian ex-offenders regulars here at the cafe tables about this time of day, trying their luck among the after lunch crowd. Prospects at such a place perhaps rather better than elsewhere in the city. Four o'clock sees them land most afternoons. Briskly they go from table to table, two or three singly in the rows with some kind of pre-arranged order of precedence. The edges have been taken from their former, youthful selves — the underlying visible in the tattoos, their rangy, bouncy athletic stride, ear-rings that go beyond the bounds of fashion here. Rehabilitation programs inside achieved some kind of effect, one can see. A determined but entirely polite and patient approach from the lads. Rebuffs leave them unmoved. Here where they are given it is usually in quite a different manner to the abrupt hand-waving received by the tissue and lottery sellers.
         Among the tables they pass with a kind of confessional declaration of past crimes and misdemeanors, their incarceration specifically mentioned at the outset. A written, plastic sheathed statement they display backs up their verbal disclosure. Financial support they plead, which might not be the entire point of the exercise. In a second plastic pouch they hold there are key-rings for sale, made by themselves in prison, we assume. Some kind of elaborate craft in the pendant attached.
         Good to see purchases among the business crowd. A family group including three teenagers today bought a key-ring, with generous smiles bestowed by the well-to-do Grannie at the head of table. Worth the moral lesson for the youngsters without a shadow of doubt. Far more than words.
         Straits Times the other day reported the under achievement of the Indian community, when measured against the Chinese. Scholastic comparisons highlighted; reference to contrasts in "ambition".

Solo Lasmini

For two years Lasmini has worked as a maid in Singapore. Recently she returned from her first holiday home in that time, a month with pay; ie. $450. One Sunday a month is free in her arrangement with her employer. That maids get better pay and conditions in Taiwan and Hong Kong Lasmini has heard; but she is in Singapore. Luckily conditions at her home away from home are good. Ma’am and Sir are kind. There are three young children and one old man, Ma’am's father. Ma’am's father is good too. Cooking, cleaning, laundry, minding the children—not difficult tasks. Lasmini misses her own two children. While she is away her mother and husband look after them. Sometimes Lasmini calls them three times a week. Fifteen cents a minute: not too expensive. 

         Lasmini is from a kampung three hours out of Solo, central Java. The bus to Jakarta an overnight trip. The kampung is large, with many houses and a mosque. Polygamy is not known there—the place is too poor. Girlfriends are known; not additional wives. Many of the Indonesian maids are ten and more years younger than Lasmini. Approaching her mid thirties, Lasmini is old. Usually Lasmini does not eat rice for lunch. Usually she has some bread only. A suspicion part of the reason is saving, though Lasmini does not say so and the question was not put. Monthly Lasmini sends two hundred dollars home.
         We laughed over the teh tarik. Lasmini laughed at the mispronunciation of the tea. At the eatery when Lasmini was asked what she wanted to drink, she replied politely: — Up to you.
         The teh was hotter than usual. Lasmini let it cool for a full quarter hour. Likely an iced drink would have been her preference.
         Lasmini taught some Indonesian. That made her laugh, she without schooling teaching a teacher. Among her own people back in the kampung, would Lasmini cover her mouth when she laughs so freely? Another question that could not be put.
         After the tea we jalan, jalan，walk, walk-ed. The heat had gone out of the day.

Art of Seeing

Takes a time to recall the position of the maid in this country and the wider region. These young Indonesian and Filipina gals with a place at the restaurant and cafe tables, jumping up to attend to the babies—so often babied far beyond their infant years, as in the case of this poor little fellow in the special baby seat into which he has been strapped at Dome cafe, attached to the Singapore Art Museum. (The correct kind of place for "art" in this country, and many others too: behind glass and ropes on a pedestal.) 
         Parents either side of this little princeling in his high chair. Daddy rubbing back; mummy spooning caramel and ice-cream into his mouth. It was the maid however who jumped up a few minutes ago, while the pair were concentrating on newspaper one side and iphone the other. Little tiger dribbled out the corner of his mouth. 
         Valuable alacrity and coming cheap. Maids go for about $400 per month at the lower end here; lower still for an inexperienced one. Six hundred once they have proved themselves. (A number of disturbing reports in the papers recently of suicides and escapes from imprisonment in apartments. Agitation too for a legislated free day monthly. Competition from Taiwan and Korea for the labour force can only help the cause. There they often have a day a week free and better pay.)
         Harder still recognizing second and perhaps even third wives at the Malay tables at the Lower Geylang eateries. Years of observation would be needed in these cases. Again the Straits Times carrying a report in last few days from a region in Malaysia where the authorities are encouraging polygamous men to come clean and properly identify their household. The whole admin. bureaucratic order on shaky ground where such basic arrangements are kept hidden.
         Some of the women have to be additional wives at those large tables under the awnings. Not all the excess can be sisters-in-law, aunts and cousins, the sly old dogs. Circumspect over their food, giving not a jot away. (Legal in fact even in Singapore as a concession to the Malays.)

