Restitution

This must be known. Real names cannot be divulged for reasons that will become obvious. The matter needs to be revealed for the sake of truth and proper honour, for due and fitting acknowledgement. Another, added measure of the place and people here, the community and its ways, provided by one more brief tale late in the piece.
         A pavement eatery here in lower Geylang, Geylang Serai more or less. Upper Geylang is the real, remnant Chinatown in this country (not the tourist mock-up closer to the biz district). This is lower Geylang, Malayu-land — the original, indigenous, native population of Malays more or less; now Singaporeans; displaced on their own ancestral territory by the canny Chinese. An accident of history of the usual sort. North, south, east and west is Malay land: Sumatra, Java, Borneo, the Malaysian peninsular. Two hundred odd million across the Indonesian archipelago; twenty plus mil. Malaysian. Ultimately there is little to distinguish the two groups in race, language, culture, religion. Islamic, conservative, lovers of song, full of laughter, strong family-community bonds. Head-scarves, facial hair for the men, dry (no alcohol), unofficial multiple wives here and there, madrassa schooling here and there, superficially patriarchal. Resistant to modernist pressures; thereby retaining some of the beauty of the former lost world. (Sad to report, the Chinese are mostly far-gone, just as in HK and Macau no doubt. Catastrophic birth-rate decline, loss of identity, ancestral language, culture, community. The very "success" done them in.)
         The chaps happening to serve and cook at this particular eatery in the middle of micro-Malayu land in contemporary arse-kicking Singapura, hail from Malaysia; ethnically and culturally Muslim Indians. Tamil one of the shared languages; Bahasa Malay otherwise; some Arabic. Little English. A wonderful motley crew. A full twelvemonth almost, nothing but good cheer witnessed amongst them in what one would ordinarily consider trying conditions: a hot kitchen in the tropics, twelve hour shifts in thirteen day fortnights, families far distant, wives and children. Some of them do not have Skype. (Thankfully phone calls no longer prohibitive, even for chaps on about $4 per hour.) Much of the detail is known by regular readers.
         Numerous, countless meals taken here over a twelvemonth (almost). In the early phase both lunch and dinner. Weekends often still both main meals. First name basis with the majority of the lads. The towns they hail from, composition of families, the various conditions and concerns shared and discussed. A comfortable, warm, understanding community. The lads bunk around the corner, literally a stone's throw from the hotel. They are in dorm accommodation, probably four or six to a room. Aircon unlikely.
         To underline: nothing but good cheer among themselves witnessed in the full (almost) twelvemonth. Jokes, covering for each other, tables of a dozen when a particularly enticing EPL game is being televised, very careful, circumspect, respectful and gleeful shared admiration of the fairer sex, smokos together in the corner (with the manager joining), back-patting-hugging-slapping.
         Pleasure to behold. Straight from the Workers' Solidarity manual, revised and updated edition.

