Diamond Jubilee—Singapore

Rather exciting this afternoon passing the fine old Raffles Hotel where Will & Kate rested their heads last night after their long flight. Tonight again in the very same place once their duties are done at the War Memorial out at Kranji.

         Yesterday prior to the State dinner and reception there was a visit to the new iconic Gardens By the Bay in the shadows of the Supertrees and the MBS hotel/casino. Indoors under one of the temperature controlled cool-houses the pair were presented with an orchid named in their honour. Previously there had been another named after the Prince’s mother, Lady Diana, which the unfortunate woman had not lived to see.

            Mid-afternoon a circuit of the entire hotel block was managed without raising suspicions. The front gardens might have been newly clipped and the leaves of the trees dusted. With the Bay Gardens Domes about as fine a presentation of the tropics as any young Prince could ever hope to receive. (His grandma had told the young man he would enjoy Singapore, the newspaper reported his speech at the State reception, as she had done on her three visits over the course of her reign.)

         The red carpet under the portico at the front entry had been fluffed. Two tall Sikhs in white tunics, epaulettes and turbans paced tight circles at the end of the brass railing: a sketch suggested of tame lions not likely to bite.

         Nothing really to hint at the special VIP’s. It was only at the very end of the stroll, with a visit to both ArtFriend and Popular stationery at Bras Basah opposite the hotel, that the surest telltale sign was stumbled upon.

         Around at SAM—the Singapore Art Museum, where possibly as a precaution the inflatable bunny had been removed from the lawn—along the footpath directly out front a small platoon of khaki camouflaged red berets who could only be Gurkhas came on slung with heavy bazookas. Half a dozen lads peeking under cars, looking left and right.

         Beefy young lads who most certainly conveyed the impression they weren’t kidding. (The Gurkhas still serve the Chinese notables here, bred for duty of course since the time of the earliest forays of E. India Co.)

            A few more migs than usual through the course of the afternoon. The co-incidence of 9/11 must have been accidental. The anniversary posed a question. More than likely Malaysia would have been unable to host the pair. That might have been a stretch even for Najib, especially in the run-up to the election.

         Wrong in fact as it shortly proved. Were he still in office would Mahathir have welcomed the young Royals? Would he have bowed and scraped before them?

         On the Wednesday the Straits Times reported nothing of the disturbances in Cairo at the U.S. Embassy. As the conflagration widened it became too big to ignore.

          Just the other night in the anticipation of the visit the Mount Eye Metho (former) entertained the dinner table with the story of his encounter with the Royals near the beginning of Liz’s reign. The Brits must have had some substantial stake in the mining operation in Isa. Therefore the young Queen’s trek with her Consort Philo the Greek into the dusty wastes of central Queensland.

           Coming from good, certifiable Methodist stock (a couple of uncles in the Ministry), young as he was at the time, the Mt. Eye boy was entrusted with over-sight of the conveyance that transported the Royals down to the floor of the mine. An honour and responsibility thrust on young shoulders.

            The young angel Gabriel sat ready at the controls. No doubt there were more senior and trusted servants supervising, but no need spoil a good story.

            From on high the angel-in-the-making hears the carriage descending.

            Here Comes Our Gracious Queen piping through the teenager’s head whether or not the record had been placed on the turn-table that stage. Naturally.

            The anticipation made the young knight hot under the collar—as hot as he would ever be in subsequent years wearing the tighter collar of his calling.

            A fever so many hundred feet down in the bowels of the earth where rich minerals were to be cheaply had to gladden stockbroker and investor hearts.

            Here She Comes, Here She Comes. A long overture.

            Interminable. There were no electronic games then as the current generation favoured for killing time on the trains & buses.

            Waiting. Waiting. A good Metho boy had been well trained, but even so. It fairly seemed our gracious Queen was coming from a height up in the heavens.

