Publication: Small Wonders - East Lit.

A relatively new online literary journal focused on South-east Asia, Eastlit, has recently published a short piece taken from this blog.

 "Small Wonders" was written during the second Ramadan in the Malay quarter of Singapore, 2012. (Posted on the blog late July 2012).

Here is the link:

http://www.eastlit.com/eastlit-november-2014/

Prambanan (Heritage)

A third World Heritage site in the region could be ignored no longer. (Borobudur and Georgetown, Penang were the other two. Singapore was still trying to join the club through its botanical gardens, and a one or two other possibilities.) 

The introduction of the bell here in Java was suggested by the repetition of the motif up and down all the towers. 

Across the green jungle for miles round and high up into the heavens the peal of the various tones—the kampungfolk must never have heard the like. 

The stir of the moment in time might have been better imagined without the buffeting road-trip on the No. 1A Transjogja, and the commercial strip that had replaced the earlier rice-fields.

Hundreds of bells rising up in the stone, before one final large crown capped each of the structures.

Later the museum attached showed what a state of collapse had been found at the re-discovery of the complex in the early 1800’s.

School-kids from across the archipelago were out in numbers, the requests for photographs with the bule almost as many as the bells.

Mister. Mister white guy. Photograph please? Smiling, beaming young boys and girls, fathers and mothers. One extended family from Sumatra seized their chance early and was later found beneath one of the stunted trees seeking the shade.

In a short conversation of a few shared words the group was keen to impress the touristic claim of their own region. Toba. Beautiful. The famous lake was another must-see in the region.

The plea ventured here recalled mother's own for her birthplace; and all the years she had not been believed. 

As at Borobudur, the depth of the treads on these Hindu stairs were not scaled to European feet. The lurching required for the risers must have stretched Javanese and Indians both.

Within the dark of the crypts a minute or two was needed to adjust the eyes. The lines of chiseled stone rising up included recent mortar in a number of places. Many decades the reconstruction here had been continuing.

Candle flames, basilisks and birds with human heads and wings half-stretched for flight were everywhere repeated. The latter struck especially, suggesting as they did the difficulty of capture as much as flight.

Surrounding the candle flames the shimmer of air was included by the old artists and recalled the emblem of the Sikhs.

Without all the high-end Western curatorial trappings, the simplicity of the organisation seemed fitting. 

A wandering chook was sighted pecking in a corner of the grounds. It may have been Prambanan that advertised wild deer moving through the precinct, and then dance performance under torchlight for value-added tourist packages.

En route in the bus, the same as from the airport, another EXIST NET was passed on the roadway near the Sentul Market. 

The past still figured in the everyday culture for the emerging generation in Indonesia. Despite the lure of modernity.

 

 

                                                                                                                Yogyakarta, Indonesia

Splatter Flicks in the Tropics (May26)

The flaked-out sleepers on the streets through the Tropics still startle a relative newcomer, even after almost 3 ½ years. Lunchtimes the foreign workers under trees and over the concrete of the Voids of the housing towers show massacre scenes from gritty real-life movieland. Tonight going out for supper the woman who provided the buzz-cut an hour earlier was found slumped in the chair before the mirror, head-on-hands over the narrow shelf. Rp25,000 — $2.50, the woman's boss converted when she saw some hesitation. Over a coffee later with Paijo the becak driver, the standard price was revealed to be Rp6 - 7,000. In bule kampung, Whitey Village on Sosrowijayan, understandably a different scale operated. Marching up the street, the Western tourists at the massage places, the pedicure, the sightseeing offices & the bars need to be passed. Many of the young bule here would be inclined for some other type of experience, if not for the steering of the Tourist Guides. Buying a round of straight kopi tonight for Paijo and his friend, a fellow becak driver, and teas for three young early teen boys, the bill came in below the cut. The people on the other side of the rail-way line were more friendly, Paijo suggested. Sometimes the backpacker kids can be seen along that stretch too beyond Malioboro.

