Àodàlìyà

 

The young woman was a Mainlander. Easy to tell straight off. Frilly dress, hair-band with the pink ribbon, keenness most of all. Stringing out an impossible conversation she recalled one of the show-girls in the Saloons from the old Westerns, attempting to cadge something from an unlikely looking, weather-beaten old cow-hand.

Australie was simple in Bahasa. Anywhere in Jakarta and even the far flung islands you would be instantly understood. Anywhere in Singapore you would have thought, where a local Chinese was concerned.

The girl was one thing; but how could a Hokkien, born and raised in Singapore, even one in his sixties, not have a clue about "Australia"? Remarkable.

The Drink-waiter's help had been enlisted.

Nada.

You gotta be kidding man!...

Many of the Chinese could sing-along with the old anthem: God save our gracious Queen, long live our... no problem at all. Old McDonald and the other school-room favourites they often knew pat. Most of them adored all things British in this outpost of the former Empire. Pictures of Big Ben, old red double-decker buses and Westminster sold tea-towels, t-shirts, shopping bags, condos, you name it.

This guy attempting to help out the Mainland lass with her difficulty, blinking behind his glasses.

Australia. Australie. Au-Stra-Lia. ORS-tralia.

Shook his head. Shook again. Reminded of slow school-kids in class bullied by dragon-breathing monsters at the blackboard back in the day. Back in the day of morning assembly, flag monitors, anthems. Oddly shared memories in Singapore. Not this fellow. Missed out somehow. Didn't think to draw him an outline.

The girl one could completely understand. Sydney. Melbourne. An upright hand bounding over the table-top Hop-Hop-Hop.

Nothing, sorry.

What was left? Kevin Rudd? Not likely.

Where she was from impossible to get either. Not Shandong, no. (Many of the Mainland gals were from the back-woods of course) Wuhan no. Beijing? Xi'an? (This was pointless. First rank cities was not where these girls hailed from.) Flustered, Shanghai was forgotten.

We had to give it away. Couldn't be helped. The girl herself admitting defeat. It was not even that she wanted to score. Some of her compatriots, the majority, put up with the slave-rates and long hours rather than turning to the game. A little afternoon exchange here was all.

Like the foreign construction workers, the working girls were part of a large industry. Likely the two industries closely allied in a carefully planned polis like this, same syndicates operating. Plenty of hardship and desperation in the region available to mine for entrepreneurs lacking scruple. In the back lorongs at night at this Chinese end of Geylang the girls stood together in their native groups: dark Thais, short Indos, pencil-thin Viets. There were laws now, regulations, raids every so often. Innumerable girls in their mid if not early teens all the same, as the regular prosecutions demonstrated.

Audio on Google Translate later indicated the gulf. Close, yet so far. A mouthful of pins possibly the best recourse.

 

 

 

 Originally penned 2012, a re-draft was published on the ABC RN Earshot website Oct 2015.

http://www.abc.net.au/radionational/programs/earshot/pocketdocs-2015/crossed-wires/

                                                                                                                     

No Hipster

Young chap couple tables down difficult to follow. Sitting with similar age companion while opposite them a little group had stopped. Three scarved women middle-aged and a young boy pausing in their slow amble. Sisters, with the mother difficult to pick among them. A number of us watched the group casually. Nothing in particular; not whatever. Whereupon the young man calls over, gestures across to one of the women with a folded bill in hand. From two tables along one had a clearer view than the recipient—a lavender Two flashed. No doubt, clearly. And the surprise evoked equally clear, though the woman did not drop her jaw, nor gape. Like, what?... Ah? Ah.... Slight chin rise and head swivel he. Like, the child. Something in that direction, of that kind. No word, all gesture of the most minor kind; one or two rows further back nothing whatever could have been discernible.... Fifty-four full months tomorrow witnessing, every second or third day something of the same kind. Tonight the particular circumstances proved a little intriguing. The group was most certainly not begging; nor did they look in particular need. Chap had surmised correctly however: toward the bottom of the socioeconomic pile. The sprint to the meritocratic winning post would leave this group short. More expressiveness in the momentarily puzzled recipient here; comparatively blank benefactor. (Cheap accommodation at the losmen in Jogja—about 4.5 times cheaper than Four Chain View Hotel in Geylang—enabled something of the same daily walking the streets down in that town.) Pony-tail confirmed on departure; mid-late twenties, thin and not exactly a hipster. But by the same token, nor would one have guessed devout.

