Striking Singapore (Nothing Like It)

Bulletin from down in the south: Singapura, Lion City; a world away. Something like two million foreign workers needed to keep the country functioning. Construction, shipping, factory labour (perhaps even necessary for the substantial armaments industry; one of the largest manufacturers of land-mines in the world according to some). Domestic helpers alone number over two hundred thousand. Precious few locals want to sit behind the wheels of the buses. In this case drivers enticed from mainland China. Trouble struck when these drivers learned of the variance in conditions for the local drivers, doing the same job. Same yellow colour too. Wouldn't swallow it. A rat-bag crew of twenty-nine it seems having the cheek to spring the first strike in Singapura since the nineteen hundred and eighties. Thirty odd year clean run. These Chinese suddenly unhappy with the wages they had agreed to in advance. Six months, a year ago, they had been sweet. Begging for the chance, down on their knees, sucking pisang practically. Suddenly it's not good enough for them. Two days downed tools. Climbed down from the drivers' seat. Aircon, clean, no need collect tickets with the automated system—still not happy. Back where they came from unmade roads more often than not. Aircon? The window open and arm hanging out to sift some current. Quite likely infected by the former Communism in the homeland, ideas of fair work for fair pay. Pervasive cancer in any country. How do they imagine Singapore was built? Did the common coolie ancestors press for wages at every little grievance? Short shrift they got, the authorities not allowing the canker to fester. On their way as we speak, repatriated to their own country, their grubby little towns. An object lesson to all, both the remainder and all those who might dream of following in their footsteps. Twenty-nine of them, Goodbye. Fuck off. We don't need you. Plenty more where you came from waiting in line, happy to get the nod. Work permits revoked; contracts voided. Two days out demanding better pay and conditions. In addition five other drivers to be prosecuted for taking part; which has to be read as locals who couldn't be kicked out of the country. In an ideal LKY wet-dream, any citizen breaking the rules like this deserves to be transported to a desert island and left with three days’ supply of coconuts and water. Bold decisive action should keep the road clear ahead the next thirty odd years. Strike the snake quick-smart; cut off the head you're on top of the situation. Poor commuters down there these last few days, innocent victims. The rabble-rousing Workers'-was-Party a concern in the time ahead. All the good work could easily be undone without the country pulling in the one direction. In the last election three or four Opposition candidates elected. Either on that occasion, or an earlier still a few years previous, LKY had been quoted as telling the particular electorate concerned they were in for punishment for their betrayal. Fascinating fantasy island. Much celebrated in some envious quarters.

Politics in the Raw - ML (April26)

