Salute — Tekka Market (Feb26) - published by Modern Literature

 

 

Salute

     (Tekka Market)

For the best part of two years there had been no word of Tekka. Nothing. Zero. Then a couple months ago Zainuddin mentioned the place, rather incredulous that an adventurer so long in SG had not made the acquaintance. The market had been operating on the same site for many years and Z. had grown up in the area. By the look of the place that afternoon it had taken another form in Z.’s youth.

To this day Zainuddin ventured out to Tekka from his distant digs at Woodlands for particular Indian products, most notably his umla fruit, available in its raw, natural form at Tekka. Umla lowered blood sugar & cholesterol, provided one of the much needed vitamins in concentrations unavailable in any other food, aided digestion, softened the stool, improved complexion and put hairs on your chest. Tamils swore by umla.

The fruit had in fact been discovered independently up in the north in Georgetown, Penang, in liquid form there as a cool, partly sweetened drink to counteract the fruit’s tartness. True aficionados like Z. of course took the marbles whole, pip included.

Little to note in the end at Tekka. Fresh food downstairs, clothing up. A rather drab and dreary affair without much to recommend it, on first acquaintance at least. 

There had been the thought of a tee, a particular and specific kind: plain deep red, simple and unadorned, without witticisms or graphics. Specifically, something like the Bonds crewneck. Tekka sounded like the place for it.

Who could possibly have anticipated the problem of a purchase of the simple apparel in the steamy, sweaty Sing tropics? All the labels and brands that had captured the market, the athletic range, the polyester saturation. Then even worse, the sloganeering promoting uplift, earnest work, motivation and other keys to happiness and fulfilment that was part Confucian, part corporate capitalist. The pathology of place writ large on chests all across the island, wherever one turned.

The Bonds on-line with free shipping at $24 was declined.

When Ranie too at the library suggested Tekka, the hour had dawned. A fine purple caftan top had drawn a compliment. Where did Rani get it?... They had men's there too?...

From town little more than fifteen minutes keeping to the shadows, running the reds wherever possible. Lassalle Arts Institute on the left. The road-works dividing roaring as usual, helmeted Indian & Bangla lads bearing up in the heat, with little hand-towels below their collars. 

Neat and colourful roadside garden beds, world class as usual. A good deal more of Indian faces on the footpaths as one progressed.

Tekka stood at the head of Serangoon Road, Little India. Always a pleasure to visit. One’s India adventure, when the prospect of the real thing was far too daunting. Tamed India, but without the gated communities and the tourist herding—the Taj, Varanasi, the temples & forts. 

Singapore was, a French girl had quipped on the bus, Asia for dummies.

Simple and wonderful Lt. Ind. The Sub-continent transplanted. Perhaps more authentic than many a corner at the source.

Spacing out the visits always produced large, often startling impressions. The backpacker hippy crowd had discovered Little India here. Lonely Planet and the others miscreants responsible no doubt.

Nevertheless, something to leaven the suits, ties & sailing shoes for the traveler around Raffles, the Gardens, &etc.

Truly, little to report. The market itself was a very minor affair. A few dozen—more than a few, twenty dozen perhaps—Indian stalls selling the traditional attire one had seen in glimpses of the Bollywood epics. Bright deep colours—saffron, cumin, lavender, sausage reds. Caftan cuts, billowing sleeves, split dresses, high collars. 95% female wear.

— Something for your girlfriend, sir?

Somehow the eagle-eye had summed up an old bachelor.

As on the walk-way on Serangoon Road, numerous tailors at their Singers rocking away, all bar one male. Late afternoon the stall-holders were flagging, not all pert and ready like the chap a moment before. Many failed to call out, much less rise from their chairs to greet a prospective buyer.

Near 5PM even a panama walking tall held little allure.

More than a couple of traders sat slumped in grotesque postures. Were one not a twenty-six month veteran in these parts, the sights would have alarmed.

There was a brief glimpse of a tall, turbaned woman before a mirror assessing her image, a kind of boudoir aspect deep within a secret chamber, hung with all kinds of fabric every side. A moment before naked arms may have been visible there, a long swan neck.

