Mum & Dad (Sept25)

The former Chin Haig Road butcher making another striking tableau with his wife pacing slowly toward their former workplace. Thin, wiry man still good on his feet; the wife carrying some bulk and needing an umbrella as walking aid, as always this morning bringing up the rear ten paces. At Onan corner the man pauses for her at the steps, allowing his arm to be taken for the descent and then the crossing. Some beauty of spirit retained in the aged male; the woman's smiles and greetings are less convincing. (Their maid had in fact corroborated the impression.) A shopping trolley sometimes pulled by him; more than anything it is a constitutional involved, an escape from the pigeon hole. They live alone in the block above Joo Chiat Complex, visited by the children. The weighting of love usually apparent in the variance of attire—smart new contemporary oyster knickerbockers sported this morning by dad.

Piaf &etc.

The precise chair beside the .... well, fire-place it must be termed. A recess, timber surround, iron screen and immediately beside the chair a brass — running the finger and nail across the surface in order to be sure — stand that holds a brush, pan, rod and.... Something of a puzzle the middle item. A rake perhaps. But no ordinary garden variety article. This is an elegant show-piece like back in the day Louis XIV might have had at Versailles. First meeting here the gal was over a half hour late. Pretending to be more bookish than in fact, she had said Yes, she knew Kinokuniya. A few weeks prior she had been gifted The Alchemist, the most appropriate book found at the Bras Basah secondhand shop for her level of English. In the event she read the Indonesian version online and must have kept the paperback as a memento. After twenty minutes a text asking which Takashimaya tower, A or B, housed Kinokuniya. Forty-five minutes altogether possibly waiting with pleasant anticipation. Eventually turned up with a beautiful entrance and, aided by her fine azure blue scarf, carrying off excellently well the role of Maid at High-end Cafe. Not the only domestic servant sighted at these tables at Paul Takashimaya, beside Kinokuniya Bookshop on Orchard Road, but certainly the only one in her own right as a guest, customer, a patron seated on those upholstered chairs. Usually maids help bring in the baby or grandma at Paul, after which they are excused and wait near the escalators for the lunches and afternoon teas to be taken. Nervousness kept well under wraps that day, hardly noticeable. Not many scrutinizing eyes could have guessed. Within however there were butterflies; the girl felt herself transparent to all around. Did she take a cafe at all? She might have declined in the end, the baguette or croissant that had been urged likewise. Too nervous; possibly concerned about the loo there and certainly not wanting to ask on a third or fourth date. Attendance by the nice older Malay waitress added pressure — in her scarf and without a ring on her finger her transgression must have been perfectly self-evident, she thought. (Neet was a religious enthusiast, one of the earliest outings to the Shia mosque out beside the Chin Chamber of Commerce on Cross Street; second included Our Lady of Fatima on Victoria Street opposite the library. Though ultimately dooming the prospect, highly interesting.) Overwrought. One other meeting followed at the very same table beside the fire-place at Paul, during which the girl was prevailed upon to try the cafe and something else. As she hadn't eaten it made a poor substitute for lunch—something that was not known at the time. After that meeting Neet had "begged" we make other arrangements; there was a generic Indon eatery over the road in the Lucky Plaza tower. Instinct perfectly in order of course. Vile, idiotic, grotesque. Dreadful mimicry, like so much else in yellow middle-class Singapore that was always in hot pursuit of highest European style and culture. Fake chandeliers, waiters in white dust-jackets, heavy drapes pulled back on a forty-five degree angle at all the windows, gilt mirrors, Piaf covers and aircon to freeze your balls. Above all else the fire-place. Singapore. The equator. Inevitably the recall, a kind of replay, of mother's story of her own first entry to a fashionable cafe at the market town of Herceg Novi on the water's edge in Montenegro in the 1930's, in company with her older friend and clanswoman Ljubica. Sixteen or seventeen years old; the pair of gendarme beaus much older, their firearms laid on the table amongst the plates and cutlery in order to impress the kampung girls. Not long after Ljube married her chap, while mother on a pretext broke off the agreement with her keen Herzegovinian. Made the chap angry; he had informed them of his conquest back in his own village. On the mountain paths once afterward he had stopped her and threatened, — This will pass judgment on you. Touch on the holster; or possibly actually drawn his gun. One of their last encounters rain had just burst and happening upon the fellow mother made a point to approach and ask for his greatcoat for her trek up the hill for the sheep and goats. At the time all the heads of households kept rifles at home, Grandpa Rade having once famously shot a snake threatening the younger daughter. Mother’s father always remained the epitome of a man, one difficult, not to say impossible to match. Replays on all manner of levels.