Christmas Tree - revision published by NWW, re-titled ‘Tis the Season

Crossing from the fruit along by the sushi aisles there was a very slow amble through something about a Christmas tree. (Not the old up-tempo favourite.) Almonds had not been tasted two full months in Jogja, they were unavailable at Hero supermarket in the basement at Malioboro Mall and likely only out at Parangtritis somewhere. (Reports suggested Parangtritis held a higher concentration of bule, Whites than Malioboro.) The first few times at One KM the second nut section had not been located behind laundry and cleaning agents in the far back corner, where tonight another of the old repertoire ran smooth as whisky over ice. An excellent Deano cover.... it's cold out thEere.... The slight teeth-chatter causing a not so silent giggle to escape. Ah, that was a good one. My, my! Though one must say the Sunday had been positively cool, and through the afternoon no one could be bothered turning off the overhead fans at Al Wadi. At the checkout one tried the railings.... Well, by no means the sticky ice-cold of NTUC beneath Joo Chiat Complex; that might be hard to beat anywhere on the island. The street-people and beggars could often be found out along the concourse there stealing some refreshment. At One KM hardly stinging at all. By the same token, a body would not want to rely on that polished aluminum for keeping upright. Hardly any bunting had been noticed since the return. Somehow the Guillemard corner shop with its red-brick wallpaper and product along the walkway had been blindly passed. The trees had not yet arrived; a week or so in the run-up to Chrissy the perfume of a Borneo plantation could be taken on that corner. Ol' Deano in the tuxe might be raised in cut-outs somewhere in the stores here, maybe Robinsons and some of the jewelers and watch-sellers. On the street the cars road-side were giving off the usual furnace-blast as you passed.

NB. https://newworldwriting.net/pavle-radonic-tis-the-season/

The Asian of the Year

The Straits Times here today announced their Asian of the Year.
Doubtless stiff competition after an eventful year, in the end with just a nose in front at the post the winner was found to be the local favourite, Mr. LKY.
".... won the world's respect, in life as in death." (March deceased.)
Chap at the breakfast table this morning mulling over the announcement seemed serious in his suggestion that there had been a secretive cyronic procedure undertaken immediately after the state farewell at a facility within the Kissinger Institute, which the man had deep in the granite of Colorado, Rocky Mountain high. (The cremation story put about in order to deflect any possible terrorist threat.) An unknown too until this morning's report: the ripples of mourning stretched far across the globe of course, easy to understand. That India lowered its flags to half-mast on the day of demise was easy to anticipate with Mr. Modi such a strong fan; but what did surprise was that apparently the same honour was offered in NZ. The Kiwis, secret fervent admirers (in the year of another World Cup triumph). Others that must have followed suit were not mentioned in the morning's report.
The original Asian tiger in this year of the old goat.

Touched

After some calculation at Beringharjo this afternoon Andi the dishwasher suggested eight for the cloud burst today. (Only lightest grimis, drizzle last number of days.) Setting out for Semesta mid-morning the usual diviner in the gang up from the Losmen reckoned three at the earliest, the same as his erroneous prognostication the day before.

         Through the wire grill Antok in the parking lot cadged for another Es teh – Ice tea, on this particular occasion and for the first time pushing his luck wanting to include a couple of pals. How many was that on offer: satu, dua, tiga?... Ah! Fair enough Antonius. The generosity had been too narrow these many weeks. How was Antok—Antonius sometimes from the Drinks-stand man—to bear up with his workmates without even trying?  