         Over the course there has been a little turn-over of the staff, re-rostering, change of shifts, new boys added and others relocated. In all cases fitting replacements with little sense of change. The culture remains if the individuals alternate.
         The recent lad serving has almost no English whatever; on a par with the chief character now needing introduction.
         Let's call him Iqbal. More than six months now Iqbal has been cooking and serving. At first the language limitation in his case seemed like it might present some sort of problem. A garrulous, joker type, suddenly unable to communicate with one of the locals, one of the fixtures. An Australian. (Not an American. Perhaps Iqbal and all the others could have coped even with an American of the less objectionable sort. Fair wager.)
         Nothing to worry about. Relations fine and dandy with Iqbal too all the while. Mother an Indian; father either Pakistani or Afghani. The English imperial-colonial cartography needs to be taken with more than a modicum of salt when entering this field. Careful treading in these descriptions. It helps if one understands these things.
         To add just a little dash of perhaps needed colour and spice: Iqbal is the husband of two wives, up in a town not far from KL. Two children with the former and another with the latter, no doubt younger. A good deal required to provide properly, and on $4 per hour.
         The men here spend next to nothing on themselves. Four dollars an hour with accommodation and tucker thrown in sounds a bit better. A smoker Iqbal. No alcohol, no entertainment other than that created by the men themselves. Foreign labour gangs far from home is a well-known contemporary story. This writer has the benefit of witnessing at close quarters the labouring migrants of the sixties and seventies back in the land of Oz, the meat-workers, assembly-liners, miners and the rest. An entree card into the circles of these Indian-Malay lads here, as well as the Banglar boys, the mainland Chinese and the rest.
         Someone of the earlier crew must needs have worded up Iqbal about the Australian. Alright he must have been designated. Not easy to comprehend, granted. One can get lucky sometimes. With the language limitation it had not been possible in Iqbal's case to achieve one of the better instances of rapport, ease and flowering confidence. Someone must have worded him up. How else to explain the generosity and keen, full, earnest consideration and concern? (There was nothing else to explain it. A single, solitary time a packet of cigarettes was presented to the man.... left behind in the hotel by a friend. A weak little gesture of thanks in the face of all the overwhelming, endless kindness and consideration.)
         The newer lad landed who had the same almost non-existent level of English as Iqbal was a little younger, perhaps early thirties. Like so many of these men, manner, hair-style, assurance, life experience gives them a great deal of maturity. A thirty-five year old Indian, Malay, Pakistani, Bangladeshi is something like fifty-five in the Western-affluent comparison. (No offence intended.)
         The new man had a slightly turned eye. In Australia such a misfortune might have the afflicted slink into corners, retard schooling, never a chance with the lasses. May as well hang himself near enough. Not here. Numerous, countless times, hunchbacks, cripples, the deformed, the sightless, not to mention the ugly, behave here as if they are god's children too, claiming their place in the sun, the inheritors of the earth no less and not shy about it.
         This chap not lacking in spunk like all the rest of his tribe. Wanted to joke and was not put off by the language barrier. You got machine-gun rat-a-tat bullets of Tamil at a guess straight in the face at the counter from this barrel-chested boy,  witticism by the look of it, ready or not. You couldn't cope? You needed translation? Well poor you. Look to it. See what you might manage.
         No need be unnerved. This sort was known too. Right-O buster. Give back as good as you get. Leave it up to him if he wants to try more Tamil or Urdu to cross this bridge. That's OK.
         The first few times serving he's had to ask the elders how to charge this fella, this regular and fixture in the fancy straw hat with the black ribbon. Didn't take him long to realize this wasn't any ordinary Joe. ("John", is the common designation by the Chinese stall-holders. A form of sweetened roti or prata is even given the name Roti John.) If he hadn't realized all this on his lonesome, someone had given him the word. This fella is OK. We don't charge him hammer rates.
         Three or four times at the counter he had turned to Iqbal or Mohammed. What do I do with this guy?
         Yesterday for some reason he had ventured all on his own. Indeed, when the choice was made at the display, the man had warned, fairly and openly, well before time, That squid is three dollars alone. You want? Up to you.
         Instead of the usual three dollars for fish, rice, three veg and gravy, here was a bill for Five Dollars.
         Fair enough. A red tenner handed over. Green five returned.
         Conversion: we are currently at approximately 75 cents to the Sing. dollar. For a full twelvemonth (almost) one has been shamelessly lunching and dining on $Aust2.25. Add another 75c for a t. t. (kurang manis - less sugar please).
         Coin presented; correct change given. Next.
         No further word. Not that any was necessary of course.
         Tasty meal. Mighty fine. Eaten without company on this occasion, none of the regulars happening along. The street and passers-by a drama better than any TV one can remember. Deluxe movie-going.
         Late in the piece, plate cleared and newspaper spread, unexpectedly Iqbal coming past. A robust muscle man, sometimes Iqbal is called upon to attend to something the other side of the counter. The awning; a delivery; help clearing after busy periods. Adaptable and willing, never a complaint from Iqbal, as with all the others. Where these lads come from there is no opportunity for complaint. Run along when called.
         Iqbal coming by. Not the usual Howdydo? On this occasion something particular.
         Not understood immediately.
         — Fight donor today????....
         Ah-hem... Smiles… Hmm… “Fight do…” Oh! Yes, finally. Gotcha my boy. Understood. Five dollars!
         —... New boy... No ... (understand was the gist).
         Oh dear me my good Iqbal, please, no need worry. All OK. Good. Cool bananas. Please think nothing of it.
         Shake of the head... Choked smile. Next time.... (something further).
         Next time was dinner the same day. Iqbal at the counter. Chicken, beef, mutton usually avoided this twelvemonth. The conditions of agricultural farming no better here than anywhere else. Sometimes wholly vegetarian the choice, which makes Iqbal wonder. Fish? he will ask. Always suggesting add-ons. Never taking sikit-sikit/little-little seriously; not for nasi or anything else. For no other reason than Iqbal's dishing up the grub seven days a week, 15 - 20 kms. walks have needed to be taken up in the evenings to burn off at least some of the carbs. Once it's on the plate it's gotta be eaten. Brought up right.
         This time a different fish, nasi, the three veg and curry. The other day, unasked, Iqbal had pressed Indian soup. Seemed to be onion and pepper mainly. Tasty. Delicious. Same as every day/night — Three dollaro.
         In an effort not to be presumptuous, usually a tenner is proffered at the counter. Almost in every single case at this Eatery a green five and mauve two rendered as change. Once or twice Ahmed (let's call another) has forgotten himself. Once after forgetting himself Ahmed actually apologized later.
         Making up for the faux pas committed earlier in the day by the new boy, the machine-gun, rat-a-tat Tamil guerilla, this time Iqbal clears out the register of mauve Twos: one, two, three and four.
         That's evened the ledger. Squared things up.
         The language limitation leaves a strangulating sense of grossly inadequate thanks and appreciation. Flabbergasted dismally. This is restitution. One has certainly not deserved such grace and consideration. How possibly?

