Beggar Aunt (Feb25)

This beggar was a novelty. Chinese woman in her late-50s presenting the plastic cup across the table. A few silver coins sat in the bottom. Bending herself to table level, her broad, clean face loomed close. A large gap showed between ground front teeth, though there seemed to be none missing. Wordless before the ang moh, but not a mute, as her thanks demonstrated afterward. There would have been no English in her command, her social class was evident. The smile she offered conveyed more than any language. Lord how she radiated. The fondest, most doting aunt of the old style could not have out-done this woman. A treasure. A smile like hers was learned in a large, fortunate family and passed down. There was none of mere pleading in this smile. Half a century there had not been anything of the kind in that oldest of continents back home; only on the streets of Fitzroy on the faces of the oldest inhabitants. Or among our own people in our suburban quarter back then.
          Opportune on this morning of the re-election of the Kuomintang government in Taiwan, aided in no small part it seems by the leader Ma's wife, described as the "aunt next door" type for her humility, warmth and grace. In these communities on the Equator everyone instantly knows the example, there was no mystery or oddity. 
          Opposite Geylang Serai on Changi Road mid-morning in the run-up to CNY.

 

A Two Hander

The two fellows are near forty if not tipped over, tall and short. To compensate the latter is up on the footpath, his friend down in the gutter on the road. At first encounter they had both been up on the footpath, holding hands and smiling at each other without cease, one up to his friend and the other down, a little shyly it seemed. They had not been caught from the very outset. By the time the observation had fallen on them the linking of hands was almost by the finger-tips only, a striking chain of union like for a pair of lovers, securely toying with each other. Certainly not youngsters this pair. There was no grey as yet, nor thickening. But the working life, early rises and long days showed them a little older than their years. An unexpected encounter that had stopped them on that corner; acquainted from earlier days on one of the building sites here, or even back home. The cheap digs in Geylang, the eateries and drinking holes, and yet they had not encountered each other how long was it now? The smiling would not let up. A switch had been pulled and would not dim. Beaming at each other and still clasped. The short was more of a natural smiler, a little more free. Tall had never had much to smile about; his wife rarely saw it. Still, he was stretching it here, encouraged by his friend. How could he possibly resist in the face of that? And the chain unbroken had to be three full minutes, four possibly. Fingers interlocking, both stretched a little by it, full of their pleasure. They had reason for their delight in finding each other, something proved and established. There was a good deal of it here among the foreign workers in Geylang far from home, far from family, both the Chinese and the Indians too the same. Hard long days, industrial accidents, dirty, taxing work down in holes and up on high scaffolds, sleeping fifteen and twenty to a room, queuing for showers. There was no natural right for free, easy, relaxed spirits, laughter and clasping. There was precious little of it nearer the town centre here, you would be hard pressed to find it trawling through the streets one after the other the live-long day. Three or four minutes this clasp was observed. The length of the smiling unquantifiable—twenty full minutes if it happened at all. Heartening watching. The short guy was really stretching his friend. The former seemed to have some authority, or seniority. A direct raised gaze straight and clear. The other slid a little left and right, unequal to the task, clothes a little more drab, lacking the wrist-watch of his friend. Down from the footpath the tall had stepped as if to give required due. Somehow the chain was broken, uncannily. The eyes had not been taken from them for an instant. The smiles remained. The tall held a tightly packed plastic bag, which now goes from one to the other hand when both were free. Northerners possibly, the Mongol invasion their heritage, certainly the short. When they turn to lean on the rails of the lorry parked beside them (illegally parked a metre from the corner as always here), the latter remains on the footpath, the equality retained. A third man happened along briefly, tall better known to him. Got himself off without intruding. One more going past gave a friendly slap to the short without the merest glance returned, without a flicker. Finally a phone call interrupting. Slapping hand over on the short's shoulder, off they trooped together. While the man talks on the phone the connection was retained with the resting hand. The surprise encounter and the talk had held them on the spot. In fact both were headed in the same direction. Hail fellows. Well met.

