Kicking-back at Starbs

Mr. T. T. closed for the second day. Yesterday was Har Yassin, the fat Tamil owner hanging around like a bad smell. Should the old dragon find you sitting on a $1.30 teh at the front table newspaper spread, watch-out! A couple of weeks ago the man enquired the food order. Rounded back a few minutes later with same again, this time adding fingers to the mouth case you weren't understanding. Third the nice prata-maker was enlisted, ordered to join the siege.

— Makan? Something to eat?

Money-hungry old devil. The labour that he sourced from the homeland was treated like the indentured from the good ol’ days.

Wifi at Starbs. Kampung Cafe around in Joo Chiat Road offered the same, but with curtains screening the street, backless stools and mediocre teh, it had to be Starbs.

10:15 usual dozen plus dotted at the tables, laptops sprung. Reading a newspaper within those walls was unusual, no need fisticuffs at the stand in the corner. One's own paper was always preferable of course and Auntie Helen had become accustomed to her lunchtime copy. (Feline stories aplenty: the therapeutics of cats, cat cruelties, cat cafes &etc. Always something for Helen.)

Starbs in the familiar livery. Sixteen Mr Teh Tarik outlets in the Republic; must be into the hundreds Starbs, Coffee Bean, Coffee Connoisseur, as well as some independents last few years in the hipster quarters. 

Woollen hoodies. Collared zipped windbreaker. In the squatting culture loads of legs brought up under bottoms, long clean limbs that were certainly unavailable down at Mr. T. T. and the others in the Malay quarter.

The young mop-top Korean with the machine-gun jabber last time in his favourite chair. Returning from town that same afternoon 4hrs later the lad had remained holding his ground in the window. Earlier signs discouraging long-term tenure had since been removed at Starbs. 

The chap had been making progress with a local lass. That Singaporeans were muddling up the north and south of his country was a concern. Now the attack on the American Ambassador in Seoul would give more nuisance.

Did you want brekkie with that?... Afternoons the enquiry was for up-sized beverage, only 50 cents extra. Newcomers hailed on entry.

The night had been palled by news at home of Arth’s struggles. Up until recently Arthur’s voice had countered the reports of his wasting away. The recent remedy gotten from the Net had been abandoned; there had been nausea and loss of appetite. The coming week some kinda brew that included McKenzie's Baking Soda & molasses was going to be tried; pictures online showed shrinking melanomas. A fortnight since the last call, suddenly the suggestion of gun-to-the head without improvement. Arth’s old .22 was still wrapped in oilcloth in the house somewhere.

Mite hard the tunes at the best of times. On a couple of occasions when some serious work had been brought along the guys immediately obliged lowering the volume. Once or twice when the same worker was struck the courtesy was delivered unasked.

C&W instead of Frankie and Louie covers mornings. (Frankie of course never rose early.) The twang at that hour made balancing a full cup dicey. 

This particular sample was unfamiliar, Republican hit parade of the kind Bush & Cheney would play in the pick-ups rounding up the steers. 

First serious plunge of the knife was Family—chorus, refrain and ripe rhymes. 

It's Family, It's Family across the scale. Family.

None of the bent heads bothered in the slightest. Not a flicker. If they weren’t enjoying there was certainly no blood-boiling.

Usual 25% Caucasian, with Eastern Euro regulars. The Ruskies and Poles in Singapore always surprised, part of the "foreign talent" that was upsetting the locals. 

Every time a TV drama queen from the States, present case big haired with turbo baby-stroller, late to motherhood.  

Yes my love? More chockie muffin for bubs?

Scarves or caps were exceedingly rare at Starbs. (In Malaysia there may have been social action against the corp.) Even hipster or professional Malays kept away, though sometimes it was difficult to tell the Chinese apart from the Malays, in the office attire especially. Uncomfortable sitting against the glass while one of the familiars from the bottom end passed by.

The Chinese pressed camouflage shirt and steel-rims must have parked in the basement. Wife had purchased khaki knickerbockers and matching sandals. Laptop; pressed for time.

