Swine in the Year of the Monkey

lo hei — tossing yusheng at this time of year (a noodle, prawn & veg. salad) produces lots of pictured pollies in the newspaper – the President of the Republic and his wife pre-eminently, shown with the deserving, the elderly and other fringe groups. The fixed camera-smile of this pair and the look of interest casting over displays and ceremonies is beginning to irritate one must be frank. Last night coming out from Feidu an altar on the corner lorong holding the usual incense sticks, candles and oranges, perhaps there was a large "bomb" pomelo, but also a richly glazed long pig laid flat like a resting cat. Perhaps 7-8 kgs if not more. A sudden dart after such a term in these Muslim communities. Granddad Pavle got rich on the trade in swine from over the border in Herzegovinia, over the back hills through Krivosije where grandma Ruza was born — at a guess 5-6 hour hike. Returning with the herd must have taken the live-long day. Father Lazar and his older brother Petar were later sent by the old patriarch and after the war and the dispersal of the family Petar went himself a few years. In a village near Trebinje old Pavle had established business partners who sometimes came across to Montenegro themselves, announcing their arrival from the side of Bastik hill above the houses. During CNY here the swine must be imported from Thailand or Burma, shipped from southern China perhaps; the Chinese operations in Malaysia would likely be insufficient. A long term of feasting here and in the region, still numerous Chinese outlets closed up over a week later.

procul harum 1967, a very good year/play it loud

ahhhm... yr kidding? could not, imposs, do more than 35 secs i think it might have been. fella was squinting too hard trying to recapture. a dye job mighta helped. here you could not poss get away with retro without a good dye doesn’t matter who you are. neil diamond, tom jones... harry konik?... no, the other one did chrissy & love songs, crooner also not long after bing might have been english. way back he goes, remember the pic in the promos next to the piano like seeing a ghost.... loved returning to his aircon 6 Star sg hotel room that he remembered from 1962...name escapes. liebskind loves returning to sg too, the food, the gardens blah blah. procul haram musta been here, probably settling for the sg symphony with maybe a guest conductor/soloist. stones maybe can get away with grey, nobody else. nowhere in asia maybe, but here in sing' specially. few years ago they were putting on the mousetrap. ag christie. you prob missed it first and second time round as i did. was a bit stumbled finding the fliers under the arches at raffles, soooo many of them it couldn't have been a cheeky joke from the regional chapter of the anarchist club breezed through on a stop-over. oh my, oh my, oh my. only months and months later discovered this was not retro sg particular spectacular. shit no. in fact big big hit in london town shortly before. aggie’s mousetrap. musta had the lot, something for everyone in the family. costumes you can magine, music of course, might have been the anniversary of one of churchill's speeches or thatcher's attack on the falklands. without looking it up i betcha procul harem has entertained here, prob sentosa using that same kinda tent as there in Norway only airconed rather than heated, units buried in the sand, beach-lounges, waiters, pedicures. “conquistador”??? so they didna do whiter shade a pale? i'm confusing them with someone else? did the beatles guy produce them too, georgie martin?

NB. relented: rapido on google seems they haven’t toured, aren’t big enough, lottsa others lining up for this stop-over gig, the long haul down there you can understand.

NB 2. an old musician friend down in Melbourne had been riffling through youtube.

                                                                                                                                    Singapore, Feb. 2016

The Rain

Walking up to Al Wadi for supper on the edge of a cloud. Finest light gerimis the Malays call drizzle, brought across on drifts of wind. Directly overhead good patches of bright blue (after 6pm too); on the other side of the road and further inland blanket grey that had developed over the previous hour. Over an hour the dark had been watched closing in from the hotel window, the dim light meaning eventually paper had needed to be brought to the window ledge. First rains, even heavy downpours, can often remain unsighted through the glass on the third level at Four Chain View. Rain was audible before it was visible in this back corner of Geylang. Once the suspicious sound was heard one needed to rise from the bed and look down onto the corner of the lane where a puddle quickly developed in a hollow in order to establish the matter. The pastel walls of the madrasa opposite, the condos further along and adjacent failed to betray rain. In the upper grades of primary school once a false report of an outing was unfolded one afternoon for the class during Show-and-tell. Everyone seemed to have a tale of some kind from weekend outings and holidays away. The Clearys spent each Christmas at Cobram, dux of the school had a retreat at Airey’s Inlet. Jamiesons was another other-worldly setting like in the story-books where the young adventurers roamed. One could not remain without all the long while. Somewhere the story of rain far away falling on one side of a road but not the other had been heard and with a little adaptation there was a fine tale of a trip outside the city that held the attention of the schoolroom and gave everyone something to marvel at and envy. A provisional falsehood.