MBS Mark II (Moshe Safdie) Jan12_25

  

Remarkable and spectacular icons of concrete, glass & steel kind can be expected to be replicated and copied willy-nilly. Nothing you can do. Everyone wants a piece of the glory, wants to get into the act. Emerging catch-up nations and cities particularly, eye-sore industrial wastelands, no-man lands, pig-sty agricultural precincts of shameful former time, &etc. &etc. Left behind too long, here is available a pole-vault into the centre of contemporary chic. South-west China caught up in quick time. Boom-towns like no other—Shanghai, Guangzhou, HK and the others was just the start. Coming now to a prime river frontage in Chongqing is a thinly masked replica of Singapore's own, unique and inimitable (previously) MBS. The Marina Bay Sands hotel, resort, casino, playground/dreamworld rolled into one—or rather three towers. More home movies & snaps feature the MBS than Disneyland, the Great Wall and any beach-side palm-fringed spot on the globe combined, possibly. The architect responsible for the original not done yet. No need fear charges of plagiarism and mimicry when the principal and creative designer was himself brought on-board. Cost was no object, presumably: Moshe Safdie by name, please come forward and take a bow. Richly deserved. Ladies and gentlemen, raise your glasses... Another signature feast for the roving eye. Spectacular. Towers that curve and sway, dance almost. When the water beneath is sparkling, a double rumba in the reflection. The unforgettable skypool atop the original MBS replaced in this second iteration by platforms, shafts, jutting spears of green crowns that pierce the heart. Moshe's mum would be proud of him. No fear of the charge of repeating oneself. All taken to another level. An icon to hang your hat on. It would not surprise if Moshe put the cue back in the rack after this. Unsurpassable. Possibly the sky-traffic was the only worry with the mesmerising effect created. A tiny segment robbed from the original here the only thing. You get that with ground-breaking forerunner art & science. Ball back in SG's court to strive for something better again, another unmatchable trump card to keep ahead of the game. Tough ask, but not beyond them here. Imagination Only Limited by the Strength of your PASSION—on a recent passing bus, if it was got right. (Second thoughts that mighta been a newly released condo on the market.)
Good luck to the city of Chongqing. Developments to watch.

 

Today in the Straits Times a pic that no doubt only goes some part of the way to catch the allure of the marvel soon to enter the architectural fray. Wednesday, 11 Jan 2012, p. 10.

 

Clean (has to be said)

Sweep appearing beside the table suddenly out of nowhere, thin air, like a bird of augury somehow decked in his yellow feathers and sliding bright-eyed glare. Almost a gasp escaping at his silent, unannounced arrival. Two feet out from the gutter a single, solitary butt had been invisible until the man sprung into action. One and then a quick follow-up second sweep with his brush-broom straight into the pan held in the other hand. A hole-in-one. The second sweep had been unnecessary, went in first time. Under arm the rake, handle rising above his shoulder (long rakes standard municipal contractor issue - no excuses), yellow wellies and vest. Don't want him run over; every reasonable precaution. Under the baseball cap salt and pepper top and deeply tanned—possibly from the streets, or just as likely the hill village from which he originally hails. Quick looks down the lorong opposite where he knows the girls lurk in the deep shadows, the glitter of their wear occasionally caught in the lights of the cornering cars. In all and everything quite deceptive: the man has some way to go to forty; signs of maturity beyond his years. Won't make it back home for NY. Remittance dollars will sweeten the event for parents, wife and child back there; for himself perhaps some comfort found in his favourite local gal. Seven full months without a single, solitary look returned from any of the street-sweeps over the whole of the term. Not a one. Passing through completely unheeding like a dignified desirable woman in a room-full of men. Table here ten inches from the gutter where they work, where they seek their hoard, their special province. How many of them come and gone over the course, without any meaningful distinction between them: age, size, stature, colouration, firmness. Never raising their eyes. Keeping the streets clean an earnest project here; justly deserved fame for it; badge of honour, source of pride. How many foreign visitors going away to sing the eulogies of Singapore's clean streets.... The antiseptic charge falling on deaf, uncomprehending ears. What can those foreigners be on about?... An elevation above the muck, their inheritance. Shows how far they've come; in this wider Asian slum. Feature writer in the ST today concentrated her tourist piece on the grime of India: for all the colourful temples, street scenes, cheap shopping and culinary experiences, the dirt and grime, toilets especially.... It's alright in the hotels. They're up to scratch, the better kind. But fair warning, you wouldn't want to be caught out on the streets if you could help it. Unwanted constant reminder of where they've come from.