What had you straightening in the chair was the melted cheese focaccia. Would have been good to see the slice before the heat had been applied. Gee. Warnings about cardiac arrest had passed over the top of that dyed head.

The while someone had flicked the volume. Up to that point the piece had pitter-pattered drawled unobtrusively, before the shooting finale.

HALLELUJAH!

In the comic book version the tables and chairs were blown into a pile in the corner.

Even more profound a few moments later was the descending tremolo that carried the notes so far one could have gone into the mall for a pee, returned to the chair and still had time for the crossword.

....LLLLUUUUUUUUUU....JAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHH.

There had been a recent report on free diving where exponents held their breath underwater ten minutes.

Flickerlessness. Not the merest sign in any quarter. Conversations proceeding. 

Some heads had turned from the concourse outdoors. The water jet-cum-fountain was still not operating at the newly opened One KM Mall.  Water restrictions were pending after the almost entirely dry nor'east monsoon.

The Korean's girl finally showed, lad properly occupied now. Back home in the south of the Peninsular they were likely accustomed to this kinda thing. 

Granddad Focaccia had been replaced by another pair of Caucasians sweating in striped long-sleeve, soaking up that number unperturbed.

No point getting flustered. Carry on. Carry on regardless. (The locals had adopted the British phrase as their own.)

 

 

                                                                                                       Geylang Serai, Singapore 2011-2020

 

Panic City

Lately literature has been allotted some prominent space on the Saturday Opinion Page here—Rhyme And Reason, poem and prose double—today a "nature" theme featuring a local young woman who has been shortlisted for the Commonwealth Short Story Prize and selected for other honours (the Writing Program at the University of Iowa). "The sounds of nature" is a reflective essay recalling a camping trip to Johor, which prompts further thought on nature and its threats in Singapore. In the first and longest paragraph the author was "enarmoured" by something and later "sanguine" about something else….

         Upon reflection over lunch a couple of hours later the decision was made to return to the piece and read it through. In the second paragraph one found further terms that might be ringed by parents here keen to promote vocabulary acquisition and hone spelling skills for their children: ineffable, enraptured and ersatz. In the third paragraph our present era (the Anthropecene) is described as having wrought upon the planet "audacious, irrevocable and often harmful changes...(from) our airconditioners, our errant eating and social habits”, which have "left our mark in the layers of the Earth's crust, the chemical composition of our air and oceans, and the evolutionary history of life itself." In conclusion in the final paragraph we Homo sapiens are encouraged to "stop, listen, think and admit..." the limits of scientific progress. 
         Yesterday up at Reference on the eighth floor of the National Library another Paul Virilio volume was begun, titled Ville Panique, “City of Panic” (2004). Virilio had abandoned Paris, no doubt a disastrous urban agglomeration of its own kind, some years earlier. But surely these equatorial mega-cities are the most outstanding examples of reckless ecological and social devastation on the planet, Singapore pre-eminent above all.

Giraffe With Stripes (Jan25) KV

Thin young manager of some sort from one of the gold shops it may have been, few doors down from KV. Tall stringy chap offering nice, full smiles. White shirt striped with half inch blue / red, white undershirt beneath & bearing a shiny, stainless & bronze fringed name-tag. Talking to the auntie at the register, man needs to bend over the desk in order to hear. Bend, bend again and some more bending, like someone was working a water pump. (A tall Indonesian girl couple months back walking with two friends had self-deprecatingly described her party as a pair of bears in company of a giraffe.) John Cleese too came to mind here. The Indian bending again & again shone and glowed more broadly and convincingly than the bean-pole Faulty Towers proprietor. No put-on. Buying his leather belt, chap had either failed to measure the article, or else was thinking ahead to middle-age girth. From the side within the dining hall the end protruding behind looked every bit a docked tail of some nicely domesticated household pet. (Perhaps it was a present from wife or relatives.) Small wags & flaps with the chap's constant exertions; almost audible the vibrations. Little doubt substance triumphed here over style. One could be confident even from a distance. That particular auntie at the Komala V. register brought forth a rich bounty of flowering smiles herself in response.

