Ramadan Passage

I'M POSSIBLE another positive reinforcement school tee sported by a young toothy innocent on the cusp of puberty. (A great deal of teacher-student sex in the newspaper recently.) Shortly after 9 the tables well-cleared of diners. Extra tables are assembled each night at Sri Geylang Cafe; off the corner along Onan Road for a hundred metres youth line the gutters with their take-out beside them awaiting the call from the radio. Gabby the other night explained he needed to shield himself from the spectacle, taking dinner a short stroll up Changi Road at Chai Chee instead. Why Gabby? Gone off your Malays?... Because there is no-one up there, quoth the former divine. Well, that may be the case Gab. Could well be. But what about the pageantry, the community spirit and unity? Quiet abiding, peaceful contemplation, solidarity. With the ultimate absence Gabby wouldn't have it. Finally empty and dispiriting. 
         MISTER HAPPY tees are not uncommon, presumably bought by mothers and girlfriends. The former in the gawky lad's case trooping past. Young adulthood without any discernible rebellion also common here. Malay lad opposite, likely Indonesian, on the sweetened, high-colour/calorie drinks counter mouthing the lyrics of the song on the sound system as he awaits the woman's slow choice at the five for eight promotion price. Next table a Chin-Malay of some kind sucking his teeth more loudly than the hubbub and the music both. OKOKOKOK on the phone shortly before in the common machine-gun refrain they have here that one slips into oneself.
         A number of GAP, Nike, bap and adidas cachet of the U. S. of A. 
         Many of the illegal foreign workers spend the night on the floors behind the counters, plastic sheeting pulled down. 12-14-16 hours on your feet, tiredness does the rest. In the Straits to the north three boats so far this Ramadan sinking under the weight of overloaded Indonesians. There was another yesterday, coming unstuck attempting to evade the patrol boat, in that case ferrying workers back to Batam, from where most of the current illegals in Singapore hail. Ramadan's festivities could not possibly operate without this cheap foreign labour, both here and in Malaysia. In Malaysia more usually Sumatrans involved directly across the peninsular.
         Woman in niqab needing to raise a corner of the cloth over her mouth in order to take a bite from her Ramly burger. At the frying stands cloths around necks for the workers. The operator bosses insist on full-throated spruiking, none more so than the Mr. T. T. SAAB former loan-shark (whisper has it) for his Tamil contingent.
         Briyani Briyani Dum Briyani. 
         The smokers run out of puff quickly; it is the clean-skin Christian Tamil pair in fine voice the live-long day and then through the night.
         NO WORRIES AUSTRALIA from a recent visit; unsighted previously in three years of closely monitoring the billboard tees. (Not strictly related: an Indian young woman yesterday on North Bridge Road outside Peninsular Plaza was warmly congratulated on the choice of book—The Brothers Karamazov no less, good quarter way through and finger holding the place as she strode to her appointment. Missed opportunity to encourage persistence through the longueurs: there was a wonderful segment upcoming of the interview with the monk at the monastery. Case of not being quick enough on the feet.) 
         Shortly after the Oz only more GAP and AIG. 
         Finally, eventually, at long last, a kind of refreshment: SO MUCH stretched across tight cerulean blue on a middle-aged woman testing her remaining allure. (A generation ago unkind lads back home would sneer, Mutton dressed as lamb.) 
         From another direction it recalled the nice line of William Bronk: “Too much / And not enough...” Restlessness and dissatisfaction all the way.
         Young man on the last corner stand on the Haig Road crossing could have been assessing a carpet hanging before him, the tassels down at the base. Was there a loose thread just then noticed? Or else scrutinising the shorter article at his feet. Arab or Persian, a familiar face there from the two years previous. Thin, closely cropped beard. Shirt, watch. (Not foreign labour.) In the newscasts a member of the younger generation seeking a better life from the regime of mullahs, as portrayed by the American agencies. 
         On the opposite side of the road at the entry to Tanjong Katong Complex the regular carpet man — SEE TO BELIEVE — uses a large silver mike to entice custom, pretending a bargain-sale to his biz-partner a few minutes before. 
         Crowd still even as ten PM approached. 
         The young man at the corner had stood head bent, eyes fixed four-five-six and seven seconds, before going down on his knees suddenly and then bringing his forehead onto the carpet. 
         The short articles a metre in length are prayer mats in fact, easily transported atop their packs by itinerants.