More than elsewhere, more than some other similar trading hubs devoted to the same line, the manikins & dummies at Tekka thronged the narrow passage, causing one to start on couple occasions.

A busy, bustling shopping crowd was a kind of bodily sensation passing along the aisles. One prepared for jostles that never arrived. There may in fact have not been a single other shopper on the entire first floor of Tekka; two or three at the entry perhaps.

At a particular large, possibly double-fronted outlet where a pair of figures, solemn and august in aspect somehow, had been stood, a first-time visitor was made to not only start momentarily, but actually unpurse lips in preparation for something forthcoming.

Certainly the stride was broken…What?… How & why?

This was a gesture of Rome or Alexandria one had stumbled upon; as if behind a magic glass. Something from a far distant past, literally arresting.

The figures were separated by a few metres, yet they did not seem a natural pairing. A kind of double shock, one following close on the heels of the other.

In all else these were standard, blank manikins, soulless and with only the momentary glimmer of imbued life. Nothing noteworthy in themselves, minor hint of androgyny aside.

What set these two so markedly apart, what brought one to almost a complete halt coming upon the first, and then the adjacent, was the raised arm stretched full-length above, straight and high.

Left in both cases, possibly.

Almost certainly the first had raised the left, the near arm one came upon from that side of the aisle.

Erect and sharp. An instant before it seemed the motion had been made by the figure.

Had the arm been extended horizontally, a first-time visitor would certainly have taken it in hand.

Oh, Madam.

Here the arm was pointing at the stars that had long been extinguished over Sin’pore.

Down the ages, emperors & pharaohs had been announced on entry to great halls precisely in such fashion. Carried on the shoulders of their retainers; rajas likewise little doubt.

All hail! All rise! A triumphal march across the raised dais to the throne.

For most perfect effect, there would not be any trumpet employed. The gesture like lightning sufficed. Soft tinkling bell that one strained to hear, perhaps.

More or less evenly divided Muslim and Hindu Tekka that introductory afternoon. If nothing else, remarkable for the brief fanfare for a passing prince from foreign lands.

 

 

 

                      Singapore 2011-26

NB. Since published by Modern Literature, in Chennai, India

https://modernliterature.org/salute-tekka-market-by-pavle-radonic/

All hail the new Prince!

.

What a damn cheek! After so long among them and with this enhanced deep tan to boot.
         — You have grandchild arhh!?....
         Slow on the up-take even though it be almost noon on the back clock. A bad night's sleep, no rhyme or reason. Perhaps wrestling on the cot with Era to no good purpose. Too tired after her twelve hour stint at the flower-stall, No meant no. Threats to call Immigration and have her hounded out of the country, de-barred from entry for a year or more failed to persuade.
         Call the police then, and Immigration too. Angeli and I will starve. You can laugh. Go ahead.
         Sorely tempted. Sorely.
         In Era's purse a list of tech items requested from various people in Batam. ipads, iphones of such-and-such model, Blackberries; not inferior Samsungs. Earlier in the year a $400 purchase of a second-hand ipad in Arab Street here earned a tidy hundred profit over in Batam. In Sumatra, Era's place of birth, you could do even better. Numerous willing buyers keen to join the party. Biznis little, little; sikit, sikit.
         What to do?...
         .... grandchild?...
         Slow on the up-take.
         — Charlie.... Big smiles. Deep-roasted coffee colour, black dyed hair and moustache matching. The last application had omitted the eye-brows. Usually the men are much more thorough. Side-burns are pesky areas. For some reason the colour there falls away rapidly. Glasses half-way down the blower checking his Toto or 4D tickets like a number of others this Thursday morning—must have been a jackpot last night. (Gaming of any kind haram in Islam of course, strictly speaking.) Lord only knows when the chap gets any shut-eye. A fixture here at Labu Labi morning, noon and night. On the job most likely. Night security he may have said.
         Charlie?... Ah, yes. Gotcha now my man. Hahahaha…. He had the name wrong was all.
         — No, no, no, no. George. Yes. And yours not mine let me tell you. Yours and Mr. Lee Kwan Yew's.
         Laughs. Something about his being a British subject. My very point dear man. Precisely. Possibly he meant the granddad Charlie. Possibly he was old enough to remember the earlier George and first-born Albert too. You tell them clearly "Australia" they know very well what that reduces to. No argument possible.
         Again rumours here the old man, the local royal, is on his last legs. A long lead-time.