Tiffany Feb25

Read that, stiff shit being tossed outta Cabinet, heart bleeds for the man. Report seemed to suggest the guys thought they were fakes. What would they know bout $30-40k watches. Here they're big, big biz. Small limp weenie little mousey fella slightly cross-eyed, a Rolex Oyster fixes that in a jiffy. Utmost respect. Full page ads almost daily. A such-and-such isn't extravagance for the vain and egotistical wannabes. No-one ever owns one of these; rather a purchase is custody for the next generation. Daddy in fine wool sweater, nice fluffed hair on a lawn with pretty little boy, you hardly see the time-piece under the cuff. Reminded of the kinda shots they used to sell Jean-Paul Belmondo in the 60s, or—a name you might not know—Alain Delon. The Chin corporates wouldn't know these names either, but they sure know if you wanna see Big Ben & the Eiffel Tower, ski the slopes of the Matterhorn and not be looked upon askance by sophisticated Europe, you strap a glinting Rol on your wrist. Brokering a deal, say buying submarines, you're a dirty brown/yellow nuthin’ if you don't gleam with Swiss know-how. Reminds me: when even mid-millionaires here motor up to Malaysia, they strip off their gold chains, watches & bracelets, garage the Mercs and hire Toyotas. Lottsa kidnappings and muggings. One of my riff-raff mates got his hand on an old Rol few months back, felt-lined box, showroom condition, someone had looked after thinking of the heirs. Someone else had looked after it too and made it walk. The fence was trying to sell it locally for one G., thought he had a deal with a pawnbroker, in the end had to go off-shore, Indo from memory. There's one particular young English kinda rose who alternates page 3 & 5 here last few months. Private school grad., still at home with mum & dad, but seeing a nice boy. Daddy buys his girl the best corp execs can manage. Straits Times is English of course, but native English readers make up10% max. More like 5 with everyone else thrown in. All the poor bananas drooling and dribbling over her. Not in the best Orchard brothels you gunna find this gal. It's all put-on there, Four Floors and all the others. This heavy slim wrist on your member under the table-cloth at Imperial Jade takes some doin’. My old landlord Tan cries and bawls for a white girl, any price don't matter. Filipinas, Viets, Thais, done 'em all to death. A girl like the Tiffany before he drops dead, just one night. Always thought the store was make-believe from the movies, never credited. Here at Takashimaya, across from Mont Blanc and Bvlgari. Might not have mentioned the fake Mont B. shoulder bag I bought in Jogja. Rp180k; $18. Every couple weeks catching the No. 7 after lunch over to Orchard for the LRB, Omar it was gave warning: they catch you there going past they can have you for fraud, intellectual property theft, whatnot. That would take the cake!

 

 

NB. A friend back home reporting the case of the junior Cabinet Minister tending his resignation after being exposed brokering a deal in Beijing and being duchessed with some expensive time-pieces.

Look-out

Pimp jailed; collected over a million quick-time. P. B8 Home section in today's newspaper. Another one. They run at about one every three weeks, at least as reported in the Straits Times. At Fxxxxx last night Rich provided the details on the little chap who sits in a chair usually—sometimes squats—on Geylang Road watching the traffic. Early fifties lined fella; regular dyes, hair-cut that in attire would pass for government-biz. roundtable conferences. Short, thin, tattoos not visible; working nights often in nicely tailored puffer. Magazine spread style, rather ruined somewhat here by the shorts and sandals. An incessant smoker, keeping a sharp look-out, always within the same stretch in front of the row of hairdressers & pedicures. There was never any doubt; Rich simply provided the details. Numerous other look-outs in the same area, including the next parallel thoroughfare, some crouched or squatting within bushes. For a shift in his chair the Puffer earns $60-80. Easy, simple task pretty well remunerated for a fellow like that, Rich suggested. Colleague camped outside the cop shop relays number plates of departing vehicles, marked or otherwise. That's what you're looking out for, eyes peeled. See it pass, pass it along the line. Lorong such-and-such is the usual target for raids. Rich explains the police in Sin'pore are difficult to bribe; the operators therefore forced to use other means. When the alarm does sound one can see the young girls dashing helter-skelter every which way in their high-heels, elaborate make-up & cheap jewellery, giggling often the young ones, who still think it's a lark.

Slow-coaches - The Montenegrins (published Bosphorus Rev Books)

published by Bosphorus Review of Books. Nov 22

Wash off the ants from the banana. Not going to let it go to waste like that. (And forgetting for the moment good Buddhist principles.) In this case some splitting of skin had perhaps opened the door possibly. From reports from locals it seems banana skins of any sort cannot keep out a colony of hungry tropical ants. In cooler parts one does not get ants of this calibre, this speed and determination. Another version of the Asian tiger.
         It was still a mystery how they had entered the honey jar on two occasions now in the room at Four Chain View. Special care was always taken with the screw top and the jar kept on a wet shelf in the bathroom. To no avail. Unable to let it go to waste. If one or two ants had drowned in the liquid how much harm could that do? Finally the best measure was a little moat construction: a plastic container half-filled with water and the jar placed in the middle. The year before the same resort had been taken. As the jar emptied the problem of flotation arose that brought the jar tipping over to the plastic wall. In that case an appropriate sized weight could be added on top of the lid.
         The speed more than anything surprised. There was no tardy crawling along here. No meandering. This was rapido get on with it, chop-chop no hanging back. It reminded of a joke told by an old Croat woman outside a Brunswick Street bookshop, up at the northern end toward Alexandra Parade in Melbourne where you sometimes still got more than arty/hipster/lumbersexual/yuppie types.
         One blissfully cool afternoon looking in the window at the display. That was always more interesting than browsing over dusty shelves in any bookshop. Old kinda leftist chap seemed to be the owner, nice smile, not too sangfroid a bookworm.

