Buffoons and Worse (Dec25)

Paul Virilio throws up the reminder of the "buffoon Berlusconi," a particular Italian joke for chuckling at a dozen years ago when City of Panic was published. These few years later the note rings rather differently after the imminent nomination of Trump, the South African Zuma (husband of four wives concurrently: polygamy was written into the South African constitution) and beneficiary of a $20m government funded renovation of his private residence; then add Najib's alleged involvement in thievery and murder, Sisi in Egypt, the Sauds forever in Arabia, Putin's PR machine manufacturing the Strongman cartoony. New boys on the block Duterte in Manila (boxer Pacquiao in the wings together with the young Marcos) and the pistol-totting candidate for the Austrian presidency losing by a whisker last week. Placing Kim Jong-un in the midst of that crowd, the youngster might be perceived in an altogether different light. (On our local little red dot the son of the revered founding father has remained in the jockey seat a decade—the party a half-century—after a short round as a Brigadier General, in a famed corruption-free meritocracy, with free elections and single state media throughout.)

The sting in the tail comes in the suggestion that it was in fact ever thus, only much better managed and presented usually.

The Agency Jan25

As if someone gives a right royal FFF. What's the big deal? So damn well what for christ almighty’s sake, there’s far more important things to worry about. Young pretty pre-pubescent beauty happily swinging herself in the Haig playground. Cloud cover from morning holding through the afternoon. Long high swings in the air and no-one needed to supervise. (Copper-coloured Malay; the Chinese were far more circumspect where risk-taking behaviour was concerned). Thin long limbs that would make the boys' hearts race in a couple years, legs pointed, arms stretched and smiling. CIA orange caps on sleeveless olive green. In Manila, Vietnam, Laos & Cuba by now it will be the same.

Clear and Distinct

From a quite unexpected quarter one morning.
         — Good thinking; good doing.
         Frizzy-haired chap offering slightest acknowledgements up to that point over the five years. Early or even mid-seventies, always dyed and in good trim.
         The Malay might have been infused with some part Indian in his case.
         Earlier the man had never sat at the lower end there, all the previous passes had been up at the Haig, almost always with quite uncertain acknowledgement and most often nothing explicit.
         Chap had drawn some conclusions from his quiet observations over the term. More than a little surprising.
         Only in the last couple of weeks had there been more deliberate nods and inaudible words. These here the very first distinct—something like an oracle finally giving unambiguous utterance.
         Fellow had gone across under the awning on the other side of the passage to have his fag. (Two hundred and fifty dollar fines recently exacted for smokers at the tables.) One of the street chaps who slept rough and relied on charity was there on a chair he had taken over; joined by the sage. On the return passing behind the chair and bending to whisper in the ear.
         Clearly respected pen and paper, when there had not been any indication whatever.
         Left one wondering; still waters and all that.
         And more treasure almost immediately afterward as a kind of follow-up illustration.
         An old, irregular Malay tissue-seller had stopped at the adjacent diners. Yes, a sale. Lady would take a single pack, that would do. Keep those two. Makasih, makasih.
         Furthermore, chap accompanying the lady wanted to know whether the woman had eaten. Hungry or thirsty? 
         Usually perfunctory enquiries of course, though not in this case. Pressing at hesitation. (The ancients in Montenegro needed to be asked three times before they would accept hospitality; that way you could be sure of true offering.)
         Iced lemon teh then, no need let up on the gula. Sugar hit for all she's worth.
         Politeness meant the woman should sit a while, short conversation sufficient.
         Not so hot, good cloud cover. Quite enough for a thirst of course.
         Had the woman truly eaten? Would she like a plate of something?
         Sudah, the tissue-hawker re-affirmed. Seemed she had indeed taken some morsel previously.
         Half the teh consumed; the remainder she would take with her. Away then. Thanks again and best wishes.
         In delivering a couple of drinks unasked in the last few days Mr. Yusof the SMRT (“death” in Serbo-Croat!) bus-incident stand-by explained with Ramadan approaching a Muslim needed to reach out to one's brothers, to one's neighbours and strangers too.
         The extremism was chickens coming home to roost after more than a century of devious manipulation and vicious devilry in one particular region of the world most especially. Colonialism and Neo.

Forest Thicket - published by Rambutan #5, 2018

Without any other way to record what must be recorded, these fragments continued.

         The man with the turned right eye usually found on the Block 2 Void Deck either at one card-table or the other, observing from the side usually; striped red, blue & white polo cycling through the estate; sometimes seated by the passage legs up on the railing.

         Good mornings, ni haos, zhao uns and how are you? This morning on the return from the teh and newspaper the same. Going out earlier there had been the same.

         After the second pass this morning a short wait was needed at the lift, where unexpectedly from around the corner the man suddenly appeared. He did not live in D Block; he had never been encountered there. 

         — I give you mango. Abruptly thrusting a red plastic bag at the shnozz and pulling back the cover either side.

         — Verrrry nice! As if afraid he might be disbelieved and his offering rejected.

         After a momentary start it was clear the chap wasn't kidding; man knew his fruit. 
         A hard, green specimen of average-small size, yet the perfume emanating was difficult to credit; more than substantiating the man's claim. An exploding grenade of richest heady perfume. 
         One hundred to one this was not supermarket product, and far from it. The fellow had access to a tree somewhere in deepest forest where trunks crowded each other and the foliage shredded the light; he knew where, as the old story-tellers would have said.

