Black Ant (May26)

One of the abangs caught up the road in the middle of the hot-spot over Aljunied Road tonight. We must have left Labu Labi simultaneously, one aboard the No. 2, while the tracker took 21. When he was found the fellow was bent over his bag and rummaging through. A firm hand on the shoulder produced only a slight reflexive twitch.
         — Show me what you have in that bag there, lah.
         Earlier in the night there had been a frustrated impulse to ask the man how long his dye lasted. Either Friday or Saturday night the fellow had performed the operation himself out at his flat at Choa Chu Kang. Everyone seemed to be living out there at present, a long way to travel to G. Serai. Not too long for a home-boy of course. What would Choa Chu Kang hold for this chap?
         In answer to how much the dye-job had cost him the man explained he had bought a three dollar pack and managed the whole thing without trouble. That was no doubt best while a fellow was still fit and able, flexing at the mirror over the basin, rinsing off properly, &etc. Since the tint the man has hardly covered his noggin with his chap, which he still carried from habit, perhaps against the rain. 

         Usually the dye held decently for a fortnight (three weeks the snowy strands began to poke through). Around the corner from Labu Labi the green-grocer made do with monthly visits to his Malay barber out at Bedok, ten dollars full-service. In almost two years this other home-boy had never been seen jet previously. Something was possibly in the wind. Tonight's capture supported the idea.
         Was he up at this end buying cigarettes? (The weed off the back of the truck, or the night bum-boat more like, could be bought at half a dozen sites around this middle part of Geylang, no problem at all.)
         At first, Yes, that was his mission. Almost immediately revised though, in a kind of confession for the purchase of Black Ant.
          …This was new. It didn't need too much guess-work. The thinking could only develop from the Eagle Pills which the author had discovered early in the term.
         — Make healthy; kuat, strong...
         —…. Oh yeah…
         —….That one too.
         The universal hard-bar, fist twitching a little in the air.
         Buying for a dollar it was possible to sell for two. The older chaps, the old Romancers down in G. Serai in their 70s & 80s, would not blink at two dollars for genuine Black Ant. One could credit that.
         The dedicated, industrious, easy to under-estimate old ant, as good a totem in its own way as the mighty soaring lord of the sky. In a battle of the species possibly to come, in a Toto or 4D lottery winner-take-all, the smart money might be better placed on the earnest little guy, never say die.

Buddhists and Muslims, Myanmar

Myanmar Buddhist violence against the Muslim Rohingya minority understandably causing much concern here among the victims' co-religionists in Geylang Serai. A particular Buddhist monk apparently in the vanguard, of whom it is said, using an old native proverb: the dog's crooked tail can never be straightened. Over the generations in the Balkans the pig's more artfully spiraled tail has suggested something similar. In a beer hall, a pub in the Western suburbs of Melbourne, over a pool-table where one of the author's compatriots was being given a master-class in the art of doubling from hard up against the cushion into the middle pocket, this expression was first deployed in his hearing. The dazzle resulting was indeed far more striking than the simple geometric trick of cannoning ivories.

         — Ovo se nije dogodilo odkad je prase rep izkrivio.
         This has never happened since the swine's tale was bent.
         Late 1970's. Vale Stole Laketa, 2011, born in a small village named Brdo near Mrkonic Grad, Yugoslavia, which the author hopes to visit one fine day.
         Needless to say, we in the Balkans are graduate students in this kind of ethnic strife.

Contrabando – visas, elections, condos, choof

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Clocks en route for a cuppa at the Chinese place in the shadow of the OCBC bank showed half noon. The slow No. 170 responsible. It must have taken a full one and three quarter hours from the bus-stop outside the hotel door, little of waiting at the stops and nothing of queues either side at Immigration. Shows you how captivating the scene outside the bus window along Bukhit Timah Road all the way to the Singapore Turf Club, strategically located at Kranji on the outer edge of the island. Endless fascination.
         Without an Employment Pass, local spouse or the like, a visa run required every ninety days in Singapore and most other places. Luckily the spit of rock sits seven-eight hundred metres off the southern point of the Malaysian Peninsular. Johor Bahru, the southern-most point of the Asian continental land-mass. People from foreign parts in a similar position, riff-raff writers and the like, living here ten and twenty years, have been doing this regular run all the while. Best not to leave it too close to the cut-off date the advice. Intrusive enquiries from the Immigration desk best fobbed off with “research”, one has been tutored. Hardly a lie the Lord above knows. Government monitors do not get to the plethora of blogs thankfully, so small-fry junior authors still with their L-plates on after a quarter century can get by without a hiccup. A panama, white skin, dollars in the bank, who’s going to deny you? Yes sir. How can we help you sir? Have a nice day. Poor and dark-skinned watch out.
         The Singapore Turf Club. Why not? Not out of the bounds of possibility. One could brazenly out-face the Indian guards done up like the sepoys of old. Even murderous-looking Sikhs like when Will and Kate graced the former dominion. With luck one day one might inspect the clubroom at the track, the stables, the mounting yard. One would certainly need some kind of specially stamped pass in order to get through the heavy fortification at the main gate. Highly impressive. Even the mujahedeen might have trouble there. Within the valuable horse-flesh must get the most carefully regulated aircon, meeting all the standards of the most picky Animal Lib. inspectors. As reported in earlier pages, races in the tropics are now run at night.

