Intolerably Out of Place and Time

You read the following from Alexievich’s Chernobyl book of monologues in Singapore as it happened. A cameraman who was sent to the Zone soon after the explosion found it difficult to know where to turn his camera. Brought up on war film heroics, the man was lost in the Zone. What to capture? He began filming apple blossom and the circling bees, “everything in bridal white,” until the realization struck that he had lost all sense of smell, as had all the others. All the volunteers and even the dragooned became imbued with a sense of heroic duty. The earlier generation had survived the war and triumphed: Chernobyl was now their test in turn. “Otherwise we’d never become real people.”

         The following two sentence paragraph read in Singapore where the selfie ruled supreme and in the airconned eateries plates of food drew the loving lens. (Was Melbourne even in the first half of 2011 anything like? The virus only of the last five and one half years and nothing more?)

         “That’s how we’re made." (The heroic Russian soul &etc.) "​If we just work each day and eat well—that would be strange and intolerable.”

Voices From Chernobyl, Svetlana Alexievich p. 109         

Encapsulated

A few weeks ago a friend down in Melbourne had expressed some appreciation for a recent item on the blog. “The Kambodja,” a brief sketch plumbing memories that were set-off by the fall of a large, only half-yellowed leaf of the tree that stood outside the regular Teahouse in old town Johor Bahru. (Kambodja aka frangipani.) Being a jester the reader friend signed off his mail with a crack about the piece being particularly effective for the omission too on this occasion of any mention of a t-shirt.... Well George, being back on billboard tee territory now I'm afraid I have to tell you the semaphoring on the pathways here returns with a vengeance; with all the former power and all the former ubiquity. 
         At the usual morning Al Wadi table today one of the prominent articles of the last two years plain and simple straight between in the eyes in B/W, caps of 72 and perhaps 120 point:

     LUCK

          IS WHERE
   PREPARATION
        MEETS

  OPPORTUNITY          
In three months nowhere visible on the other side of the kilometre wide Causeway; not even the two malls immediately adjacent the Checkpoint. 
         Sometimes George a single, solitary encapsulation says it all. (And so far as Seneca is concerned, entirely beside the point here. Unascribed, at least on the facing side) 

         Invariably carried by twentysomething males from the Singapore Management University, hazard the guess.

Gunslinger (July26)

The veteran Madura gunslinger stopping by the breakfast table for a second time this morning. Couple English words included I eighty-one. Thumb hooked back at his midriff like the cowboys used to do in the movies. (Hear what I'm saying? I, me & no one else is gonna personally run you outta this town by sundown, if you haven't cleared out...) What the man wanted to hear in response was duly delivered, on a silver platter. Not a worry in the world; glad to be of service, Uncle. Nobody give you... Ah! Pleased as punch. That was welcome any tick of the clock. Echoing: Nobody give, huh... Smiling; chuffed. Chest more puffed than usual. Putting on the vice squeeze earlier when his health had been enquired, just like at the doc's for check-up. Recent dye in the mullet retained (tight flattie super-glued on the scone). In the usual way, no one was more surprised than the man himself at the number he carried on his back, like a monkey in a circus. All of eighty-one… From the early seventies they started with that challenge. Can you believe it? Whatdaya say? Joke, aint it?... Beautifully upright pacing with his bright buckle, twin pocket shirt & sunnies, never mind the overcast. Back in Madura they still ran their famous cow races across the sodden paddies, the events of late become tourist attractions. Not to say the gleaming row of choppers weren't the man’s own either; many retained here well into old age. The abundant fruits of the forest helped. Like the others, Uncle had noticed the absence. Easy to understand. Who in the heck else was keeping such a close eye on this community and marking them with such dedication?

 

 

               Geylang Serai, Singapore

 

Feels a Bit Like Home (Orthodox Christmas Lunch, SG)