Battle Stations (Oct25)

Effective Interviewing and Interrogating Techniques

         Principles of Kinesic Interviews
         Investigative Interviewing
         Al-Qaeda perhaps. Annals of Guantanamo, renditions in Egypt, Bulgaria, Bahrain? (Or was that unconfirmed?) Kashmir?
         No, dear Reader. The clean, orderly and whisper-quiet streets of Singapore, still.
         Gobbledegook, you think?... Not likely. Not to this earnest mid-20s lad with note-paper beside his pile, sharp pencil at the ready. 

         The library doors have only been open an hour. Hardened types exclusively that time of day. Monday mornings were usually graveyard quiet. 
         This was far from a quick, flying consultation; young chap settled for proper research. 

         Lime-green thin white striped polo, blue jeans, white track-shoes, possibly that morning creamed. (One should not judge from the cover, books aside.) 

         The job interview late week, or next perhaps. The first of the round in a highly competitive market. Never say die; try, try again. Do your research, leave nothing to chance, any kind of advantage to be gleaned.

         U.S. publications, naturally, hardbacks in lurid violets & yellows. (Rather in the vein of some of the spirituality guides.) Chaps with PhD's from Harvard Biz School, Bristol and Manchester. Management, Human Resources, Corporate Governance, Social Psychology, Behaviourialism, Bio-mechanics, Functional Economics & Eugenics. 

         Heads of financial institutions, corporations, social policy units, the churches more than likely, penning their life experience in their twilight years in order to enlighten those just entering the race. Lads like this vying to get their toe-hold on the bottom rung. 

         Wouldn't matter too, too much if the surface of the earth wasn't shared. 

         The titles alone up on the Arts/Soc. Sciences shelves on the eighth floor enough to curl even Asian hair.

Ah-ChOO!...

Completed here yesterday Primary 6 Spelling Competition sponsored by banks and the English language Straits Times . Twelve year olds. The crucial five words that separated sheep from goats, in ascending order to the final elimination:

         Unequivocal

         Mausoleum

         Patois

         Espadrille

         And the last clincher that, after almost twelve full months in Asia, in a Chinese city-state that has no equivalent for the practice, the word that in written form completely bamboozled this writer:

         Gesundheit

         Early morning, the heat, lack of a start-up cafe, the supermarket delivery truck bulldozing sleep before seven (one could go on...), the word simply would not parse.

         How could this be foisted upon innocent young children, even Chinese schoolkids who had been cramming since kindergarten ( - not "garden" properly)? (A couple of pages back from the Spelling Comp. report an article on this "unnecessary" practice.)

         In English there is of course no equivalent to gesundheit, therefore rendering the eager-beaver Anglo-lovers here doubly disadvantaged (even those of lawyer fathers and Chinese Tiger mothers).

         Furthermore, in Chinese culture, refined Chinese culture as it is exhibited in Singapore, the sneeze itself does not exist. It has been outlawed by polite society.  

