Lambs to the Slaughter (Feb25)

Lunchtimes the Indian construction workers beneath the trees on Guillemard Corner make you catch your breath each and every time. With water flowing in the canal after rain and the humus from the ground, that locale offered added refreshment for the men today. The big plastic sheeting was stored on their site across the road and carried over lunchtimes. It was rare to ever catch the men at their lunch; in fact it had never happened. In the middle of the hot day, weary as they were, there was no appetite; evenings after work their chief meal would be taken. Rare to find the men here other than stretched in a whole range of postures out to the world, getting some much needed shuteye. A Napoleonic era battlefield it appeared, the outcome of some kind of recent, pitiable slaughter, before the boots and arms were removed by the victors. This afternoon on the bus to the Cyber a glimpse on the near side along the Geylang fencing caused an added start. What kind of figure was that there with so much uncovered flesh tone? Rising up a little from the seat in order to see properly over the rail along the footpath. What was that? Higher raising again like a jack-in-the-box had the other passengers wondering. Eventually, with some straining, the big bare belly sitting like a plumped pillow could be made out in the group. Uncommon feature in this workforce, where usually the lads were pencil thin. This chap on the contrary was tubby, with the look of a pregnant woman; fair-coloured too, smooth and hairless from a distance. The bus having stopped at the lights there was ample time to make out the scene properly. Exhausted kids at football training sometimes pulled that stunt, bringing up the end of their jumper over their head in a momentary surrender to their weariness. This man’s blue company issue polo was loose fit. Even under the shade of the giant municipal trees, sign-posted along the waterway, there was still too much light arrowing in. The other lads seemed not to have been bothered. Spavaju ko zaklani, sleeping like the slaughtered, the Southern Slavs say.

This Girl

Haig walkway betw Blocks 11 & 9 was the patch of the four-eyes girl. The girl’s mentor, Auntie Helen in the front room at Carpmael, always brought up both hands to her eyes for the ID. This girl, Helen will say, making forefinger-and-thumb circles over both eyes. When Auntie Helen was delayed by her paid employment, the occasional JW gathering, or more occasional holiday, this girl was called upon to feed Auntie’s menagerie, both the privileged inside her room, and the outdoor. Auntie cooked organic chicken bought from the Haig butcher for her mogs, infinitely more nutritious than the supermarket fare (with less need of vets, cheaper in the long run too). Auntie had various coloured plastic containers for the Carpmael garden corner and others for behind the block on Onan. Without the financial resources of Helen, this girl neither buys organic, nor troubles with plastic containers. But then neither does this girl place her food on the pavement or the grass on her section of Blocks. This morning again a clean cardboard square holding the dry pieces against a pillar on the walkway. Ah, yes! Tell-tale sign of this girl! Twenty-eight and almost certainly never been kissed. In earlier years her mother had been a feeder too. Dad had now forbidden a house cat, not even a single one allowed indoors. (In lieu of a line-up and examination, the remainder would be guesswork. Strongest relevant evidence the Haig Estate itself: the towers with their shutters and grilles, stainless elevators, walkways & garden-beds maintained by the foreign work-crews. Little attention has been given to the effects of hard, adamantine surfaces in a living environment, and SG presents a useful case study.) This girl picks up casual IT work, invariably dull and dreary, she complains. The plastic-coated bright coloured sign at the rear of one of the shops in Block 2 requesting people not feed the two cats on that patch because of their kidney disease, likewise the work of this girl. Wangling. Helen had once slipped with her name...Calling an unassuming Clark Kent shipping clerk, let’s say, cook or mechanic, with an old grannie that he visits at the Haig. Look lad, how much care and affection showers down on those pretty felines. Bring a biscuit box one night and stake ou the garbage chutes round 8. No need much chat, don’t worry. 

Summiteers Once More

 

 