         An ethnic woman like that exiting a secondhand upscale bookshop was not so common. She had been in need of directions was it? That might have been it.
         Perhaps mid/late-sixties, fairly easy to pick. Romanian or Magyar otherwise.

         We worked each other out pretty quickly. Croat; Montenegrin. Oh yeah.

         Lady of the old Yugoslav school, robbed of her country, resisting all the fierce, ugly nationalism. Good cheerful soul. Cheeky and sociable.

         Did you hear of the Montenegrin in the hunting party then?

         Ah, no auntie. How did that go?

         Well.... There they were going along, climbing hill and dale. No faun or deer about, no wild swine. Trekking. Whereupon the Montenegrin notices a snail behind him.

         Oh.

         Fellow goes on.

         Gurgling rivers, rock-strewn ground, green all round. Turning casually behind, the snail.

         Hey! Taking better note this time. Snail.

         No time for stopping. Onward. Goes and goes. Not having much luck with the game. Only every time the hunter, the Montenegrin, pauses for a bit, the snail. Where his companions, the other hunters, have gotten to the Montenegrin doesn't know and the Croat doesn't say.

         Shadows lengthening. Long story short, the Montenegrin has not shaken the snail on his tail. (Usually there was a Bosnian, Dalmatian and Slovene making up the remainder: Dumb, Boozer and Miser. Irrelevant here.)

         WTF?... Gotten jack of it this marksman. Finally slinging round loses all patience.

         — You bloody devil! Whadya mean tracking me like this, curse you.

         Without further ado, BAM-BAM-BAM. And one more for good measure: BAM. Every bullet on target. A snail that nevermore will hang on the tail of a (tardy) hunter outta luck.

         In the Former Yugoslavia the Montenegrins were much maligned as lazy, wouldn't work in an iron lung, layabouts. Philosopher types like our great prince poet celebrated by Goethe, Petar Petrovich Njegos. Handsome young tall gangly rake. Tuberculosis was a cover for the pox doing him in. But hush, hush.

         Croat smiling quietly. Somehow she knew she was not going to offend.

         That's how fared the Montenegrin hunter. Proverbially, the old Montenegrin would ride the donkey while his wife lugged the firewood back home; &etc. A race of giants, loafers, talkers, famed for their hospitality. (The Montenegrin Bestman officiating at a wedding took the first night with his mate's wife. Getting the blood part over with, presumably.) Soaring spirits, like their eagle emblems. How in this late age to witness the celebrated Montenegrin kolo, the slow step dance similar to the Greek of Zorba fame, arms out-stretched like their winged totems. Beautiful national costumes. Survived in the mountain wilds on tatters and goats cheese. Curled moustaches. Devilishly handsome. (Short uncomely ones would apologise for blighting of the race.)

         In Asia, in the year of 2016 when Lonely Planet pronounces the town of Kotor the No. 1 global destination for tourist travel, they need to know a little more about the land. Look at a historical atlas of the latter centuries of the last millennium you will find the Balkans covered by the Ottoman horde: Greece, Bulgaria, Serbia, Hungary for a good time and the gates of Vienna besieged. A small little red dot proudly free and independent. Black Mountain. Named by Venetian sailors more than likely from the partial view of the galleys. The interior, the glorious hills, stand all karst dotted white. If one ironed-out Crna Gora, Montenegro, we would be bigger than Amerika.)

https://bosphorusreview.com/slowcoaches-the-montenegrins

Putting in the Tropics

A former player in the region—in fact if the author remembers rightly it was the Mount Isa angel Gabby—posed the question some years ago on the number of golf courses in Singapore. 

How many do ya reckon?... 

Innocent, uneducated guess back then… Aaahmm. Three? Four?... 

Turned out five times that number on this tiny little red dot hot spot. 

Oh. Oh, OK then. Yeah. 

The million/billionaire contingent was quite high; disproportionately so. (Highest per capita on the planet in fact.) 

Cheap foreign labour. 

The colonial inheritance. (Not forgetting social psychology entwined.) 

And last but not by any means least, the traditional association with corporate/politico wheeling & dealing. (Soeharto and many of his cronies were keen golfers; founding father LKY here unbeatable on the course.)

The Singapore Open in its final stages presently, sponsored by the SMBC Japanese bank. 

Rain and thunder disrupted yesterday's play, as it has done on three of the last four years of the tournament. (This year a resumption after a hiatus of three years.)

Steep fees at clubs of course; big dollars. Mid-level entrepreneurs were shooting across to Batam and over to the Peninsular for their recreation.

…One was forced to wonder about fans discretely mounted at tees and around greens. (Ensconced within the branches of trees?) 

What had been the ingenious solution on the palm-fringed beaches of Dubai? Air-con units buried in the sand between lounge-chairs?

The thunder and rain god in the tropics was still a force to be reckoned with during the monsoon season. Horse racing can be run at night under lights; golf was more problematic.