Delicacies

Something different. In place of the standard culinary surveys that are commonly offered in a review of this little red dot - as some journalese has coined it - a small repast of other rich delicacies is now proposed by this author, for those unsatisfied with what they have been served thus far. Rich, spicy, flavoursome fare. The hungriest heavy-weight will be sated after even the sample dishes that follow. Assume your seat ladies and gentlemen, tuck your napkins, allow me to offer for your delectation the following Les entrees:
Jardin
Carmine
Vibes
The Miltonia.
Notice the texture, the subtle bouquet insinuating delight.... &etc. &etc. Verdant high colour underscored by tangy relish to surprise even the most discerning.... &etc. We must move on. Les Plats:
Parkland  
vacanza@eastcoast
Lake Vista
Eight Rivers (Glow with the City/Flow by the River)....
Dear Lord above! That may have inadvertently introduced Les Fromages before time. Jacques!... Jack you little Fucker!... Excuse e moi...
I apologise for that interruption Mesdammes e Monsieurs. Finally, Les Desserts, largely from our northern estates:
River Isles
Manhattan
Lincoln (the dead unable to defend themselves, poets and visionary leaders alike)
Rich Residence (on Richards Road)
StarLiving (Spot of cheating admitted: furniture retailer in this instance.)
Versailles
Sincerity (another cheat: Art Auction House.... )
The Trillion was a beauty in the paper a few days ago. Forgotten, lamentably. It had been given a run some months before. The fung shui or something couldn't have been right. Hadn't cleared the lot. Back again. Trill - ion. For the city-country of Billionairres - largest global per capita number bar none. What could be more fitting?
Likely the cat's outta the bag. You guessed right reader. Concrete and steel in place of shrimps and sharks' fin. A little leg-pulling, tickling the testies... or the rosebud.
Pools fifty feet in the air, over-looking green fringes; MRT stations in proximity; private schools, McDonalds outlets (operating 24x7 preferably) - all highly attractive and sought after. Seventy - seventy-five percent of cases Nicole Kidman (from youth) look-a-likes in evening dresses if not bathing costumes featured in the advertising (if the point has not been overly laboured in these pages this twelvemonth). A feast of colour and luscious presentation. A starving man — the chap collecting scraps from the bins beside the bus-stop on Changi Road opposite Geylang Serai — would hardly hesitate to take a bite from any one of these eye-watering dishes. Sumptuous. Architectural awards aplenty, mostly for hoisting mature trees and bushes fifty metres in the air and catching run-off. Emperors never lived the like.
Just this morning the newest batch, one or two of them unheard of before:
Watercolours — Full page, A41.
An EC in Pasir Ris, out in the western sticks.
Dwellings here designated, in ascending order of opulence and price (out of consideration for sensitivities we omit cardboard spread under alcoves): HDB (Housing Development Board, which make up 85% of dwellings), Apartment, Condo, Exec. Condo, Penthouse, Shop-house, Bungalow. (Mansions are unadvertised, doubtless sold amongst the families.)
Archipelago — next page; the Developers winners of the Priz d'Excellence, the Aga Khan Award.... (Satisfy yourselves properly dear Readers: A42-3, Saturday June 2, 2012 The Straits Times.)
For Oz readers short of a laugh with the Saturday cartoons offering slim pickings today, see Page A45:
One Can1berra.
Premier Riverfront EC.
Not easy to maintain the roll-out of illustrious sought-after global Star havens.
The soft-peach painted Versailles is taken from around the corner from Geylang Road, on Guillemard. Otherwise the remainder from the full page (mostly) spreads in the S. T. Once more, please note: no trickery or falsity involved. We are in all cases within the boundary of the little red dot island, no place else. Not a Mandarin, Malay, Tamil or Hindi name among them. Not one. When one might have expected perhaps The Great Wall, Tiananmen, the Tang. The Sultan and Emperor at a minimum. (The Empress had a short run on Tanjong Katong - Geylang Roads Corner. Since slipped to the rather less august "Katong Regency" in acceptance of the surrounds no doubt. Pre-selling currently.) The Qin you might have justifiably thought (era of the great Dictionary, among other marvels). The Ming. The Taj surely. You will be disappointed yearning in that direction dear Reader, faithful Reader. No, it's all pure white splendour I have to report, from beginning to end. Yellow, copper, coffee and cinamon aint the same aspirational.

