Massage Chair (Nov25)

City Plaza for the re-cycle bins, the old trannie uncle again blissfully dozing in the chair, soaking up the aircon. Even at that hour sticky-sticky-pooh much worse than the day before. With the stores not opening until ten, no fear of the man being moved on. Who needed the vibration to get the benefit of the plush faux-leather caressing tired bones. No need; keep the coin in the pocket. $2 x 6mins. $5/10 & $10/30, lying back up-tilted in orgasmic ecstasy. Indo maids, tourists, elderly uncles & aunties; foreign talent too sometimes took turns. There was no human touch, of course, no sweet caress; that cost a whole lot more. For a limited budget, for those who could not afford better, a short pamper was delivered in the chairs. A few days before the founder of the empire had gained a mention in the newspaper for his wealth. The name may have been on the list of the kidnapper who took hostage the old mum of the supermarket tzar a couple years before, currently facing the courts. (During the planning of his scheme, the chap had identified potential targets and listed intended purchases from the anticipated ransom: mouth-watering condos, motors, phones, jewellery, brand watches…) Peanuts the chair mogul was forking out for the space beneath the escalators & corners of the malls; manpower unnecessary, apart from the weekly collect & cleaning. Retainers for the adjacent shop-keepers to shoo away free-loaders… The old uncle was a regular mornings in particular; later in the day man didn't like to make a nuisance of himself. The shutters went up soon after ten at City P. One hour & one half untroubled run. The sec. guys, cleaners and lip-stick gals at the lingerie & dress joints, all knew uncle. Before they lit up properly, womb-dark within the ground floor. Fridays & weekends the carts trading over the floor made things less comfortable. The transistor was not needed laid up in the chair here; that was for the benches on the Voids beneath Block 9 at the Haig, evenings and later in the morning, then afternoons around either side of 7. Batteries lasted a week perhaps; newly purchased the echo in the caverns was like celebrity showtime. Uncle always ran them down to the last whisper, clutching the unit close against his ear. It was not difficult becoming a fan of the Chiang Kai Shek genre, by no means the worst hit parade in the Republic.

 

 

 

NB. Three years later the massage mogul had installed alarms. Press your ass on his plastic without coin in the slot, steel in the backbone for the sirens, Buster.

Wobbly at the Knees

Golly gee! You're a retiree of a certain age from the States, from the UK, Queensland and other parts of rural Australia, what a ride you get here in the Tropics on this little red dot hotspot most particularly. The malls, department stores, supermarkets and community nodes. You're my China girl from .......Hmmm Hmmm town.... when least expected just now rounding the corner behind the Haig. A kind of bushwhacking in this instance. All small stores in that quarter—one or two mini-marts, hair-dressers, luggage places (bursting at the seams in this international port-town the latter). An organic Health place, Yes, Natural, of which the author was a card-carrying member. (In recent days seriously considering blocking after all the online bombardment.) The little Chin provisions store where the mouthwash had been discovered almost at Malaysian prices did not pump any kind of music, least of all Western golden oldies. There was very little English at that particular counter. Anytin? Anytin?... the enterprising owner politely enquired at frustrating single item purchases. Worth noting while we are about it, certainly a rarity for Sing' believe you me, and hidden away from main street: beside the old provision shop there at the Haig stood a veritable Op. Shop, as we called them down on the Great Southern Land. Opportunity knocking. Second-hand clothing mainly in this case, second-hand carry-bags and costume jewellery. The lady running also offered tailoring and laundry service on the side. A foreigner of any stripe, and many a local too, would ID the delightful Sweet here as only Chinese. Not the case, she protested. Very much Malay! Adopted in infancy no doubt, like so many others. (Five plus years later the author was still searching for a Malay child similarly given up in those dark days before Mr. Lee transformed his gangster-ruler, opium-addled, embarrassing little backwater.) Taking the corner at the back of the Haig there was no immediate thought at the oddity of this particular lyric. Da-da-Di-dam…. Highly catchy…. Da-da Di-dam. Some part of the way further along, suddenly, — Oh yeah! His China girl....The source of the music would not be enquired. Little did it matter. Most likely the culinary supplies place beside the Health clinic, odds on you would wager. His China girl from old Honk Kong, wasn’t it?? Not entirely politically correct in some other locales. It was not Glen Campbell, but somewhere thereabouts. Of the period and genre toward the end of the war in Vietnam, some fella riding on the coat-tails of the Wichita Lineman. Just a day or two past one had stepped from the stationery section of what must needs be called a bookshop—Popular Bookstore, a ubiquitous chain here and also over in Malaysia and Indonesia—down to the basement supermarket at OneKM with a feeling of bursting repletion at all the rich fare accompanying, ringing in the ears. It was rather like rising from a sumptuous, a stupendously provisioned dining table, five star yum cha perhaps where one had inevitably over-indulged. A bit wobbly at the knees.