         Here among aspirant middle income classes the practice is at all costs to stifle and choke the sneeze. A free, full and unrestrained sneeze has not been heard here in nearly a full twelvemonth. The twisted contortions that endeavour to nip a sneeze in the bud here are frightful to behold. And dear lord the looks a chap will receive for the free-flowing at-liberty AHCHOO!...

         The poor down-trodden populace immediately apologetic even for the severely truncated form. A bus full of strangers, a cafe setting, the library study areas—in the midst of strangulation and gasping for breath croaking out the deep regret.

         Excuse me!

         During a time of dengue fever or flu epidemic did the English administration here possibly administer the rattan? One is forced to wonder.

         Ge - sund - heit and lieb to all readers and lovers of words.

         One can only imagine the global torture in the colonies had the Germans won the war! Gotterdamurung in the schoolroom far from the centre. Acres of minefelds.

NB. And "patois" very briefly. This author is not prepared to join the sneering chorus arrayed against the populace here for their altogether interesting, inventive and highly entertaining S'inglish. Ney, non and nyet most emphatically. Far more deserving of ridicule are those at the top of the greasy pole here, grandsons and daughters of poor indigent long-suffering coolie navies, flouncing around the place in their Ox-bridge corkscrew-up-the-rear-passage Queen's Ascot, Windsor and Balmoral contortions. Now come now I beg you most kindly.

                                                                                                                     April 2012, Singapore

JB Lottery

Hardship back on these JB streets over the Causeway here everywhere you look. The Indian girl at the eatery opposite the old, decommissioned railway station more than a little incredulous at the sixty cent tip. (About 20c Australian.)
— Are you sure?
To the other waiter who has come up behind her the girl raises the three silver coins, using a word similar to "baksheesh" to explain herself. The owner or manager possibly by his bright eagerness.
A Muslim Indian. English more than serviceable; then Bahasa Malay, Hindi and Urdu (she must not take undue credit here: there is little difference between these two, she informs) and "Chinese". In descending order of competency it seemed. The kind of girl from a county town back home possibly, if they still exist — dairy or tatters — who never got out much, shy stay-at-home with large, rounded limbs. Back over the Causeway the Malays wear a great deal of make-up, lip-stick, long, extended lashes beneath their scarves; not the Indian Muslims, this girl here the same. Nothing shy about this lass however. Perfectly firm and settled, clear-minded. Not far off there will be an arranged marriage; as in the case of Yuan back home, that decision assumed by the parents relieves the anxiety over the daunting matter.
A second chap appears selling little leaflets that he makes flap in his waving hand, rather like a street poet in aspect. The first fellow, the one who preceded him, had more ginger, was more infused with his mission. Still, like the inspired poet, this fellow too is keen to find his audience. And there are plenty interested. These sheets however hold numbers of some kind rather than verses, in a grid arrangement. Some boldly marked; a series below in smaller font.
The guess was mathematical odds for the lottery numbers. Or else some kind of necromancy-numerology in the same vein. Largely a Chinese clientele was involved. You don't have to guess about a casino in Muslim majority Malaysia. Not likely.
McDonalds ads in Bahasa blaring from the screen at the back near the counter; then later the surprise of Gillard reaffirming the national interest in Afghanistan. (The Malays might have their own thoughts on that matter, Madame PM.)
This second chap's selling technique is simply perching on the pillar at the head of the pedestrian crossing and jitter-bugging the hand holding the sheaf of papers, B5, printed cheaply over in here. (A writer friend from back over the Causeway has all his work printed in JB.) In some poses it almost looks like the fellow's catching a non-existent breeze: fully stretched long arm with elbow pivoting from the knee. Highly practiced. The chap earlier, shorter, same age (early sixties) dashed across the paving here from one likely Chinese customer to another. Both of the vendors were likewise Chinese; the same as two more later on the walk back nearer hotel Meldrum.
Across on the other side of the road could only be working girls under the veranda of the bank on the corner — prime position likewise and good, soft lighting. A second and then a third joined over the hour or so. There was definitely no beat there three months ago. And even though they can't be made out from a distance, you can bet the ladies concerned will only be Chinese; not Malay. Indians work a little further along, about a dozen closely bunched.
As it turns out, the guesswork was slightly askew. These street pedlars are in fact selling advance notice of the day's lottery results. In the morning the lucky numbers will be printed in the newspaper. Cost: RM1.30. If you want to know the night before: 50c. from these chaps on the corners. (The ringgit yesterday was around $Aust0.30.)
Someone in the ...."underground" of the government regulated lottery lets the cat out of the bag a few hours early. Ten cents the informant — an obliging Chinese stall-holder selling leather goods — estimates for paper and printing costs. About three cents Australian. Possibly slightly inflated. It's a living of some kind no doubt for at least four men on Jalan Tun Abdul Razak here in Johor Bahru.
... Opposite two of the working girls had perhaps hooked. The one remaining, the first, the tall, robust one who had appeared before the others, turned out a daunting lady-boy, raw and stubbled, with little masking or adornment apart from the dress. Impossible to intrude on her for details.