Another Sultan's turn for a birthday here today (which means a public holiday in the particular state concerned). On this occasion it is the Sultan Ibrahim Ibni Almarhum Sultan Iskandar, the Sultan of both territorially and economically the largest state in the federation—Johor down in the South. In rather ceremonially stiff and awkward oval portraits, the Sultan and his wife are presented in full regalia of sashes, medals, tiara and cap-crown, epaulettes and sabre in the former's case, in the morning's newspaper notices. An initial count had eight and one-half full page spreads of congratulatory notices taken out by various enterprises & associations. The assumption had been that the second half of the newspaper—The New Straits Times in this case—would not be the place for any more. In fact the final count of congratulatory notices on the occasion of the Sultan's birthday today was thirty-three and one half pages in total (specifically: seven full page colour; eight full page B/W; eighteen half page B/W; and two quarter page B/W), congratulating the Sultan on the attainment of his fifty-fourth year. Construction companies, marine & heavy engineering, transport concerns, energy interests, various holding companies, the newspaper itself, investment houses, agricultural enterprises, boat builders, business luminaries and notables, golf & country clubs, hotel & supermarket interests, KFC, tertiary ed. sectors, planters (palm oil) and Dutch interests. A great number of people wishing to convey particular & public salutations. A couple weeks ago an evidently much less significant Sultan attracted less than a third of this number of notices, at least in this particular English language newspaper.
         The Sultans are of course still very powerful in this federation. Mahathir, the internationally well-known and long-serving PM before last, is thought to have performed some much needed clipping of wings of the Sultans. Earlier in the year the Sultan Iskander of Johor came under notice for the purchase of a vanity number-plate for a price of around $US200K, from memory. A political commentator of some kind who suggested this might be somewhat extravagant given the still real poverty in the country was quickly and loudly shouted down, by one of the Sultan's sons among others. (One of the chaps in the cafe this morning reported tales which may or may not be true of this Sultan not taking kindly to being overtaken by heedless subjects on the motor-ways on the Peninsular.) In the royal way, on his birthday the Sultan bestowed various honours for public virtue and sacrifice, among the recipients on this occasion the Sultan's Princess daughter and her four younger brothers. (A competent spin-doctor-PR consultant clearly in need in the Southern principality.)
         The front page of this morning's newspaper featured our own Bob Carr (husband of a local) declining to become involved in monitoring the forthcoming general election after an appeal from the Opposition leader, Anwar Ibrahim, who has alleged possible fraud and corruption. No thanks, said Bob. Sorry. Afghanistan and Iraq are one thing; a rising regional player and trading partner of some account quite another.
         More raw politics within this morning's pages too: hearings here are continuing at the Kuala Lumpur War Crimes Commission into Israeli atrocities against the Palestinians. Witnesses, orphans and widows are giving evidence of the brutality suffered in Gaza; terrible stories and detailing highly unlikely to make it into Western newspapers. Certainly nothing of this kind of Commission could ever possibly be staged by any close ally of the US & Israel. A reminder in the same article covering the hearings recalled the convictions of George W. Bush & Anthony L. Blair for crimes against humanity here this time last year.
         This is a country of some weight and heft now in international affairs, 20m plus, a growing energy & mining sector, with a certain level of confident, independent thinking evident. A Muslim country of course, despite a sizable minority population, where because of an understandable perception of threat and contest, matters Islamic are always sharpened more acutely than in neighbouring Indonesia.
         The morning newspaper reading now takes place at another cafe which serves the best coffee in Malaysia, according to a long-term resident who was introduced to the place by the author, dear Reader. Nothing better than helping the locals better acquaint themselves with their own habitat. In fairness, in this case the cafe had only been open a fortnight, the discovery resulting from one of the lucky stumbles that have been highlights of the 18 month passage.
         As the morning of the Sultan's birthday wore on, the chap who had earlier added the comment on the said Sultan's expectation of precedence on the roads began to provide further back-story on the political scene here. How is it that one continues to be surprised by intimations of the most vicious and heinous skullduggery that invariably is acted out at the upper reaches of politics & power? Simple ingrained naivety and nothing else. Can it really be the case that our own politics is any less murky, any less corrupt & deadly than that of so-called rogue nations?
         The real surprise in this morning's dark political tale was the direct implication of the currently serving PM Najib here, facing election within the next few months and seemingly doing well in the polls. For some reason too it has again taken a good while for the penny to drop and the realization to arrive that, like in so many other places, in Malaysia one is confronted by a dynastic regime and entrenched circles of power. In fact Najib is none other than the son of the founder of the Malaysian federated states in the post-colonial period —Tun Abdul Razak, the most revered luminary of the old guard. As Australian schoolchildren might recall from their hodge-podge history lessons of the ‘60s, Tun Abdul Razak was the fellow in the funny hat, thick black-rimmed glasses and showing a rather dark, oily complexion. Another royal then this Najib, of the newer stripe; and indeed much more powerful than the old regional Sultans, who were no doubt creations of the British in the first place.
         Slowly, as the chap telling the story at the cafe went on, the lurid tale vaguely came back from the meager reportage of the time. Australian newspapers certainly did not provide. In France and Europe more broadly, it may have been different. It is an old story of a powerful politician—Najib was Deputy PM & Defence Secretary at the time—a pretty young girl (Mongolian), and an important Defence contract. In this case developments allegedly led to attempted extortion and finally murder and an elaborate cover-up. The purchase of two new submarines was being negotiated in Paris. Najib employed a French translator/interpreter. The Mongolian beauty also had brains: she aided the process of negotiations. Perhaps she had indeed been promised the $US500k that was touted as her subsequent demand. Given the huge sums involved—€140m secret commission on the deal—such a payoff might have been a simple matter, had not the girl presented a larger danger. Naturally sex was a side-issue in the tale: in the pictures the poor girl looks fairly irresistible. There is some suggestion Najib's wife took personal responsibility for the liquidation of the extortionist-blackmailer; that she was present in person when the girl was shot. In order to cover tracks properly, a particular explosive was subsequently used to atomise the corpse. Against the odds, fragments of tissue found in a forest area near a dam outside KL enabled DNA testing.
         The bank account details pointing to the payment of secret commissions were uncovered by the French side. Key witnesses presenting highly incriminating evidence and sworn testimony eventually made retractions and quickly went to ground, one particular crucial fellow proving completely untraceable. Even last year the suggestion of a mooted re-trial was said to be pending.
         The court case provided the usual hoop-jumping. So far as Najib was concerned, case unproven. A host of circumstantial factors prove nothing on their own, of course. Fragments of a young corpse blown to pieces by a highly controlled explosive substance; unsubstantiated presence of the said translator in Paris in the official documents; Najib’s personal body-guard convicted; paper trail difficult to follow & money the same. One must pause in final judgment. In all the photographs the scion of Tun Abdul Razak—in the shadows of the tower named after him, once the tallest in Asia—Najib presents cherubic innocence. Very difficult to imagine the man out of costume.
         That such a matter might possibly be buried by the upper-tier here in Malaysia should not come as too much of a surprise. If Western political interests can be advanced by war-mongering media that usually passes as independent and remote from government, then a more or less sufficiently well-concealed political killing in a frontier setting should not astonish. Certainly the case raised against the Opposition leader Anwar—homosexual trysts with a driver or butler—can be seen in an altogether different light in this context.
         Our brutalities and corruptions are different to their brutalities and corruptions. Circumstances, local conditions, phases of development, historical arrangements and alignments, our sophistications and refinements, produce outcomes of a different order. Our Reserve Bank currency affair, our Wheat Board affair, our refugee policies, our participation in the Anglo-American pushes presented to the public by earnest former choir-boys far, far more adept and polished than Mr. Najib, enable us to bury and manipulate matters without recourse to political murder.
         Does our innocence down on the remote great Southern continent stand up to scrutiny?
         Equally surprising to have the former leaders Bush and Blair convicted of major crimes here, while on the other hand the local PM can avoid some very serious cross-examination. (Fruitless attempts were made to have Najib give evidence at the relevant trials.)