            Impulsively the lad born and bred in the Isa fingered the levers. On came the Queen, yet to be a mother at that stage. A long bow perhaps, but who’s to say the future lineage wasn’t given a spurt that day in the cavernous depths of Queensland: Philo eyeing the earthworks; the young Queen falling like flying. A certain kind of frisson later at the hotel between feathers and down.

            Down she comes. Any sec. now. The boy’s eyes scanning.

            Here she be, lo and behold. A sight to see.

            Early in the reign the young Princess now-newly-installed-Queen hadn’t got down pat all the finer aspects of posture and bearing. Perfect deportment in all conditions was still being practised.

            For all the precautionary oiling and maintenance, the lift in the shaft shuddered and jerked. (There might have been hell to pay had the corgis been aboard and set up yelping.)

            The young Angel arrived at his reward. Come into his own. There be the Queen.

            Later the lad could not say with certainty whether Phil was in the same carriage.

            Within the wire compartment, all the bright-eyed lad could vision was smoothly glistening legs and knees.

            The more recognizable portions of the Royal figure followed in a blur. Blinded above all the boy by the flashing signal of snow-white knickers.

            Biblical times that would shortly form the lad’s chief study, witnesses of such-like events have been struck deaf and dumb and reduced to… tears and idiocy both. (The Lady of the Queen’s chamber had provided a freshly laundered pair that same morning.)

            Clearly the very royal Lady Queen found it difficult to keep steady in the jolting conveyance. Glued knees inevitably become unstuck.

            Here was the young courtier’s unforgettable life-long moment indelibly imprinted: the essence of the royal line.

            The Diamond Jubilee and all the rest following, God save our noble Queen.

            There was no profile, admitted young Gabriel when he was quizzed about his day’s adventure, though it had certainly always remained to the boy to embroider the tale as and when he found himself so inclined.

            More diamonds and pearls in the pipeline is the whisper here too. The contours of young Kate’s form given as close an inspection in Singapore by the traveling journalists as was the case all those years ago in the bowels of the Isa to her grandma-in-law’s.

            A toast and best wishes to the royal pair.

Final Gleanings from Kuala Lumpur

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Getting out to the bus on Jalan Imbi the traffic cop at the thoroughfare handling the last of the morning peak cut an interesting figure. On the taller side, smart navy uniform, with over-sized operatic white gloves. There may have been motor-cycle boots, though the bike was no-where visible. Somehow the fellow seemed too much of a nice guy standing there against the traffic. Possibly the chap had positioned himself less than ideally between the right-turn lane and the oncoming rockets darting past menacingly. The sudden acceleration and switching taking place had one concerned for his safety. As the light was changing to red he raised his glove slowly in the usual way and turned the palm outward more slowly still, giving everyone more than a fair chance to get by him. The big wide mitt stood high and prominent, but to little purpose. The cars continued to dart through regardless. Pushing the glove Stop, Stop failed to help. Of course there was no camera, just as there was no off-sider backing up. Big red. Blood red. Still opportunity was taken by the drivers to get through. Who the fuck was this jerk anyway?
         After more than a dozen got through on beaming red the poor man raised his other hand and extended his forefinger, stabbing at the overhead. Red, red, red!
         On the man's face a kind of bashful plea. Possibly he had spied the mat salleh in the panama trying to cross on the little green man (jogging here).
         Needless to say, could never happen in Sing'. They have the rattan in Malaysia too, but in Sing' they would use it. Old man Lee would send an Aide out to make sure the full force of the law—as stipulated in the statutes—was used on the first half dozen offenders. End of problem. Something to be said for clear lines of authority; something else for a modicum of liberty and freedom.
         — Eleven motor-cycle deaths per day alone on the roads in the past six months