Changi Road Beggar Once More

Zainuddin learned his homeopathy and Ayurveda chiefly from his mother. After suffering early stage diabetes Zainuddin studied further and soon improved his health. In recent months he has shared the dialogue of one of his on-line groups which during Ramadan has turned to matters of health and well-being. The modern Malay diet is heavy in sugars and fats: Zainuddin has addressed the problem on many occasions. Smoking itself is haram in Zainuddin's book, on the basis that whatever is bad for a person comes under proscription. Recently various exercises were listed by Zainuddin as beneficial. As the years passed suppleness and elasticity were important; there were various simple exercises available to even the busiest person, among a number of others the practice of standing and balancing on one foot, suggested Zainuddin. When this was trialled inevitably it brought back the Changi Road Beggar. 
         The last few weeks of this third Ramadan here a remove in the mornings to the less public Har Yassin on Changi Road has bought the beggar close again. In the mornings the man no longer stakes out the entry to the SevenEleven beside the bus-stop; the driveway to the Pasar across the road is now preferred, in front of the fish stalls. Morning greetings regularly exchanged there after picking up the newspaper and fruit. Around noon the man comes over to Har Yassin for late breakfast, or early lunch perhaps. The Changi Road Beggar’s loud voice makes the waiters hop and the prata-maker look lively. At Yar Yassin he is clearly a fixture. Often after his brief meal he hails a taxi out front; occasionally he will bound back to his place again. 
         Returning across the road one morning recently the Beggar's stride struck afresh. How many times had he been observed bounding one way or the other across that busy section of road? So many times without seeing clearly. The Changi Road Beggar has had his left leg amputated high, well above the knee; there would be little of his femur remaining. Months ago the thought had arrived that a longer stump would only cause nuisance; this must have been the logic of the surgeon. What was apparent now was the closely tucked left arm of the man in stride. While this was crooked and held close like that the other arm was extended straight at his side soldier-wise, as if at attention. No doubt the most efficient posture in motion. In so many previous sightings the flapping of the empty cut-offs had never been apparent; and then once collapsed in his usual way at his spot the exertion, chest heaving. Oddly, this was one beggar never to be given alms all this while.

Scraps (updated Jan25)

Well-known old face from Geylang Serai hailing here out on the main drag, rising from a crowded table. Even sans the topi, the eye-catching panama, the identification was certain.

               —  Hello John.

         Not just any John, he meant. This fellow knew precisely.

         Dark, late-60s, impressive dyed moustache; likely a shiny dome beneath the screwed down topi of his own, a navy kind of beret.

         Rings, thick-set, a certain lordliness attained years ago in the kampung where he was born.

         A similarly confident pal, though physically a much lesser embodiment, intro-ing himself as ustad.

         Unclear whether a joke was involved—far from a holy or learned man this companion, if  anything has been learned three years in the steamy tropics.

         The suspicion was confirmed a few minutes later when the chap called out the third time. (Second was to offer a seat at their table.)

         This on his left was Rani, or Rina, the fellow informed: squat, heavily made-up, jowls. Batam lass more than likely. 

         Pleased to make your acquaintance. Short bow from the maiden.

         Numerous early release lottery leaflets on the streets. One chap leaned close in passing a hawker and raised a dirty look.

         A mistake deciding on the mee sotong at the last moment beside the proper sotong stall in the back alley behind the hotel. Noodles and little else.

         Mooning out at the street over the last teh of the day, thin crowd again on the Sunday, first day of the fasting month. There were feasts at the homes no doubt; the Chinese far more prominent than usual in this corner of JB.

         Turning to one side there came a shock. 

         Dear lord above! A first this sight in these three years. Some seconds were needed to comprehend.

         Nothing quite like it seen before. The particulars of the procedure striking.

         Slightly built Chin woman perhaps early-60s, light blue tee, short cropped hair, cut-offs. The Han running rather thin in her. Quite easily she could have slipped onto the Footscray or Sunshine streets back home without trouble; the St.Kilda or Fitzroy streets of a generation past. In hand one large orange plastic bag filled with goods. An empty beside it was being slowly, meticulously filled at table. 

         Restorn Stor Tawakal on the corner diagonally opposite City Square, the old railway station, now a museum it appeared, from the signage at the head of the short lane.

         Two laden plates had been left on the Stor Tawakal table out front on the terrace. Angling first one and then the other, the woman scraped with her fingers carefully, collecting the whole of the wet, loose remnants. Curling her fingers into the inner grooves of the plate to get out the crumbs and the sauce too.