                    

Ink in Penang

 

The parking attendant in Hutton Road was difficult to recognise out of context this afternoon. Mornings he trooped up and down the street issuing tickets. Instead of meters, in Georgetown ticket attendants were assigned particular streets and issued compliance tickets. Possibly they fined illegal parkers if any such got past them, which seemed unlikely. 

Almost two weeks now, morning greetings had been exchanged on the walk to the cafe. Beside the 7/Eleven on Penang Road this afternoon, it was difficult to be sure about the up-raised smiling face and nod. 

On the way out from the shop the checkerboard drew further attention, a flimsy particleboard one of the players must have brought from home. 

Second time round the man kept his head down. The game was at the crucial stage. 

It was not the board so much as the pieces that in fact drew attention here. At first the size seemed to show the usual disks of contrasting colours. A closer observation brought an abrupt stop. 

Rather than regulation local fifty cent-sized checkers, the men down on the footpath here were using bent and twisted beer bottle tops, green Carlsberg for the attendant and silver Tiger his opponent.

As was the case in Singapore, Carlsberg might not be especially expensive in Penang.

The usual gestures and postures for board-game players, perhaps of a particular cohort: forcefully driving the pieces; airily fingering possibilities at other times, forefinger flipped for anticipation of the opponent's responding move; clacketing the tin in place finally. 

(Historically, we are in the heartland of earliest industrial tin production after all: Kuala Lumpur, Ipoh & Taiping.) 

The parking attendant was in his late-sixties; partner same. The latter perhaps a sedentary occupation, judging from the fleshiness. 

Parking attendant displaying more prominent Malay features; the other Chinese. 

Barefoot both: attendant sitting on his footwear for softening; in fact the other the same, in his case the cushioning barely visible.  

With the panama before him the Parking attendant had clear advantage. Likely he had raised his eyes while the street was still being crossed and was therefore ready for the greeting at the shop.  

Green Kangol hat his case, which may or may not have been his usual wear on his Hutton Street rounds. Small black figures of kangaroos spotted the surface rather like flies a plate of food. 

Wide peak made corroboration of identity difficult and it was a long time until the man raised his head a second time.  

What put the matter beyond doubt was the shirt, a light yellow nylon sleeveless that was hardly adequate in these parts.  

The shirt was part of his daily wear on his beat. Around the pocket, above the pocket and on the outside beside the buttons, as well as the bottom of the pocket itself, dots, blobs and strokes of the pen which the parking attendant deployed six days a week on Hutton.  

As down in Singapore, it was a National holiday in Malaysia. Deepavali, the Hindu commemoration of the victory of light over darkness, if that has been gotten right. Post Office closed, quiet streets, the backpackers still counting sheep—or more likely beer bottle-tops, if the evidence of Chulia Street could be taken as guide.  

