(No) Walk in the Park

Ruth from Block 9 at the Haig lives with her hubbie in an executive apartment at the top of her tower just opposite the Carpmael house. Few in Singapore have such palatial domestic quarters, especially in the HDB pigeon-hole sector. Think 1965 shopping precincts London, Paris, Melbourne for Ruth: floral dresses, dress jewelry, big dyed hair, lippy and handbag. In the Great Southern Land the type expired in the late 70s; here in Sing the grip of Ascot, Princess Margaret, tea in the garden had the Chinese in particular by the short and curlies throughout and still today prominent. Ruth at the Haig was hardly Robinson Crusoe in that regard. Nice lady, good English; lively, sociable and possibly a tad risqué. Insurance salesperson up along Changi Road ten minute walk from Geylang Serai, the Malay market; twenty from Block 9 at the Haig. The last two or three years Ruth had been walking up, sauntering along: the sheltered pathways through the Haig estate, Haig Market, right at Geylang and on past Wadi and J. C. Complex with trees dotting the pavement every thirty or forty metres more or less and mid-morn. the furnace less than utterly overwhelming. That was the last three or four years. Exercise of course highly important. With the help of that morning and evening routine Ruth had maintained her trim. There was no time early before work for the tai chi at the base of Ruth’s Block. In the latter half of last year and now the first quarter of this, no more Ruth however by the morning table at Al-Wadi. Had she retired, finally? Not so common in Singapore even for people well into their seventies. In fact Ruth could comfortably manage without the money; money was not the chief motivation in this case. Ruth was good at her job; a valued employee retaining a client base over many years. Without Ruth at the office every likelihood these customers might peel away. A wise boss knew Ruth’s value. Good earnings; sense of accomplishment. Dinners, perks and a certain social round. What awaited Ruth in retirement? Next year when the building currently being erected opposite City Plaza was complete Ruth’s office would relocate to that corner. Spitting distance from the Haig. Here the dear lady was along the path this morning—time fetching midday in fact—an arm thrown wide in greeting like the TV supports in the shows back in the sixties did it. Floral, lippy, heels and hair like Lucille Ball and Princess Marg. back then. Oh! Ruth! It has been a stretch…. No clock-on card for an experienced, valued employee. Ruth was on her way to the office. Howdeedo! Hideehi! Wasn’t it hot though? Now Ruth was no longer walking over to Changi Road: thus the no-show this many a long month. A change of routine. Ruth’s chosen path now took her westward from the Haig out onto Tanjong Pagar Road and on the other side of City Plaza the stop for the No. 30 bus. The 30 headed north initially, before swinging east toward Eunos somewhere where Ruth rang the bell. At so-and-so Eunos stop such-and-such other number was taken through housing blocks and industrial precincts until another stop where a third bus was boarded. Snaking around some more the third before almost at the foot of the tower on Changi Road a couple of hundred metres past Geylang Serai Pasar Ruth alighted fresh as a daisy. Arrived where insurance was sold to clients over the phone mostly. Carpet by her desk. Side-table carrying pot plant and tree-tops outside the window. Ruth may have shared a secretary with the boss. Six or seven kilometres round trip on the three buses; 850 - 900 metre walk previously. In the torture of sun and slaughtering humidity all too understandable and not uncommon circuitry. Travel by the Cape was a regular recourse in Singapore. Once upon a time Ruth had been able to manage on her pins and bore up. It was harder now. Ruth had succumbed. To date no noticeable crumpling or added weight. A walk in the park it was not even that distance under sheltered walkways large part of the way and on the south side of Geylang and Changi Roads some cover. But not a walk in the park. Heels not helping. The tropics were hard going. (And the grass between the concrete pathways and along the street verge nothing like English lawn either.)

Curated — Trumpet//Kim Summit (Feb26)

Instagrammable hotel trade setting a hot pace in the republic.  The discerning fin. products trader in the pic. “does not specifically look for an Instagrammable hotel, but places great emphasis on aesthetics.” (Potential brides BEWARE, such-like chappies a lifetime of pain and hardship.) 

One hotel ahead of the game in Middle Road near the National Library included in each room a “dreamcatcher chandelier.” (Regular readers will have noted such features as "infinity pools," "bus captains" and "Senior Minister Mentors" in the SG landscape.) 

The same Dreamcatcher provider offers guests at their hotel a boxing gym with vintage sandbag and speedball. 

Food has been enlivened with executive chefs encouraged to add more colour to dishes. What was on offer at the leading candidates in this republic—the Shangri La, Marina Bay Sands and the Sentosa resorts— was hardly ever likely to be trumped by Panmunjom, Vienna or any place else for the upcoming summit that was hoped to usher peace into the region.