         Some pieces that fell onto the plastic table-top beside her she also collected, pinching at the strands. The cutlery she placed to one side; it was in her way.

         A slice of lemon was also put aside.

         One plate carefully and thoroughly cleaned, followed by the other. For the second the young Indian waiter had come up. The woman paid him no regard.

         Off a little the polite young Indian stood waiting without word, a kindly, respectful lad noticeable in his earlier serving.

         At the last he stepped forward and the woman co-operatively handed him the second plate. 

The Track

Sweet smelling BBQ sotong in the lane behind the hotel, a good dinner prospect should it last. On the corner around in front few Malays are in evidence; some mixed. The Chinatown quarter here is small and compact, two or three streets. Of course there are numerous eateries over the other side of the thoroughfare, the favourite opposite the marvelous bakery and biscuit factory at the edge of the Indian quarter. City Square the tallest in a thicket of towers here, nearer thirty than twenty storey. Racing guides spread at the adjacent tables getting close attention from a large group. Astonishing face and get-up sported by the Malay-Indian waiter. Chap has to be in his early seventies. — No! Mid surely. Weather-beaten and deeply lined face, stooped, with a billiard table green felt circular high-standing cap carrying something like a propeller it looked like first sight mounted in the centre. In fact it was a pom-pom. Eventually the same shock at this figure was recalled from over two years ago on the first visa run here when these presentiments from the distant past were more forceful still. Missed the waiting customer in the chair twenty minutes. Fairly crowded late afternoon.
         Poor fella from a couple of months ago at Sri Geylang, put up by his bizman brother in the hotel there, an incessant smoker with an Arab heritage, lost his mind here. Back in Geylang he either sat in one of the chairs along the wall of the hotel lobby, or else a marooned table on the outer edge of the cluster at Sri. Coming down the steps of i-Systems College opposite and once on the flat took a couple of knock-out swings at an imaginary antagonist. Carting himself up the street unshaven here, slipped a good deal.
         The first bell from the temple up on the rise arrived as a welcome saviour in the gathering of punters, tea-totallers and smokers stretching out the afternoon. Without having closely examined, the place turned out reasonable enough; there was no beer. The tables full of bottles nearer the hotel had been automatically passed over. Three years in a Muslim quarter had produced a definite wowser.
         Circling, underlining, notation, arrows—the notes over the Form Guides were extensive; the concentration through the afternoon had been immense. There was a good deal more than ringgit riding down here. 

Restoran Bintang Tawakal. The Hindu temple was partly visible through the palms of the comic garden walk of stagnant pools and coloured concrete parapets; beside the Hindu stood the Sikh. One or two of the chaps runs a book from the tables, following the races on a cheap Nokia that delivers results he calls out to the keen punters. A bagman is at hand for the payouts. A few minutes later an Indian tosses his booklet onto the ground in disgust. Couple of the lads had small collects.

         In fact there was more than one book, and further along back toward Meldrum numerous other tables and books too that had not been noticed going along; another Nokia in play. At the end Chinese checkers. Down at Bintang it was Indians predominating, smaller group of Chinese and only mixed Malay. The remainder of the stretch was all Chin.

Indicator (Sept25)

Two briefs briefly noted, carrying some import. 

         Tall, lazy stroller passing the table offers:

—    Welcome to Malaysia.

Inevitable surprise and caution... Didn’t look like a beggar straight off.

         —… I saw you yesterday here, the man assures, switching a look and tilting his chin toward the inside of the eatery.

         Almost certainly we had not spoken. Difficult to recall on the visuals alone. An Anglo-Indian was best guess, reminding a good deal of one of the Bosnian neighbours back home.

         Leaving after paying for the thosai dinner at Muthu earlier, one waiter stops another on the turn to the main eating hall. The pair is of an age — late twenties — size, colouration. The senior, as demonstrated by his action, appears a tad younger if anything. (Age highly deceptive in the fast-track maturity for these lads; one might add fifteen or fully twenty years for a cosseted Westerner for some sort of parity.)

         The senior had stopped the other carrying the tray, – chapatti, chutney & two curries. 
         Brief exchange. 
         The platter can only have come from the roti maker in front. Even so, Senior has some kind of doubt and proceeds to lay his thumb length-wise on the wafer to check. The heat? Couldn’t be anything else... 

         Gives the OK. Yah. Go on, deliver.

         Dutifulness and high responsibility, if anything. 
         The diners at Muthu would not complain even had they witnessed the action, wherein lies some of the import.