Prayers Answered

Surprise couple of mails from Serangoon Yatie this morning completely out of the blue. Calls, mails, arrangements had all been fruitless where Yatie had been concerned the last month and more. Once or twice she explained briefly there were family problems with which she was pre-occupied. No details and handled solo as usual. Prayers and fasting had been the assumption, more or less confirmed in this morning's exchanges.
         Presently the eldest brother in hot water. Difficult to get the story properly over the telephone. Seems Awang Widodo, the brother, was caught by the cops riding an unregistered motor-cycle. Not the first time caught; five months the bike had been unregistered. Cops had drawn a line. A recent visit had laid it down.
         — You gunna pay this fine or come with us to the jailhouse, boy?
         Threw the poor sis into apoplexy. The good, loving, reliable sister, saviour of the family. Eight or nine years was it? in Singapore sacrificing herself for the others. Ensuring better for sisters and brother, mother and father. Spinsterhood one of the accidental outcomes; pretty fine spinster that she makes, Yatie, in her early thirties.
         Prayers on their own had been insufficient until now. How to get the money? Yatie had none just now. Everything she had all accounted for in her many, various outlays: one sister's nursing school fees, another's trade school (an accomplished seamstress), the father's brick kiln, up-keep of the house Yatie had built for herself in the kampung where she would retire soon to attend to her aging parents. Perhaps Yatie had sent chocolates to the sister encountering marriage difficulties a little while ago. That was the most recent family trouble prior to this current that prevented Yatie going out the last month and more.
         Prayers and proper devotion take time and energy. Focus. The thin, slight frame had long given hint. Fasting integral in the performance of devotion and supplication. It wasn't just Ramadan and the high marks of the calendar Yatie met with the fast. Hope for God's intercession needed dedicated engagement. Certainly six hundred a month here wasn't going to solve all the day to day dramas of a large and growing family back home.
         How to get the money? To whom could Yatie possibly turn?
         Difficulties for the sister beginning two or three weeks ago had come from the usual direction. Husband straying, caught out in an affair. Sister outraged; devoutness likely running in the family. Threats of divorce, immediate separation—mentioned by Yatie in the morning's call.   
         All torment and despair in poor sweet Yatie's head. Unknown as yet, but possibly the situation rescued by Yatie's wise, patient counsel. Counsel and of course prayers and supplication.
         The new problem had now supplanted the former. The way Yatie spoke on the phone suggested the brother was front and square and there was nothing else of concern.
         How to possibly get the money? To whom to possibly turn?
         Yatie had never been one for friends here. The girls in Singapore, the compatriots working as maids, could not easily suit a girl like Yatie. So much dissolution; many of the girls were young.
         For some reason as yet unknown, the French employer, with a young Indon wife the same age as Yatie, could not be asked for a small advance.
         There was good understanding and respect between maid and employers. The Indon wife had been brought back to Islam through the good offices of the maid. Young daughter of the union likewise now leading an Islamic life; through the patient good offices of the maid Yatie. Yet in this time of need, this time of trouble and torment, neither Sir nor Madam could be approached.
