Voided (Dec25)

Miserably woeful as you can get! Hardly possible more, even in so-called slums and refugee camps… The family gatherings at the Void tables here, especially full complement with a child on the fringe venturing a few steps beyond the concrete to explore its world. Recently painted walls, a new couple metres of path added connecting two routes—minus the lip for wheelchairs & stumbling elderly—cleaned by the foreign labour. Woeful maximus. Irredeemable. Tears, weeping and nothing whatever else. Gangster infested, drug-riddled and flooded slums with rats far less dire.

Void Deck, Haig Road Singapore

Dollars & Dope

Aljunied lunch $5 flat with the Uncle’s 30c discount for a regular who had prompted for promotion price. It was about time wasn’t it, Unc?... Bee hoon noodles were they? tatters, mock beef and bok choy with lotus soup. Man would have been robbing his grandchildren offering any less. En route around the corner by the lane and the hardware store “Embroidered Brows” at the electrified dazzling special price of $168 ONLY. The hairdresser offering was named Pop Pop. (Tattooed were for the HDB have-nots; presumably the offering at City Plaza currently for $6.) This superior and more proper knitting no doubt lasted three times longer; five and ten times would not surprise. The Chinese in particular suffered for the lack of brows. Ladies gained with lesser facial and underarm, but the brows were important for photography in particular. Tinting too added definition. Chap clearing the plates there below the MRT missing the teeth would not deny the term he had spent at Changi. Half-dozen meetings now, plates returned under one’s own steam, permission given trying the panama—there was a certain rapport established. The long pipe was it Uncle?... Too right, the man replied, only the faintest blanching at the confession. Corroborated too was the half metre length; the long, satisfying draw described, and the smoke outta the nostrils. Thirty-five, forty years experience of Users down in the Great Southern Land was needed in order to pick ordinary Joes with very few outward signs. With the growing liberalization they were going to be shown up here before long, the Justice Minister and all the rest of the hard deniers all these years later after all the hangings and incarceration. What if the industry now really took off? Canada, Australia, Uruguay and the others stealing a march? Thailand was making noises in today’s paper and neighbouring Malaysia too. With all the experience of the dens and hot trade in the recent past, letting late-comers leap ahead would grate here. Was science and research to be denied? What if under regs. and for medical treatment and rec. use there were big, mouthwatering $$$$$ to be made? Could the little red dot hot spot sit back on its heels arms crossed holding to out-dated principles?... One was reminded of the poor Indian lady at KV, whose son returning from OZ being a convicted felon (possession) was tested and immediately thrown into prison. Five days later the leaf was still detectable. Change was in the wind.

NB. A homage to Tom Pynchon and his generation rather than anything else. This author has always happily done without.

Birds of a Feather

A second call from Manager Zahruddin at the Wadi hotplate this morning. Half an hour earlier he had given his first usual greeting. Over the course of a sit at the tables Din might call out two or three times from his post in precisely the same way with simply the name. The man seemed to enjoy the roll of the two new syllables he had mastered, his pronunciation clear and confident. In younger days Zahruddin had been a student of Arabic in Syria; earnest studies over five or six years. The devastation over there of course pained Zahruddin more deeply than the rest of us, though Zahruddin was not a loud or demonstrative man. A highly reliable, trustworthy and efficient manager for the Wadi stakeholders; fair and decent with all the young foreign workers too. The man was now focused on raising his family up on the Peninsular in Malacca, two children still at school. Last week he had taken a well-deserved short break back home. Zahruddin’s second call this morning was something else however; not the usual clarion call. A tall buxom German was she? just then stepping down from the severy toward the tables. Zahruddin had lifted his chin after her indicating. Not young this lady, but in some Asian eyes perhaps formidably attractive. Tall, fleshy, big-boned Brunhilda. A loose singlet top revealed bare arms and cleavage; shorts the upper thighs. (It seems the Prophet had specifically warned men not to cast in the direction of the latter because of the particularly dangerous trigger there for lustfulness.) Zahruddin was in fact not a ladies man; it had been an mistake once some months before crowing into his ear after an entire morning devoted to the nest. Din merely pointed with his chin here; the largest part of the impulse being to give notice of the presence of an associate, a countrywoman perhaps. Here was one of your kind now among us, the man had signaled. (Westerners were not common in Geylang Serai; we had one stop for a prata perhaps every other week.) At numerous locales here, in Singapore particularly, an acquaintance or friend would do precisely as Zahruddin had done at the entry of a White into the circle. The assumption was some natural affinity and interest, some wish and even relish to greet one’s own. Your friend! has been the notice voiced by friends, waiters, plate-collectors and others here. There was none of the usual man-to-man nod, nod; wink, wink in this case with Manager Zahruddin; among the Muslims here that Latin and Western hi-jinks was entirely absent. And needless to add, for these Asians olive was indistinguishable from true white.