Ciggie-break at the Thieves'

The Thieves' could not be approached now without a certain amount of trepidation. Last part of the walk down, once the canal had been crossed and the first figures on the fringe sighted—the dark men in the gutters along the side-street and the others at the parked vans—a little wave of apprehension arrived. Irrational. A certain attuning and readying. Had the Thieves’ been banished from their place, sent packing overnight and no more about it? At the local by-laws office a ruling issued against the disorder, the litter, the unwelcome display for international visitors in the heart of the city? A stroke of the pen and no more about it.

The authorities lacked nothing in promptness. The market had been moved on a number of times; because of a re-development another removal was due shortly.

            Each time the canal was crossed and the entry approached an underlying panic.

            Once the turn was reached and the Thieves’ and their wares made visible another kind of concern took over. Earlier it had been mixed with the former; now when the position was clarified the other anxiety, reminiscent of that in younger days before a sporting contest, gripped and brought some queasiness.

            There could be no substantial surprises now at the Thieves'. What was in the offing at the Thieves' was well-known. Many of the figures had become familiar; one or two exchanged greetings and the sisters at the turn always smiling warmly.

            The same trepidation each time.

            One walked the gauntlet at the Thieves’ simply passing through the long upper passage. Pace was immediately adjusted and careful treading. The path was perhaps three and a half or four metres in width, the crowd forcing one to pick one's way. Bicycle riders came wheeling slowly, some mounted, elderly stumbling along. The goods heaped-up and scattered as often as arranged spilt onto the pathway.

            Since the first dozen visits there was not enough strength for a survey of the entire market; the main thoroughfare perhaps accounted for a third of the whole. The main thoroughfare was more than enough now.

            Coming again to those regulars and their wares flooded the brain. Too much to receive even in that shortened segment. 

            Neither the Kopi shops nor the buses or streets gathered such a concentration of this particular class and generation, this cast of characters. The past and its radically other ways were presented at the Thieves' Market, and even more ramifying fate and destiny.

           Recalling Tarkovsky through Geoff Dyer's new book on Stalker one wondered whether even the great man himself would have been able to capture what was on display at the Thieves’.

            This was the other side of the trepidation: how to possibly deliver some part of this mostly silent drama? It was a daunting challenge, one that could not be avoided. Inevitably one would fall short however the task was approached. Where to start? How to capture the smallest portion? A good deal of what was delivered here would have escaped even Tarkovsky's favourite cinematographer. Turning the camera on the Thieves and their wares would also ultimately be a film about God, as Dyer quotes Tarkovsky exclaiming on his pass through Monument Valley in the U.S., where he bemoaned the desecration of Westerns filmed in that location. (John Ford included presumably.)

            This afternoon's visit was bookended by a couple of karung guni. Just past the canal on the walk over the first was encountered at some bins along the iron fencing. Aluminium was being mined there. Later her counterpart on Jalan Besar at the other end searched paper. The pair were almost identical in age, size, gender, hair color and cut, both in orange safety vests as it happened, though it was unlikely any kind of co-operation existed between them. 

            Just before the latter was reached after the pass at the Thieves’ a profusely sweating chap was unloading newly washed boxes of green potatoes from the Netherlands. Not much bigger than shoe-size packages holding eight or nine potatoes. In the tropics the potato was a rare sight; that was part of the fascination. After the Thieves’ it was not possible to negligently pass this fellow too in the midst of his labour.

            No doubt the panama struck this man. Working on steadily, however, he didn't seem to mind the observation. Care was taken to ensure there was no overload or imbalance on his trolley. The man was a true son of the Thieves'. Potato-carter, the shapeless vegetable and the Thieves at their daily ritual—the karung guni too—represented the old Singapore that the new had fled as fast as its legs could carry. Famously break-neck speed. Such rapidity had been involved that living fossils still remained in the wake as objects of shame and barely suppressed disgust.

           At the main thoroughfare of the Thieves’ the familiar faces were found either side. The umbrellas in hand screened some of them. One old chap continued clutching his despite the fact that the sun had passed that point some time before. The first man on the entryway had not been sighted previously; there must have been a low stool beneath him as the squat was wrong. A single sheet of newspaper here held two or three rings and other small, uncertain objects. Late-seventies turning his head bird-like, it was not possible to linger.

           At the crossing the sisters were found in their usual place, the one on her high chair smiling broadly. Close by the old man who chewed his gums. If the chap smoked no longer he certainly had done in the past. Finding this man in his place gave a start on each occasion. 