         Like everyone else, the man had observed the fruit carried in hand day after day up to Doreen’s flat, naked oranges, apples and the yellow Thai mangoes usually that gave only the most trifling scent. In his keeping this man had an appropriate gift for the stranger. Even late night from the entryway returning housemates remarked upon the fragrance.

         How to return something fitting now was the question.
         A couple of days later when the man was thanked again for his gift and the fabulous bouquet underlined, chap was surprised it had not yet been tasted. The hardness made no never mind, the fruit was ripe. It was in fact fallen fruit, not picked. After two days it would be "spoiled ready."
         In season a fig they used to give as an offering to children, friends and passers-by on the Montenegrin coast between the wars (and proverbially of course one would not give the same for anything less than worthy); an apple, orange or almonds and walnuts too from the fortunate ones in possession. Kampung folk easily identifiable here over the void decks, sitting on the steel benches, under the care of the dark-skinned maids and pacing the aisles under the supermarket fluro, old ways retained.

Rapid Dawn

Half seven this morning the wide fish-lens of the S-E of the island from Doreen's tenth floor kitchen showed low dark cloud on the horizon and beneath luminescent orange following the same line. Cool through the open window and still like a painting that had drawn one in. The brilliant visual that is given each morning here outside the window before breakfast bears no relationship whatever to the bulldozer heat imminent, less than an hour away. (During the time of the forest and jungle it must have been an entirely different matter.) Dusks are brief on the equator and innocent sleeping city dawns the same. Yesterday at the adjacent Komala table a young Tamil engineer based the last few years at the Caterpillar factory in Arizona remarked upon the heat—neither Arizonan desert nor the South of the Indian sub-continent came close to the challenge here.

 

Expect Death

Jan 1, 8, 11, 14, 22, 26, 28, 29; Feb 7, 17, 27; Mar 3, 4, 9, 11, 22, 24, 25, 31; April 1, 2, 16, 26 and May 16, 19, 23, 24 days of workplace deaths in Singapore. Thirty-two thus far this year, which is six more than for the same period last year. 

            A fortnight ago stronger regulatory measures were announced, which met with resistance from building contractors. (The construction sector employing mainly cheap foreign labour a major source of the problem.) 

            Stiffer penalties would worsen the "dire situation for meeting deadlines"; workers also might suffer financially with extension of stop-work orders. 

            An MP suggested "it all boils down to the workers." 

            One construction firm had increased safety inspections from one a week to two. 

            The Humanitarian Organization for Migration Economics (Home) executive director pointed to fatigue as an underrated factor: twelve hours or more seven days a week, lapses could be expected.

                                                                                
                                                                                                         Straits Times 25 May 2016                                               

NB. As of 12 May, fifty Australian workers have been killed at work in 2016; nine hundred and thirty-three in Malaysian workplaces in 2014.

The Buddha All Guns Blazing (Vesak) May26

Mid-afternoon on the return from lunch jets four-abreast over Tanjong Katong corner, crossing to the field on the other side of the former post office. Oooooh! Burning up the blue, almost touching distance overhead. Were it not for the almighty clamour, the crowd at the air-field might have been heard. Earlier in the morning someone had said it was the Air Show. Yes, the Air Show; big crowds along Changi Road. Parking was impossible anywhere along there. One chap complained he had been forced to park down at Eunos MRT; peeved that he could get no closer to the market. In fact turned out not to be the Air Show at all; that had taken place in February. Not the big ticket Air Show. This was the RSAF Open Day at the Paya Lebar Air Base; a rather different, less highly geared affair. The theme of this year’s event was "Defending Our Skies": aerial and static displays of RSAF aircraft and weapons systems (Republic Sing. Air Force; not Royal); demonstrations of aircraft arming, simulators & aviation-related games on the program. Entertainment for the family, and unlike the bigger production that draws buyers from the region with their cheque books, this Open Day was free. Only problem, there was no parking provided at the air base, mums, dads and kiddies forced to bus it and foot-slog in order to partake. By chance, it also happened to be Vesak Day, a national public holiday in Sin’pore that marked the Buddha's birthday. There were other events on elsewhere in the Republic on Vesak Day, but it does seem the displays at the air base outdid competitors. Unfortunately, the only thing, the poor old sage was forced to put up with sharing his special day with the flying killing machines. Unhappy accident. Unintended no doubt. Uncertain whether the irony would have registered for any of the planners. Protecting/defending the skies was all well and good, but even so, one could imagine the wise old Compassionate One might have been miffed. That explained all the aerial thundering day after blessed day through the last week. The lads had been getting into shape, readying for the crowds on Vesak Day and keen to put on a proper performance. Syria, Iraq, Libya were a world away. All the same, three cheers for the Buddha, not completely over-shadowed in Singapore. Earlier, over the back fence at the Carpmael Road temple, chopsticks had been heard clattering on the porcelain it must have been, brought out for the occasion. Later in the afternoon pleasant and lulling chanting drifting over the grass. 

 

NB. On the following day a news-item on the world's most advanced fighter jet, the F-35B Lockheed Martin, which Sing' was currently assessing for purchase. Possibly it had featured in the entertainment on Vesak. Equally interesting too, the Israeli-US-designed augmented-reality helmet, which offers pilots six cameras mounted around the plane, giving 360* views of surrounding airspace, including "look through" floor. A "heads-up display" projecting directly onto the visor provides info like altitude, speed, location of enemy aircraft or ground weapons, "right in front of the pilot's eyes".

 

 

Straits Times

Sunday 22 May 2016