 

 

The Rub of the Green

En route to KV after an absence of a couple of days. On the No. 23 before the new Rochor MRT a familiar sight described earlier in these pages. The previous example three-four years ago had been witnessed out on the lawn in front of SAM—Singapore Art Museum. As on the prior occasion, three young dark men, Indians, on their knees working in what passed as a field. The lawn at SAM was finest traditional needle grass of the English form. Luscious, almost edible spear of rich colour knitted closely together to form a couple of pleasing circles before the entry to the old Jesuit institution now transformed into an art museum. Here at Rochor the lads wore their yellow hard hats and one at least his visibility safety vest with Traffic Controller possibly emblazoned behind. At Rochor the grass stretched approximately the size of a half football field—Euro football, with a shorter added segment behind the entry to the station. Brown clumps of weed lay across the field—the lads had been at their toil a number of hours; the best part of the morning. The greater part of the task might have been completed, the chaps working close to the footpath in three lines. Before an art gallery or museum of art one could understand the concern for fine grade prime lawn that was a pleasure to behold, soothing, reassuring and attractive. The prospect out front of SAM, with the colonnades curving round and often teasing artworks on the lawn—most recently a little sheltered beige bus-stop from a generation past— was a favourite site for photographs, both for tourists and local enthusiasts. Understandably serious effort to remove unsightly couch and other infestations. Small scalloped spaces between the paving at SAM, much smaller than the penalty area in the football measure; a couple of narrow putting greens. For urban commuters on Bukit Timah Road beside the new Rochor station the rationale seemed less self-evident. Adjacent the road-works there on Bukit Timah Road had come to a temporary halt perhaps, an eagle-eyed supervisor, a local councillor or even PAP Minister it may have been observing the opportunity for re-deployment. It reminded of the common complaint of the maids, the domestic servants: when a certain kind of Madam saw her maid twiddling her thumbs, lying down or chatting on the phone, suddenly a back ache and need for massage.

NB. Two days later another report over the ongoing troubles with the turf at the new National Stadium. Showcase architecture featuring an impressive shell form erected in record time and pride of the sporting public undone by the problem of the English green. The young stars in the Asian Football confederation Cup last night slipping and sliding on the pitch.
                                                                                                                                                                   S.T. Wed 11 May 2016

The Exit - Void Deck (3)

 

Last night after supper the regular chat with Arthur back home, an hour at Feidu tidying files and a couple of corrections. Down on the deck at the bottom of Block 2 returning the women's card game was underway on one of the tables. Each block had their own round concrete table, about 900mm diameter, with checkers squares embossed on the surface sometimes and ringed by six stub seats. Card games, dining and drinking tables, and sleeping platforms sometimes too. For some reason the men at Block 2 preferred their own fold-out table in an inner corner against a wall for their games, with their own soft plastic stools brought down. From the newspapers one knew rowdy drinkers sometimes gathered on the void decks and police had to be called. Young lovers sometimes claimed the rounds, sitting on the edge of the seats in order to snuggle close. Foreign workers taking their lunch and dinner were sometimes found at the tables. (More often the workers would sit against a wall on the deck itself, the greaseproof paper spread between their legs. The tables were not really intended for their use.) On the return last night there was something that looked like shredded tissue paper on the desk in the room. Strands of orange pith possibly left from the night before. Or else pigeon droppings somehow deposited through the window. During outings the windows were left slightly ajar in the way Doreen advised—not too wide, otherwise at that height the afternoon breeze could create havoc indoors. The friable material and the tang in the air soon established the matter: it was ash from the burning of the paper money from a funeral down on the deck. They were burning a lot of it, Doreen confirmed. It was the money alright; not gas or anything else in the air. Not to worry. The fourth or fifth funeral in the neighbourhood in these five weeks. Once more the deceased was unknown to Dor. (Three or four times Doreen had been encountered on the path downstairs, on each occasion needing to be hailed because of her dead-walk through the grounds. Many of the passersby walked blind like that; neighbours were often unknown to each other.) Ten flights up the ash had risen through the windows, both the far room and the louvered adjacent bathroom. (The windows to Doreen's own room were recessed a little and sat safely beneath a narrow concrete ledge.) Before the casket downstairs a male pictured in his sixties stood in a frame, clothing effigy draped on the chair in the usual manner. Two or three mornings ago the yellow tenting had been erected, evidently the man dying late week within C section of Block 2. Early mornings the mechanical sound of an unoiled pulley or wheel could be heard outside the windows on the east side. Some days before the brooding pigeons on the ledge below the kitchen window had been identified; a mystery that had taken a little longer to figure.