The tall young special girl with her parents appeared like a character on a stage after a change of scene. That group was in the middle spectrum of half-Chinese/half-Malay, with skin tone according. Opposite the woman who bore the features of the maternal paradigm of the late-fifties found in many corners of the globe among numerous racial groups. Salt and pepper hair pinned in front and hanging to the shoulders, the former beauty plain to see. The panama no doubt aided the woman's recall, her short smile and nod completely uncanny.

           Once the main thoroughfare had been crossed, forty-five metres perhaps, the drink vendor's trishaw stood off the corner. Likely the man’s trade was elsewhere and the Thieves’ a social stop, friends and acquaintances the only patrons there. 

Ten metres further toward Jalan Besar—Big Road—on this particular afternoon, first the potatoes, followed by the second karung guni in the gutter. Immediately behind at the end, the wizened old jockey-sized bicycle vendor was screened by his wheels. Along his portion of the gutter and fence one could cast over the assembled scavenging. An acknowledgement on one of the earlier afternoons suggested the man was not irritated by the attention.

           On his feet that day the Bicycle-man was preoccupied with one of his items behind a parked van. Green cyclone fencing with netting screened heavy pounding machinery; a truck entry manned by a young Indian with a whistle around his neck ten metres on. Voluminous orange-painted cylinders rose high behind. Being after four the shade had descended on the bikes; on earlier visits the rigging of plastic sheeting against the sun was a wonder to behold, here at the Bike-man's station as elsewhere at the Thieves’.

         The bike was the usual old hack destined for one of the foreign workers travelling from dorm to work-site, temple to provision store. A carry-rack on the rear was a welcome addition. (For some reason front baskets were not common in Geylang.) On this particular item of Bike-man's stable a couple of improvised timber pieces had been lashed to the rack and for reasons best known to himself, Bike-man wanted the wood removed. Bright pink twine had been used to tie the slats down. The pieces protruded a foot either side of the rear wheel—dangerous possibly in the bus lanes.

           Knotting tight. A knife had not come to hand. Initially it was unclear what the man was about with his thick, steel cigarette lighter. Was it to soften rubber under the seat, again for reasons best known to himself?

            What was going on behind the van couldn't be made out from a distance. Eventually the striking of the flame and then pulling at the pink twine revealed the intention. 

The lighter was flicked again and again. Hardened fingers were not easily scorched. One needed to move closer to get a proper view. 

            Another observer had witnessed the struggle. The scene had been so gripping that there had been no thought to come to the man's aid. The best one could do was stand and gawk.

            A grey-haired youngster coming up from behind went straight to the trouble and began pulling on the pink ribbon, jerking. The ribbon had been loosened; earlier the flame had done a good part of the work. 

            Even before the first strand of pink came away the old man had pulled at his pocket after replacing his lighter. One of his hands held the bike for his helper. The old man had moved to one side, free hand into his pocket and from a packet presumably somehow a single fag fished out. 

            Only half of the action had been caught; even the white tube of paper was visible in only a glimpse. 

            Just as adeptly as it had been produced from the trousers and slipped into the youngster's hand, the latter collected the cigarette without pausing at his task. Somehow the cigarette was received in the palm while the fingers kept at the knot. 

            How the cigarette appeared and then disappeared from view was impossible to guess; none of the action seemed physically possible. One palm had passed quickly over another; the old had briefly touched the young. Three or four units of action that would have had unpracticed hands fumbling at each point. Card-sharps had not developed better mastery than this pair. 

            The taking of the cigarette and the first loosening of the pink strand followed in quick succession. Once the main knot was undone the rest soon followed, mostly managed by the Bike-man again. The youngster was not needed further. 

            Again the lighter appeared. The youngster came away puffing with a little look of accomplishment on his face. Wordless throughout. The pair certainly knew each other; if anything had been whispered it was inconsequential. One fine gesture met immediately by another equally fine and all executed with exceptional grace and ease. A meeting of men something like a desert encounter at an oasis. Captivating. No camera-man of Tarkovsky's wildest dreams could have captured the event; training a camera there too closely would give a viewer the wrong impression.

Sign

Establishing the position with the dining companion diagonally across took a little while. On first assuming his seat there was no indication, as there could not have been. 

Motioning toward the vacant place, one of three, the usual out-sweeping open hand shown. Of course. Be my guest. Words to the effect may have come simultaneously. 

Diagonally opposite, not in each other's way, not even with the bag, pens, book and papers. Plenty room. Saved a couple taking up, or even a threesome. Three young chaps had eyed the possibility a few minutes earlier. That was the reason the bag was lifted from the chair and plonked on the table.