         Likely it would muddy the relationship. There would need to be explanations, all the troubles to unfold. The respectful, professional distance broached and unable to be rescued. For all the possible explanations that might be conceived on the matter of the hesitancy to approach those of her household, nonetheless a surprise. Finally Yatie's steadfastness it may come down to. Some other way needed to be found.
         Overnight or this morning Yatie's prayers had been answered. At least the message had been transmitted, the hint given.
         — Yes, do. Try ---------. Go ahead and give it a go.
         ….To be mentioned in a communication with God can never be taken lightly. Certainly a privilege. Not to mention in this case the unfamiliar, unknown power of the Musilman in question. (The Montenegrin cousins would be horrified. In the neighbourhood of Geylang Serai Yatie prays in the Muslim Converts building, a stone's throw from the hotel. God almighty forefend!)
         Not only the whole of this foregoing; in addition the mention had been from upstairs coming down. That's what it sounded like on the phone. The name of one's person in the very mouth of the Almighty. Almost like being admitted to the ranks of the elect…. This one named and specified can be approached. Not likely just anyone can win that kind of implicit trust.
         The wise old Shakespearean injunction, good old well-meaning Polonius sending reminder to his son against lending and borrowing, had certainly not been forgotten. But then what to do in the face of the higher power? How to reject pious entreaty?
         ….If you can't that's OK, Yatie had said in the mail.
         A nice, polite enquiry in broken English. Not the language of the on-line frauds.
         The date with Western Union at SingPost proceeding pretty much without a hitch. Luckily Barak had come good with part-payment of his back-rent just after New Year. Some fat there.
         Upon strict confirmation of identity, PAY the said Awang Widodo of Indonesia (address unnecessary) the sum of Two Hundred and Fifty Dollars S$250 ONLY.
         Lady behind the desk had asked whether the recipient was known to the sender.
         Yatie had it about 2mil. Rupiah. Not far wrong: 1.724 today's exchange rate.
         Should be more than sufficient for cops bent or otherwise, registration, a mechanical once-over on the bike and a celebratory drink of sugar cane thereafter (again the assumption the devoutness runs smooth in the family).
         It's not going to come cheap either. The scribe hesitates to record it against his person. Is it a little shameful? In the interests of truth, sincerity and fair-dealing dear reader, frank disclosure.
         At the scheduled date of repayment on Sunday 14 Januario (as the employers are back in town Yatie can't get away on the Saturday when she gets her dollars), Yatie Widodo will be requested, rather than taking her prayers over at the Converts, instead to repair to the room in the hotel and there please complete all that needs to be done in complete peace and security. 
         A green kiblah on the ceiling gives the direction of Mecca. The tacky carpet can be covered by a couple of fresh towels. (Room service gals and guys have long been on-side.) Bed moved if necessary for space. No kidding. No profanity. Nothing nefarious. An artist, entirely respectful, with his subject before him and nothing more.
         Condemn if you will dear reader.
         Could Yatie possibly assent?
         Holy prayer. A devout worshipper, faithful honest maid at her orizons.      
         Never mind the thanks. More than enough recompense, should the wish be granted.
         Reader, watch this space.