One World

Indian lad this afternoon by the table on his free day with a white/green striped labelled high on the chest, ADMIRABLE. In the chap’s mind he was likely thinking of the highest nautical rank. (A couple of generations ago affluent families dressed pretty boys in peaked, laurel-leafed ship captain’s hats.) Clueless gaucherie from the Third World sweatshops only a few years ago; more recently the catwalks were seizing upon precisely such kind of affectlessness for their designs. (To wit Melania’s jacket visiting the children’s camp on the Mexican border.) On the Saturday an instant reflex at the Serangoon bus-stop sighting the approaching Russians were they? Even before the blue baseball cap worn by Dad could be deciphered. A spectator at the US Open had lost an eye recently because of an errant drive on the fairway. It might have been even worse, the woman was reported to have said: she might have died from the blow. This Ruski badged with the sporting marquee event had come through unscathed, arrived in Singapore, passed through Little India’s temples and eateries and now was catching a bus someplace else. Wife, son and daughter-in-law in tow. You could tell the filial relation by a sign from the younger man to Dad within the shelter where he had taken a seat—resting against a lamppost—head-turn and nod indicated the coming bus was for them. In the States following the players around the course would not have been as taxing as the exploration of Little India in Singapore’s heat and humidity. Was it worth the candle for the Ruski? For the photos at the temples, the food at the restaurants, the cultural centre and Campbell Lane market? A new cap of brightest blue; son was bareheaded same as the rest of the party. A few years ago average stays in Singapore were 2-3 days, before connecting flights were caught. Construction sector work contracts were five or seven years up to the age of thirty-five, usually. Neither Admirable nor genuine US Open apparel had been seen here before; both were bought off-shore. Five or six years ago a Chinese girl in G. Serai who had been complimented on her tee said she never bought her clothes in Singapore. Last week a yoga teacher was met at the KV lunch table, chap who worked only mornings in order to give himself time for his own practise and his two young children. For some strange reason, in this instance the unkempt beard and unlabelled, single-coloured drab tee had not given signal of the man’s uniqueness here. With the absences in Malaysia and Indo, months past and perhaps even over a year, the Luck Meets Opportunity / Preparation Seneca tee had not been sighted on the streets. Then like a thunderstorm from a summer sky, an unexpected jungle ambush, suddenly within the same day two or even three men had barrelled into the field of vision with the same. Had it been produced locally, specifically for this market? Difficult to imagine it might be found elsewhere. Israel or Dubai perchance? Delhi during this Modi reign?... It was little wonder the original straw panama had drawn so much notice, coming up seven years. How often had one been told how much more striking a figure was created with it? how many compliments, smiles and salutes? There had been two muddled conversations in recent days with professional young expats casually encountered. The first, a young Viet “global citizen,” as she described herself, had been told her country had not been visited essentially because of guilt over the war. For a first meeting with a youngster like that, this had been way too much information of course. Way, way too much. Nicely enough taken in stride in this instance. A young Indian banker who had lived in Sing two years and had a recent three month assignment in Melbourne sitting over a quick prataat Wadi had been engaged entirely and exclusively on matters concerning India: her Bangalore home town, Indian food, the changed demographic in Melbourne in recent years; &etc; &etc. All inevitably, unavoidably, carrying the unstated, deeply troubling subtexts, colour, the rape controversies, communal strife, caste; &etc; &etc. Last thing a young lady needed reminding on a fine evening.

 

 

NB. “Luck is what happens when opportunity meets preparation,” Seneca 

 

 

Grand March

Finally this morning the over-lapping of the music behind the house was sorted properly. On the first patch of grass the usual tai chi ladies were moving through their routines, cracking in unison their large red fans with the sound of gun shots when the garbage was taken out. Further around toward Block 6 another, larger group in orange polos were slow stepping left and right, swivelling and stretching their arms. The latter were newcomers to that place, a recently formed group, or perhaps relocated from another quarter. Two or three days now the musical accompaniment at that hour of morning confused and could not be properly deciphered.  Buddhist funerary music had become familiar over the years here; with the tai chi group sometimes playing their own form, however, the conjunction these last days was difficult to separate and distinguish. None of the yellow tenting or awning had been visible from the back of the house, nor from the corner going out to the road. Finally this morning it was the rousing martial beat and the stirring lyric with which the dead were escorted to their new homes that gave the game away. Unmistakeable that and unique. There had been a death in the upper corner of the Haig Blocks, perhaps within No.s 2 or 3. In such compact housing with people placed one on top of the other in twelve or thirteen blocks all the ceremonials of life arrived regularly there and were to greater or lesser degree shared, willy nilly. The strident up-beat of this particular passage was quite remarkable. Did it trace its genesis to war-time and strife; a military guard providing honour? One could imagine the role of this hymn in the clan associations; to an outsider drinking songs were another suggestion. Death was not to be feared. Stout heart, hold firm and strong. The Russian Funeral March was more sombre and far more doleful.