Photography

Starting out to the gallery for the Iranian photo-journalist Abbas, the smiling Indonesian boy in the lift apologized for his English. After all, the lad was a visitor too, and indeed found in the subordinate position in regard to language in this particular country of Asia. Immediately apparent good-natured lad fifteen or sixteen, sporting a woolen home-boy knit cap for the scorcher outdoors, even at ten in the morning...Seemed to understand the joke and that there was no ridicule intended. In the room they had the aircon full-blast possibly for some fun. Knowing the climate in his home region, Mabel at reception guessed for the lad it is was not hot.
         On the bus out a couple of odd English proclamations in one of the most intriguing forms here—the ubiquitous billboard tee. This in an area where English competence was anything but high. First an everyday housewife going home with some early shopping. Somewhat bedraggled, heading up to her HBD to get lunch on for the family. Baby pink, not quite hot after too much washing: GET NOTICED.
         A daughter's purchase for her deserving mum. Possibly. A bit like our featured Asian calligraphy back home, chosen on the basis of.... nothing concrete. All those OSAKA tees.
         SAVE THE CHEERLEADER
             SAVE THE WORLD
An older, rather lumpy Mainland working girl at the top end of Geylang under one of the alcoves.
         Often on the other hand the tees here were rather stylish and fetching, even on Geylang borne by the labourers & working girls. Bought at the source factories.
         The exhibition turned out mediocre. The pics of the Iranian revolution held some minor interest because of their absence in the Western media. One arresting image from the war in Vietnam caught an exceedingly young South Vietnamese soldier with a rifle slung over his shoulder leaning against a Cadillac, elbows resting on the sills of the open window. Late sixties model, pink possibly in true colour; gorgeous style sitting on a waste piece of ground. The Americans we know didn't take the young man out on the last transports.

Christians

“How to Read the Bible.”
         Indeed. The question has been pondered a number of times here. Even where the English was high order, how do they possibly manage? In Africa the same. But we are in Singapore.
         It will be available in some kind of Mandarin translation, but even the bright, university educated here struggle with Mandarin. Odd. Cantonese, Hokkien, other so-called dialects are more common here, certainly spoken form. The language position a highly interesting matter.
         The reader late forties/early fifties, American accented. Understandably unsettled at the enquiry. Ballpoint with notepad adjacent. A purchase it seemed, not borrowed item.
         Spacey text, thin volume, headings every page. The author a sister of the First Bishop of Singapore it might have been (who conveniently praises the book in the blurb).
         How to Read the Bible as Literature, or Poetry, one of the heads.
         Recall the teachings of the wise old elders: “Do unto others as you would have done unto yourself.” There is nothing more you need to know.
         The key message; principle outline. The down-trodden, sin, saving and eternal life. Pictures, incense, music and fellowship.
         And yet of course they feel the gap here; feel inadequate and know catch-up required.
         One can can expect a good deal of formal bible study, as well as all the private on display across the town. Figures as yet unknown.

Stamp of Class (June24 ✅)

The men are affluent. There can be little doubt. Almost certainly they do not live in the surrounding HDB's. A day or two ago the truth of the matter was brought out by the visit of one of the wives. This presence put the matter beyond doubt. With her attendance it seemed her husband too dressed up for the occasion. Previously the big dressy ring with the large jade stone had not been evident. His colourful polo too was something extra. The colours were quite outside of the range established by this men's group these weeks past now. Bright blue and red bands amongst some lesser hues, over a white base. It had been picked out for him by his wife. Every other day he had dressed like the others in the muted tones. Never before in a polo either. All the men wore the same bland shirts and trousers.
No doubt it was the wife who was responsible for the schism on that day too. Someone among the others at the far, larger table was persona non grata for some reason. Some offense had been given. Still, there was a fair group at this secondary table, and over the hour quite a few had been poached from the other. They ate more at this table. A large plastic bag sat on the middle of the table, seemingly not the shop fare either. Each man who came over was earnestly invited by the wife to take a piece of pastry. All did so.
A fine woman sat there. A reddish brown hue colored her perm, nicely held in place. The hairdresser was visited regularly. Bright pomegranate red on hands and toes. The blouse was chosen for the predominant red, a shade of crimson in this case White slacks, cream sandals. The tracery of the blouse of a kind of twig or creeper pattern was over white. Faultless. Money that might have been of a serious level. Perhaps of all the men this one might have been picked as the success story. Fine little touches. A particular kind of indulgent smile. Dentistry. The position of the arm at a slight angle resting on the table top. (Mahogany immediately suggested.) Nothing so strong as to give an instant impression, but following the entry of the wife, it fitted.
Stylish and accomplished her hostessing over the pastries. Two or three times she called on each new member as he came up to join them, pointing jerkingly at the open plastic bag each time. They had entertained constantly at home over the years. The practice was evident.
Perhaps a good number of the men were loaded in fact. Discrete money. The wives spent it. Children and in-laws with all the latest gadgets at home.
More: the chief versifier from a few days ago, the one with the poets and sages at his fingertips, separated from the main table to join the other half-way through. Nothing resembling poetry from him today. Banal kind of conversation in its place. Indeed the chap little resembled himself today in fact. Well, resemblance was clear enough; nothing could mask that moush. But, odd and troubling to report, today the top layer of this man had been given a rich, dark coating. Did he by some chance know Mrs. Such-and-such would be putting in an appearance? Was that it? The dye or rinse was deepest, darkest jet, coal black. Black as the ace of spades. Deepest, darkest night. Black as the hair on these young Indian labourers cycling up and down Geylang Road by Tasvee as we speak.
Did he have some kind of wife at home? Was the poetry for the lads out of house? What was going on here?
....And this other among the men must be on the cusp of ninety, if not tipped over already. On earlier occasions he had not been seen out of his chair. When he was helped with his dressing before going out his trouser belt had gathered the waistband in a little bunch of fabric. Very slow on his feet. With the aid of his walking stick covers the ground. One leg gone on him, no more than a peg. By all appearance undiminished faculties.