         Shortly before the blind man, the buta had passed, escorted and having his order taken by Andi. There he was again now at the cashier, again escorted. Truth to tell, the blind minstrels had been dodged under the verandas many a month. It was easy. They relied on people coming up to them particularly. Many of the elderly women were difficult to dodge, even the graceless ones shamelessly pressing their demand. In the end rarely were these able to be denied. OK. Enough already. One could not buy three hale and hearty young lads heaving motor-bikes there and allow the buta to pass unrecognized.

         Finally, after the others and somewhat behind his usual time, the baik kawan, good friend regular. A little touched, a little lumpy, baseball cap and songkok  Fridays, glasses, a mumbler and expansive conversationalist with a seeming antagonist of some kind every so often—finger-pointing, nodding, hand-waving dismissals. Out on the street once or twice the man was struck directing traffic like so many other self-appointed civic-minded wardens in this region; another time selling some kind of Muslim somethings from a tray hung around his neck.

         Chap opposite just leaving must have struck him previously or known him from the neighbourhood. Greetings, handshakes. Fellow wide-mouthed looking on with surprise when he saw the same extended to the foreigner in the nice hat, the bule, White. Touch to the heart that the other may not have in fact received.

         A pause. The usual place in front of the mirror on the edge of the first table was occupied today. Chap remained in place standing, a nod given. There may have been a hand flicked out quickly, or a shoulder bent.

         On the table the kacang packets, roasted peanuts. Plastic sachets holding about two dozen shelled peanuts with some fried garlic fragments and lightly salted. Crunchy and tasty. As Amri the owner of the eatery said, full of cholesterol, but Gee, whole-hog discipline all along the line could not be sustained. Chap liked them too taking away for later; acquired a taste for the treats.

         Most afternoons when our times coincided a pack passed to him. It was forgotten how it had started. Certainly the chap had not brazenly asked for one such as in this present case. As we often found each other at the prime table nearest the servery and alongside the passage, when the kacang was fished out from the jar one sideways to the expectant, appreciative hand.

         In the weeks previous, in the last two trips to Jogja, the sign, the warning sometimes given for the special individual, one touched or not right, had been difficult to read. Often it was signed in the immediate presence of the person concerned, as if he or she were blind as well as slow, directly under their noses. Rapid often, easy to miss or pass over. Often the sign was given with a smile if not outright leer that made the signer appear somewhat suspect themselves.

        During the course of such encounters one had picked up a new word, bodoh, usually translated as the harsh “stupid”; the accompanying sign had slipped previously in such exchanges. This afternoon the matter clearly established beyond any doubt. The chap departing had lent over the table for the information offered, the sharp term omitted on this occasion. Hand raised, right fore-finger brought over the brow above the right eye, up at an angle where it crossed the amygdala presumably. A kind of incomplete salute, no mistaking this afternoon.

         There had been a little laugh when the fellow saw the packet passed across; it had explained the brief stand-off previously that had puzzled the man. This was explanation and apology perhaps on behalf of his tribe.

NB. Rp37,000, all up, which included the author’s own gado gado, teh and three peanut packs. About four dollars Australian currently. 

The Rains - Jogja In November (Aug26)

The rain began Friday round lunch-time, the black clouds from Merapi up in the north arrived. In Jakarta & Sumatra there had been deluges the week before, instant flooding resulting. On Sunday community action on the Ciliwung River in North Jakarta had cleared rubbish washed downstream, which had added to the problem. On the same page of the Jak Post today another related item announced the intention of the police to issue fines for motorists who parked under bridges and overpasses during storms. Warnings would initially be given and no action taken against bike-riders, who merely stopped to don weather-proofs; otherwise those attempting to wait out the rain would be issued Rp250k tickets ($US18.40). There had not been a drop of rain in Jogja 4-5 months and late arriving when it came. Friday in the Sosro urban kampung, householders were immediately out clearing their gutters & drains. Rain like a heavenly assault when the clouds finally broke, fierce battalions machine-gunning the tennis court-cum-football field outside Nurul Huda Mosque, recently re-surfaced & painted. With the storm the playing field that early mornings hosted an aerobic class, transformed into swimming-pool & ice-rink for three tear-aways suddenly bursting out from the gang. Two boys and a girl throwing themselves onto the green waves, diving-sliding through the waters. Screams, laughs, cannon-balls & dodges, glistening chocolate and lustrous slick-back. Cavorting baby seals; mythic dolphins, such as danced alongside sailors in distant seas. Four point 5 years in Singapore, a feather duster would have done for the author looking on, open-mouthed from beneath a shelter. Staring agog and disbelieving. Woweee! A theme-park magically created helter-skelter without authorization, lacking safety-rails and all unsupervised. (The youngest monkey from the tiny corner-store opposite Red Palm, no more than five, plenty devil in the mite, but knows to return thanks for peanuts.) No alarmed parents or elders interrupting, calling or scolding the children.

