Another Fair Maid

 

The two women roughly the same age, height, colouration. Moderately plump, pear-shaped both. The unusual in-step walk was what drew attention. 

This was a definite, striking lock-step, almost military in precision, despite the fact the woman on the outside was swivelled around half-facing the other. It was a kind of unity of being that marked out the pair in the midst of numerous others passing along the concourse. 

The similarity in size and feature came as the secondary observation. And only after that, lagging behind the other impressions, the notes of racial difference.

In fact the woman on the inside might have been four or five years older, perhaps early thirties. So much else was in accord that this distinction too took some time to register. 

The younger had a slightly darker skin tone, freckles, something of the Pacific in her aspect. Both were dressed in cheap, non-descript, washed-out clothes of the same unflattering dun colour. Shorts, printed tees and thongs. That was an added part of the unity; even the colours the same, as if they shared clothes indiscriminately.

The elder carried the strapped baby of two or three months high on her chest, facing. In order to engage the baby and have it in focus, the woman needed to retract her head. With head pulled back a little like a rooster, arching her spine, on she marched in-step with her companion. The baby sat comfortably, wisps of dark hair and eyes that blinked only a little, tiny and soundless.

A late afternoon constitutional underneath the HDB block. Dinner would follow upstairs. The lifts were in the central hub where most of the shops were clustered. Like at the base of any other HDB, food stalls stood ready as an option. On North Bridge here the cluster was somewhat unusual for all the stationery and printing shops. Across the road there was more than one Art supply outlet. Old grannies often sat along the ledges looking out onto the traffic on North Bridge Road. Incongruously, Raffles Hotel sat directly opposite, its presence inconsequential for this other side of the street. Often it was a surprise to be reminded of the incongruity.

The pair of women walked slowly, yet there was a rapidity in their motion at the same time. This impression came from the younger, darker, freckled woman, who walked half side-on, holding a fan in her hand which she directed at the baby. 

The girl was right-handed. From such close range shoulder-to-shoulder, she could not have fanned the child with her left even if she was able. Swivelling half-round, she battered with the fan from the right in rapid strokes. Keeping step, perhaps swinging her legs in a wider arc, she kept up with the fanning. 

Such energy in her action. An odd look of earnestness she gave the baby, who sat on contentedly, clearly in perfect comfort. 

There had been a couple of downpours through the afternoon, one just five minutes earlier. The heat and steaminess had quickly descended again. But this was almost November now; the oppressive sting of mid-year was long gone. 

The younger, darker, freckled woman beat a rapid time at this baby of such a charmed life, channeling at the child carefully. The most doting aunt could not have fulfilled the role as well.

Even the lower middle-class in Singapore, even renters in the HDB blocks, could afford cheap Filipina, Indonesian and Myanmar maids. For as little as three hundred and fifty Singaporean dollars a month a young mother could have such a girl living in the spare room, minding the baby, washing, cooking, cleaning, fetching the groceries. 

Many of the maids were the care-givers for the elderly, whose children prefer to undertake employment. Many have left their own children with their mothers and husbands back home and don't see them for two, three or more years. It was only in recent years that a mandated free day a month, and then weekly, was given these young women. In earlier years more than one had been encountered who had not had a free day in two or three years of employment. Cases of beatings are not uncommon. Trouble with the Sir usually takes the other, predictable form. Surveillance cameras regularly capture maids slapping their elderly charges because there had been trouble over medication and the like—the newspapers providing coverage. A dozen or more maids have fallen from the high towers to their deaths.

       Two hundred thousand maids in the country, in a native population the size of Melbourne.

 

Kinokuniya Reads (Mar25)

Thur. 27 October 2011. 

Top shelf of Essential Reads, immediately by Fresh Reads adjacent Cashier A: The Secret Garden. Black Beauty. Emma. 

It keeps the books alive, the chap stacking responded smilingly when the roll-call was remarked. 

Anywhere other than Singapore? 

‘Fraid it will be the very same the world over. While we burn and drown and war. 

Kinokuniya. Takashimaya building, on the entry behind Orchard Road. 

(There is a second store in Bugis mall, the less said about which the better.) 

The junction outside Takashimaya needs to be seen to be believed: the lolly-colours of the gigantic screen and its babble washing over the shoppers below with their bags hooked on arms. Space & time travel cannot offer more extraordinary, even in the galaxies outside the range of Hubble. Space-walks going cheap...

Therefore the titles face-up in covers to tempt on the shelves. 

King of the Badgers—one along on the same row within Fresh Reads. 

