Green Envy

The Classifieds Uncle impressively outraged this morning by the operator here “sucking the blood” of the young foreign workers. Wow! Really! Hats off to you Uncle. Nevermore any complaints about the man while there is breath in this body. Well-to-do chappie with handsome flatcap and bright baju turning up his nose at the layabouts and ne’er-do-wells. Best behaviour somehow managed putting up with the old codger. He was more than welcome to that section of the newspaper; it was better than recycling. A daughter trading in handbags and accessories making a pile was regularly treating mum and dad to outings across the globe—Paris and London to see the Queen (the common joke among the generation that had been brought up saluting the flag and singing the anthem); Japan where the people were so friendly, the cities as clean if not more so than Sing; Bangkok times without number and KL of course. A tendency to sneer at some of his fellow Malays; many at the tables in G. Serai fell short. Lazy: the Chinese prejudice was well-founded (Mahathir’s recent suggestion of the same needed proper acknowledgement according to Unc.). This man standing up for the foreign workforce against the local biz operators came as rather a surprise. One of the young Malaysian employees had answered Uncle’s question that he did not know what he would be paid. Working a week already and not knowing. How can he not know?!... Twelve hours on your feet for $700 – 800 commonly. Blood-sucking. Giving them a thousand would be approaching fairness. Over at Mr T. T. where it was a Chinese affair they all earned $1,200, Uncle had discovered. Impressive energy and ethics; genuine fellow-feeling. Well, congratulations on that humanity Mr. Nuisance Uncle, wouldn’t have thought you had it in you. No more resentment at the morning pestering, you can pull up a pew anytime…. There you are. Another reminder against rash conclusions. What the man wanted with the Classifieds he couldn’t rightly say, something mumbled and jumbled. The paper itself was the easy part; it was the taking of the seat immediately opposite that caused the nuisance. Why? was the question. The man was usually quiet the whole while, or else bad-mouthing someone or other and when he found no encouragement clamming up again. You could hardly deny, never mind there were fifty free chairs from which to choose every morning. Impossible too not to clear a few inches of table-top in order to accommodate the Bugger. True, that time of day one could be short of pals; the riff-raff not to one’s liking and sitting alone none of this kampung folk enjoyed. Well, perhaps. Still, the manoeuvre was rather odd. Another possible explanation for the behaviour, the reason why the man sidled up like that for a perch that would see him through till lunch, was perhaps suggested the next evening. Rather strange and difficult to credit…. An EPL game that had been heavily promoted in the paper and raised a bit of excitement among the local fans. In fact the info earlier in the day had been wrong: the top match would not come on until midnight; it was a lesser that was starting at 8pm. Nevertheless, joining the crowd every once in a while for a little football with the tea cups across the tables was worth something. A brief pause had arrived in the work. Short sit among the chaps enjoying the youthful ballet over the green, twenty minutes would suffice. Close under the screen at the edge of a table on the passageway was OK, chaps at the table welcoming. Shortly the man at ninety degrees started up. This and that. Which team did you follow? Australia huh? Opinion sought on the local food…. Middle-aged chaps in a group coming together regularly for the big games, Oooing and Ahhing in chorus. Some goreng pisang was OK once in a while. These guys would stay on for the second match too, yessiree!… Some of the lads further along the row bought into the conversation at the end of the table with lame comments and weak jokes. Rather inept, unable to sustain conversation. The fattie on the end, at ninety degrees, had been met previously. There was a vague memory of the fellow’s good English, bullish size and typical amicability. Interruptions in English and Malay from further along were a distraction to the man’s focus on the game and his near companion. They’re jealous, the man commented at one point when he was again forced to field remarks from the side. “Jealous” the operative word. The boys further along the table missing out on the contact at the end of the row would be jealous. As if you were a pretty leggy babe flicking back her hair and giving seductive smiles! Aduh! Raising jealousy…. This was not entirely unfamiliar territory either. No indeed; not by any means. A white personage read as some kind of professional, a fixture who had planted himself squarely in that particular community, was no mean prize. Plenty of jealousy for the lucky one who had been able to draw near, able to claim the attention of such a one. Colonialism and Post-. Enforcement of English. (How many apologies from yellow, brown and black here for poor English over the seven years!) Windsor Castle visiting regularly and given the red carpet treatment. Hollywood. The jets tearing up the sky coming into land at the nearby military airport too. Small wonder.