Fair and Square

Five years later Beefy’s Home boy moniker came as a surprise. “Beef” was of course one’s own invention and the Bruiser had retaliated on his side with Oscar. You would have to ask Beef how the man had arrived at that. No complaints, Osk. was a bit alright; certainly it was rather better than the default John. One thought of the reckless Irishman of course. Understandably, Beef didn’t much like his own tag, but the man let it ride. Mocked for his jelly-belly Beefy had the gumption to contest the matter. There was nothing particularly fat guts about him, not at all. Why? Like anything else in B.’s case, this was no put-on. Babi used to say, We can never see ourselves.

         The Reprobate had come up to the morning table. On the Saturday Beef had in fact been asked about the Reprobate. (Jack the turned-eye boozer in the common reference.) Three days returned no sign of the man there was cause for concern. Busker/boozer Rahim had been committed to IMH; the same could easily have happened to Reprobate.

         Among the local lads Beefy was Mohd. Flores. From the Indo island, yes, Reprobate revealed.

         Beef explained it was for his broad face, slit eyes, the springy hair. In fact the ancestry was Bugis; Sulawesi. That was where Beefy’s Chinese grandfather had hailed from. Ah Bee originally became Abin when the man converted. Force of circumstances, Beefy seemed to sensibly suggest.

         Very tough days back then, Beefy said. Grandpappy Abin had been samseng, a gangster; both back in Bugis land and later after he migrated to the neighbouring isle in the thirties.

         Here he eventually settled a couple kms from Geylang Serai up on present day Paya Lebar Road. Not all Grandad’s ventures were known by the grandson, but what Beefy clearly remembered was the “treasure chests” he called them lining the main room of the house.

         Good earnings and seemed Granddad gave the law a wide berth by that stage. Later there was a legitimate venture in partnership with a pal for a bus service running initially from Lower Geylang there up into town. Later again expanded and finally bought out by a large transport group.

         Currently Beef was doing it tough. The supply of the product had dried up. There had been seizures and arrests, the heat on, man needed to lie low. Wife and kids over in Tanjung Pinang were crying out for funds. Recent days Beefy had given the go-ahead to sell the gold and all his precious stones. Tough times.

         The four leg here was returning little and the other the usual story of near misses. Couple days past 8 and 12 came up when Beef had taken 11 and 8. Terbalik. “Arse about,” the old Aussie gamblers used to say.

         Granddad used to run a book in the kampung over at Paya Lebar way there back in his day. How to set up properly to guarantee all was fair and square was the question. Seems the old man came up with a scheme of his own devising with numbers inscribed the night before on a coconut which was taken back up to the topmost branches and for the draw duly brought down in the morning. Naturally, as in all such operations, it was the House that always came out in front. Coin for the treasure chests.

         That was all good and well. Trouble was Granddad had taken six wives. That was where the trouble lay and the man came a proper cropper. Beef didn’t elaborate.

         Like a recessive gene, the gangsterism had skipped one generation. Beefy’s own father had always played perfectly straight, didn’t like anything crooked. Beef had given the old man lottsa heartache. You teach me all this—the police station, law courts, prison, the old man meant.

         Dad refused to visit Beef at Changi. On one release he came down to collect his son, but would not enter the gates, calling instead from outside the walls with his whistle.

         If Beefy had any regrets he certainly didn’t let on. What was to say?

Disturbing

Going through the blocks out to lunch the slaughter scene of the dark young men down on the concrete of the Voids again. Splayed every side as if just popped minutes before by a deranged American shooter. This afternoon there did not seem to be a single sheet of cardboard beneath any of them. The first weary head below Block 8 lay on its side without any cradling of hands. Beaten and weary. Another young Indian had chosen one of the iron benches along the sheltered walkway for repose. Swivelled around to one side the chap’s back was turned to the path, head resting on his hands on the top rail of the seat. Catching him there the reminder of children’s Hide-and-seek, the one chosen covering eyes while the gang scampered for their places. Presumably even in such a posture a few minutes would restore the young guy. As he sat twisted on his bench like that a young Malay happened to pass, taking the angled, unsheltered path over the grass and striding along on what may have been the sweaty soles of his plastic sandals, new purchase possibly. SqueakSqueakSqueak rapid tempo as was quite uncommon in the Tropics. The children’s variety squeaky trainers offered parents some kind of monitor of their venturesome pets. Here the squealing footfalls only produced annoyance. Certainly for the hot and flustered Indian labourer in the company issue blue polo seeking some shut-eye on his bench. A bleary-eyed weary head turned to cast a withering look at the retreating intruder.