in Malaysia
         — Palm oil and rubber still make up around 15% of GDP. An industry honcho pooh-poohing Western influenced enviro and dietary concerns. With the popularity of KFC and Maccas it may in fact be a lesser problem.
         — The Bronze Olympic diving medalist from London—who was also the Malaysian team's flag-bearer at the Games—prominently hailed in the media for her feat. Possibly the fact she was a Sabah girl added to the marketability. The ruling party of Najib, shortly up for re-election, has its electoral stronghold in fact in that outlying province on Borneo. Much contention there over immigrants from the peninsular—a mini Tibetan scenario. There was no thought in Malaysia to put their less than gold-bright Olympic competitors onto a leaky boat out at sea.
         — Interesting glimpses of history in the museums. During the Emergency here in the forties and fifties the British overlords moved 500,000 Chinese into barracks accommodation behind barbed wire in order to deal with the communist menace, inspired by the nations to the north of course, uncle Ho and Mao. Ten years the Emergency lasted—ten years of camps behind wire, roll-calls, strict rations. Helps put in perspective the anointment of LKY in the island province to the south. All democratic naturally.
         And on the very cusp of departure, the last afternoon, an accidental stumble led to the discovery of the remarkable wet market of Chow Kit, at fifty or sixty years old—clearly untouched in that time—the oldest in Malaysia. A young Chinese stall-holder who gave the information offered an implicit apology for the ramshackle conditions. Two or three dozen passes along the stalls on the roadway had led to the presumption that that was Chow Kit Market. Fruit had been bought at various points on a number of sides. Over the fortnight there had seemed no reason to venture further.
         Late afternoon on Sunday a glimpse of activity beyond the outer stalls led to a further foray. Once inside under the low, sunken ceilings the aisles stretched as far as the eye could see. In a downpour it would certainly be action-stations pretty quick-smart among the stall-holders. The place had a subterranean aspect from the sagging overhead and the dimly lit interior. The lights that there were seemed to be ad hoc, strung up by the stall-holders themselves individually. Other light came through prospects to the outdoors and overhead where the roofing terminated. Under-foot the floor was all uneven, with channels, drains and pools creating hazards.
         Yet somehow much of the vegetables seemed to glow brightly, of themselves it seemed, from their own vibrant colour and freshness. Even plates of garlic and ginger presented spotted highlights from the plates laid out. Brilliant red chilli of course. Fish of all varieties and sizes were presented on bench-tops on beds of ice and swimming in shallow tubs. A man stood hanging a long, twitching, elongated fish over a block, slicing away a short fin while he straightened out the terms with an African woman ordering. Chinese sold packets of noodles. There seemed to be a complete absence of Indians, either buyers or sellers, whereas on the streets of Chow Kit there were many. Some of the dark-skinned Malays carting and wheeling various produce in the aisles carried their own perfection of form as a counterpart to the goods on display.
         The array was all pleasantly and comfortably bewitching until the first large calf's head appeared all at once on a counter almost at one's elbow. In the shock the misplacing of a hunter’s trophy scrambled in the brain. The rictus of raised lips and clenched teeth gave one something further with which to contend. With the innocent approach and lack of warning the shock was substantial. There were a number more heads further on. It appeared the calves’ heads had been skinned. This was not the case for the smaller goats' heads closely bunched further along. A few hides were hung, some offal and innards on trays. Stout but short calf legs hung from a rod in a dense cluster, the hooves losing the impression of hardness. Possibly the heads were smoked after skinning, or washed with some kind of resin, in order to produce the unusual latex-like yellow tone. There was some kind of standard treatment involved that was different for goats. In the company of the men and women who stood by these remnants from morning to night it was certainly not possible to blanch and feel queasy. Under no circumstances.

King Midas’s Barber (May26)

 

After another  museum show, some living art was encountered at a mamak shop over a salted lassi. The place was crowded with Tamils, which always provided some charm, like gaining admittance to an intimate family circle.

Rather than taking the waiter's suggestion for a table in the corner, sharing with an accommodating old uncle was better. All the waiters were Tamil too, the food & drink, colours & decorations. In that round the culture was absorbed from each & every side.