NB. Even with an Australian passport, only 90 day stays permitted in Singapura without a work pass or the like. This is second-time round in Johor Bahru; twice previously the exit point was Batam, Indonesia. The intention had been to take the bus early afternoon direct to Malacca. Unannounced, the bloody thing was canceled. Intending the train in the morning from here; almost double the time of the bus, but with scenery, kampungs and small country stations en route, perhaps worth it.

Season in Hell

Trickles under the tee well before eleven. Exhaust and hot air from the buses at the stop not helping.

The big-bellied Chennai waiter at Har Yassin was in full agreement, raising the subject himself.

Back home in the South of the Sub-Continent they had three-monthly seasons, the man explained leaning on the table.

Hot—sun in the form of his raised palm, fingers and thumb out-stretched and pointed. (Easily mistaken as sign for rain.)

Cold—shiver of hunched shoulders.

And Rain— a descending, tinkling veil dropping from on high. (Man was surprised the Malay hujan was within competence.)

Unaccounted for was the missing quarter. It seemed simplest to allow undefined transition between the other seasons for the remainder.

There was something rather different in Singapore. All year round here the fixed, bulb-like incendiary palm.

Fingers high and arrowing—once more the Chennai waiter gave the display.

There was no, What to do? accompanying. No agreeable head-loll. The onerousness here on this island could not be accepted with good grace. It was over-powering.

Mid-April. Locally the peak heat was taken at what was formerly the durian season. In more recent time durians arrived twice yearly—mid-year crop and then November-December.    

Like many corpulent men, the Chennai waiter walked with a hint of barrel-carting marking the progress: Steady as she goes, slowly in rhythm with the shifting load within. You wouldn’t want a spill.

The bulk was difficult to turn.

When the Chennai waiter was called from behind first came a craning round of the head. If full-turn was necessary the Chennai waiter made a complete stop, stilling the weight within, before pivoting his hips.

– Ya, whatsit?

Chap not grossly obese; not by the local standard. Hundred kilograms at one point seven two-three.

Like many corpulent men, in motion the Chennai waiter turned his arms inward showing soft, open palms behind. Rocking slowly along.

Twelve hours hanging on his feet under the unforgiving eye of the sun. Add the self-made eagle-eyed compatriot owner counting coin for the teas like the worst caricatured misers. Far from home, two year contracts—extended five times—occasional paid sex and in the midst of his native food more or less. (What with transport and refrigeration, nothing like as tasty as back home. Bland bryani & fries.)

Pitching into his fifties and mainly a good Muslim, no smoking or alcohol in the Chennai waiter's favor.

A level dozen large mounted fans indoors in the main eating area provided some relief there. More in the kitchens for the prata-maker and on the other side the rojak fries. Even cheap, easily replaced Indian labor could not endure otherwise.

Terming it arse-dragging would be unjust. Much of the circumlocution in Singapore is necessarily economical. Shirts & ties/heels & blouses hurried between offices and malls.

Blue-eyed Singapore

Another full page ad more of the same in the Straits Times. The pornography of palatial living in one of the towers being raised daily. (24/7 night and day in fact in the construction sector.) Certainly selling daily in the S.T. Just like back home in the broadsheets there in fact. The tabloids don't pick up that revenue stream. At a guess those papers here tout hair replacement and colouring, Viagra, $40,000 cars and coloured contact lenses. Meanwhile middle managers and wannbe entrepreneurs are herded to all things chic and shiny never mind the costs and torments.

Here an aspect of this particular kind of sell needs highlighting; specific to this corner of the globe.