Frizz (updated Nov23)

Lovely little Princess given more spelling teasers this morning at the Wadi table. Whispered stabs at the words, bowing and twisting her head. Damnable English, truly. It was really, really hard. And she was stupid too, dumb. Princess knows what they say about her. Not smart at all; she cannot believe that. Once again reports of belittlement at school, a play- or classmate disparaging her father’s country. It was poor. Africa as a whole was poor. Princess knew that was not so. There was gold, silver and other stuff in Nigeria; the teacher said so too, backing up Princess. Not poor. Daddy had gone back to his country a couple of weeks ago and Princess missed him a lot. Six months before the frizzy-topped, flat-nosed, over-sized—she knows the word for it is “fat”—darling had asked a question at the Wadi table. A hard question she couldn’t figure herself. How do you be Malay?... That was hard alright, exceedingly difficult to answer. How indeed? Giving a possible three step process that would help her with the challenge, you might begin with…. Regularly picked on. Made to cry. Princess had no friends. Nobody likes me. Her Mummy was fat too, very fat. Like a lot of Malays, but extra in her case. She would die soon, Princess knew. Princess’ favourite doll was Vanilla—long slim limbs, high cheekbones, nice combed hair. From the newspaper advertisement on the Wadi table Princess recognised and liked Cinderella (was that how you spelt it!?), Elsa from Frozen (that was a film) and Ariel from Under the Sea (likely another film). Pretty Goldilocks angels all with wings, a tiara, and the third low cut velvet blue gown. Real princesses. They were the best...You remember the big tall Sixth-Former whose family ran the Milk Bar on Vernon Street wanting to ruffle a frizzy top, don’t you. Buying lollies he asked you to let him and once at school he told another big and tall Sixth-Former to feel the kid’s hair. The closest Spotswood got to an African back in the 60s. Greg McGorlick was dark-haired too, but straight like everyone else in his case. Correction: GARY McGorlick. Unforgettable. Had Gary been a masked Wog too, one of ours in fact? What kind of Scot was that? What was the tartan for the McGorlick clan? One of the biggest guys in school, football and basketball notable, who gave extra lollies in the bag.

Cup Runneth Over

The Santa caps have been brought out of the cupboard at Cold Storage here, yesterday the old Chinese cashier had sported one and also a young lass on top of her kerudong. Two days after Cup Day down in the south. The day after Diwali. Today in fact Komala will be closed for Diwali, although the officially designated holiday was Tuesday. On Guillemard corner Henry Christmas Trees had brought out their plastic firs over a week ago (the originals from the plantations up on the Peninsular arrive nearer the time); the CNY red deco will be out in early January (5 February for 2019). In Geylang the small Hindu market is not worth Henry’s while. Outside OneKM Christmas spheres with a difference this year, a kind of multicoloured Pick Up Sticks arrangement refreshing the theme, the Mainland lads with furrowed brows down on the tiles the other morning double-checking the plans and measuring their hanging ropes. A hard track had been the complaint a day or two out from the race down south; “ridiculously hard,” a connection of one of the runners had bemoaned, the man advocating watering. Then on the day itself a downpour arrived that spoilt the festivities. Another horse was put down on the day too, behind colourful banners in order to screen convulsions from the punters. 500kg. beasts under the whip running for their lives on ankles the size of those of humans, the Animal Lib. activists highlighted in an ABC online item that had been shared with Auntie Helen the Catlady. The gap between Cup Day—long a national holiday down there, recently joined by the AFL Grand Final, in Melbourne at least—and Christmas ever shortening. In Afghanistan and Syria the boys will be served pudding in their Green Zones and extra Skype laid on; perhaps a surprise visit from the new PM, Foreign or Defence Minister. The advertisements in the newspaper this morning had almost doubled.