Thucydides Mooning (July26)

Now that's one moon. For all the cloud. On the Equator there can be no size to the old cheese, angles, math and all that. 

         Invariably up in the East here, at least this time of night. And almost as quickly disappeared as appeared. There... quickly in and out; nice fun and games. 

         Bright even so, behind a range of screening.

         The delightful non-English speaker from Shandong Little Kitchen keeping up a high, energetic wave from the inside footpath while her old friend passed in the other direction on the road. Big smiles. A gallant and one half, she. Mid twenties, yet like so many others from where she hails, such settled confidence and ease. Reads kindly disposition straight as a die; easy as pie.
         — Wow! Where did that gleam come from? Half rat-power at its brightest, earlier. Bright as the advertising. 
         Again. A power. Partly possibly from the blacker than usual pitch.
         Single day from full. Again, bottom carrying faintest of dints.
         Two flashing cops down Lorong 24. An earlier had passed without flash, unclear whether it had taken 24. 

         A third too, flashing but not hurtling.
         Shining still. Possibly rising a trifle the while.

         Mary Beard was continuing with wonderful suggestion, insight, captivation on these ancients, currently Thucydides. J.F.K. did some kind of thesis at Harvard on a re-interpretation of Churchill's study of England between the wars: the latter's "How England Slept" turned by the Pres. to-be into, "Why England Slept?" The relevance to the Greek master in the comparison of the Athenian example in its tussle with Sparta. Marvelously tantalizing studies of Caesar, Cleo, Augustus and the rest from the back issues of the Review on-line. In lieu of other reading in this out-of-place place, wholesome fare.
         Absolutely and utterly blanketed by quart ten. Dim blackness. One barely illuminated fringe of white cloud the only semblance. 

         Then suddenly here she flies once more! Mighty and high. Easy to see how the ancients a few millennia prior to the astronomer ancients of Greece might have danced in the forest glen under the great lamp. Chinese NY in precisely three weeks. A searching out of the orb must be remembered.

         And yet another cop too out of 24A, the female in the passenger seat putting up her hair. Back to the routine of the evening shift after the earlier high-jinks. Sundays were fairly racy here with the workers resting. The biggest night of the week for Shandong Little Kitchen. One fella short while ago needed supervision on the roadway trying to hail a cab. Soon got jack of being ignored. A glance told the cabbies enough.
         A number of street decorations along Geylang Road now too. The long Dragon went up in Chinatown a week ago with the PM lighting the torch and cutting ribbons. But that Chinatown was for the tourists. Geylang was the real Chinatown in this neck of the diaspora. 

         On the walk back a small, high, red balloon or lantern, with naked flame beneath, surprised flitting by, — carried along by the stronger currents above. A reminder of the poor devils in NZ over the weekend in their balloon.

NB. Mary Beard covers the Greeks and Romans for the New York Review of Books.

Street Scribe (Dec24)

 

The old Malay bag-man in fact turns out one of the tribe. More than six months it has taken for the matter to be established. 

One afternoon at one of his usual corner stops, the exercise-book was raised, pages back-folded and the ball-point angling against the feint lining.

On the paper the compact block letters of Bahasa took the form of versed Latin, large enough for a passer-by to have read.

More than an ordinary bag-man.

At his stops the man dropped down onto his haunches, sitting comfortable and perfectly balanced. Pen and paper was managed with ease. In his squat the bag-man seemed so low to the ground that one looked whether he might be touching.

Pausing always with cigarette. After the styrofoam take-out from Mr Teh Tarik, the same, twenty or thirty metres on.

On first stopping and lowering himself, before anything else, the bag-man needed to catch breath. A ciggie or the pages were impossible before that. 

Always distressing to witness the long, gulping draughts inhaled one after another, a bellows of heaving chest rising and falling. Bent and crouched like that, the struggle was greater still. 

Mouth agape. Heave-ho, heave-ho, heave-ho. The bag-man stared out, jaw jutting, temples bulging.

The bag-man's course was from the direction of the Haig, where a dozen housing blocks reached back from Geylang Road. Along the path there around to Joo Chiat Complex was under a kilometre.

A string of saddle-bags slung over either shoulder. Unfailingly clean, roomy tennis shoes and bare feet. Scissor-action long strides were paced as if by measure.

The shopping plaza at JC the bag-man never entered, rarely crossing at the lights.

Nearly four months Malay Kampung had been closed-up. Even earlier, it seemed to hold no interest for the bagman. The re-creation from the '60s, shortly to be demolished, showed the hand of bureaucratic social policy, delivered from drawing tables in tall towers.

New trousers; the fine leather jacket was added a month ago. The bagman was kept well-provisioned. Thin and weathered as the bagman appeared, there was no want.

At the counters money was produced for food & drink. Members of the community gave the bag-man notes unbidden, a tenner on one occasion. 

It was not solely age that had the bagman so deserving; that quiet diligence and patience did not go unnoticed.

Only occasional and minor nattering; nothing like raving.

The school exercise-book collected the rumination over his journey. Earlier, the signs might have been taken in the hints of preoccupation and bright-lit eyes. The pace of stride was not due to age or weight of burden.

Even for a stranger, the beauty of the bag-man was easy to see.

A loving relative removed his shoes at night and helped bathing—the signs of devotion were unmistakeable. Possibly the man had claimed readers too.