The Gift (Philippine Village) / Jan25

Before he left for the Philippines Jamaal promised he would enquire the altitude of his wife's hill village in Baguio, three hours from Clark. True to his word, this morning after Steve the Ohioan vacated the table, Jamaal slipped into the breach. Earlier he had been met at the tea counter and advised he was in possession. Thirty/thirty-five minutes of unfolding the trip &etc. The old mother-in-law up there had received special solicitude from Jamaal. A house had been built for her down on the flat that was the envy of her ten children, all of whom—apart from the daughter here, Jamaal’s wife—still lived up on the hill in much inferior dwellings. Thus far Jamaal had spent about $25k on land and construction. Another plot of land in the neighbourhood, big spread of about two acres—from Al Wadi down to the "post-box" (that was actually a utility stand) and down to Sims Avenue. In Sing perhaps $2m, Jamaal conservatively estimated. Fifth trip, Jamaal was a big hit in Baguio. One evening he was prevailed upon to sing a song for the gathering, once the guitar was produced a fine ballad issuing. Sweet little lyric, the opening verse of which Jam gave soto voce at table, chin dropped slightly and dyed handle-bar brushed back into place on completion. Out to one side the old mother had been frying fish for dinner and asked who it was singing so captivatingly. Told it was Jamaal, seems an expletive escaped for at the command of Tagalog. How was that? Jamaal had kept his competence under wraps, a useful and perhaps understandable ploy in a position such as his. In fact, Tagalog & Malay had a great deal in common. Jam underlined the shared roots and the common humanity for the people of the two religions when he attended church to sponsor a young man's wedding, it might have been. Lad had no one else to perform the function. When Jamaal heard he had immediately offered. The first Muslim who ever entered that church, the priest announced when he saw Jamaal's name recorded on the paperwork. Whereupon Jamaal told of the same red blood under the skin; same closing of eyes & mouth at death. Priest in appreciative agreement. The old Ma had been gifted a thousand dollar gold necklace by Jamaal (either on this last visit or some earlier); grasping children lectured about their ways with the old mother, the respect due, the kindness and consideration. The sons, Jam's brothers-in-law, who were rather put out at the primitive condition of their own housing compared to their mother, ticked off by their sister’s husband and mother’s benefactor. With Jamaal's guidance the error of that attitude was granted by the brothers-in-law and undertakings given for better in the future. On departure everyone wanted to know when there might be another visit. Don't worry, Jam told them, with his German firm closing down a week in December—in Germany it was three weeks—there was good prospect. Adding another week of accrued leave would make a follow-up feasible. The wife herself earned $6k a month; Jamaal as experienced tradesman likely topping that. Other funds of some sort were in hand, from a down-grading of housing here. (The marriage to the Filipina was only five year term. A family maid last time? Or Jamaal a widower? There was some kind of story which would be enquired shortly.) Otherwise Jamaal had been lucky with his 4D, two or three upper-level prizes over the last couple years. When that dosh came in Jam was always generous—unlike some others—and this helped the luck continue. From there on the back of the money theme to an old wealthy pal who had passed away recently. The old chap too was generous with his money, though his principle was to neither a lender or borrower be.The expat Filipina gals mourned the man when he had gone. Food, dresses, perfume & accessories, if not loans and cash, now dried up. It seems chap was without family; owned numbers of top brand wrist watches (six to be precise). You know how much?... A thousand dollars seemed a good under-estimation here for present purposes. NO! Jamaal countered. One hundred and fifty, more like. Rolex and other less well-known. A kind of father-son relationship established. Once the man asked Jamal what he might like. Jamaal had not been unprepared for the question. Nothing, nothing, he answered. Only that time-piece—pointing—if that was alright. One of the prize suite. Old man promptly assented. When he was ready he would call Jamaal and hand it over. In advance one could sense the missed opportunity looming. What the old man did in good time was present Jam with a belt. For holding up Jamaal’s trousers. Initially a bit stumped, in time to come Jam learned this was no common strap. Alerted first by a friend, Jam eventually discovered even some time ago now, the article was worth not one or two hundred, but $1400. For a belt, well might one wonder. Seems near the end the old man either called and Jam had not heard the ring until too late; or else the intended call was prevented by untimely passing. Intended $150k piece gone begging. Never mind. Others in the circle had gotten their pieces; Jamaal who had equal claim, missed by a whisker. But never mind. Thirty-five or perhaps forty minutes. Later Chia the Chin convert cabbie who was always kept on a short leash at the eatery tables, remarked on the length of the conversation. The Today newspaper had given Chia a little trouble that morning. Not on terms with big Jamaal the dart-player with the flourishing dyed moustaches, Chia had sat quietly a couple of chairs off. Some of the vocab had stumped Chia that morning in the Today. Chia had good English, but not stretching so far as "valedictory", "conscientiousness" and “reckless delinquency”. There were one or two others before Chia was cut-off. And before he was cut-off the kind of snobbery of some of the Singaporean journalese that was common in the Republic, but perhaps a little unexpected in the free tabloid Today, was guessed by the Cabbie Convert all by himself, unaided and without prompting. Stuff and nonsense indeed. Pretentiousness, meritocratic trumpery and subtle airs of superiority mimicking former colonial masters, carefully crafted and reinforced wherever one happened to look here.