   

Decency and In-

  

Quart past five on the wrist-watch twisted around after the initial difficulty the other way. Much obliged, ta. 
         The other younger and prettier, slimmer waitress carrying luscious pink on her lips, stands a metre from the next table where half a dozen loud young lads give caution. 
         What are you after? And you?... Pointing a finger for the two concerned; not of course extended. 
          A male would never do that, let alone a young girl likely not yet known a member of the opposite sex. The thumb truncated, crooked on the loose fist that was formed.

         You?... And then you? indicating.

         Unmannerly if not obscene the other. The author had offended even a Californian Buddhist monk here more than a year ago—Venerable So-and-so—with too much poking and prodding of the finger.

         — You’ll make holes in the air and god’ll trip over, the mild jest in school-days from good auntie types back in the old neighbourhood.

         A Latino in the tropics has a lot to learn.

         Speaking of whom, the cheeky lads here also hail passing lasses with the rich kissing call. A chorus of four, five lip-smacks trying to get a pair to turn going past. Clearly parties unknown to each other; certainly not disposed.

         Only Malaysians give the kissing lip-smack to hail a waiter or friend in Singapura. Indian Malaysians too; but not Chinese. Usually friendly and comradely; nothing untoward. This afternoon’s usage was a first.

Uri Geller in the Tropics

First time at the Hindu Tamil place around from the temple, large echoing hall tiled walls and ceiling, numerous fans low mounted. Instantly comfortable and easy throughout. No tension here of any kind whatsoever in the midst of these broken, dirty pavements, beggars, street hawkers, fortune-tellers, trannies and all the rest. The struggle and hardship is everywhere; not the underlying Western anxiety and guardedness. Not the guardedness.
         A dozen young and so-so young Tamil lads forming an avenue along the passage leaning on the tables. The place emptied out a little within a few minutes, lads left idle. Plentiful hands on deck here as most other places in JB; at the labour rates for the foreign workers no need skimp. That they are Tamil was proven when one was randomly greeted in his own language. An ear bent for the second hearing.
         — Oh, fine. Fine. Tamil language…. Smiling at it and walking off. No big deal in this instance.
         The same complete ease and camaraderie to which one has become accustomed at these cheap places either side of the border. There is no fire-breathing dragon in such Eateries. The old Tamil at Har Yasin on Changi road was probably the worst of his kind, making the lads hop occasionally. Nothing fierce. An avuncular position invariably, as if the businessmen had taken the lads from families in the village like in the old days. A good, general ease and order. Interchanges between the staff like that of the customers, all of a piece.
         One young chap here with the red dot was flummoxed momentarily.
         With the papers one wanted a clean and dry surface. Nice veneer at a good height for the chair; backed chair what was more here. The teh had made a ring, but at a distance. When it was first delivered the young chap, this same, had guessed the working arc and placed the glass at arm’s length before the chair on the other side pretty much.
         At the register the elder thought better. For him the arc was apparent too, but over on the left there within better reaching distance. For you sir. Two rings therefore, fairly quick drying. 
         The spoon created a problem. Drinking from the glass one needed to avoid poking out the eye. Half through time to dispense with the nuisance. Knock, knock, knock releasing the drips into the glass. More or less dry instantly with all the fans aiding. However. Holding it upright some more, awaiting an opportunity to off-load. Some few moments elapsed. Chap at the register sees the problem first. Calls the lad, collecting the offending item himself. From hand, to hand, to hand.
         Lad unshaven, moustache, plain black baseball cap without motif. Rake thin in company-issue apron; not graduated yet to the one bearing the Eatery logo—plain drab inky blue.
         As far as he can make out it looks like a perfectly fine implement. Not five minutes he himself had picked it from the rack and delivered it to the table with the tea. A fall on the tiles would have been heard. Didn’t happen. Was it bent? He holds it out before him in order to look more closely. Beats him. What was going on here with this foreigner?
         Not understanding the reassurances, hand patting of the air. Puzzled. Forced to walk away, something from the elder might not have provided complete satisfaction.
         Colleague when he comes to clear the adjoining table taking especial care. Otherwise the chairs returned to their places would screech on the tiles, even wooden, plates, platters and cutlery likewise. Respects pen and paper like the others.
         Muthu Restoran on Jalan Trus. RAANI clothing emporium down the road.

NB. From memory the spoon wizard-magician had been due to perform in Sing’ not long back.