.

Coolies and Ai Weiwei

Era around the back here at one of the Joo Chiat stalls thin as can be, somewhat less jaundiced this morning, a “chocolate” rash on her neck from a fever transmitted from her young daughter it seems. After a week into her stint the complaint was sore, tight calves twelve hours on her feet at the Flower stand. Plastic fakes the product looked to be where we had pitched for a brief chat. Naturally the Chinese stall-holder wouldn’t like her gabbing during work hours, especially with a fellow who looked highly unlikely to reach into his pocket. Four weeks for the stall during busy Ramadan in prime Geylang Serai would have set the man back a pretty penny; much coloured plastic to move in that time. Hari Raya, Idul Fitri, Eid is the counterpart of Chinese New Year and Christmas/NY for Christians. On the dawn of the day the house should be clean, bright and colourful. Everyone dons their best attire, resplendent and new if you can afford it. Visits to kith, kin and neighbours on the morning. A feast of course prepared for the end of the fast; joy, charity and goodwill. Gift-giving seems not to be part of the occasion.
         The hours aside, this was clean and not arduous work—unlike the aircon maintenance of last year—earning Era a relatively generous $60 per day, cash and nett of course. A good deal better than the forty Nazir earns for lugging and carting around Geylang Serai market for the same period. Illegals both naturally, the latter a Kota Tinggi lad (Johor State, Malaysia), forty with six children, which comes as a surprise for a sharp dresser like that, fond of hats in particular. You should see him when he is at prayer, Nazir explains. A rather different picture in his serban—turban and other clothes. Era is Sumatran born, like many of the Indonesians seeking opportunity, using the nearby island of Batam for the hopping to Singapura, where cheap labour has been welcome for many a long year.
         Thirty day visas. The authorities are well aware of the usual arrangement; historically this city-state like many another was built on Coolies of course, the next generation becoming exploiters of another kind. To be on the safe side however both Era and Nazir will prudently hop over the border at JB for a night after 18-20 days. Remaining the entire thirty unbroken risks raising suspicions at the Immigration desk. You never know what kind of Stickler you might strike.
         On his most recent return from Malaysia—not even on a visa run—the White, affluent-looking author in a fine panama, daunting English, armed with an Australian passport and an imperious manner, found himself quizzed by the lass at Immigration. You are staying at a hotel in Singapore? You intend to remain 90 days?  Eighteen months previously you have stayed at a hotel you say? Excuse me a moment.... Quickly sorted by the experienced supervisor on the other end of the line. If you had been the wrong colour, carrying a passport from a less favoured nation, bumbled and fumbled, Good night Dick.
         Poor little Lia, Nia, Ida—depending on when you struck the honey—was prohibited from entering last year when suspicions were raised at her much stamped passport. Shopping? Really? Are you sure? Not difficult to tell the cheap dress, perfume, handbag, watch, jewelry, make-up. A phone that she should not have given up holding numerous messages from her house-cleaning clients. Two year entry ban and no more about it.