Liquor Laws

New alcohol laws here due to take effect April 1 making it illegal to drink in public places from 10 30 pm – 7 am; takeaway sales likewise banned during the period. Second Minister for Home Affairs detailing the seriousness of the problem of alcohol: over the last three years one rioting incident and two cases of serious hurt involving liquor on average each week. City of 5.1m. Would the per capita rate be ten or twenty times higher in Melbourne, Sydney and London? (The large scale riot of foreign workers here a year ago the chief prompt of course.) Singapore not doing things by halves either: associated police powers might raise an eyebrow — the right to make suspicious persons remove their clothing in order to check for hidden containers.

                                                             Straits Times, p. 1 Sat. 31 Jan 2015

Graffiti and the Cane

Three young chaps with possible Anonymous connections graffitiing anti-government slogans here in indelible ink receive jail terms and canning: two months/three strokes and five/three for the ringleader. In the case of the latter other matters, presumably subsequently discovered, including theft and underage sex, raised the custodial sentence to two years. Twenty-somethings. An election next year. Six opposition MPs after the last election for the first time in almost fifty years of single party rule.
                                                  
                                                                                          27 January 2015 Straits Times, p.A3

NB. Moderate punishment compared to the Saudi Blogger running foul of the house of Saud sentenced to 1,000 strokes; fifty thus far administered on a single occasion. SG now restricted to a dozen maximum at a time.

Infinity

A short tale of language, manipulation and heart-break; romance of a kind.

      An infinity pool?...

      One had noticed the reference here and there in the relentless, almost daily condo porn in the newspaper advertising. With bigger fish to fry, this little minnow was left well enough alone. This morning's newspaper however brought the question to more prominent attention. Unavoidable longer. The Aristo on Amber Road was completed in November 2013, when keys were presented to owners, many of whom bought from the plan. Shock! Horror! attending that occasion when the missing infinity pool was noticed. No infinity pool anywhere to be seen, high or low. Where was the article promised in all the colourful advertising?... What purchasers were provided instead was an unremarkable squat little square built hard against windows that could not even be cleaned because of limited access. Hard to swallow. One poor Oz banker — "who asked to be known only as Garry" — was a victim. Chap concerned shelled out $2.19m for his penthouse unit after being enticed chiefly by the fetching roof-top pool that was not easily come-by in Singapore. Legal proceedings instituted. 

      The second appellant Mr. Sharque Said is pictured seated at the rim of the offensive poor substitute displaying a large brochure showing an alluring picture of a long narrow pool at the outer edge of a building. Easy to understand seduction by this enticement of private blue water appended to a tower that merges with the adjacent blue of the sea-front, then at almost touching distance the high empyrean above. Infinite heart-melting imagery. (One thought inevitably of the Marina Bay Sands where the three towers there are capped by a gracefully sinuous pool.)

     (Aristo likewise effective, including as it does echoes of the old philosopher, together with the enviable Brahminical target class.)