Rather than the Shangri-La the Capella on Sentosa Island now for Don and Kim, two golf courses adjacent should a sudden urge take hold. (Kim would likely be forced to decline a friendly contest. Who was the Hollywood or golf star defending himself from accusations of palsyness with Donald, saying how was one supposed to refuse the man when he suddenly called for a round?) Reports of Gurkha presence around the Shangri-La last week during another dialogue of other leaders, in what was touted as a dry run for the upcoming. In the newspaper this morning a big spread on logistics and arrangements, mention of heavily armoured BMWs, bulletproof, bomb-resistant; &etc. In addition to being equipped for smashing through barriers and crowds, the report added. (Mid-East and North African specials.) One also recalls a few years before a car-full of footloose lads with dope on them straying into the Raffles precinct while some of the Windsors were visiting. After panicking at the police presence and putting the foot on the gas, one or two down in the hail of gunfire—from ask-no-questions Gurkha sharpshooters, if memory serves.  (The reliable Nepali force retained here 60 years after independence.) Sentosa is in fact a speck of land that had been augmented with a couple of other islands in the 70s—another notable reclamation. Nearly seven years hereabouts, the place has been left well enough alone. In the pics plentiful greenery is maintained, enough to screen the chimneys on petro-chem Jurong Island opposite. Cashed-up partygoers who flock to the latter happy isle will need to shoot over to Phuket for their fun June 10 - 14. The Pres’s speechwriter currently penning words of thanks to his gracious hosts, his dear friend Mr blah blah; he and his party—no whisper yet whether Melania was attending—had enjoyed themselves immensely; &etc; the United States had no greater friend; &etc.

June 2018 (revised June25)

 

 

 

Politics in The Raw Omni

 

Perfect Host (The Summit), with Gurkhas

Singapore, 3 June 2018

Security. Security. Security. 
         Without the very best guarantee this upcoming Summit here could not take place at all. Which other more or less neutral country could provide it in spades like the Republic of Singapore? Elsewhere flying in sufficient personnel for the US President would look like an invasion and could not be acceptable to the North Koreans. One can only imagine the exercises and drills out at Bartley Ridge here in Singapore presently.
         “Gurkhas - Kidnapped!” was written after an exploration of the Gurkha compound in 2015. Here it is again for background to the Kim – Trumpet Summit.

Gurkhas – Kidnapped!

An hour to circumnavigate the perimeter of the grounds. Full sixty minutes of the clock. First reports a week ago were revised downward.
         How could the Gurkha Housing compound in contemporary, present-day Singapore possibly amount to a dozen high-rise towers, ten or more storeys each?
         How was that possible?
         Beyond belief. What was going on here? A hidden Nepalese community in the mix in Singapore a couple of generations post the British withdrawal; post-independence and the dawn of the new Republic.
         Very difficult indeed to credit. Stretching credulity.
         Nepalese regiment of this order to police the cleanest, most peaceful and orderly island nation that has ever existed on planet earth?
         A middle-aged fit hard-body taking afternoon recreational exercise on the other side of the wire provided the number to the author and his companion: Two thousand ready and loyal troops.
         There was no language barrier. Chap concerned friendly and decent, spoke a crystal-clear Queen's English. 
         Two thousand—three zeroes—troops alone.
         A prospect through the fencing on a little rise showed something that looked like an ice-cream cone pictured in faded colour under the ridge of a roof.  Vanilla. A rude little drawing, too high up for child's daub.
         We had developed a thirst by then. There were no vendors visible.
         ….No. Not ice-cream…. The penny did eventually drop.
         Of course!
         Chomolungma in Tibetan/Sherpa; Sagarmatha Nepali.
         Better known in our parts as Everest!
         The mighty totem from the land of the forefathers; king of mounts reaching the heavens. Here a reminder for the foreign troops of the snowy peaks of Home Sweet Home.
         The chap on the footpath was immediately recognized as of Sherpa stock. His great uncle had gotten Hillary to the top of the peak, every likelihood in advance of the great Kiwi hero himself of course.
         The visa arrangement for these soldiers was long-term; not the usual seven years for the construction sector for example. 
         The Sherpa great-nephew had chuckled providing the correction: Long-term; effectively until a man attained the age of forty-seven, whereupon he retired on his savings back home—pension scheme unlikely in this arrangement—and his son sent out on the next stint if he was lucky.
         Who would have thought?...Remarkable. Many thanks to the pleasant, helpful informant.
         ....Were there truly so many billionaires, so many corporate heads, foreign dignitaries and trade delegations winging it here to Singapore in order to justify two thousand reliable and independent troops? Would Sing' keep such a force of such a scale cooling their heels and exercising in the yards so many decades merely in the event there was another outbreak of rioting like the one fifty years ago in the mid '60's?... Was that possible in the usual labour arrangements and work contracts here?
         Doubtful in the extreme.
         Doubtful too that the matter was covered in the voluminous memoirs of Mr. LKY that lined the shelves of the stores and better class homes here. Yet what to say on the indubitable evidence before one’s eyes here on Bartley Ridge?Incontrovertible.
         Ah! Luckily Gabriel had brought a water flask. A coconut palm stood nearby against which to rest, slake our thirst and ponder this site before us. (An elevation of sorts for the community of mountaineers.)
         Wondrous indeed. Under his Queenslander floppy minus only the hanging corks, the angel pondered long and hard, together with the author.

