Matahari - Sun

Couple of ladies utterly out to it, collapsed on the Mr. T. T. table diagonally opposite each other in order to give themselves maximum surface. New umbrella still within its plastic sheath between them like a broad-sword of safety. One bag each on the table-top, another larger seated in a chair hard-up against the table. Unlikely that any thief would get away with something here despite the weariness and lack of vigilance. (Ladies, not a worry in the world, here in the Malay quarter particularly. Theft quite unknown. Saudi Arabia could not be safer.) Cheeks flat on the table-top and arms encircling, the colourful prints and scarves producing a picture of heaped fabric like in many of the shops in the quarter. When on one side the one elder raises her head the darkness of the skin tone surprises. The bright, vivid prints had kept this well hidden. A weary, bleary face, barely able to open her eyes. One blink does for her. On her palm, propped on her elbow, once more closes down. Seat beneath the fan mounted on the pillar beside the servery. In all that clobber, in the middle and hottest part of the day, good ventilation. Where they are from it is likewise hot, but there doubtless better arrangements are found against the matahari, the unforgiving sun. Indonesians from Batam most likely; there was very little sleep wherever it had been that night had found them. Corpulence and age against them; thorough practice in hardship. Disturbed by an adjacent table they are roused now, the siesta done. A finger pointing has the youngster digging a note from the purse within the bag on her side. Elder fetching from the goreng pisang stand — fried bananas, cheap fill for travelers. Off then to find somewhere less crowded to eat in peace. Busy here now and likely they're in the way.

Whole Fish

Difficult not to be abashed receiving a large whole fish, four veg., rice and curry on a heaped plate, same deal as always — three Sing. dollars. A blush impossible to hide. Dear Lord above, had to be ten at a pinch even at an out of the way, unfashionable street Eatery. (As the reader will recall from a couple of posts ago, some camouflage prudent for the Eatery and the personalities concerned here. And keeping in mind the conversion — approx. seventy cents Australian = $S1.)
         It was only when the plate was passed across the counter that the choice Iqbal had made was apparent. A whopper lovely from the deep briny depths.

         In small steps to proper vegetarianism, chicken and beef has been omitted here in Singapore — as Iqbal well knows. (Being halal there is no pork at this nameless Eatery.) Fish has been the weakness. Back on the Montenegrin coast fish was allowed on fast days, the "vegetarian" alternative.
         Iqbal well knew the standard order. There was never any need for directions: light-on with the bitter gourd; more of tatters; caulie and greens please. Usually the fish at the nameless Eatery was a small, stout fillet, quite enough with all the rest. Tonight from some unknown holt-hole Iqbal had produced a ten or twelve inch whole fish that needed to be laid diagonally on the plate. The orange-red glazed fishie straddling the beans one side and cabbage the other, staring mouth agape still from its last seizure. As usual the bed of rice was a bit over-done. No surprise there. Proceeding slowly to the table one hand might heft it all with care.
         After an apple and nut-bar for lunch in order to remain light for the exertion at the work-table, on this occasion the load was welcome. Still, Gee! Never before had a whole fish been landed at this (necessarily nameless) Eatery. Didn't know they did them. A paprika kind of glaze covering. Taragon perhaps, or curcumin. (All the culinary experts will know, if any such be reading these pages.) Underneath, sweet, soft flesh. But that was once it had been hoicked to the table.
         The plate always gets a good looking and estimation here from the other diners seated at their tables. No different on this occasion and an added cause of embarrassment. Who else would get so high a plate without asking specially.
         At the counter the plate got eye-balled by Ahmed before anyone else had a chance. Raised an eyebrow.
         — Easy does it. The fella can afford it, we can be sure. Out the side of his mouth in Tamil or Bahassa Malay more like to Iqbal.
         Iqbal would have none of it. The tone alone sufficient, clear as day.
         — Nah. Nah. They're OK these Australzi don't you worry.
         Green five, mauve two returned for the red tenner. Easy for Ahmed to see.
In the presence of another customer sometimes Iqbal surreptitiously folds the notes returned. No one is going to tick him off, not even the manager here. Perhaps the big-bear franchisee if he got wind of it. Around at the drinks counter there was a camera mounted beside the till. Strange that there had been an omission here.
         Standing to one side, Ahmed could see clearly. (The plate itself might have been made out from across the street.)
         Immediately prior Ahmed himself had let a couple of Africans off with five a pop for much less on their plates. Ten for two plates.
         While the plates were still sitting on the counter the African had asked how much. Quite likely he would have loaded up with more had not such a high figure been racked up all ready. And these were likely co-religionists.
         What was Iqbal thinking? Put his mate to shame for one thing. Abdul usually charges four for a less well stacked plate, let alone a whole fish. The fish alone had to go for five itself any time of day, customer happy to get it.
         Not so far as Iqbal was concerned.