Eatery tables were much less crowded. Took a while to realise what was going on. 

As down in Geylang Serai, the game here had the additional spice of a few ringgit at stake. Looked to be in the favour of our guy, two or three notes slotted into that streaky shirt pocket. 

 

Finest Fruits of the Region

Five tables of covered Malay gals without a protector in sight in a place on Jalan Hutton in Georgetown, Penang. Impossible to ignore on the return after lunch. A cup of tea fitting; quite sufficient to gain entry. 

            Lovely all in their own particular way.Fine array. 

Everything young is beautiful, an old teacher had suggested from her world of knowledge long ago, Peace deservedly be upon her in the place she must have long attained by now. 

Office girls most likely; not shop. A certain kind of inner light suggested. Of course you needed to proceed carefully. 

The chosen lass soon aware of the admiration without having to lift her eyes. Stabbed the chicken on her plate, hesitating to raise the fork. Something her companion said needed attention. 

Could those lips have been carrying some discreet stick that was impossible to discern?

Many of these Malays have what you would swear was a natural ruby tint from these glorious vegetables and fruits of their native habitat. Luscious tones in a definite close match. Add heat, the monsoon and associated moisture, The sign of health, vigour and elan. 

Surely the finest pencil could not follow the line of lips so perfectly. Unnatural exactitude.

Patiently waiting for the gaze to shift from her person. The open mouth, teeth, flesh of chook lying on her tongue an instant before she clamped down—like the most maddening, strip-tease. The final bite like a curtain going down on the scene. 

Following presently for curtain-bow, finally, a small, precious reward for patience and right, delicate regard. With the luncheon companion's brief look to the side, a direct gaze over a single intermediate table, smile widening that artistry of line, a gracious acknowledgement offered, chin rocking briefly but unmistakably. 

Howdeedo? Very kind.

Kafe SIMPLE on Jalan Hutton, a short distance from Tim and David’s Cherrycake Studios.

Umbla Anne

Umbla is a local fruit in colour and size not unlike an unripe green walnut. A sour plum perhaps, from which here in Penang a tarty cool drink was made. Despite the lighter colour tone a newcomer mistakenly thinks, Thai green tea. At two ringgit worth a try. On Penang Road - Kumpung Malabar corner Anne Wong calls it her "signature drink." Two ringgit. Convent educated Anne. The pendant on the end of her gold chain not a cross however—conversion had been avoided. In the end Anne accepted she had not in fact learned the expression in the Convent, certainly not in formal classes. In the case of a daughter Anne's mother wanted to name her child after the Queen of England; (one year in fact after the British withdrawal and independence). Fond mother. Innumerable cases of sequenced rhyming English names bestowed on children the northern end of the Straits the same as the southern, where the Chinese were concerned. (Not the Malays or Indians.) An Ipoh Chinese housemate of a number of years ago by the name of Sharon had siblings Darren and Karen. There were innumerable examples down in Singapore. Of course Anne here in Penang should have been Elizabeth. A difficulty though. How was an illiterate, fond and loving mother supposed to get her tongue around that twister? Even Lizzie must have been tough; and not the same thing either. Fifty-five and more years ago good Queen Liz had become the mother of a daughter. Horsey Princess Anne unhappily taking her Greek father's features. But that was a quibble. Anne. There must have been baby pics in a crib even here in the steamy tropics. God save our gracious Queen / Long live our noble...Fair bit of talent for finagling bestowed with it too you would say judging by the regular trade in tehs and umbla at this particular corner last few days. Woman ought to be retired. Office work it had been earlier. Product of good, earnest, mid-twentieth century aspirant former coolie stock found it hard at home with the crossword and daytime TV. Cooling on a hot day, the little stab of sourness much preferable to all the heavily sweetened beverage. Warmly recommended, perhaps particularly for those poor backpacker kids totting their kits around the bars on Chulia Street on the next corner. After the temples maybe follow the locals and try some meditation over a cup within those walls on Penang-Malabar, guys. 

Chow Kit, KL Meeting (Dec25)

A Japanese painter unfamiliar with the quarter was given a brief tour of Chow Kit yesterday afternoon and evening—the market, back streets in Kampung Baru and a Paki eatery whose heavy, oily food tested the lass. Like many of her compatriots, women in particular, Kie needed to flee her homeland in order to pursue her art, the hills of Ubud, Bali, currently providing refuge. End of week bound for Yangon for a fortnight's Vipassana retreat: no speech, ciggies, cell-phone; &etc. Looked a fair chance, with the Fukuoka upbringing in her favour.