Home turf Komala V. after three months of breakfasts at the equivalent Muthu on Jalan Trus, Straight Road Johor Bahru. Comparisons are invidious, no need for them. But good to return to the familiar surrounds here. Some curtaining of the kitchen, a new aircon unit in the first room. Shanmug was relocated around at the Racecourse Road outlet, one of the three run by this branch of the Komala family. A pity. Mug was always a fine presence. The gracious Chinese plate-collector who replaced his gracious compatriot in the same function warm and delightful as ever, yesterday on the first reappearance and today the same. The other fellow wore his Buddhism on the outside of his person with jade bracelet and shaved head; his replacement inside, if it was indeed the Buddhism that shone in him so bright. Chap today recalled the rasam container and its cutlery ought not be cleared immediately after it was consumed. The fork and spoon would be needed for the main, right?... Ah yes, indeed. Too right. In all likelihood the man instinctively understood the ruling standpoint too: washing one set of cutlery and then one more, the water, detergent and labour, what sense was there in that? Wise choice of the rasam was always acknowledged by the man, thumbs up, do you a power of good…. No doubt the chap saw the uppuma and pongal platters wiped clean every meal. Waste not; want not. Up in the valleys of Heilongjiang Province or the like the same values held; chap recognized a kindred soul never mind the lack of a single mutual word almost. Ni hao, sje sje, zhai tzien. Soon there would be occasion to greet the New Year, Gong xi fa cai — the spelling needed to be recalled each year anew. Doubtful whether for him there would be either hangpao or a day off; that would come on one of the Hindu festivals. Last night at Al Wadi the scene was brightened by a couple of Gansu men with whom Cabbie Cha the convert could communicate quite smoothly. One a dead-set Arab throw him into any Middle-Eastern country he would be welcome; the other inter-mixed, telling features quite distinct from the Han, Cha declared. There had been a group the last week visiting, Cha reported; that was how he knew they were not Urumqi. Where was Gansu on the map again? Cha had likewise forgotten; he needed to check. It was not up at Xingjian Cha thought, though the two were oppressed by the authorities just the same. Conflicted was Cha: the Cabbie could not help feeling pride at the advance and accomplishments of his ancestral home, all its rich history and culture. And so far as that went the great Setan remained the same for the Muslim convert as for the Han scion. But the regime was no good on the score of the Muslim minorities, Tibet too. Next week Cha's elder brother will visit from Perth, Australia. A football coach in this case, well settled somewhere outside the State capital some fifteen years and more. There was another divide now between the pair as elder brother had converted to Christianity. Cha was keen to introduce him to his Australian friend.

Ginger Proper

Warung Teh Sarbat Asli beside the flyover, large mound of ginger being diced as we speak. Two blades going, the owner of the shop in fine white dhoti on the end of one. Unnecessary but nevertheless for the theatre: You are Indian. Where would your Indonesian wife be then? Like a shot the riposte: I have two. Strong alright, knocked out your back teeth and tickled the throat proper after all the tepid teh halias drunk over these many weeks. A month ago a kilometer back up the road under a fine tall tree an Indian impostor with an Indon wife tried to tell the author, Ya, ya, you’ve found the place. Best in JB too right. Awaiting a pause in the percussion…. LAGI! See if you can find that mix one more time, to the woman at the counter. Worth it for the smiles ringing round, venture returned with banjak interest. Tin shed open three sides—carport in all but name. Cracked and broken concrete, backless stools, old patterned plastic sheeting covering knocked-up tables and busy three-way traffic directly adjacent. Another Indon lass serving the grub unable to find the table nevertheless rejected the offer of one ringgit for the plate. In excess of a dozen and half customers mid-afternoon before more still piled in. If one didn’t get a wet arse footing back all would be well and Razali to thank.

NB. The son translated the sarbat razzmatazz as ginger (halia properly), which was a forgivable stretch — sherbet, sherbert, sorbet. (Locals have subsequently advised that in fact this is the usual term for halia in Malaysia.)

Men of Quality

Four warm handshakes by the front rail at Muthu with a short, tubby chap in faded blue company polo, shorts and sandals, perhaps mid-thirties. Two front teeth missing could only have been fisticuffs, or an accident on the bike perhaps. With the enthusiasm of all four men, ranging from the old plate-collector to the Bollywood spiv, one could discount the first—a brawler could not draw such wide regard. The cashier’s shake was with both hands, the left lingering with the last of his words given to the man. In each case, even with the reticent floor manager, the gap-tooth received far more than he gave of both words and gestures. To have passed the man on the street one would never have guessed his qualities. A reminder of something one had the good fortune to learn in earliest days.

Morning Newspaper Horror (April26)

Horrendous picture of an elephant on a forest path in Sabah on its side, the front of its head torn away by ivory hunters. Gruesome and stunning. The lads at Muthu were appropriate for sharing. Not the sacredness of the cow, of course, involved, but nonetheless a deep affront. The Gaja. Such was the shock that the chaps were not in the least surprised by the usage in their own language. All bent close to take the picture properly, the plate-collector asking, Where? Could the same happen in Tamil Nadu, one wondered. It seems the question is unresolved whether the beasts were native, or introduced by the East India Company. The endangered Borneo pygmy elephant, threatened by deforestation and development; the incidence of poaching seems to be more recent.