         Is it the newspaper left each night after supper, Sports pages for him and the main for Faisal for his English learning program? (The latter has been counseled: just an item or two that interests regularly each day. The Dr. Khan Paki nuclear benefactor — side-lined briefly for the sake of the foreign backlash — about to now make a run for head of government. That was yesterday. Today the prostitution ring in England organized by the south Asian immigrants. Slow, careful and thorough, with a dictionary. Keep up the vocab. list. An IELTs test is a waste of money for Faisal at present. Even six months ahead is too soon.) Iqbal makes do with the EPL photographs and some of the names of the stars and goal-scorers. The local Malaysian League secondarily. Iqbal is not dreaming of Australia or Canada. Never could he pass the test for one thing.
         On the basis of that small courtesy of the newspaper giving this concession more than six months now entirely off his own bat? Does not stand to reason. It's not as if a line of communication has been opened with Iqbal. All transactions and interactions on the basis of a dozen shared words. One packet of cigarettes presented (perhaps guessed as the baksheesh he declared, rather than the story of a friend's leaving behind in the hotel). Likely too Iqbal has been informed the Australian has been holed up in a hotel room all by himself, more than eleven months now. Hardly a need of charity. Iqbal makes his own decisions, by his own lights.
         The poor African lad had returned to the counter wanting serviettes. The curry makes them essential. Surprised when Iqbal sent him across to the Cheers shop. The guess is the embargo island-wide on serviettes in the street Eateries is a PAP - LKY initiative. On the one hand it keeps the city clean. Give-away tissue would only be blown through the town and clog up the water-ways and drains. At the same time, a little industry created for the ancients, the cripples, the deaf mutes. With a bit of enterprise, sizing up the market, buying in bulk and selling individually (usually three for one dollar), these misfortunates which the government would otherwise need to support, become almost self-sufficient. If some aluminum and cardboard was fossicked on top of that they could live on clover pretty much. As Lansell here is brought to conclude occasionally, there is something to be said for a benevolent dictatorship (dynastic oligarchy more like).
         Thank you Iqbal and all the boys. (No hard feelings Ahmed.)

Briyani

Breaking a vow not to write about food in this survey of Sing'pore, necessary brevity. Couple of Indian lads, nice looking boys, mid-twenties. Same baby-blue company polos, same skin tone and fine, thin tracery of beard. Hailing from the same village back home, or else close. Here they sit at the Mr. T. T. table bent forward over the single dinner plate set between them, taking care not to encroach on the other's portion. Two hands working forks; turns taken gesturing with the others. Smiles, touch on a wrist, warmth and ease. The pair don't have many opportunities to pause like this. One on the right quickly pulled up, passing the plate over. Enough, he’s had his fill; neatly cleared his side. — Saffron-yellow Briyani easy to tell from a distance. Colour is the key here: the blue, yellow, the rich, glowing young nut tone. Left could be a year or two younger; perhaps the one that has followed here. An illumination from the pair as if a lamp sat on their table. Nightly many of the tables here at Mr. Teh Tarik set aglow by the people’s circle of inner light running around the gathering, all the members across the generations. Lads away quickly, no time to dally, only a few crumbs left behind. Briskly marching along the aisle, the youngster with a hand resting on his shoulder. Brothers in arms. A quick bite. No doubt they have other tasks to perform, the working day still ticking. It’s only eight after all. The construction crews and road-work gangs here can be commonly found in the trenches and up on the scaffolds under arc lights, mainland Chinese, Indians, Banglars. A brief, striking scene in its simplicity. A reminder of the past for the dispossessed. One fears one cannot be easily understood.
         Cinnamon, cardamon, saffron (or tumeric), Basmati rice... there are many varieties and supplements possible.