Lakshmi had been discovered on the first visit to the Indian quarter in KL, where the blank looks from waiters & patrons never succeeded in masking the surprise at the foreigner.

Behind and one row back a heavy head sagging toward the table showed an unusual coiffure. This chap’s visit to his barber you would have very much liked to see. Every couple of weeks the fellow went for colouring, trim & styling. Watching on would prove fascinating.

At first the man sat alone; later a younger companion, a relative or close acquaintance, joined from out back. The man appeared fixed on something in his lap. With his chair out he sagged forward, heavy-set & big bellied, as would soon be more fully revealed. Pumpkin scone & glasses.

Neat urban gent in the uniform of his class: blue striped shirt, trousers & polished shoes, in this case sockless. A Tamil newspaper had been cast aside. Later against the sagging, an old dumb phone was clutched tight.

When the chin reached the breast-bone it seemed he might fall from his perch—face first into apple or custard pie in a slight alteration of setting. In the event he always righted himself in time, raised his weary head and batted away the drowsiness.

One could not be sure, but at one point it seemed the young waiter unceremoniously roused him. Not in this place, Mister.

At first the assumption was early-60s; in fact that was out by a decade. Before the by-play between his companion and the pals at the table behind, the flourishes of the barber gripped attention. It was certainly an artful arrangement. Mostly the colour was lustrous black. So far as possible, the pate had been covered by swinging long strands from at least three different quarters. These reached from behind as well as the sides and were stuck down by oil. Tyre marks in dirt were suggested; sail rope on a jetty. On his pillow turning in the man would spread a towel to save daily washing.

From two tables back an estimate had the tape running off the reel—close to 9 & 10inch flaps. A more simple challenge faced the barber of King Midas.

Between noddings-off, the pen from the shirt pocket was deployed for calculation. Slips of paper & plastic, with lottery tickets piled on the table. Notes produced for the cashier at the counter were carried across by the younger companion. The moustache was matching. Every so often the deeper breaths produced sudden droppings of jaw, as if a hinge had silently snapped. Missing teeth completed the ruin.

One could not find a better fall-guy from the silent era. Yet mornings the man faced the mirror just the same. The oil helped in the wind too.

It was not difficult to understand the fun at the old uncle’s expense. The companion might have been a nephew or neighbour, in cahoots with the chaps at the table behind. Every two minutes the lads looked over the droopy head, nodding and big-eyeing their pal. The quick glimmers fired over were never caught by the old sod, the daft, old mullet.

On the paper the calculations were referenced from old lottery tickets. In-between dozes numbers were etched in the boxes of new tickets. For the loose oddments while he worked the phone acted as paperweight; descending into his doze it was clutched tight.

One of the tickets held the chance of rich ringgit. In case of a strike the new implants would be sought.

When the time arrived to give his attendant the final selection, a tenner was produced. Off the chap went on the errand. There would be property & cash before very long.

Uncle needed a wash at the stand under the stair, the belly slowly levered over. Back at table the lads behind sprung up to help the landing on the chair. All fine graces & courtesy.

 