        
....In the morning after the return from the trek, another added surprise, and not unrelated.
         The poor old dear mum of a local tycoon, kidnapped only 24 hours prior on that very same terrain we covered further up the track beyond Bartley. What?!...
         After the refreshment under the palm off we had trotted along the Seletar River on the Park Connector, drawing the fine air and observing the bird life on the water. Spitting distance almost on the very same day, the anxious tycoon son, fretting about his mum, was high-tailing out with the bag of cash to free the precious darling.
         No cruel dalliance with the reader: not to worry, mum safe and sound; villains captured red-handed and cash restored.
         The whole drama had taken place under the very noses of the explorers almost, completely unbeknown to them.
         The Straits Times delivered exceptional coverage, the story bolstered by compelling footage: darling mum permed; mogul with the hair-part above the left ear. The Honda & VW driven by the villains. The very tree too under which the bag of moola was deposited. The notes looked like lavender twos. In fact $1000s that had not been sighted to date here. (GULP! Nearer to town and Orchard Road the ATMs presumably dispense.)
         Initially the ask for the restoration in one piece of the poor mum was $20mil. The former pig farmer turned supermarket mogul had not made oodles without a nose for bargaining. 
         Following negotiations two would do.
         All's well that ends well—except for the damnable perpetrators, facing either the noose, or life if they were lucky. Caning in addition for the younger.
         The point here: Mr. Lim Hock Chee, risen from pig-sty to serious platinum, was ranked at No. 35 — net worth $US515mil. — on Forbes Singapore's 50 Richest the year prior.
         Gurkhas must have been on stand-by even as the two wayfarers were skirting the perimeter of their encampment the previous day. Had there been a suspicion of Abu Sayyaf, straight into action without a doubt.
         Two thousand troops. Add say another five-six for family. Small price to pay for any eventuality.
         Presumably the first one hundred and fifty Forbes can look forward to A Grade double plus government assistance. Add the extended First Family, hangers-on, Corp. heads &etc. &etc. Plentiful occupation for sturdy, reliable hill-climbers.


NB. Late news on the street, omitted in the newspaper and no time to verify properly. The said mogul who was the victim of this dreadful affair pretty nicely connected it appears: daughter married to the PM’s nephew. No doubt a small platoon was busy there too.

Burning or Marriage?

Burning or Marriage?*

Aboard the No. 23 one of those brisk Chin wives expertly marshaling the poor doddery hubbie. God save the man! All the angels hark! Having claimed the prime seat herself the lady—he was too slow—fitting only one, she points him out another behind. There, there. Which leads to an exchange with the woman sharing. Oh, really. Getting off? Craning round to her lost sheep, where had he got to now?... Here, here. Lady leaving. Sje sje ni. Much obliged. Pegging over guiltily the will ‘o the wisp. In any sort of wind lady would take hold of his belt make sure he wasn’t blown into the clouds. Pegging over and into position, blinking and nodding, the strap of her bag behind looking for a moment like a seat belt that she was attempting to secure to her charge. Settled and safe at her side. On the Selegie turn waiting for the lights the Thaipusam Ellie from earlier in the year, plastic garlands faded in the sun and rain. (At the base of the second the creeper had been blackened and shredded by the traffic.) Look at that. Hey! The gamboling pair with trunks raised couldn’t be more cute. If they had smaller versions that you could keep at home…. In the hills of Montenegro they helicopter fling such creatures from the highest peaks without chopping or mincing, directly into the beaks of waiting vultures. Here numbers of the type rarely ever encountered in any other place on the face of the earth. (To be fair to the woman, there were numerous selfies daily in front of the elephants there from all-comers and all colours.)