Easier for the punters too, the men of the track. Would get hot even under fans cheering your nag onto the winning post under this sun. Over in Sing' in the last week or two either another report of a young athlete dropping dead in the heat, or else an inquest in progress from an earlier incident. Army recruits are another at-risk group; school children too at their physical recreation. This last might have been a young teenager in fact during a routine school sports day, no prior warning, dead on the spot.
         Once again the thought returning on the bus this morning during this most recent run, mooning at the slowly passing landscape on the 170, casting over the remnant forest fringe decorating the roadway, the tall Condo towers carrying the alluring tags of places far distant in the temperate zones: this place here on the equator was never meant to be. Certainly not in this present form. Most certainly. Impossible thoughts. Offensive to a well-to-do, impressive and highly successful global good citizen weighting in the world far above its vanishing thin point on the map…. What to do? These thought have a life of their own.
         A van just outside the Checkpoint on the Johor side caused more than a momentary confusion on the way to the cuppa at the nice Chin corner place that always gathers an interesting crowd. Small, light two tonner at most. The advertising on the side, what was that?
         A few steps needed re-tracing.
         FOG MASTER
         Fog master? Not steam. Fog.
         As mystifying as the Condo labels earlier: Balmoral Plaza, Coronation Plaza, Goodwood Residence, Honolulu Tower, Madison, Rich Mansion, Sixth Avenue, The Legend, The Legacy, The Linear. —Oh Bless their dear hearts all... (A photographic memory in this line of work is always a great aid. The real estate pages on-line don't hurt either.) Trumpet-call like that enough to make one roll onto one's back and kick one's legs into the air like a puppy on an English lawn. The Sterling.... Once begun it is not easy to stop. Jardin for Gallic balance might have been on Dunearn corner on the return. (Counterpart of Versailles nearer to home at Geylang Serai.) Then of course there are the schools on the same stretch, often set behind front lawns like castle estates and manor houses from times of yore. (From which they naturally derived.) There will be readers doubtful and dubious. The author owns we can often cross over to fiction and invention proper, dear reader. Soon ‘twill be the case. So far as the Condo roll-call here is concerned however, all true and verifiable. Google away for yourselves. Not a false one among them. What need striving for invention and fairy-tales on the equator? No need for narcotics either. Where were we?... Heading toward Johor Bahru, crossed over the narrow water-way in fact, passed through Immigration. Selamat pagi and terima kasih winning broad smiles from the scarf manning the desk. Always a pleasure returning to Malaysia. Such reminders of our humanity. Avoiding the mechanical walking-track, the escalators. Out onto the roadway, crossing, almost the first van passed, parked kerb-side presenting the mystery. FOG MASTER.
         Actually prompting a retracing of a few steps in the rising noon-day heat. One knew this terrain. This was not the first visit to JB. Fog master?
         Local eyes would have twigged immediately of course. Even non-English speakers; illiterates probably too.
         Insects are a problem hereabouts, in the Condos particularly. Nasty many-legged creepy-crawlies that need control. Pest control. The Buddhist consciousness has been shucked off in these parts with all the rest. Shallow remnants remaining. When the spray teams pass through a neighbourhood gassing the poor bugs, watch out! One can see the cloud from a kilometre off. Causes itches in the nasal passages. If time allows get on your bike first sign.
         Gives the poor in the region who can’t afford to travel some sense of the atmospherics in other parts. In addition to the Discovery channel. And London of course. It was fog from which Jack the Ripper emerged. In Singapore especially any reference to the Old Dart brings a little tug on the heart. Company in question likely based on the other side of the Causeway. (Too lazy to google again.)
         A news-stand headline finally showed the election date has been set here in Malaysia, for later this month, if that was got right. Again, re-traced a couple of steps in order to verify. Unlike Jules down south, PM Najib going for the shortest possible lead-time. Many months now the unofficial campaign has been running. Fair chance the Opposition can turn the tables completely on this occasion, more than fifty years after Merdeka — Freedom. (From the Brits.) Independence.
         Last night at the usual locale back on the adopted home-turf an interesting new encounter. A poet, and trader in contraband combined no less. Modern-day Rimbaud. No need to tell you what brings in the dosh. Within a half hour sit half a dozen customers, one or two buying a couple of packs. In an effort to curtail the trade in illegal ciggies, the Sing' authorities recently added another measure. A stamp no longer confined to the pack—too easy to counter that—but at the base of the cigarette itself, just above the filter. Two-three weeks later all taken care of by the lads. In the back lorongs of Geylang $5 a pack formerly (against ten/twelve for Government weed). This fella under-cutting by twenty percent. A roaring trade. Customers lining up beside our table. Thank you very much. Marlboro Reds. During proper office hours there was probably the range. This was just in passing; happened to have a few loose in his bag. Screw-driver in the back pocket should the cops get nasty. Pen in shirt pocket could do some damage too. This was a poet from the period of the Third Republic. Fuck with him at your peril. Chap recalled 196...? What was it, 63-4?.... The riots in the back streets just there over our shoulders. Chin went down at his hands. When he was thirteen turning fourteen, counting back from the age he gave.... Would have been a treat reading that in verse form with all the rhetorical flourishes.
         Fellow been living in JB over thirty years now, more comfy and cheaper of course. Originally a teacher, Junior School. Near fifty years a choofer. Just a small number enough to tide him over each night. In the trade of that product a little more care needed. But no fear. Good gear. Nothing of hydroponics. Sharp as one would expect of the double whammy poet-Contrabando.
         — Did Najib and his wife kill the Mongolian girl?
         Within short order frank exchanges and straight-shooting instilled confidence. Nothing out of bounds, unable to be asked.
         — Of course. Eliminating opponents in pol. the same the world over. What can one expect?
         Difficult to argue the contra case.
         What about Mahathir? The poor boy from the wrong side of the tracks, twenty how many years at the helm of the transformation on the Peninsular? One of the richest of global citizens? (As was put to the author during his belated Pol. Ed. up in Georgetown, Penang. Forbes had the former Doctor briefly No. 2 in the all-time high earner-accumulator, sticky-fingers, brown paper bags in the bottom drawer kind of national leader league, outpacing recognized such athletes as Suharto, Marcos, the bunga-bunga rapster. Well, well above evil Saddam—daylight between the pair. Mahathir could have put Rainer of Monaco, Grace Kelly's Daddy-O, to cleaning and polishing his boots. A cool forty four billion. That is forty-four billion U.S. dollaro. Check. Forty-four ringgit forget it. Gee hey!...)
         Contrabando-versifier wasn't going to blink at anything whatever put to him that evening, try as you might. Ordinarily the Malays love Mahathir. Stood up to the Yanks during 9/11 blow-back, staunch Palestinian supporter, respected Islamist, built the Petronas towers famous all over the globe. Tell the Malays Mahathir was on the take like nobody’s business can bring the temperature down quick-smart even in the steamy tropics. Dense fog. Not the case in the present instance. Says the porky—or at least beefy—curly-haired cowboy with a straight stare through steel-rims that encompassed a world of understanding: — How was he supposed to resist?