 

War of the Worlds Till Doomsday (July26)

Teh with Omar this morning was punctuated a dozen times by the jets coming in at Paya Lebar. We had set a 10AM appointment and the meeting needed to be cut short because of matters pending in old Melbourne town, two hour time diff adding squeeze. As usual Omar was a little early, though not as early as the author ensuring the usual paper shuffle prior. Normally the lads returned their jets to base for lunch in the half hour after eleven, a dozen or more planes tearing the sky to shreds by no means unusual. News of the arrest of the Bangla terror cell, coupled with the fire-power in the sky, would leave the populace properly reassured, by-election currently being contested perhaps coincidental. 

            Dear lord the racket! The impediment to conversation was the least of it. One cowered at the reminder what other corners of the world endured. 

Late afternoon an item on Australian ABC News reinforced the dire position. Women in politics making for a gentler world? Pah! Forget Maggie Thatch, Golda Meir and Mrs Gandhi. Here was Bronwyn Bishop down in Canberra giving her valedictory speech to parliament. Former Minister for Military Materiel; one had forgotten her reported grillings at enquiries. Pictured up on her feet, entirely unconscious of her grotesquerie:

".... Mrs Bishop took an early liking to aviation as the minister for defence material, drawing laughs from the Chamber, when she recalled a story about flying an F-111 fighter jet.
"We did a mock bombing raid, which was lots of fun, we went in low, dropped our pay load, barrel rolled," she said.

"We then came up and the pilot said to me, “would you like a go?' and I said 'would I what!' and so he let me take it.

"We went back, came in for another raid and pulling 4.5 G's, I did the roll and it was just fantastic."
She spoke fondly of her early years in Parliament as a Senate backbencher, where she pioneered an aggressive form of questioning during estimates hearings..."

            A terrorist hairdresser needed to infiltrate her neighbourhood coming weeks and let rip with the scissors on that sprayed birds’ nest pile.