                                                                                                             Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia

Four Sisters Revisited

The second eldest had been upstairs and came down later very gingerly in a crab-like sideways motion. For a while it seemed as if the circle would be broken on this second visit, three sisters only out of four. It had been Number Two who had made herself a bowl of mee on the first visit. Before turning to sit down to it she had shown a little cupping motion with her free hand that for the older generation, and here more commonly, usually means, Come hither. In this case a form of encouragement for their particular specialty. The fact that lunch on the first visit had been taken elsewhere had not passed notice. Nothing wrong with our mee, the message had been. Very good, Number Two had reassured. The elder two sisters would have perhaps not a word of English. Even Number Three might be lacking. The stair rose in a straight line nearly ten metres in length.
         On the second visit the three elders gave no sign of acknowledgement. On the approach the youngster had hailed without too long a delay, Teh O kosong.
         At one point this afternoon the four had sat a quarter hour at the one table. Not the same as on the first visit between counter and servery, but the one next to it, which was true centre of the tea-house floor. Overhead there the ceiling was lower and a fan turned rapidly. Two other fans turned, one adjacent just barely. A third stood motionless. An electrician had his coil of wire and tool-box on the floor. After finishing the man received his complimentary food and drink and some lively chat from Number One particularly, making for some good laughter. 
         The foursome had sat together easily; Eldest often with her cheek resting on the stainless lidded pot before her. Fagged out late afternoon, but Elder lent a hand with various tasks, bestirred herself properly when the place more than half-filled, relayed orders to the drinks counter near the back with some strength. At the table Youngest turned her hands over examining her palms. Number Three looked about the shop and Two looked from a half bent position. Later this one too would rest her weary head on the table-top.
         Rouged Chief Helper out on the floor was bare-legged this afternoon — in these parts, whether Malay or Chinese, unusual in that generation. The rouge was high on each cheek and underneath on one side a red welt that might have been from cupping. Again Chief Helper's favourite colour tone predominated: thin orange dress and hooped bright red and white long socks almost like footballers' appareil. On her forearms Chief Helper wore mohair maroon sleeve-lets. More than half an hour the Chief Helper swept the floor, around the tables and benches, along the walkway outside the perimeter on both street frontages. Chief Helper too gave no sign of recognition. This was not a good day. A number of times the woman gave speeches to the ladies at the tables and for a good while kept up an audible muttering. There may have been fire-works at lunch-time. Perhaps more than anything that had wearied Number One. None of the sisters looked at Chief Helper, much less responded to anything she uttered. In the second hour of the visit less was forthcoming from her. One could be excused for blowing off steam. The sisters no doubt had it good compared to Chief Helper.
         Out beyond the larger housing block half-way up the hill one of the Petronas towers reared up. The sight-line truncated the structure and the begrimed housing block cut a portion one side. Beside it the brother tower was completely lost to view. Later in the evening the glass and steel would candle the tea-house pleasantly. The twinkling lights across these towers made a good part of the effect, but equally the honeycombed shining steel reflecting light from various quarters.
         The blackened pots on the stove clearly did not dissuade the regulars here. Over-boiling had done worse than anything for the near one. At one point there were over a dozen customers at the tables: the secret charm on this corner was widely shared. Twice Chief Helper dropped an old wrinkled tin ashtray unbidden on a table. Some men drank beer alone; others with ladies from the office soft drinks. Some tables sat with noodles. Even groups of four or five kept voices low and looked about themselves. Subtly the charm in the shadows radiated from all sides.
         Collecting a fifty from a young chap buying cigarettes, Elder raised the note to the light before opening her drawer for the change. The youngest was sent to tables for orders; the elder two didn't serve directly. On this second visit the building was found to be much larger than first realized, three or even four storeys in fact, but also wide and broad. Half a dozen separate shops might sit above. Built forty or fifty years ago after two generations' earlier toil in a less imposing structure no doubt.
         An extra fluro was turned on by Number Three when yet another party entered. Number Two had sagged further in her chair. A sudden scraping behind saw her shake herself free and rise. What could they be shovelling back there? Coal for the fire it sounded like. It was an ice-box, standing to one side of the fridge row at the back, stainless with a hooded door that needed to be lifted.
         With the encroaching  dusk time for lighting the joss sticks. There could be no surprise that the task was left to the Elder. Around the back somewhere she lit a handful and began walking along the perimeter of the building fanning the flame. Heavy footfalls going along slowly the length of the building, around in front and back again, marking off the sanctuary. The Elder must have gone right around the back too in her return leg. She was gone a long while. At the corners she might have stopped and lifted the smoking sticks to her forehead. The shrine and small altar was down at floor level beside the fridge, opposite the ice-box. Short and bent, not a long way down for the Elder. An early turning in for her. Eight o'clock would not come too soon.
         The son-in-law's seating suggested years before Number Three he had taken as wife. From his own age that might have been guessed. The wife was taking some food. Earlier Son-in-law had moved to that table from a pair of the others. Elbows propping his head, bare feet up on a chair, almost a whisper for Number Three, his wife. Shortly thereafter clear, positive whispers that were almost mimed from the youngest at the neighbouring table, channelled directly to her cluster. Nothing serious more than likely.