NB. 1 Corinthians 7 : 9*

Seasoned Veteran

The old Indian career beggar who had been apprehended by the cops at the Geylang Serai Market last week taking a break at the end of the row. In the rain people hurried on and were reluctant to stop even under shelter. A pause was in order. Does the woman’s quiet mumbling to herself have any Islamic content or form? Most likely. Or otherwise she was communing with her departed in the usual way, what else? Rocking lightly in her chair. A passerby behind had her turning and reflexively trying her luck: Assalamualaikum. Sometimes—in fact quite often—the poor Indo visitors in search of work here would give coin, during Ramadan all the more so. At home the woman either stashed her alms in bags in dark corners, or else children and grandchildren collect and benefit. Certainly the old woman’s needs were few. Loose brown cap, usual red patterned one-piece dress. Two others passing in front received the same bird-like salutation without turning in the woman’s direction. Behind on the other side old Mr. Hussein the former hard man had made a re-appearance after a long absence, a group of his cronies fanned out before him. One was thereby saved from a rendition of one of Mr. Huss’s golden oldies from the fifties or sixties. Another pair passing in front was well-judged by the old beggar. By then only the odd drop of rain. Immediately up and out of her chair over to them before they could get very far. Yes indeed, notes from both ladies it looked without much grace about it. Little satisfaction in extending this alms: the old woman was a fixture in the neighbourhood, alternating daily between Geylang Serai and Sultan Mosque. The women were unlikely to derive much benefit from compassion there. Years ago the old beggar had filed this mat salleh here as a lost cause. Dead loss that one, not worth the slightest effort. Two or three attempts in the first couple of months had been quite enough to establish the position.

NB. As-salamu-alaikum, Peace be upon you, is the standard greeting among Muslims; answered by Wa-alayku-muassalam—And upon you. In old Royalist Yugoslavia (among the Orthodox) it was Pomaze Bog, and replied Bog te pomogo: God’s grace/And to you. Revived in recent time it seems with the religious resurgence.

On the Case (June25)

 

 

 

What to distinguish him from a corpse this angle? Nothing whatever.

In the history of art a figure was never painted from that perspective.

Whorled strands thinly covering the pate; waxy enough and without any suggestion of respiration.

Was there a heartbeat?

As in the case of a real corpse, difficult to tell whether HDB Uncle unable to afford aircon luxuriating in some precious cool shut-eye; or else a retiree getting out from under his wife’s and the maid’s feet at a more salubrious residence.

Without the snoring the Shelf-stacker need not intervene. (Strictly speaking, there was no sleeping allowed in the library, offenders tweaked by the ear and duly informed, even the ancients.)

Usual crowd in the Basement. Hardly a student, to say nothing of a student of life. Couple keen graphic readers with noses buried; more’n a couple. (Once and for all, to hell with the keen promoters of the art-form! Even the NYRB has joined the ranks!)

Sleepers marginally in the majority. One little champ irritated to have his concentration on BATMAN distracted by a junior by the far shelves that he can’t quite make out. Craning his neck with an appropriate look of disdain etched prematurely on his youthful face…

How grown men allow themselves to be decked out in HUSH PUPPIES really beats you. Truly defies understanding. Does the chap have any shred of self-respect? (This same moment within a hall of learning in a parallel world in a galaxy not so distant from our own a man in that same get-up is taken by the shoulders and shaken like a tree for its fruit. My dear Comrade, please take a look at yourself in this rock-pool by the entry.)

Refreshing to see the lass sharing the couch submerged in ancient Egyptian artwork; Mandarin text. Not pursuing Biz. Fin. to please parents, for all the straight up-and-down appearance.

Might have been AUTHENTIC next in the same colour tone and design as the Puppies sandwich-board. (Cruelly diminished nobodies & ghost apparitions in the concrete jungle forced to declare themselves Limited Edition, Authentic and Superman in disguise. Global high numbers per capita massification labels.)

Correction: screens of course clearly in the majority; most definitely. No contest, winning hands down. (Facing away from the main row of couches swivelling round was needed to check properly.) 

Picasso and Truth suddenly broke like a thunderbolt from the least likely hands of a Zeus in the row directly ahead. Wow! You would never have picked this fellow, not in a million years. Australian possibly; no brand blue polo. Hair-cut and steel rims mid-range Exec; boating shoes, but not the expensive leather. (Fessing up now; coming clean: you once wanted a pair of those handsome dark tan shoes yourself, didn’t you now, with the stiff laces that sprung from the tongue? Yes you did. And very nearly purchased too.) 

Nice Try was bought by mum for the tousle-haired young teen looking like a lost sheep in the aisle; or was he allowed to choose from the rack himself, inducted into the consumer playground?

Failed to notice Creativity and Literary Arts signed. Plenty of graphics will be found on those shelves there, no doubt. Batman a cert. How much more creative can you get than Bat & Robin in their cave hideout?

Someone on some sort of device had a kind of rubber-duckie timed monitor or alarm hooked… 

Lap-top overheating; prompt apology.

Ear-piece, phone & lap-top. The man had tapped the latter. Indian-Chin?

When one has been an observer all one’s life, set puzzling questions and boggling quandaries from early on, this was how you end up.

 

 

                National Library, Sing

                                     2011-25