                                                                                                            Straits Times, Home p. 1-2, 10 May 2018

50 Years After the Paris Students (May1968)

If It Is To Be

It’s Up To Me
Fatty young student of some description on Selegie Road near Peace Centre; some solid part Caucasian that was clearly well outside the chief Western round and the Singaporean ethos predominating. Fond Eastern Euros at a guess spending plenty in their investment on their boy; if Mummy didn’t dress him in the morning she did see him to the door of the condo. The lad was caught nearer the traffic lights outside the Centre’s entrance, rather than 20 - 30 metres down where the local kids in their cut-offs and sleeveless tees, tattooed and pierced, smoke by the garbage bins. A number of Mainlanders join their Chin cousins in that sector, girls of sexual experience and boys who smoke weed. (Yes, even in Sing.) The more conventionally ambitious lad reminding himself of his personal responsibility was another kettle of fish. A week ago one of the Tekka stall-holders dishing up Lahore and Delhi fare, an older lad in his mid-30s, was picked up for his Schopenhauer Change is the only constant whatnot. Did he understand a word of that billboard? No, he confessed, he did not. Was he going to own that then, especially with Ramadan around the corner?... Something for him to consider. (Some years past a young shop assistant selling drapes at J. C. Complex in Geylang Serai had sported a Husserl if you can believe!)


NB. NYRB in its current edition carries an interview with one of the student leaders of the Paris Manifestations of fifty years ago.

The Hindu Inheritance

Near half two after Feidu printing. You’re not kidding it’s good to be back at KV. Twenty-three days was a stretch. The food for one thing — veg. was difficult to source in Jogja, at least around Malioboro. The turmeric helping to dodge one bullet at least, bowel or stomach C. from memory. Music filtering quietly from the kitchen low and tender old time Tamil sweeteners just as we like it. Chubby newer guy knows the standard order like the rest of them, but in his case often the two portions were delivered together. With the soup lukewarm no great matter today. Opere grlo, cleanses the throat, Bab used to say. Setting off some little cough as usual from the spices a benefit no doubt. One does not patronise Komala for pretty girls more’s the pity; only occasionally attending. Occasionally an Indo or Tamil maid will land with Madam, which sets off a fevered subterfuge of note-passing if the old dear can be got round. (Reminds of the Indo at Wadi 2-3 months back it must be rudely ignoring the overture.) One young pretty as it happens today diagonally opposite corner. Displaced once again with the crowd in the second room and hard against the window, the lass by the kitchen wall. On her screen and it must have been Bapak chaperoning earlier — she was not at all the sort for a sugar daddy. You should not be looking in that direction granted, even on flyer days with the new batik print adding lustre. Shockingly presumptive. Blonde Western wilted rose sporting a large tattoo that snakes down from her shoulder onto her bicep with some better wits about her might have respectfully covered herself with one of her scarfs in such a place, like in the temples. Poor Sweet cornered can’t help the furtive glances — what was life after all without some erotic cat-and-mouse. No harm done, no fretting; we’ll do it strictly avuncular tempered and smooth within these walls. One of the smiles earlier from a woman seeking a place at a table was reminiscent of the younger Shiela, something that was carried in the genetic inheritance indicative of womanly warmth and nature that failed to always get an opportunity to show in the big bad metropolis. An Indian trader newly opened on Malioboro had reported the nearest Indian eatery was 5 -10kms. out of the Sosro quarter; even he could not get out there more than once in a while. Always a surprise the deepest cover of the Hindu past across that archipelago.