Dyeing on the Job (Oct26)

Pompeo in the pic in Pyongyang fresh from a haircut and style on the plane jetting across. There was enough on top to comb over comfortably in this instance, without the state-of-art glue & threading of his Commander-in-Chief. The NK counterpart on the other hand appeared to have matched his colour with his favourite natty, blue suit. Where Mike received high marks too is for the canny dye—a foxy light ash that leaves some of the grey-white at the lower edges & side-burns. (Pins and clasps deployed.) Meanwhile, whatever critics might say of the political shenanigans here, the manipulation, trickery & hounding of opponents, the chief on the Tropical island with pretensions to a Venetian inheritance does eschew colour. (The cut & styling might not be former First Lady of Malaysia, Rosmah Mansour’s $450 a go—which had included dyeing—but certainly accomplished.)

NB. A former federal opposition leader in Australia, when he was found dead in a hotel room after a tryst with a call-girl, attracted a headline in the Truth newspaper of the time: Billy Dies on the Job. Altogether different kettle of fish.

Appetite

Finally a glimpse of one of the respectable and proper chappies caught frankly ogling, when really they ought not. No harsh criticism involved—Zahruddin the Wadi Manager can be named, here found at the edge of his hotplate doing the usual justice to his assigned role calling to the passing customer. Yes, hello…. Yes. Hello. (Standard among limited English speakers, heard hereabouts morning to night.) The trouble in this instance being—were moral crusaders hovering—between times the man was looking the tall Chinese woman she might have been in her shorts and singlet top standing before him, very much up and down; up and down. A full-bodied, mature and perhaps buxom woman in front. (An old friend in Melbourne, passed on now, would have said of a conquest of the same, Dje je goc uhvatis, zensko; Wherever you clasp, all woman.) One hand on the counter freely appraising while the lady scanned the display board; like a fish out of water our man Rudd opening and closing his mouth; opening and closing. Swallowing and perhaps gulping a little it did appear. Without mincing matters, salivating one could term it. (In Serbo-Croat “thirsting;” zedan.) One of the classical appetites of course, in Aristotle’s taxonomy.

Rainy Season (Dec25)

Shopping for breakfast 8am the tai chi ladies were found under Block 9 going through their routines, in that echo chamber the co-ordinated rifle cracks of their bright red fans amplified. Putting that acoustic together with the later image of the Indians sprawled across the same space a few hours later, the connection was inescapable. On the bus lunchtime on Guillemard corner further along, some of the Indian chaps without plastic sheeting had laid themselves down longways on the path, leaving the passage clear for any shoppers going to City Plaza. Within the room the early rain had been inaudible; it was only after emerging that the drips from the awnings could be heard and some gurgling in the drains. In JB once in the rainy season a croaking from a palm had one puzzled. It was an unearthly sound, a cry of pain that made you almost wince. A dying bird, perhaps, or some other afflicted animal. Within the sparse, wet branches above there was no sign. You stood there lost for long moments, looking around. Finally, a passing uncle was enquired, who solved the mystery with a quiet smile. No, there, pointing below at the corner of the path. The struggle was occurring even ten minutes after the last fall deep down in the drain.

Signal Lessons

Beefy denying tiredness, a good sleep under his belt, he maintained. Last night the Sec. pal down the road had a cash job and Beef had been seconded. This suited the man: a quiet corner, aircon laid on, favour for a pal. There was no monetary recompense; the chap provided tehs and ciggies The other didn’t know through the night Beef had switched off the lights, the man wasn’t so good with switches and buttons. Beef crossed his brow with his forefinger: chap a bit slow, ex-Con working without a certificate usually cleaning; muttered to himself and hands trembling, fingers like playing an instrument. Ex-User, a bit gone. Beef had not much patience with that sort of thing, became rather irritated by it. The Malays ought be better than that, he thought. Fellow didn’t know himself—Beefy unexpectedly using the old Appollonian dictum, a rough-house, unschooled lad like him. One needed to get back to the square. Back to the square, back to the square, Beef taught the mantra to those who wanted to listen, his favourite nephew among them. Atas; bawah. Up and down. It needed to be understood. In old Montenegro precisely the same principle had been elucidated: Gore visoko; dolje tvrdo. Up was high; below hard. There was no out. “Simple as that,” said Beef. The man granted he was taught the lesson inside at the end of Changi Road where the “square” might have been the cell too and also compound. Foundation years stretched further back again one would wager.