Familiar the smoky blue and grey tones that have long denoted true style and splendour. The motifs would be the same in Paris, N.Y., Tokyo, Sydney and L.A.: faux industrial shades hanging over the kitchen display bench; mini-cacti; stencil art 1.5 x 750 on the wall in the kitchen nook. Stainless fridge and stove. Outsized Samsung screen one of a pair (the second would be mounted in the master bedroom, reigning over the inactive couple—fertility rate a concern). 

Nice irony the wooden sea-chest like the granddads hoicked from China on the passage out. Wickerwork baskets.

Tone, arrangement, added flourishes.

Kick off the heels and pour yourself a glass. You've deserved it.

The lass on the leather knees-up, legs folded, flicking a magazine ordinarily like the Bond vixens used to do were this still the sixties. Bond—James Bond. In this case lap-top. 

Caught watching cartoons while the hubby had been detained at the office and pleasantly surprised by the camera in her private domain.

         — Well, hell-Oh!

         Luckily the lass's done her hair, recently renewed colour, facial, lippy.... Just one thing. Odd. Why was the woman Australian? Or English? Or West Coast surfing U.S.A.?... French, if not Parisienne. Why?

         Expats made up a tiny percentage of the population in Singapore. Caucasian perhaps point 0 five per cent of home buyers. What was going on? True, the Straits Times was English language. But was Lianhe Wanbao carrying a substitute Asian face? Not likely.

         Put together with the whitening creams at every corner of every street; the surgeries for double lids. Add the elevators shoes. Rolex watches from the snow-capped Swiss heights. Polo and golf. They race horses in this climate, run at night as in HK. Add the ubiquitous reproductions of the Eiffel Tower, Big Ben and Westminster and the Union Jack. The blue contact lenses. Add the forcing of the colonial language.