No guffawing permitted. This aint playfulness! Not make-believe. 

Reassuring cuppa on the cover in good china. No need the Bex in that receptacle. 

The soothing all in design. 

Marco Polo's Silk Road. Derby Day. Under the Sun (Chatwin). And last but not least: Why be Happy When You Could be Normal. (Winterson; pale English child on the sand holding a retro parti-coloured beach-ball to camera). 

Titles, covers & banner names. (Every bit sufficient to blot any hint of sexual politics too, even in Singapore.) 

Close by Orchard MRT there is Somerset, Red Hill, Clarke Quay, Farrer Park—a certain cache in the tags goes down a treat here more than anywhere else perhaps on the globe. 

Winterson. Chatwin. Almost a touch of royalty purely in the compounds on offer. Like soft garnished pastry on the palate. Horsey love story in Singapore!?... (Good a read as it is for teenage girls.) 

An enchanting, secluded, health-giving garden for the blighted of spirit?... Sorely needed here as anywhere else. 

Vicarages, visits, slow romance under the tropical heat?

Ten thousand times better than Borders notwithstanding. 

Picked up the other Murakami's Sixty Nine to see how that marker went down with the first post-war generation in old-new Nippon.

Deepavali

The young fellow reeked a bit, but it was his smile that first suggested the state of elation. On taking the seat he had knocked the table and eventually offered a delayed apology. It took him a short while to realise someone else was seated opposite. During busy times at Tasvee the patrons will approach a spare seat and politely enquire for sharing. A free and relaxed locale; rarely does anyone plonk themselves down uninvited. When this chap first dropped into the chair the seat was straddled somehow sideways so that his back had jolted the table. The lad was pissed, nicely, happily and contentedly so. Tasvee didn't sell alcohol. Throughout the almost five months no more than a couple of drunks have been sighted the length and breath of Geylang Road. It's always harder to tell with an unfamiliar foreigner, someone outside your cultural range.

         The congratulations offered this fellow were taken in stride. It was his New Year, he explained, as if a white man was unlikely to have known this additional piece of information. Apologies came for his English. In his head he had what he wanted to say, he explained, but it didn't come out of his mouth right. This was regardless of his present state: it was his usual problem—it seemed clear this is what was meant. This was confirmed when he went on to say the same thing happened to him in the case of his native Tamil. The lad had assumed a peculiar, personal problem of his own. Cricket came up. He liked cricket; not football. India's position as Number One nation in the world he mentioned proudly, but at the same time with some part modesty introduced into his smile. It was a clear adjustment. Then Tendulkar. The little maestro this lad had not in his brain: he had him in his heart. To be sure he was understood, a second time he said the same thing again. All India felt the same, he said.
         Earlier the young man had indeed visited the temple, one off one of the Lorongs down the road where he pointed. As if to confirm the observance he gave the number of the Lorong and the name of the temple. Presumably the alcohol had been taken subsequently. Were they new clothes he wore? They were. A mechanical engineer three years in Singapore. Likely he had been forced to celebrate Deepavali three years running away from home. Other jobs he did in addition to his regular—construction, driving. Some fine courtesy was offered on parting, a small, limp, overly aged hand for a chap of his years.
         Tasvee is halal Muslim, but they get many of their Hindu compatriots there. It was full-house tonight. The rain had prevented a trip out to one of the temples to observe the scene. Three or four hour-long falls through the course of the day, all dead vertical and large droplets at the peak. Thunder again at maximum effect in the near distance at midnight. (This global thunder capital, as the Straits Times touts.)

Gaddafi in Batam (Feb26)

 

The Batam Post carried the same pictures & headlines.

         KHADAFI

           TEWAS

The unavailing pleading for life was quoted: Don't shoot, don't shoot.

The main picture was from the files of the chieftain of former times, in the rich robes when he would pitch his famous tents in foreign capitals. Finally, in the end, similar to Saddam a few years before, the deposed leader was reportedly caught in a sewer.

That picture too featured in the Batam Post, the wall of the drain scrawled with graffiti celebrating the event. One of the English newspapers turned the tyrant into a rodent.

The main photo was of the corpse. The dreadful dictator brought to account for all his crimes: bloodied, shaggy-haired carcass, with twisted mouth.

In Indonesia—in the local newspaper on the island of Batam at least—there was a different cropping of the shot, one that helped set the scene on the outskirts of Sirte, where Gaddafi was cornered.