Carnivale

The Saturday throng multiplying all the captivating colours and aromas at Geylang Serai this morning. Tight passageways and halls barely containing the whirl of ceaseless movement. Even the old women in their robes and scarves know the most delicate dance steps that enable them to dodge toe-trodding. A Chinese chap pushing an unloaded trolley across the main entryway by the lifts carried a song in his heart. Out loud it was given, for himself first of all and then incidentally to all around. As so often at the market here, the sense of having intruded on the most fabulous, miraculously choreographed movie-set. A fellow at a back stall that traded in refrigerated seafood used the white-tiled partition, perfect height for a shorty, for some serious shut-eye. Noon ticked over, perhaps he had been on his feet since four in order to reach the market on time. Overnight how much sleep did he get? not benefited with aircon this chap, one can be sure. At the rear by the fridges stood his wife packing; their boy in a high-chair at the bench doodling. No customers in their back corner beside the delivery bays. That there was no faking one knew from the start the sleepy-head gave when one of his knees buckled, causing chin to knock on tile. A jolt almost audible, rattled his teeth for sure. Still, the weariness was more powerful. Shut-down directly again, lid closing like a clam. The trolley-pushing carouser had stuck on the catchy refrain, — Da da da, Da da di, repeated, easy to discern even for a foreigner. The smile was undirected, arisen entirely from the uplift of song. In Montenegro they have a nice saying for the purity of song. Ko pjeva zlo ne misli; Who sings has no mind for evil. The karaoke-loving Malays would agree entirely. One occasional wheelchair busker aside, any kind of amplified music rare at the market.

Melaka Town (July26)

 

 

 

Having the hennaed beard of Sheik Mokhtar, the haberdasher, look you in the eye from close-quarters was different to the screen presence. In life, within the walls of the heavily-stocked shop, you were the freak and oddity.

You could see it in the Sheik's fixed stare. Even seated he looked you straight in the eye, an uncannily tall man.

Possibly he was expecting some haggling from the likes of you.

The Sheik stood all of seven foot tall. Your request of size 44 was nothing to him. It may have turned the heads of the middle-aged, saucy wenches back on the island, who extrapolated proportions; not in the shop of the Sheik.

A day or two ago on the first visit the Sheik had been between colourings. Suddenly, when he returned to close the deal on the sandals (as feared, the sole coming unstuck third day back), the horse head turned chestnut.

Five ringgit reduction was the best that could be got from the Sheik.

The first reconnoitre of the old town the other side of the river near the Backpacker had been less than promising. Most of the old shop-houses were closed and looked to have given up the ghost. Those that were trading catered to tourists, of which there were a great number, either rock 'n roll or classical/opera luring from the street. On the other side of the river it was another story.

The city had not won its UNESCO Heritage award for architecture alone. On this side of the river Melaka town was a living museum of shopkeepers continuing the line from their grandfathers and beyond. Despite the seeming numbers on the street, the wash of tourists was not such as to encourage restoration and modernisation. If that was coming, it was not yet; not on a scale to seriously concern. On this side of the river, the various enterprises still served the local population: carpets, clothing, food, footwear & repair, stationery supplies.

There were two stationers along Laksamana Street, both miracle exhibits. In other circumstances and other locales one would need to pay to enter behind such doors. In the first establishment, signed Henry Waugh, the old Indian woman said the owner had run the shop for seventy years, going to be. The cupboard, the desk, the shelving provided confirmation, if any was needed.

A woman of her sort might have run a tea & cake stall somewhere up in the alpine country back home, 2-3 generations ago. The reflex to give her a peck on the cheek created an awkward stand-off.

On the near side of the desk her friend helping her pass the time had just emerged from her parlour, face newly whitened face and coloured hair.

A theatre piece: one needed to deliver one's own lines impromptu somehow. Within a church one moved with less restraint and awe.

The second stationer actually traded and ran a business. A rep. from KL had landed, two or three customers thronged, the telephone rang ceaselessly (allowed to ring off more than once). The piles, the stacks—you needed to pogo-jump at a couple of passes. The serried ranks.

People sandwiched in-between was too much. The heaps, the masses & bundles all in a perfect order of arrangement. The poor Malay lad—the owner was Chinese, as were the majority in the precinct—needed to be told firmly, but not unkindly, to look out back again. It was there.

This—showing the article again. Not that—showing the other.

The man knew every last corner of his shop. Boxed board games filled the highest shelf near the register, one facing out for identification. Computer accessories were studded in-between the exotica. A young Indian girl with her father had managed to find some art materials. The hurricane that seemed to have blown through had in fact done no damage. Everything in its place. For all the recent additions, great-grandad returning would not take long to find his feet here.

Around his entry-way an old tin-smith in the street behind kept a variety of caged birds. Four or five high cages, in which a bird flitted around and sang a little. The floor of the shop was earthen, a little loose on top from carting the brassieres, the storage racks and shelving that had been fashioned. These items stood inside the door-way; the cages hung out.

Bent at his work, the man could hear the movement of the birds, as well as their occasional calls. There was no sign of the chap, though the traces were clear.

At the end of the street, thirty metres from the smith, a giant tree had drawn birds of the air, large black crows and a brightly coloured parrot that immediately hid itself within the foliage. One of these birds filled the street calling from on high.