Electra in Java (published by Orca Lit. Journal)

A recent fantasy gnawing away at the edges in Jogja won't let go. (Blushingly it must be recorded.) At the upcoming reunion Nia on her knees clasping the legs of her lover, holding tight and imploring quietly in the sea-shell voice she managed sometimes on the phone particularly. You are my father now Pee.... Barely loud enough to hear. Cavernous voice like the priestesses of the old temples might have used. And Ni perhaps going on to add, The only one I have.... Remarkable. Riveting. Both on the phone and at one’s side Ni’s accent and mangled English often made her incomprehensible; then on other occasions perfect sense and often even sharp point. Holding fast as if to a mast; no tears and firm equally in grip and utterance. Nia would speak and act with such ease and simplicity there would be no room for awkwardness. (The only useful fantasies are those that have the realistic potential for fulfillment.) Erotic reaction inevitably, which Ni either intuits, or else independently moves in the same direction herself. One of our signal moments unfolded with this last as part of an earlier reunion, it might have been after the three months in Malaysia. By the doorway of the narrow room as usual Ni was received in the pink floral sarong, clasped close and squeezed tight. Another girl might have ignored the prod at her side for the moment. Ni's father had "fast away", she texted earlier in the month. (As usual the phone had been switched off, messages of any kind left for a time of one's choosing and at leisure.) One or two nights before Ni had heard her father's voice. She had not spoken to him, but heard him playing with his grandson, the son of Nia's brother, while Ni spoke to her own daughter in the same room. That was the last Nia would hear of her father's utterance, a man of good, simple life, she reported again by text a day or two later. She would of course miss the funeral. In the days afterward the daughter, an adopted young girl of eight, asked her mother, What is this life? ..... (So-and-so) dying like that and now kakek. (Earlier in the year an uncle, husband of Nia's older sister, had passed away after a brief illness.) In the figure on the floor clutching the legs of her lover there was housed too, like another Russian doll, the semblance of Anita, another lover, a wild, impulsive and reckless woman. Neet was the one who would more likely be granted her wish in this regard, if only she could be brought round. Neet had lost her father long ago; at one point in the bloom of the relationship Neet had said she needed a husband who could lead her through life. (A virtual relationship with an ustad, religious teacher had ended badly when the man married one of her friends. No Second Wife position for her, unlike Nia, who had volunteered the concession unasked.) Eighteen months before after some difficulties we had landed in a terrible muddle; now almost certainly there was no hope with Neet. The image of the girl on the floor worked for an Indon woman. In Java a man could reasonably fantasize about such devotion. With lovely Indon girls a lucky chap's hand could be taken for greeting or farewell and brought to the forehead, before being imprinted with an appreciative kiss. Ohya! From the same historical novel as the other. One would like to line up all the Western male readers one could find and walk down the aisle slowly turning to them with patient explanation, an immeasurable sea of figures like in the culmination of the Sokurov Hermitage film. Gentlemen, no writerly fantasy this of which you have read, let me assure you. Please understand and make no mistake. Truly, such is our poverty.         

NB. Revised & expanded version published as “Gauguin Again” - Orca Literary Journal #1 2019 (US)