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Tamils in Singapore

The recent Tamil Christian pair serving at Mr. Teh Tarik took turns the last couple of days attending church. Yesterday, Good Friday, the chubby; today the chap who communicates chiefly with the blocking of the turning ball with his straight cricket bat. (Tock! clicking of tongue for the point of impact between leather and willow. To which one naturally returns a hoick over mid-wicket for six. What else?) The lads of an age as well as size and feature. Chubby has perhaps a dozen English words; the other hardly a solitary one. Back home they are separated by an hour bus ride, making them near brothers far from home. Both speak only Tamil. Neither has even Hindi, it emerged. Chubby usually gives a bellowing HALLO from the side somewhere out of sight when you are least expecting; Cricketer relying on eye contact. Earlier workers would always be tutored by Mohammad or Ismail for the special treatment of this patron at the cash register. For the past few months Mohammad has done duty at one of the other outlets in the chain. Nevertheless, Cricketer has continued the arrangement off his own bat it seems—three dollars for five, six and even seven dollar high mounted plates. Naturally the presence of the CCTV over the till gives caution. When presenting the change Cricketer gives wary smiles and incomprehensible mumbles, looking left and right for the yakuza/loan shark GM in either the new black Saab or Honda. Unlike the other Indians at Mr. T. T. these lads have no Bahasa. They are Tamils pure and simple (though minority Christians), without a stint on the Peninsular. Recently and seemingly independently, both have taken to trying their hands at rudimentary circus acts with the dough for the pratas. Not a patch either on the standout showman originally at the front window of Tasvee down the road; since returning after marriage back home around the corner at Kampung Cafe. Catholic denomination this pair, both heartened when they were shown this morning's front page of the new Pontiff washing the feet of the poor. Aahh! from Chubby, and calling over Cricketer to share. Unavoidably a moment's impasse resulting when Chubby asks about his friend's position. But it makes no serious mind. The lads work with majority Muslims and nothing they cannot handle. Six/seven hours out of Chennai on what can only be bad roads. Married with a child each and parents to support, twelve hour days without overtime earning around S$1,200 per month, one Sunday free (strictly speaking against recent legislation). They will be surprised if someone translates for them the In-brief of the Hong Kong dock workers in the paper today striking for a pay rise from their base-rate of — could it be believed — S$256 per diem. 