Despite having assumed the chair fifteen minutes later, there appeared a teh tarik in front of the chap immediately, seemingly without an order having been placed. 

Not especially remarkable, but relevant to what follows. 

Somehow too a quart of the drink had been consumed before the glass itself was noticed. As the next few minutes would prove, cat was the impatient sort. 

Shortly the watch on his wrist was indicated, then twice more for good measure. 

Many of the Indian and Bangla lads did not wear watches. Watches were redundant nowadays. Not in this case. 

Desker - Serangoon corner, Usman Restaurant, heart of Little India.  

Pakistani and North Indian predominating hereabout. A large mosque on the other side of the road up toward Mustafa, the locally famous department store that was truly a wonder, for those unused to the Sub-Continent especially. 

Bangla Park was the first side street behind (Lembu Road). A park of trees and paving, without grass. 

Opposite on Serangoon Road an open field awaiting development offered greenery and often drew the lads. Bangla Park, as the little square was informally called, drew many more, largely because of the provisions stores on the other side. Most of the Bangladeshi lads gathered beneath the trees; another long row formed along the pavement on Lembu Road to watch the TV serials and music videos from home that the shop screens turned outward to the park.

Rather surprising how overwhelmingly Sub-Continental. Chinese passersby were very sporadic, almost out numbered by Westerners. At Usman on the corner delightful naan and vegetable dips, four dollars. Throw in teh makes five.

For no apparent reason, after a few more sips of his tea, the chap opposite took the opportunity at a moment of eye-catch to state the position:

Mouth, tongue—zipped.

The hand may have passed over his ears too. 

This latter needed to be established presently. All very rapid. Flash, slash, chop—like a practiced fencer.

There had been no real attempt at communication beyond the initial offer of the table when the enquiry had been put. Perhaps there had been a casting of glance once or twice. Nothing specific. As usual, pen and paper preoccupied. 

For some unknown reason the man had thought it necessary to state his case, make a clean breast of it. The abruptness more than anything caused imbalance. 

Nevertheless, position could be comprehended without difficulty.

— Oh, I see. Understood. Never you mind.

Man had turned aside after the first part of the response. Anything further was pointless. 

The question whether there was any hearing hung uncertainly. Something might have been ventured, something found in the case of hearing. A pen tap at one point on the table pretty much established the case. 

The matter hung a little longer, until the chap enquired with a different gesture at the mouth for drink. 

There he sat over his teh, arrived well after his companion. Half through himself, and still nothing on the other side.

....It's OK. Fine. No hurry. Occupied with this pen and paper.

Lip reading probably useless in this instance. Within another minute or minute and half—more jitter of leg—another gesture in the same direction, this time indicating the watch. Time gone by.

The leg jittering was never actually at any point visible. More the referred up through the torso. Under the table it was hammer and tong.

Still no service.

Now there came an attempt to hail the waiter. This led to the direct enquiry: — The ear, give anything?

If there had been hearing something more might have been managed, some lip-rounded pouting. Something comradely found.

Rapid, flashing strokes. Zip again for the mouth. Ears: nothing there either. Thumbs down for full-stop.

All rapid. 

Effective communication. 

Again the concentration had been on the face. The waving hands only imperfectly sighted. Rising, swinging elbows, when normally the elbows played no role in conventional discourse.

It was the universal Bummer that did it, that established the case conclusively. 

Thumb down. Deaf as well as mute. 

The face had shown something, but it passed too quickly. A kind of momentary blanching. Everything too rapid. All the eye contact slid rapidly too. 

The chap was not seeking any kind of communication. The position was unavailing however you looked at it. A white man had freely granted a seat at table. The disability had been passed over without flinching. Unlikely that could be topped with anything further or better.

Waiter successfully drawn without words. Arm sweeping across the diagonal. 

No problem. Easily done. Don't mention it. Small service performed. 

The watch again now, tapped this time. Without calling them here, without insisting, especially during evening rush, you could whistle for your supper.

Didn't want anything himself, thanks all the same. Anticipated he might be asked. 

(At the Muslim eateries particularly one did not sit before another, even a stranger, even one at the next table who has caught your eye, without the polite invitation. Awkward Westerners could be hopelessly caught out.)

More than half through his teh. Only stopped for that, must away directly.

As good as his word, quick as a flash and leaving no time or opportunity for goodbye. Inch at the bottom of his cup. Perhaps he had cut the air again in single strike.