A few doors down a general store kept its birds in crowded cages, chooks of various kinds, doves, pigeons & parrots. An old turkey had the largest cage to itself; nothing like large enough for comfort, however. The big bird bent its head onto its red neck one side and on the other the tail protruded through the wire. It could not have been economical to keep the creature cramped like that. The man looked to know his business. A young Malay couple was getting short shrift attempting bargaining over some chickens.

One can get lucky occasionally. The last evening an open back-kitchen a way off from the Friday night tourist stalls on Jonker Street was happened upon. In fact the only entry-way here was through this back kitchen, where three or four cooks worked.

This was a family business, which must have been operating another seventy years, going to be.

An old granddad sat cross-legged on two red plastic chairs mounted one on top of the other, showing the smiling Buddha countenance to no one in particular. On the shelf beside the door-way was mounted a large snow scene of reindeer & bare, overhanging tree branches.

For balance on the other wall, something native to the region: geese under a waterfall, the first flowers of spring blooming on the trees.

Fruit, vegetables, fish on ice lay in trays on all sides. The tight space made for a furnishing only with the substance of the meals.

Up on his feet, the old man paced slowly a few steps one way and another, hands behind his back, radiant, enquiring more by gesture than words. One of the women of the house came out to adore the young baby at the largest table. There a proud, younger granddad held court. Over the years he had been a regular at the place and told the juniors a little of the history. There had been seven daughters in the house. This disaster had been overcome by all appearances, the smooth functioning proved it. In front the chaps at the fires had been sons-in-law; the boys serving brothers & cousins. The latter alone had the English.

The sign showed a Teochew establishment. (Chaozhou in contemporary form, eastern Guangdong. There were large Teochew Clan Associations down in Singapore, a recent spat between different branches giving unwanted publicity.)

Before the meal was done one of the sons-in-law had been called in for the telephone, speaking into the receiver in what must have been dialect. It was clear the man did all his telephone communication with the fixed line; the hand-phone was not for him. In the films of Spencer Tracey, or perhaps Jimmy Cagney in the decade before, men and women held the telephone receiver like the Teochew son-in-law that evening in Malacca, looking up into the corner of the room smilingly, the beam radiating, lifted chin showing a long, polished jaw-bone.

 

 

   Melaka, Malaysia

Train: Johor Bahru - Malacca

How narrow the gauge became clear at Kulai where we had to wait for the south bound KL train to pass before we could proceed. Less than an hour out, second stop. Three or four minutes of reversing and backing into a siding.
         The standard gauge was known from boyhood by the line at the end of the street: too widely spaced to achieve the standing leap from one rail to another no matter how you bent your spine and lurched.
         Here, even the mature man, even a short-legged Malay, could manage effortlessly.
         It brought back the Balkans too, where the colonial powers—both Ottoman and Austrian—only built narrow. Sufficient to get the raw material out quickly and cheaply.
         Yellow painted country stations with ticket offices built to local scale, fringed by colourful shrubs and flowers. Whistles and green and red flags employed by dark men in smart sky-blue uniforms.
         By some luck of seating, on every stop the small, nuggety dark man stood directly outside the window with his flags resting on his shoulder, a momentary smile raised when the guard in the rear gave his answering whistle.
         The train’s whistle came at the crossings where other dark and blue men manned gates that had halted traffic.
         At the first three or four stops the driver and crew, including the ticket inspector, dismounted and sought a bench for a leisurely smoke. Older men and younger together like in a silent film in a couple of places, the flowering smiles given from each to each like the proverbial nosegay.
         The dark skin, black hair, the deeply coloured uniforms made the smiles blaze.
         Even at the first stop, not twenty minutes out from J.B., the men all came out and disported on the benches. Given the interval, there was not a great deal to say to each other, but the pleasure in company again was evident.
         Palm oil plantations endlessly. In preparation for the trip an earlier traveller had mentioned the palms. News reports had of course come over many years.

         The tree-rows seemed an assault upon the land, like a Napoleonic order of forces; a virulent pestilence. Agribusiness writ large. Remnant jungle showed itself only here and there against small cultivated fields.
         Almost nothing of houses and certainly no kampungs. At one clearing suddenly, interrupting the jungle and the palms, a golf course of what might have been only one or two holes. After so many months in Geylang Serai, and then the two trips to Johor Bahru, it was not possible to figure a Malay golfer; this was something that defied imagination.
         At a work-site along the track one of the men had covered his motor-cycle with palm fronds. On the ride home the metal wouldfail to sting.
         The housing must have been further out. The traditional Malay kampung houses in maroon colouring only appeared in numbers from the bus along the last stretch from Tampin to Malacca. The flow of air underneath no doubt gave relief from the heat and storage from the rains was afforded.
         Apart from palms and jungle the short, squat, broad-leaved trees may have been rubber, with hessian sacks strung up in the branches.
         It took a time to recognize the durians. As far as one could judge there were no plantations, just the odd tall, slender trees here and there hung with small clusters high up against the trunk. In the first instance the impression was of some kind of wild bee-hives.
         Around Tampin the first livestock in a twelvemonth almost, scaled-down, mostly humped young cows. In Singapore these were the breed mounted on the walls encircling the Hindu temples—not mythic creatures after all.
         One common building repeated numerous times along the rail-line stood out from the green.