                                                                                                         Straits Times, Home 26 Jan 2015

Mutual Aid

Abdul must have spotted the trouble from behind his counter. There he was suddenly on the upper path outside the shop with the bird firmly clasped in his hands—side-ways sliding smile when he realized he was being observed. Holding the bird, a gray and white pigeon, securely with the wings folded a supermarket sticker came away easily. It had covered a portion of the wing it seemed, making flight impossible. That must have been what had drawn Abdul's attention. At closer quarters however more trouble had become apparent. Turned belly-up, bright yellow twine could be seen wrapped around a claw. The pigeon had landed in some kind of refuse pile and got more than it bargained for. Poor birdie. Luckily Abdul Majid to the rescue. Good spotting. With the left hand holding the bird Abdul carefully picked at the string line with his right, picked and picked as if he were separating grit from seed (fennel perhaps). Unbidden, seeing the difficulty, Abou had come out to help. Abdul remained in his place while now Abou used both his hands to work the knots. Abou managed better, drawing up short lengths of the line, making some progress. Picking. It wasn't easy; it was a proper mess. More lengths of the bright yellow line fished up. There must have been near a dozen windings involved; perhaps a metre or more of twine in all. The bird had panicked in its entanglement and flapped and flapped; perhaps that was how the sticker. Abou wasn't making much progress. Almost instantaneously both together the men reaching the conclusion it was no good like that. Over to the utility corner Abdul head-nodded, Abou already half-inclined. There would be a knife there. 
         Indian-Malaysian grandsons of indentured labourers brought over from Tamil lands to the rubber plantations, the tin mines and rail-lines. Abou's wife and kids live in JB an hour away; Abdul's three hours in Malacca. Twelve hour shifts seven days a week and one day off a month for around thirteen hundred dollars. (Overtime adds on.) Abou has about fifty words of English; a good deal more Mr. Malacca, Abdul. Good guys, good buddies. The solidarity of toilers that must have been the same as that of their forebears. The kind of scene that each day brings in this community and gladdens the heart with a certain sufficiency.

Another Country

Two small additions that can help fill in the picture of the local community here at the bottom of Geylang Road. Small first and vanishingly so, but indicative nevertheless. Chin girl or woman late morning coming along the path and turning into the Haig Road stalls before a closer inspection could be made. Late girlhood, if not well past, fine slender body of the usual Modigliani form in these parts. Simple unadorned dress not much above the knee; easy hair-style without need hours of salon-sitting. Before the turn the woman had taken a strand on one side down on her shoulder and bringing it around over her chin began her twirling on the entry-way. Passing slowly between the tables within little slow twists winding round her forefinger like a vine around a post in a fairy-tale while casting about the hall. Furtherest back in memory the last such example; might in fact have been film rather than actuality. Early afternoon episode two, third occasion now of the same form from Mr. Ali. A year or so ago we began after the man had stopped at a table to greet Omar. From that point we developed with the raised hands, the greeting call, eventually reaching signaled offers of a cuppa—shovel-hand pointed south. Last month the first larger venture suddenly saw a teh abruptly dropped on the table-top.... Concerned at such a number of polite turn-downs, man might have thought his was being received as empty gallantry. Between times there had been halts at the table and attempted chat. Ali Paki-Malay mix in his middle-sixties; the hair was from the era, faded rock & roller skin, thin like Jagger and about the same size. Brotherhood of man, all were equal—Ali delivered his charter. Recent times he was fetching provisions from the market for his wife to cook at home. (Like many of the men roundabout, at the tables teas strictly. Such prices the stalls charged for food!) Good cook the wife? Not bad. Ah ya. Just like we in Montenegro: not good to praise wives too highly. Got a laugh. (The Malays could in fact be more than a bit uxorious; but then Ali was crossed with high altitude blood. Mixed blood the self-description.) Replay followed. Caught unawares again when there had been no sign of the man, bushwhacked from behind: BAP! another teh like a missile from a bazooka that the Security reminders were always warning about on the trains and buses. Oh! Dear me. Ah, thank you Al.... Raising the stakes again further still this afternoon at the bus-stop, just come down from the steps same time as the No. 158 pulling in. No time for real greeting, man loaded as usual strides over with a lunge, not offering a rapid hand-shake but one of the bags. There. For you. Come now.... Unable to hook it on a finger drops the gift beside a post, gently to ensure the fruit won’t bruise; rounds back into the bus without further ado. Wordless. What? Ali!... Mangoes? Peaches? No, apples. Hey! NO. In after him. Passengers, driver, crowd at the stop. Hanging it round the man’s neck however he wriggled was no good, bus couldn’t wait. Where did he go?...How?... 
         The impulse was known and well-recalled. All the early exemplars of the practice have passed on now. Contemporary readers will be scratching their heads wondering what in the heck? Strange tales. The past indeed another country.