A Disobedient Maid

Page B7 of the "Home" section today in the Straits Times. B8 immediately following is the first page of the "Money" section. The two sections of the newspaper are now within the one sheaf of pages, with Obituaries/Sport beginning on pp. B14 - 15. The brief news item on p. B7 reports yet another death of a maid from an upper storey fall. On this occasion a 13th floor in Sembawang, an outlying enclave in the outer north-west of the island. Last week was the most recent previous case; up to that point the running toll had always been given in the newspaper. In this current calendar year the death toll of maids falling from the housing towers was running at slightly more than two per month. This morning's report involved a Myanmar twenty-four year old. Most of the earlier cases had been Indonesians, who number around one hundred thousand in the Singapore domestic helper sector. Presumably the suggestion of suicide is the reason the Straits Times omitted including the present case in the annual toll. Evidently there had been some kind of prolonged dispute with the employer, a mother of three with a wheelchair-bound father, who was the maid's chief responsibility. According to the employer, problems with the maid centred on defiance and wilful ignorance of instructions. Told to clean something or other, the young woman pretended not to have heard and walked off, according to Madame. The night before the maid was discovered at the base of the tower all had seemed well, even general Good night offered to the household by the woman. The employer had already asked the Maid Agency to take the young woman back. Until another could be arranged the maid had agreed to remain. No mention of window cleaning. It has been exterior window cleaning perched on thin ledges that have led to these dozen deaths of young women in service here in the last year. Window cleaning and hanging out the washing on the poles mounted outside the windows. In this case, when the maid was found absent the employer suspected she had absconded. Using the thirteen storey window for her escape, rather than the front door and gate (keys in her possession). The employer is quoted ruing the fact the young woman had not used the latter. Police are investigating the unnatural death.

Night Raiders

The trishaws often get a run around Raffles and the business quarter from the guests staying in the area. Within the shadows outside the Carlton on the opposite corner from the famous old hotel the men sprawl in their polished chariots awaiting the trade. Parading the panama before them immediately gives the fellows false hope. Most of the pedallers are middle-aged and some more advanced. How at their age they can push in the heat is a question; and a more serious one how the tourists can sit comfortably behind while they do so. One decent fatty a few weeks ago was overheard thoughtfully asking a struggling driver on an incline whether he and his partner ought alight.
         The karung guni—gunny sack men & women—can be seen pushing heavy loads of cardboard and aluminum day and night. Foreign workers, old aunties and uncles — rarely youth — mount the iron horse. Lycra lads and ladies flit around occasionally weekends, mostly along the more scenic and dedicated bicycle tracks; around Geylang aluminum and titanium frames are rare. Heavy, dark, squeaking iron is preferred in that quarter; oldies pushing through those streets wouldn't know themselves on the bright newer models. Helmets are unknown in Geylang and lighting rare. Warning bells on the other hand are essential. Some of the oldsters have been frightened off the busy roadways and need to navigate through pedestrians on the pavement.
         Perched atop the seat the granddad in his shirt-sleeves serenely sails by, erect and firm on his twenty-eight incher, a picture perfectly suiting the age and station. It is a posture that has not been seen on our own roads in many a long year. Grannies pedal harder; they have work waiting. There is never a pair, these are not scenic outings.
         One other common and unexpected pushie here rises out of the night shadows bringing a slight shock when he appears. In this case the conveyance is a newer model, somewhere near the midpoint between lycra and shirt-sleeves. On our shores the shrunken BMX-er carries cheeky young feather-weight rascals who hunt in packs and seek out hi-jinks. A different kettle of fish in the back-end of Singapore. Around Geylang the slight, diminutive figure riding the shadows close to the ground seems a familiar and recognized form. Sometimes here too the specter is out of his seat and thrusting hard on the pedals, reminiscent of the jockey approaching the post. On emerging into the light, however, one is confronted by creases and lines, jowls and sunken eyes, a Halloween mask of horror. It takes some getting used to even now, twelve months (almost) along the track. These are the sons of the karung guni or granddads in shirt-sleeves, getting on in years themselves, following the patterns of the elders at a short remove. The postures of the fathers and forefathers cannot be maintained on these wheels.

Union Bosses

Fifty dollar monthly pay rise for low income earners touted by the National Wages Council (NWC) here, following recommendations presented by the National Trades Union Council (NTUC). The increase proposed for those earning less than one thousand dollars per month. In Singapore there are nearly 300,00 workers who fall into this income bracket according to official figures. Cleaners and security guards, bus drivers and cooks, commonly earn around six hundred dollars a month. In some cases 12 hour days and six day weeks involved. These figures have been put before in earlier pages. On top of this proposed fifty dollar increase, an additional percentage increase would follow. 