 

Lost & Found (Four Sisters)  

 

 

 

First wrong turn took one into YSL territory, where along the aisle ice-cream rose up in thirty fluro colours. At a vacant eatery a dancing troupe in service livery delivered a hand-clapping, good-time swing number. The aircon had drawn shirts, ties, heels and disproportionate numbers of Westerners.   

It could not be too difficult, 150-200m from the elevated line; downhill from the station. That much was clearly recalled.  

One-way traffic was promising. Touts for massage places getting warm.  

Garish dress-up of cheap labour, opportunism, noise and clamour made the passage a minefield.  

Three years later, the last of the past, of customary rule, had more than likely been rooted out of the area.  

Ah! Yes. The Royale Bintang, KL. The Four Sisters had sat directly adjacent on the facing corner looking onto those walls.  

Could the old girls possibly have held out against all the encroachment and the hellish construction? If investment in Malaysia had dried up and the economy was constricting, it did not look like it in the YSL quarter. 

Four Cantonese sisters still in life three years later? The eldest would be mid-eighties. Against the odds.  

Yet…What was this, then? One old face, that of the son-in-law, was it? The apron suggested.  

Another too. And in behind the tea-stand a third. 

Gee. You could get lucky sometimes.   

Slowly crossing the stage-set from one side of the room to the other, with what must have been an odd and puzzling smile.  

— What you wan? from a customer roughly volunteering aid.  

Told it was four sisters that were wanted, the chap was not daunted.  

— And what you wan, take them?  

Well, that depended on your price, my man.  

The Fourth had not yet arrived, reported Elder, the one who perhaps most reminded of Bab.  

All three of the older reminded in some way: sureness of manner; the lines of jowls; the prints they wore. In their day too they might have been pretty and caused their father some consternation.   

Three present and Youngest evidently in life too, delayed at some home duty, they said.  

Bab likewise had three sisters. Thirty odd years after the immigration, only three could be brought together. On the single occasion that was witnessed, the event was negligently observed, casually discounted; received as simple entertainment. There was enough presence of mind only for a photograph, and very little attention.  

The fourth, the youngest sister, an unlikely blonde like their father, and more beautiful than Doris Day (doubly unlikely), had stood unrecognised, uncomprehended and positively disbelieved in Bab’s kitchen vitrine along with some other ghostly mysteries. Embarrassing artefacts from some dubious unknown that was best ignored.  

Changes were minimal at the Four Sisters on Bukit Bintang—Starry Hill, down to the simple, basic fare on the menu. 

A young lad now dished up the mee, without the meat a thin meal of pickled mushrooms and a couple of leaves of green. 

The recalcitrant gypsy Fifth of the extended family, with the red bird-cage ear-rings, was missing in action. Replaced now by others. There had been some friction last time.

A series of tables pushed together catered for banquet parties—larger office groups at least, perhaps. The four sisters still had their local fans. A group of 7-Eleven from HQ nearby had come down.  

The chilli container surprised. Surely it would have been remembered had it dated back to the first acquaintance. Small plastic screw-top, yet holding a spoon within?

Ah. Glass jar was Part A. For which a cut-off plastic bottle (Part B) formed close-fitting lid.  

The corner of one of the Petronas towers, split down the middle, stood as another of the orientations.  

It was Bukit Bintang Station under construction opposite—the sky-line here would not be radically altered. The Four Sisters could troop some way further onward yet.  

What was keeping No. 4 so long?