Semiotics in Singapore

Another reminder here at the Mr. Teh Tarik tables Sunday afternoon: these lasses cannot wink to save themselves. It is simply beyond them and that's all there is to it. The men too possibly, come to think of it. Just a little tiny oddity, hardly worth remarking upon perhaps. Communication is rather different in Asia, understandably. And here in the global capital of signage surely to God—at least where government programming is concerned—the more subtle indicators and hints deserve attention.
       Some months ago now the wife of Stretch here who used to be the chief t. t. maker provided the first example of the double-eyed wink. A cheeky, quick lass from Johor Bahru over the Causeway, like her husband, the thought had been that it was an ironic, taunting piece of malarkey she was engaging in. Coming by with someone's dinner on the tray, preoccupied searching for them among the sea of tables, she signals big-eyed, Blink - Blink in passing, nice smile accompanying. Most certainly the gal wasn't on any kind of make of any kind. Rather the contrary, the double flash seeming to indicate: — Yeah, what? Or: — Ha! to you buster.
A short-arse, no-nonsense, all-on-her-own-terms gal who walked tall. Swung her elbows, chin upraised. Nothing to look at, but such a real good sort. Anything you wanna play she's got an answer. The sly hint aimed at her of something to surprise us this year maybe from the recently married pair—her nice rounding couldn't be missed—adroitly smacked back down the ground past mid-off for four. Well, good-O to you, you busy-bee nosey-body — a slap to go on with. Moon-face up-tilted even further and elbows powering locomotion.
       One evening she paused briefly in passing, perhaps having made the double blink on the approach, and suggested she might be taught some English when there was time.
       Definitely not on the make, no way. But what did she mean precisely? Did she really want to learn? Had Ishmail and Mohammed told her of the passing to them of the newspaper at the end of the day? The scribbling wasn't a secret. Everyone for miles around had seen the licking of pencil nub and scratching away staring into the treetops. 
       The double-eyed wink was more than a blink of course. A kind of owl's calculated shuttering. Once, and then it might have been again sometimes, slow and deliberate. There is a vague memory from back in childhood of people from the old country being similarly inept, unable to bring off the TV and movie wink of an eye. Someone in the circle had remarked upon it back then and the curious thing had been heard and stored. Something that had passed between adults; not meant for children. These people from the old country came from places where winks were not the order of the day. They used other signs. One of the signs of severity from childhood years was the slide of the eyes with no more than the hint of chin movement accompanying for Get off with you now. Away and no more. Mother had a mean look of gravity, inherited from the patriarch her father. Her mother was a push-over, get anything past her; not the father she loved so deeply. Granddad Rade lorded it with dagger looks of utmost authority. All the poor suitors of mother’s that followed could never achieve a presence to compare, not even the handsomest man in the village, rich men down on the coast, armed gendarmes in their resplendent uniforms. A long time ago. In many different ways Singapore recalls one to the past.
       The other Malay girl, a bit younger, out the back with Stretch's wife at the same stall, gives the same double wink. She's clearly unmarried, needs to tread carefully. Enjoys some by-play, but can't allow herself to get caught up in anything inappropriate. (Hasn't missed the various dining companions over the term.)
       Sunday arvo the Indon gal was just being neighbourly two tables away. Not a youngster she. In order to get her friendly message across she repeated her slightly comical wink two or three times over the course. A little hinted nodding so as to be properly understood. Later when her friend rejoined her both in unison beaming. It's not yet clear whether Filipinas do the same. Likely under the influence of the Americans they can do the conventional like the rest of us. And it should be noted whilst on the matter, there has not been a Chinese wink either in these ten full months. Of course, the wink has long gone out of fashion back home too. It used to be very common. Almost certainly the Chinese have never had it in their repetoire.
       Always good to receive. Thank you my dear girl. A Bintan lass, over for a holiday she said, with some help from the Jakartan "sister". The Indonesian visitors here often have no English whatever. This pair had only just struck up together that afternoon. The Jakarta gal has worked here fourteen years, all with the one employer. A nice cuppa shared.
       One can't go past the Mr. Teh Tarik tables, the Malay quarter generally. The whole of Geylang really. These people welcome the newcomer as one of their own, especially if that newcomer meets them half-way. Interest, curiosity, patience and fit regard are rewarded handsomely with invitations to table where the most intimate personal stories will be divulged, all manner of things. The Malay cannot sit at table with a plate before him or her without immediately asking when you come up, Makan? Have you eaten? The Chinese in Geylang at least can sometimes reach back to the same etiquette. (Our expat poet and author Ouyang Yu revealed in a recent memoir the old standard greeting in the homeland before everything was up-turned: Ne chile ma? Have you eaten?) The tourist haunts highlighted in the guides are something different.
       The thumb-middle finger snap for Pronto is not on either here. Not in existence. They have chop-chop of course, Get on with it! But that doesn't seem to hinge on gesture.
       As previously remarked, amongst polite society—Singapore National Library patrons for example—sneezes are choked; nose-blowing avoided, certainly full trumpet. (Unfortunate snot-sucking there preferred.)
       Something that we on our side don't have in the repetoire is the signal flaring of nostrils. This one is a beauty, a sight to behold. Better than fine dining, adventure white-water rafting, parachuting onto Saharan sands, the lot. Only received it once or twice here, but Golly-gee! Unforgettable. Indonesians almost certainly. A little wide-eye with it, but nothing to remark upon. Clamp of jaw, tight mouth, in-take of breath required. And the remainder a couple of pumps for snorting. One, two... Man oh man! Not exactly beautiful. More like, Take me where you will, do what you must. To put it plainly, a Come-on. Whadaya got? You in or not? Part challenge; part provocation. Very effective. A very pretty gal probably would never employ it. But then a very pretty girl mostly never has the spirit of some of these bold, saucy ones. Amazing to recall. Circumstances hardly matter. There she was, got off for the bus. Perhaps we'll meet again; or not. Shame. You better believe it.
       How mightily was Baudelaire shaken on the roaring sidewalks of Paris by the encounter that never was, all in an irretrievable instant? And that was then.
       One last well-known sign. Down South at home perhaps not so well-known because of our comparatively small number of Indian immigrants and tourists, at least until recent years. Case in question is the Indian head roll-loll-swivel-bobble and shake. Stands for a range of responses: Yeah, sure. Indeed. Agree entirely. Very well, no need say more. A kind of sub-Continental comme ci, comme ca. Usually from the listener while the companion is hammering away at something or other. Needs reassurance to keep his head of steam. No point jabbering without the lights on across the table. Affirmative, unanimity, you got me in complete accord. The wide toothy smile accompanying more often than not; certainly the look of approbation. A good deal of what strikes an outsider as childishness involved, almost mental incapacity, imbecility. Takes some getting used to. The Indian component here — by far the smallest part of the demographic; but at the same time quite something to behold concentrated in their own quarter — only just beginning to come under notice. (Incidentally, it's possible this lolling is solely male. Thus far the only observed cases and instances.)