The Widow-Shark

Nice new topi fella, round of applause for the man, take a bow sir. Checkered fern green and black flat-cap in good cloth casts the lesser versions here into the shade well and truly. Snug fit bought in the run-up to Chrissy maybe by the Sweetie who just could not resist. In the first glance immediate flash of style. Two seats along adjacent it couldn't be eye-balled properly at first. Not everyone could carry a crown like that—the Shark shows how. Lord of the jungle, king of the beasts. Where'd he get that princely manner you wanna know, kampung boy like him from across the road in the muck of the unsewered flood-plain? Like a lotta successful Lotharios, decided ugliness at base; lizard kinda snout, tortoise head peering out. No shrinking violet this one; billionaires don't have the self-assurance of a guy like that. Elbow up on the divider chair didn't ask anyone's permission. Oh!... Just back from Phuket. Rich unfaded colour on the breast not from the cheap street-stalls; all the markings of in-store hotel purchase. Emblem an additional piece of raised fabric in luscious tropical tints; at the Thai beaches he had kept under the umbrellas. Piece of luck chair freed directly behind allowed showing of the gold glinting watch and below the leather loafers, white athletic socks with the cool spell. Blimey! rust-red dye grown out behind, curled and puffed, irresistible for a little tug smooching. He's a monty this boy! Swivels that reptilian head like in the pictures of royalty, the monarch a bit stranded and lone/loathsome on the throne, EPL on the screen above providing no kind of escape. Fella could masterclass wannabe actor-pretenders. As it happened Beefy on the same second row watching the highlights with his crew. It had been the big wrestler who had first alerted to the Shark's foraging habits. They didn’t like each other this pair, mutual contempt restrained. This was number three or four minnow according to Beef, good feeding all along the line provided. Two grand arrangement. Two in the Shark's kit kept the show running for the bereaved relict, Beef knew. Tidy. Ma’me concerned was older, well-preserved, collected insurance on the previous—dowager and usurper. The short lyric Beefy employed—asor asor, nayia nayia—came with an unusual gesture: one palm holding a little weight, fingers curled; fingers of the other hand stroking. A polished river stone it had to be, the Malays were mad for the high-polish pieces thrown up by the volcanoes, all manner of benefit and protection offered. The honey-bee says to the flower, Lay you now to my heart where you will ever be..... Untranslatable original, but roughly along those lines. Big fangs could still purr not a problem.

Condo-Rondo Once More

Another attempt at a condo, Sunny Springs this time, which sat opposite The Waterina and Versailles. For a number of years one had walked past the Guillermard side there evenings on the Long Marches observing the comings and goings. Young Sichuan Amber came down to the security gate to fetch the visitor. (After the inspection she needed to come down again in order to swipe for exit. Rounding the car barriers on the driveway was prohibited.) Amber and her young partner lovely as expected; one could tell immediately from the texts. It was the indoor dogs, the sports-bags, the small crowded gym one would need to pass daily that presented difficulties. Beside the gym a function room Amber called it, with aluminum tables and chairs squeezed. Visitors or inter-apartment socializing possibly took place there. How to convey the scene? The patterned tiled walkways through picture-book garden beds; the tired dark faces at the security guardhouse. A film-set for a splatter movie—one understood the impulse in that Scandinavian genre. Exceedingly odd were the fishing rods returning at the gate. The river that ran along-side Sunny Springs was a feature of these estates, granted, murky and dark as it was. None of the inhabitants from these towers would dare eat any catch from there; for one thing there had been some hospitalizations recently and even a death from the consumption of fish. These young lads made the unlikeliest fishermen. They were all wrong in that leisure wear. Slowly, slowly the penny dropped. Ah! Ya. This was what you called recreational fishing. This was sport like tennis and golf. Difference being in this instance fine young lads of good Buddhist stock coming downstairs evenings after dinner for some release before hitting the pillow. Expensive collapsible sticks and reels from the catalogues. The fishing one saw off the bridges and along the rivers in Singapore was usually conducted by foreign workers hopeful of something for the plate. One particular sports-bag was unidentifiable, a metre long and rather ungainly; an uncomfortable shape. Long and rectangular, about 8-9 inches at its broadest, it took a little curve up top. Soft vinyl; an oar possibly. Definitely not a musical instrument. Pogo-stick of some kind?... There were always novelty items in these lines visible on the streets. How to tell Amber? One needed to convey the warning, drop the hint to these fine youngsters far from home. (The mainland accent had been picked in a trice.) Certainly they needed reassurance there was nothing whatever against themselves personally.

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.

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 (Nov25)

The rain arrived Friday last week around lunch-time, black clouds up in the north drifting over from Merapi. In Jakarta and Sumatra they had arrived the week before and instantly caused flooding. 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 rain-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 Rp250,000 tickets ($US18.40). There had not been a drop of rain in Jogja four - five months and it had been late arriving when it came. Friday in the Sosrowijayan 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 recently re-surfaced and painted outside Nurul Huda Mosque. With the storm too this playing field that early mornings hosted an aerobic class, transformed into swimming-pool and ice-rink Friday lunch-time 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 far distant seas. Four point five years in Singapore, a feather duster would have done for the author looking on open-mouthed from beneath a shelter, staring all-agog and disbelieving. Woweee! 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 Losmen, no more than five, plenty devil in the mite, but knows to return thanks for peanuts.) No alarmed parents or elders interrupting the jubilation, calling or scolding the children.