The Morning After

Truly does feel like one is being targeted specifically here. Virtually every visit to NTUC at J. C. Complex the thing comes on at the top of the escalator as if a trip wire has been crossed. Where there was silence before, a mind focused on the Wheat Bix second row on the right, the swelling flood suddenly pouring down without warning: ....Take….these broken wings.... Inundating the brain, the frontal lobe, and deeply saturating. Take….these broken wings....and help him fly again whatnot repeated how many times as if the needle was sticking. Exposed and nowhere to hide there beneath the fluro glare. There was no counterpart to Jingle Bells for the Muslim festive season, nor the Gong xi fa cai — gong xi, gong xi, gong xi ni....of CNY. So “broken wings” perhaps, delicately referencing the saints and angels of the Islamic world in the run-up to Ramadan and Hari Raya. It sounds far-fetched. A stretch, granted. But you would not put it past these programmers here, really. You would not. As anticipated, many inches in the morning’s paper were devoted to the celebrations of the day before. Happy MAY DAY! was the banner at the main rally at Downtown East, attended by the Prime Minister. Again, polos as anticipated: orange and yellow for functionaries who were being re-routed by the PM (in cherry-ripe red himself) after recommendations from the relevant committees. These recommendations had been accepted; so-be-it, agreed the paramount leader. As in all the years previously, once more at the Wadi tables in the afternoon there had been no twigging at the crowd. Oh! A gathering. It happened occasionally. No twigging it was a mandated public holiday in Singapore. You read right. Singapore celebrating May One. May Day no less. The day of the toilers &etc. Nevertheless, one of the young cherubic journos in the newspaper coverage next morning was reminding the populace in his column that the workers should remember there was no such thing as a free lunch. Or was it no-one owed anyone a living in this life…. Young dude pictured early thirties had studied hard at university, attained all his insights and now delivered. Salutary reminder of the way of the world duly delivered next morning, May 2, in case anyone was getting ahead of themselves. Evening coming down quickly as usual in Lower Geylang, not so many noticing the blush through the trees in the West. Clouds prevented Manager Zahruddin from removing the awnings. Couple chapatti and dahl would suffice for supper, the  concession a fourth teh halia after the privation in Jogja. Leaning back lazily in the green plastic chair in that settled calm, a sight that still, despite oneself, could disturb and unnervingly rattle. Here was a tousle-haired fellow not having had a good day you could see immediately. Hanging his head more than a bit and held up by his girl as they paced toward the Changi corner returning to their pigeon hole after the trials endured between breakfast and the supper hour. Take the FIRST STEP was black with faded white lettering. Newly bought the fabric had sat more handsomely on that light frame. The chap had crumpled since; the collar of the tee stretched and come loose. Chap had tried, done his darndest striding forward; just lately it wasn’t working. There were obstacles and unexpected misfortunes. Set-back on his heels temporarily and catching breath, this might not prove his undoing. The lass at his side offered hope. Together they would continue with a will onward and steadily forward. Just now it mightn’t look like it.

Marking the Occasion

“Supposed to be a day of demonstrations….” quips the younger bro. of Hussein at the Drinks’ Counter tonight. HaHaHaHa delayed a fraction. Oh yeah, it was May Day. The day before a bus approaching the stop was flashing instead of its number a May Day greeting believe it or not. Golly. Might be pics even so in the morning of the PM raising fists with the union chappies in neat polos out front of NTUC on Bras Basah Road. Hand it to the fella — the Drinks man I mean — knows what he’s about. Man has a good fix on the local John here. Has he really been reading the Blog? Truly? How else did he twig? Lottsa little comments over the past months on the foreign workers in the family’s employ; the problem of the riff-raff at the rear tables; the little jokes at the prices nicely deflected. An Australian of a certain profile, age, look about him would be of that persuasion. Easy to read. Where was his watch? Collars rare and lace-ups non-existent. Chats with the wastrels, and some of the worst at that. Buys them drinks moreover. Bleeding heart. “This is Asia,” the man had explained once during a longer exchange. Son was doing med. at Melbourne, costing a pretty penny. Certainly a hard worker, highly efficient managing his queues and staff. Nice fella indeed. Simple answer to the gap between “supposed to be” and the actual: this is Asia. Nuff said.

On For Young and Old

The old uncle fattening his 25 - 30 yr. junior wife/girlfriend dyes weekly, ten days at the outside. Handsome pair of gold-rimmed John Lennon glasses newly purchased surprisingly good taste, more than stylish enough for all-day wear now. Likely she had helped with the selection. For his own part uncle was carefully counting the calories, some kinda trim maintained. Might easily have crossed seven-zero sum game; understandably firmly resistant to any kind of acknowledgement of this Scribe here. As for her of course, steer well and truly clear, wide a berth as possible, QE2 and then some. Once inadvertently passing close by the lady had been given a short, reflexive smile wholly and entirely accidental. Poor dear could not but unpurse her lips despite herself, risking all manner of catastrophic mayhem. Today with a crowd at Wadi an unfortunate proximity, Bapak possibly not having noticed the presence in front after the weeks of absence; or perhaps they had seated themselves while the drink was being fetched. Thank heavens luckily enough the woman was facing the right way. (Once when we had been similarly caught out the poor lady needed to reverse positions at the table in order to avoid the direct line.) At a guess even a dozen kilograms had been slowly added over the course of the three or four years, little by little making the lady his own. Five or certainly six years ago the chap had still been with his first wife. At the earliest the pair had appeared at Wadi perhaps 2015.