         Unrelated: newspaper item yesterday revealing an up-coming Ai Weiwei show at one of the high-end galleries here. Owner-director firm in his belief his man one of the global top-notch of his calling; etc. First show, first visit to the island for the little tubby panda. Looking forward to visiting. Excited. The authorities in China wouldn't allow him to stage such provocative work back home. Yawn. You wouldn’t want to read the crud in the Arts supplements worked up by the journos in the particular vernacular here. A querulous note however of concern duly included by the woman in her little fluff piece in this case, only fair to acknowledge: someone has reported to the artist that Singapore might prove a bit “monotonous”. Golly-gee! That produced a gulp around the island no doubt. Little chance of freebies at the Casino after this kind of rocking the boat. Peking duck at the Grand Mandarin he can forget. Photo-spread at the Night Safari likewise. If the artist had held hopes of a new species of orchid named in his honour, as is reserved for true friends of Singapore—like the Duchess of Windsor, Henry K. and even poor Julia of recent fame—put a cross through that too. Provocative radical artist worried about dowdy ol' Sing' not being racy enough for him. If you happen to read this blog Mr. Weiwei you’ll know where to head on these shores.

Children of Jakarta

You get thoroughly soaked very easily in a hundred metre dash in the tropics. Near the head of the lane giving onto Thambrin City the first drops gave insufficient notice. (After twenty-five months in the region the skies remain largely indecipherable.) A quick dash along with a number of others then for the tower, taking care with the pot-holes, darting motor-cycles and bajajs particularly. Finally, mincing steps over the treacherous tiled stairs, most dangerous of all.
         The panama keeps the scone more or less dry. Nevertheless, one resembles the riff-raff of the lower rat-infested ground now. Poor bedraggled humanity. A corner somewhere away from the aircon to dry off. Teh kosong panas—tea without milk or sugar, hot—just the shot waiting it out. Two hundred metres further Grand Indonesia housed all the boutiques, sumptuous furniture stores, jewelers and parfumeries, as well as Kinokuniya Bookshop at Lower Ground, which usually had the Jakarta Post by eleven.
         Outside the window of the Eatery the little operation underway around the stairs took a few minutes to comprehend. Young ragged street boys coming and going, to and fro, circling and hovering. Completely drenched the lads, despite the umbrellas most of them carted. Some of the umbrellas were furled; a good number giant-size, quite in excess of requirements. 
         To and fro. Dashing quickly here and there where they had spotted something. A good number barefoot like the day they were born. In that kind of rain shoes of any sort were redundant, some dangerous. High-gloss tiles over all the terraces around the perimeter of the buildings.
         Larking and hijinks. Delightful kids. Bright, alert, ready for anything. Coming up through the lane one received a royal reception from the scamps. Drawing a response from the tall Bule, the White gives them a spurt. Shocked when their quarry unexpectedly stops to answer; all the more hearing some words of their own language. That was unexpected. Begging was not often part of it.
         Twenty-seven days now in Tanah Abang, inner Jakarta, without a single, solitary Bule to be seen on Jalan Tubun, or anywhere else in-between it and the Malls. There is a particular quarter on the other side of the Malls where the Bule congregate at the Pizza Huts, pubs and department chains. Anna the Film Location Producer escorted the author through Sarinah a couple of days prior, assuming her new friend would naturally want to acquaint himself, perhaps take lunch at KFC or Starbucks.
         Two days of rain meant a confinement to the room. The thought of a taxi in that splash was frightening. Sun, humidity and teeming rain to contend with in the Tropics. The floods two or three months earlier must have been really something. Incredibly, the day after the heaviest recent downpour the river beside the hotel had cleared most of the piles of garbage, even the worst of it thickly littering the banks either side. Almost a bone fide river again. The Ciliwung, chief water-way of this city of ten million.
         This particular downpour now occurred a day or two before the deluge proper. Dramatic pelting rain; thunder-claps like Hollywood's very best. The only thing possible is to dumbly sit and stare. Even the locals can be caught doing the same. Out under the torrent bare-headed seemed demented. Yet every so often one sees people pacing through such downpours, literally without batting an eye-lid.
         The rain that brought out the young scamps was not the worst of its kind; in the end little more than a quarter hour. As the rain continued the lads outside the window grew in number. Sometimes they came in pairs; sometimes threesomes, marching across the tiles. A party from the right meeting one from the left. Most of them utterly soaked through to the skin. Messi, Standard & Chartered,  MU tops clinging, all bright colours; shorts and barefoot. Many could not have stood taller than 1.2 metres; later older, taller boys joined. School holidays in Indonesia, or Jakarta at least. Whether these kids had formal education was a question.