         No-where was there evidence of churches, mosques or temples. Christians, Muslims and Buddhists had not left an impression along the line. What one saw was Hindu temples, perhaps a dozen stretching from the further outskirts of J.B. and on northward.
         Some were ornate and elaborate, with the sci-fi like figures in pastel tones. At one place there stood in a small clearing close by the track a kind of dolls-house size shelter, roughly constructed and covered with what looked loose corrugated iron on top. The structure had been raised on four posts; a kind of farmer’s out-building. Under the roof there were two animal figures at either end, the larger with the appearance of a horse, when it must have been a cow or elephant. The other smaller couldn't be made out at all. Wall-less shelter; almost certainly the statuary was inanimate. Within worshipers could do little more than prostrate themselves in that space.

         The train ran less than rapidly; indeed, in the first hour and half it seemed no more than jogging pace.

At minimum one dozen small temples for the ghosts of the rail-line and the earlier plantations. The Chinese coolies had been employed in the tin mines.

Supertrees Wonderland

Another item which cannot possibly be allowed to pass. If one may be able to save a single, solitary soul, the effort must not under any circumstances be spared.

Yesterday an opening for the media at the Supertree Grove here, the chief feature of the new public garden development called "Gardens by the Bay", within the premier Marina Bay precinct, which is crowned by the Marina Bay Sands iconic tower formation designed by the world class architect, Moshe Safdie. (For an earlier blog last month on these Gardens see "Super-nature in Singapore". The MBS Integrated Resort has of course mesmerised this author and his many readers a number of times previously.)

Media people can be seen in the photograph accompanying the report in this morning's paper taking pictures of themselves on the twenty-two metre high Skywalk bridge linking two of the tallest Supertrees. The latter are now more or less revealed as thin concrete towers— champagne flutes had been uppermost in the designers’ imagination—clad in vivid grape-coloured vine-type netting that gives the impression even in the picture of branches, tendrils, vines of course, spider-webs and nautical ropes. Perhaps the tone is more violet than grape, the lighting naturally significant.

No sign of an escalator as yet (as at the Fort Canning Gardens — see again "Super-nature in SG" and the reference to the photograph on the web). Likely within the stem of one or two of the Super-trees lifts have been fitted on this occasion; and within more than one or two tree-towers given the projected five million visitors expected in this nature reserve.

General garden entry here will be without cost. The aerial walkway on the other hand is scheduled to be $5 a pop—gantries at the lifts; or finally escalators again if numbers entirely overwhelm.

Conservatories, Children's garden, Heritage gardens—maintenance costs will not come cheap.

Light shows, fireworks, a mini-waterfall, a lily pond and a spring water system for the Kingfisher Lake (difficult not to drool), all cost. Sponsoring from a bank and Kikkoman soya sauce manufacturer thus far. Responsible community-minded corporations and businesses can be expected to follow the lead.

The chief exec. of Gardens by the Bay, a Dr. Tan — as is the current President of the Republic (a former Jesuit boy), together with all three other challengers that vied for the position late last year (the Tans clearly the number two family-clan in the country), Dr. Tan explained the need to off-set running costs.

Said the doctor (in the common phraseology of the Straits Times), quoted in this morning’s newspaper: "Our public demands colour and colour costs."

Never a truer word spoken Doc. Colour never has come cheap. Painters have been known to kill for a particular stone or soil giving inimitable colour. Factor in the digital age, the last generation on screens here immediately after the bottle. A demanding, discerning audience alert to fakery.

People of Singapore, tourists, casino high-flyer visitors, lovers of the arts, lovers of nature and colourful entertainment, perhaps you might try a lovely teh tarik and nasi g. at Mr. Teh Tarik in Geylang Road opposite old, soon to be demolished Malay Kampung possibly. Five star recommendation by this author. About the same price, $5. Ambience, the people parade, families, the fashion show of traditional Malay womenfolk, all free. Will satisfy more than your belly, I guarantee. Open 24 X 7. (The colours of the women’s scarves alone worth the price of admission.)