Prior to that encounter an unusual gathering was stumbled upon under an alcove on a sunken walkway immediately off busy Jalan Raja Laut. Schoolchildren they should have been, quietly awaiting a bus, squatting many and the remainder sitting with legs drawn close. 

A score at least as tightly bunched as infants at Storytime in kinder. 

Up close the range was a minority of late teens, through to early & premature middle-aged, chaffed and raw from the hard streets. Males unshaven; women pinched and with the grey showing through. (Uncommon on both counts in these parts.)

Only almost past did the silver of the chain become visible, strung through the massed body along the three lines, glinting bright with large, heavy links in all the gathered darkness. 

The lads on their feet roundabout must have been plainclothes. Not that any real supervision was needed here. A chain-gang from the cotton fields; uncooperative coolies in these parts not so long ago. 

Out of sight in our cities there must be the same for public order. All the old TV movies of escapees fleeing over hill & dale, bound to a single fate. Here among the two dozen without exception all the faces shadowy and dark.

 

Korban Eve

A protection racket operating for the lucrative taxi stand at Geylang Serai Market on Changi Road? 

One of the locals suggested it was highly likely, even in contemporary Singapore. 

With Korban following, Hari Raya Hajji, the lads had certainly turned a rapid dollar that morning, the queue never falling below twenty and shoppers passing along the aisle having to squeeze through the gap. 

Strapping chaps the pair of them in their mid-fifties, lifting the shopping bags into boots and opening doors. One was an Indo-something and the other Malay, lively and possessed of the chat both. 

A good number of lavender twos among the coin went straight into the pockets without a look. No difficulty judging the denominations by touch alone.

Upstairs the old Chinese flute-player was echoing through the hall. As much as the piercing rhythm, his stance attracted attention. Propped on one side by some kind of make-shift crutch, an old backwoods staff fashioned from bent and knotty wood, the man spread his feet and leant forward onto his support. Early sixties at the upper range, the rounded shoulders suggesting a hump purely from music-making. (Worse than a scribbler.)

The blow was hard and forceful; man gave it all he's got. A few days ago at the head of the Bugis tourist strip, out beside the bus-stop, the fellow had to wipe his brow after the exertion. In a quarter hour he must have had twenty dollars dropped into the bag hanging from his shoulder. Mainlander likely. Most of the appreciative audience at Bugis were Chinese. Here at Geylang Serai of course, they were Malay. 

With the commemoration—marking Ibrahim's demonstration of faith—the large crowd was clearly the draw. Any day of the week, however, the flute-player would do better out Bugis and any other Chinese centres. Even the porters here clearly surpassed the musician, at least on that particular morning. 

For some reason lower Geylang drew the man. A week ago he could be found around the Haig Road stalls. The flute-player was performer more than beggar, seeking an audience as much as alms. There was only ever the one, single tune. Given the kind of heart with which the piece was delivered that did not matter. From a distance one would swear there was amplification. The exertion was not apparent in the man’s figure; indeed, bent as he was on his staff, the volume and power was all contradictory.

Wak Tanjong Madrassa was not hosting the ritual slaughter this year. The new Australian regulations, together with the steep price hike, has resulted in far fewer sheep this year. (Around SG$465 per head by the time they landed.) Initially for viewing Zainuddin suggested the drug rehabilitation Half-way house in upper Geylang, where the recovering addicts would be helping. Later in the morning Din thought again and decided that a viewing was not appropriate; the slaughter was not meant to be a public spectacle. 

Last night over dinner Zainuddin added some concern at conditions at the various locales designated for slaughter. In the Qur'an the greatest care was outlined for the beast coming under the knife. For example, Din said, the animals awaiting their turn should not be placed within hearing distance of those being slaughtered, much less within the line of vision. 

If only Din were the chief mufti of Singapore!

       ....YOU'RE A

            FREAK                                                           

         JUST LIKE

               ME

later during lunch on a lad going up the stairs to the vocational school run by Jamiyah above Labu Labi. Tattoos, piercings, teenage boy-girl affections, almost non-existent in the Malay community congregating in this area. 

The tee reminded of Emily's Nobody poem, similarly sighted some while ago now on a tee. Doubtful it could have been here; not even a tourist.

 

[I'm nobody! Who are you?

Are you nobody, too?

Then there's a pair of us – don't tell!

They'd banish us, you know.

 

How dreary to be somebody!

How public, like a frog

To tell your name the livelong day

To an admiring bog!

 

                                        Emily Dickinson]