         The first few times they came by with their customers one mistook a family connection. There was so much traffic to and fro the hints quickly mounted. Often when the boys came with their putative elders they walked outside the shield of the umbrella. One or two of the escorted women carrying shopping, the umbrella hoisted high overhead and leaving the rain pouring over the escort. Clearly this was something other than a loving family scenario.  
         Some of lads were significantly shorter than their umbrellas. First on the scene immediately the opportunity presented were children no more than six or seven years of age. Subsequent downpours in the days ahead again brought out the little tackers before any others. The shields borne were not of the cheapest, flimsiest kind either; none of the wires broken. All without exception clean and presentable and in sunny colours. More than one of the umbrellas was no less than a serious fashion item. The handsomest showed the street an edible orange tone, fringed with manicured green. A faux-wooden handle terminated in the shape of a golf club, an old-style wood of which there may be no more on the contemporary fairway. Gary Player generation this; preceding even Nicklaus.
        The bearer here had possibly never seen golf even on the television. Many of the houses in the slums here in the shadow of the Malls are bereft of TV. However, courses there certainly are to be found in Jakarta, not too distant in fact. On the exploration of the high-end residential quarter with Budi the driver there was a gated community where a course was included. Hawkers, peddlers, pot-holes and dirt; hunger, ragged clothing—behind manned gates and hedges Florida all ablossom. Had this boy lugging been aware he might have had a game with his pals in the alleys with a plastic or cardboard ball—holes in the roads available.
         Ten thousand to one the kid had no idea why the piece terminated in that stupid lump you couldn't get a grip on. Gila—crazy.
         The matter should not have taken so long to guess. In this case the author had been slow. Enterprising lads. At the first sign of the downpour up the boys had run from their slum carting their best show umbrellas for the business with the Mall people caught without. People needing cover for return with their shopping to their cars and apartments; office-workers to their towers; women in fine gossamer orange-blossom dresses, curled hair, heels that forbade running.
         One or two of the brolleys stood in the hands of these urchins like spears or javelins. The golfing example for instance. Somewhere not too far distant from the Malls a fellow had once upon a time putted over a tricky green toward a hole on a course while an attendant held this particular umbrella over his crouched, concentrated figure.... Curled around the cup and out! — Damn! Wouldn’t you know.... — Bad luck sir. That was in.
         One bright-eyed drowned rat returned to the concourse carrying notes in his little mitts. A generous customer. Across the way Lotteria's bright luscious colours advertising burgers and fries. RightO. In we go then.
         Three million children live in Jakarta, either at school or working. Recently Jokowi—Joko Wiwodo—the new Governor of the capital—likely the next President of the Republic - recently announced a plan to make the city child-friendly, as he had apparently previously managed in Solo, central Java, during a term as Governor there. Green spaces, policing abuse and exploitation, &etc.
         Dusk out front of the hospital on Jalan Tubun the scamps stage impressive kite-flying competitions. Carrying their pieces under their arm they march across to the grassy plot and slowly unwinding let fly. When their birds catch a drift they can be hoisted sixty, seventy metres in the sky, riding the currents, soaring on high. (One recalls LKY in Singapore reminiscing about his own kite-flying days as a little boy—if the man could be believed.) Older lads in mid-late teens come up from the slums on their bikes bringing caged pigeons to release two-handed in a thrusting gesture before them out front of Thambrin City, possibly because of the slight rise.

NB. In the chief item on page one today headlined:  Stunted, overweight generation: “Indonesia is facing the double burden of malnutrition that refers to the coexistence of both malnutrition and overnutrition affecting its children’s health…. A third of children under five stunted…. 36% of children under the age of five in Indonesia suffer from stunted growth…. This means that stunting rates are lower in Vietnam (23%) and the Philippines (32%)…. Indonesia is equal to much poorer countries, such as Myanmar (35%), Cambodia (40%) and Laos (44%)."
                                                                                                                Jakarta Post Thursday July 11, 2013