In the earlier publications it was a close focus on the torso, the head and rictus tightly framed, with an odd angle somehow, as if the body was laid on a rise of ground. 

For the Batam Post the slightly wider shot revealed the staging that had been involved. Alongside the corpse in the Batam Post, on the left, a man's jeans-clad leg was bent, the knee pointing at the camera. On the thigh blood had left a smear, the same as on the waistband of the white t-shirt.

The dying Gaddafi had leaked over one of the killers.

Framing the body on the other side, on the right, was a left arm.

Gaddafi's body was wedged against one of his captors, the dead weight propped at an angle for the camera. The scoop for the news-services fetching a good price.

The man in jeans & tee, from an opposing tribe, no doubt, was happy to cradle the old monster in his lap. A tale to adapt for the grandchildren.

One of the news outlets in Oz anticipated cheaper petrol prices.

 

 

 

Geylang Evening

These medieval scenes of Indian and mainland labourers at the end of their work-shift in the back of the lorries. Transports of the condemned enroute to execution sites the image suggests. Men in their late thirties stiff and slow-moving back on the ground. At Tasvee eighty cent plain prata with tomato and chilly curry — five or six tablespoons in a small dish — inadequate for these workers. The Chinese will queue over the road at The Eastern for the more filling fare at around $3.50. On every side streaming across with bags slung over their shoulders. Watching them the hand twitches and half rises from the table as if they could be greeted, the returning soldiers saluted. Across at the corner Lorong, one arm hooked through the railing of a parked lorry, a marvelous long-haired vision in glowing, flowing white ballroom dress almost, illuminated by the headlights. Another lorry pulled up in front with a mix of Banglas, Indians and laughing mainlanders. These men always knew what they were in for. They have adjusted, found a way together. Like a bit player in a movie decked in his vaguely ridiculous uniform, the Malay parking inspector pacing as if in procession alongside the motorbikes. Every night cars and bikes park in front of Tasvee—the parking inspector never appeared previously. Within the shadows of the Lorong, beyond the lights at the back lane of the Eastern, another gal leaning on a pillar, the shine of sleek legs caught momentarily in swinging headlights. The lorries often stop there. After dropping their cargo the work contractors are able to afford some cheap relief at the end of the day. A roadwork gang for take-out, the truck having done a circuit of the block while a couple of the lads picked up. When the lorry rounds for them the wheels continue to roll as they climb aboard. Dense traffic. Though long gone, the figure of the inspector has them spooked tonight. Another lorry again the same. Making the crossing with his tools, the laden street-sweeper footing it over expertly between the lanes in his yellow vest and wellingtons: stiff brush-broom, plastic rake, pan on a handle and large yellow garbage bag. The only way it can be done is with the rake under the arm-pit. Still waiting the girl in the shadows; the other gone. White Aussie guy from the tones over the traffic exasperated by his young companion. The girl untrusting, reluctant to follow his lead to cross—she had hesitated and pulled back. Four busy lanes nothing like where she comes from in the Philippines. Tasty mutton soup last night at Mr. T. T. reminding of Slavo's revulsion — in his childhood it was the only meat they could afford. Three bowls on the table behind coming up grass-green with the diced vegetables. Pre-war scenes of smiling gals dinked on the rear of bicycles having to stiffen their legs against the motion; a laughing mother behind a son it had to be earlier. Others showered and changed crossing, turns taken fetching styrofoams three high in either hand. Endless panorama always more heartening than otherwise. On the return one last surprise waiting on Guillemard corner at the lights where a bicycle shop had traded earlier: the newly erected wooden stands this evening carry a long line of metre and a half green plastic Chrissie trees offered to the passing cars. Inside the shop all manner of colourful bunting and decorations, Santa hats and streamers. The season of cheer arrived every bit as early as back home. Has it all been set into swing a week after the footy finals along Swanston and Bourke Streets?

Dinner on Geylang

The Eastern Restaurant, corner Lorong 27 and Geylang Road.
Around 7 30pm.
The owner reckons it gets even busier in the early mornings before the work-shift.
The workers here are all foreign, mainland Chinese at this Eatery. Twelve hour days, six days a week are standard in the construction industry = approx. $S1500 per month.
Rice, meat/fish and veg at Eastern $3.50. Good tucker - sampled with the photographer Steve Black on the night.

Mr. Teh Tarik

Over the course, around a hundred and fifty meals taken at Mr.T.T., with the same number in "stretched teas" (teh tarik) - $4/1.
Thank you Ishmael and Mr. Malacca, Lina and the boys.




Image Steve Black