N.B. 2 One should have known better than to place any credence in the S.T. figures. In fact the HK dockers, remaining on strike a week later, earn currently a base-rate of HK$55 per hour - S$8.80. Around $Aust7. Of course the stevedoring companies in Aust. could only dream of such coolie rates.

Nobels and Guns (Oct25)

Yesterday a piece by the Nobel winning economist Stiglitz, taken from a U.S. publication, where he marveled at some length at the Singaporean transformation in these forty years, understandably given prominence on the Op-ed page of the Straits Times. 

         Per capita income, enviable sustained growth rate, impressive home-ownership, highly trained work-force, impeccably clean and transparent government (autocratically inclined though it may be, granted). 

         A man focused on figures and seeing the cleanliness and orderliness on brief visits feels none of the chill of sterility and hollowness. You may get a look askance and turn of the head at the suggestion.
          Today more good news of the same sort: Singapore has broken into the global top twenty of military producers. 

         The tiny Little Red Dot—the slighting moniker gifted by a former Indonesian leader and adopted defiantly by the roaring mouse—the Venice of the present day. Given its size, a remarkable achievement indeed. This market product all from small-scale manufactures only. As the article reported, no submarines or other big-ticket items produced by the little minnow. The big production houses couldn't be challenged there. 

         In recent days somewhere around Clarke Quay & Raffles the champers was popping. Floral tributes are popular in the city centre when a new eatery, a new hairdresser opens shop. Perhaps stands of roses and lei for the CEOs concerned here. 

         The year before Singapore had stood at number 40 in the rankings of military production. Quite an eye-catching leap. If it can extend the off-shore production facilities—word is large land-mine factories have long been established in Myanmar—who knows? One could not discount further surprises. 

         Economists like Mr. Stiglitz could well be struck with more wonder and admiration in the not too distant future.
         Heat stoking up last week or two. The author striving to complete a round of revision and submissions, before hopefully getting off for a short look at Java Barat—West Java; Jakarta. The floods should be past; hopefully the volcano on the outskirts no more than keeping up the smoking.
          Watch this space.

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Money, murder, manipulation - The Straits Times, Saturday 16 March 2013 in rapido

Another accident involving a lorry carting foreign workers like logs or convicts in the rear tray led to again another fatality. Under the British the Coolies on the docks and in the mines must have suffered similarly. (Page 1 pic - the traffic delays on a major arterial, no doubt the reason for the prominence.)
            Page 2. Another death suiting the Forces of Darkness (following Chavez recently): the crucial witness in the murder and attempted atomization of the Mongolian translator associated with the Malaysian PM Najib, up for imminent re-election. Chap concerned a Private Dick who in 2008 gave a damning Statutory Declaration implicating the highest office-bearers in the crime, only to recant the following day. Finally silenced by a timely heart attack. (Unless he himself was the victim of the ray-gun loaned by Big Business/foreign capital, that blasted Hugo shortly before.)
            Full page Hi-colour advertisement (page 7)  from Starhub, a local communication provider, head-lined: "Who says we are the unhappiest country in the world?" 

            ...One of the richest per capita,  coincidentally the unhappiest, according to recent, troubling surveys. Difficult to believe when so well-connected by social media &  communication networks. Thinking caps need tightening...
            Mystery & machination Page 12. Former ML PM Mahathir cagily suggesting the Opposition Leader, Anwar Ibrahim, may be behind the recent incursion into Malaysian Borneo of Filipino-based rebels. According to the Philippine Government, the rebel Sultan was very poor. "So where is the money coming from?" wondered Dr. Mah pensively. (In Penang late last year whispers that this same former PM, a former kampung boy from the now transformed tourist island of Langkawi,  was one of the richest men on the planet... Calumny in which direction?)
            Refrigerators, washers, TVs, cameras & condos as usual in the big Saturday issue in particular burying everything else.
            Fine & sunny. Retreat to the AC as usual after lunch before re-loading.