More Food - Uppuma

Chap comes in especially for uppuma. Cashier with the daughter who had studied Marine Biol. on the Gold Coast, near the colourful Reef no doubt in danger of destruction from Climate Change, turns in this direction to enquire. Asking at the Sweets Counter is she? A waiter in the back there around the corner?... Ah, no. In fact directing the question at the Australian regular, the scribbler, who ought to know. He had ordered it again this afternoon. A week or two ago one of the newer Chennai lads had rounded on the man. You wanna give something else a try one day maybe? Pongal very similar, rice flour instead of semolina. Very nice. The fellow had indicated a chap at the long central table who was also fixated on uppuma. Uppma, uppuma without fail whenever he visited. But on that particular day this chap had accepted pongal. (The last portion of uppuma had been served shortly before to you-know-who.) This might have been the very man: age, height, light colour, neat blue biz-shirt were all about right. Difficult to be absolutely sure. This same beefy waiter loves to clown, limited English no reason for shyness. (The above conversation must be understood as paraphrase of course—practiced readers will have twigged; the original with all its stumbles and mumbles could not possibly be reproduced.) Clowning in the lad's nature. Nandri, he offered the other day when he had been handed a plate or something else in order to aid his clearing of the table. Nandri, nandri — he had got it on numerous occasions and heard it liberally dispensed all round. Nandri and nothing else. Mocking. Another time the fellow had approached the table for a longer chat that began with the matter of the slow—in fact unmoving—Tamil acquisition. Two years here, soon to sign a further three year extension. Married, wife now pregnant. (A brief visit presumably.) Six or eight hours out of the city he was, still within Tamil Nadu. Mock military salutes, rapid steps over the floor, often sweat on the brow: proved his value to the employer. Out front the uppuma chap had been ready to turn on his heels in the event there was not available what he was after. A substitute would not do on this day, neither pongal nor anything else. The raised finger of the cashier had been misinterpreted and the fellow was beginning to pivot — spinning on a six-pence, the old chaps at the football club used to say of the earlier generation of deft ballerinas on the field. No pongal in any case today: earlier in the piece Beefy had said it was finished. Come down from his office tower the man, or on his way home, only the one dish would satisfy the growling tummy on this particular occasion; and take-out in fact today. Usually uppuma is a breakfast dish; two or three times a week one could get lucky lunch-times. This was getting on now: rare good fortune for the fellow. Coconut and green chilli one side, dried red the other with onion and tomato, split by a watery dahl on the silver serving tray. Uppuma does not in fact appear on either the display board at Komala Vilas on Bufallo Road, nor on the menu. A lucky chance found it once on the small Specials board opposite the register. $3.00, preceded for this palate by rasam soup served in a small stainless cup. (Add $1.50.)

NB. There are numerous Komala Vilases in Singapore—all off-shoots of the original—and apparently one or two established back in the homeland it seems (Chennai). Bufallo Road the tip, opposite Tekka Market.

Stuck

Couple of yellow helmeted Indians, tall and short, issued reflective safety vests and orange long-sleeved polos—remainder of the clobber their own responsibility: jeans & footwear. Pair is tasked this morning with removing the litter attached to the lamp-posts and street poles here in Geylang. Bag for refuse, bottle of water, pair of scrapers each; tall senior presumably charged with the responsibility of the camera for the record. Two posts on Geylang Road near Changi corner kept the lads ten minutes until the job was done properly, smooth clean silver gleaming and snapped for the Super. Illegal notices for room advertisements with the tear-away telephone numbers at the bottom are the biggest problem. The tape people use on these slips is very darn sticky; it is this that remains long after the paper has been torn away. What's worse, in the case of the larger lamp-post the fancy ridged sleeve wrapped around the pole earlier in the year for some urban beautification makes it doubly hard to clean. Some water needed to soften the tape. Unfortunately a bicycle is chained to this particular post and how to prevent the seat from getting wet? What to do? Quick furtive looks left and right. Luckily no irate owner leaps from the tables to upbraid the lads. Scrape, scrape both together, Tall bending his back. Blades sharp enough for the task? Don't look like it on a couple of takes from one and then the other independently. Scrape, scrape. Hands run over the grooves once, twice, three times does it. Not too bad; pretty good. Photograph. The Super not likely to hightail out to check every last pillar and post. Though square-edged and one would have assumed an easier prospect, the No-crossing post is not much better, its tape visible from ten metres away. Water again, scraping. It comes away with a bit of added elbow grease. But not really. Shit of a thing. Tall turns a beak in the direction; around on the other side Short angling contrawise for balance. A shot from a higher elevation will help with the evidence for Super. Tall raises the camera. OK, there. Difficult in fact to read this sign. No walking on the footpath? or from the upper path under the trees and onto the footpath perhaps in case you run into someone unexpectedly?... Ah, no. OK. Jay-walking. No jaywalking here across the busy four-lane roadway. Warning—not allowed: thick red line through the circled figure. Twenty-five metres away at Joo Chiat corner traffic lights for safe crossing. Some cloud this morning. Two posts done, get a move on. Off the pair troop; by lunch-time they ought to make the Kalang River where some shade is offered by the bank.