         Front page news in the Straits Times yesterday, Sunday 20 May 2012.
         A good deal of attention focused on the low wage earners recently. Some commentators are concerned about possible social consequences a little further down the track unless the massive disparities in income here are not addressed. The Arab Spring brought up in the context.
         One further detail was interesting to note. It is deserving of highlight. 
         This is the first NWC recommendation for a wage rise since the year the Mighty Bombers won the first of its premierships under Kevin Sheedy; Bob Hawke elected Labour Leader and then PM the year prior; Ronald Reagan mid-term of his major acting role and Margaret Thatcher similar in her longer reign. Seventeen years before 9/11; twenty-two after the moon landing was the last year the National Wages Council in Singapore suggested a rise in the remuneration rate of the toilers.
         In that year of nineteen hundred and eighty four $27 was accorded, with 4 - 8% additional. A short quarter century ago plus (as they say here).
         In March of this year — the month, not the quarter — inflation rose 5.2%. (Ibid the same news report.) What was the figure for all the Marches since 1984 wasn't mentioned.

Geylang Serai

Over-flowing abundance again this morning within the halls of Geylang Serai. For the Saturday crowd the traders stock up especially and overload the shelves, benches and hanging rails, thereby shortening even further the narrow passageways. This has the welcome effect of concentrating the powerful aromas and vivid sights. The green leafy bunches in all the various forms hung like thick, luscious curtains screening the diminutive traders within. One chap seems to specialize exclusively in garlic, with a lesser line in boxed ginger. In another row toward the front a woman usually sits on a low stool patiently peeling garlic into a tub with one arm of a pair of scissors. In the crowd this morning she was no-where to be seen. Sighting the stallholder within his little pen surrounded by all the produce, hanging above and pressing from all sides, was like making a discovery in a sudden forest glen in ages past. Almost always a welcome discovery when the individual concerned notes the keen interest. In this glorious cornucopia inevitably more than half the produce remains entirely nameless; in a great many cases even differentiating the fruit from vegetables was not possible. A woman offering something that sounded like "okra" explained with gestures that the small, ovoid potato-like fruit it must have been simply needed peeling before being consumed. (Certainly not "okra".) Confusing matters for this particular observer, a younger Chinese housewife with good English — most were older Malays — wore a classic Eastern European peasant blouse of the sort sported by the former Ukrainian folk-politician Tymoshenko, before the hard men assumed control and jailed her: white with a high necklace spray of bright leaves and flowers, and ties for the high sleeves (bought in this case in a London department store). A curling spiral of green beans hanging on an outer rail, the husk blackening along the stalk where the pods had ripened, had no counterpart in our own temperate climes — the snake and this tube of nourishment came from the same celestial workshop. The man who dozed a week ago on the short dividing wall at his stall beside the delivery bays was at it again at about the same time late in the morning. On this occasion he was found a half metre back from the wall, slumped over one of his seafood freezers. A large cardboard piece had been unfolded and spread on the frosted glass top. In the heat of the rising day a thick layer of paper was perfect for receiving some cool for a hot, weary head. Once again his boy was up in a high chair against the adjacent shelf, games screen in hand; wife attending to customers. As it happened, standing there rooted to the spot and passing into a slight, heady trance, on this occasion the observer had come under observation. Further along the passage-way a short distance off, Mr. Rahim the street busker and troubadour hailed his friend "Harry". Usually the mat salleh in this area of Geylang becomes the default "John". (A staple item on the menu of the Indian food stalls is Roti John.) For his friend Rahim chooses something a little more fitting, a touch more elevated perhaps. And somehow what was perfectly and immediately understood was now confirmed by Rahim. Unasked, as if Rahim had guessed the interest and fascination, the sleepy-head was specifically fingered by the busker and troubadour and pronounced, OK, Good, thumbs up, a definitive nod. The sleepy-head was a bona fide good guy, a fine, estimable man. Coming from the street songster, a music man with a generous spirit who performed not so much for needed coin as to spread the joy, the judgment was completely trustworthy. If any confirmation was needed, the short, slight Chinaman — if there was any of the Malay there it was by personal choice — lightly tattooed under the sleeves of his shirt, a fine head of pepper and salt, warm, accepting smile, worn out these days after a life-time of toil before noon, the man was A - OK. Clear, decisive and assured judgment in such a matter from Rahim was all one needed; more than needed. Good to receive independently nonetheless. In another corner of the world they say for such-like men, Good like bread. Here they will have something of their own.