Picnic

Sunday afternoon soon after lunch. Young scarved women in clusters over the unmowed grass opposite, a pair against one of the Rain trees following the shade around the trunk. The Deaf came up from the rear a short time ago touching the flank of his friend and indicating the fan turned in this direction. Without it so hot it made you crazy, he signs toward the outdoors beyond the awning and then knob-twisting at his temple. The man caught some shut-eye briefly afterward until Cha the cabbie landed with his pals and started up a little conversational racket. Usually quiet and reserved, questioning more than talking himself—a listening ear behind the wheel you would guess—sometimes Cha does turn unexpectedly voluble. A Chin convert of many years now, Islam has taken Cha, together with the other two regular Chin converts here, away from his ethnic group. (Some estrangement has resulted in the families too in all three cases.) Sitting at the tables the scarved women could not escape a charge for drinks at least, and of course there was no bringing in of outside food to the Eateries. (Regulars went unquestioned.) The women have cooked at home this morning and brought flasks of tea or water. Next door in the neighbouring Carpmael house Lia the mixed blood (as she called herself) Filipina-Indian is being starved of food by her stingy, rich employers. Seven kilograms Lia has lost in two months there. Indian Muslims in a four storey house, two cars, a tailoring business and singing prayers in chorus regularly, begrudge the maid more than a small serve of rice and some curry twice daily. (Breakfast is coffee.) Lia is aiming to convert to Islam at the end of the year; currently she is taking classes on Islamic history on her free days in order to better prepare. Prior to this employment Lia had worked with other Indian Muslims, who though they sometimes had insufficient money to pay her treated Lia very well, as part of the family. It must have been their example that first attracted Lia to the religion of the Prophet; prior to starting in Carpmael Lia did not believe Muslims could be so uncharitable. Unable to hold back her hunger, an occasional apple is taken from the fruit bowl, a biscuit eaten in the toilet; last night again there was a long wait for dinner and only noodles served her. A special boy hurt in a motor accident and unable to communicate is Lia's particular charge; but the house is also large and with two cars much cleaning is required. All more difficult on an empty stomach. The goodness of Islam is everywhere apparent in this quarter; perhaps the goodness of the culture and community underlying—a lavender coloured two dollar bill just now drawn from a rear pocket wallet for a lame chap stopping at a table. Is it the strong enjoinder in Islam that produces the everyday generosity and promptness of alms-giving? Were Christian communities the same a century ago? (Sometimes the Malays will tell you Chinese beggars and tissue-sellers know to come over to Geylang Serai for the pickings they can expect there.) The small daily glories on this Changi corner in particular opposite the market have detained this author nearly forty months. There was no thought of anything like this term on landing.

Food Adventure - Fennel

An Indian of some description wants to tell you he doesn't know fennel when he sees it. Get off the grass Mr. Billy! You're kidding.... Bends close over the table squinting. Never seen nor heard. The new waiter knew the Tamil word, not the English. Useless for Billy. New chap is moonlighting for some extra cash; nights works as a welding inspector. (Chennai; Billy of Ceylonese extraction; second and third generation respectively, which explains.) Seeds brought up from lunch at Komala Vilas lasted the 15 minute walk and plenty left over. Uninspiring crowd; business shirts and skirts predominating as usual. Two pair of shapely legs, sleek fleshy femurs and tibias; but an old Dweeb art patron-tourist between needing a shot across his bows in order to collect the offering. Not worth the candle; might wanna talk. Talk art maybe and then Sentosa and the Night Safari. Shortly after at the bill man produced his discount card from the gallery next door. Sorry sir. Over $30. Manager Billy disappointing with finest consolatory smile. Oh!... Better luck next time, bud. Finally, ten minutes hence after a number of reconnoiters, Mr. Billy was seduced. Billy's grandpa might have been Singhalese. Converted to marry his Javanese bride — Billy converted that is; not Gramps. Sneaky old dog always kept his second wife hidden. All the talk was of the Javanese, the two boys to her in their late twenties powering ahead, one flying Garuda and the other on the way to same, taking exams currently. Proud as punch dad; now proud dad in his dotage to a secret six month old child here in Sing. No wonder all the hours and the side-line health products. Couple of his staff hooked and trying it on customers. Feeling tired, lacking energy? Fellow had just the shot. Good gear.... No, no. Nothing pyramid about this one. This one was different. One needed to keep an open mind…. Finally, overcoming much hesitation, induced to try. Ventures two single pellets pinched delicately from the napkin. The elixir of youth he kept an open mind on slugged immediately no doubt; an organic product proved over thousands of years from his ancestors? Gee, I dunno. You sure it's OK? What's it for?... Why don't you give it your friend? Indicating the Dweeb. Mr. Dweeb immediately understood to be a “friend” because of course he is white. We all hail from White-land where all the Whiteys hang together, eat at restaurants, drive shiny cars and visit tourist attractions. Goo and ga over art-jewels lighted behind glass in galleries and museums. What's $5.90 for a cup of coffee for the likes of us?... Yeah right Mr. Billy. Sure. …Wisely pretends he hasn't heard. Chew slowly now Bill. And don't swallow mind…. Nods moving off to a table where he had been hailed. Still a bit dubious…. Except for the gait all bird Billy, topped by a wavy dark crest that might even be undyed. Ought to have taken to seed more easily.