NB. Because of Dave Bowie/Iggy Pop, it was difficult to locate the old crooner and his 60’s hit on either Google or Youtube. The oldies would know it, and the Singaporeans most certainly.

Some Joy (Nov25)

Looking forward to Rina's touch under the sheet on the morrow. Aircon turned up, clouds over the madrasa opposite and perchance a rain-storm & thunder later. Under the cover Rina reaches for the stem and lingers at some length—ahem, good length—no hurry about it. The simple handling gives Rin straightforward and easy pleasure. It is not pleasure Rina is seeking to give; rather taking. Last couple encounters no "ice-cream" has been required to get underway; all prompt and ready quick-time. Grannie Rina—married in her early teens—continues to enjoy the ride, her own, evident pleasure adding appreciably to the whole. Returned back home for a month or two, her husband will be a come-down, she laughingly admits. Old ready. Rin was his second wife and more than half his age. (A common Javanese story even today.) Two years ago at the last return Rin told of keeping the poor sod at bay by using the young grandchild who slept with her as pretext. After some extended exploration in the archipelago, one guesses the jockey-mount is not so very common. Rin and her compatriots assume the post quite unbidden. Currently we have been attempting to arrange a few days together in Jogja. With flights so pricey and the project in JB hanging, Rin must be given the bad news tomorrow, which in fact might have the beneficial effect of raising the meeting to a higher plane still.

Net Down (Feb26)

Near quart 10, double check the date... September 1. Net down at Four Chain meant Starbs and its biz meet-greet morning voices filtering over from the far back corner. Issuing in fact from guys 25 years younger than presumed. Check & double-check. Positive ID—guys at the very back. An intermediate rear middle-aged who had been on the phone earlier ruled out. Introductory rattle of awkward jokes and encouraging laughter. First in-person. Back turned looked an old fashioned body shirt, if you can believe it. It would be fast-stepping to the taxi rank on the other side of the street for that young buck. Light Indian facing, as is the older intermediate. Shirt Asian the guess, but educated off-shore and extended living. (Chinese Asian.) Tinkle-dribble from the speaker mercifully down. (Did one of the gals remember the pesky customer whining and complaining last time?…) Gee! Don't look now, but dweebs every side and more piling in. Guy walked past carrying his blue suit jacket over one arm as he wended his way through the tables with his brekkie tray—toasted wafers with a range of spreads, kaya, nutella & honey, maybe. Loud big bearded old Sikh, blue striped shirt, light navy turban ruined the impression later with his broken plastic sandals. One of the U.S. publications on the stands at Kinokuniya yesterday with up-beat trumpet blaring on the cover: New Golden Age, If Only We Knew It, whatnot. Wasn’t Time. Nice neat-pin Chin girl was steered away from that when she took it up from the stack. (Ten points to you!) On a positive note, two young American exchange students at KK buying jewels that had been carefully ferreted out from the toxic coloured piles. Nick from San Diego held Huxley under arm & a Mukherjee on cancer (Pulitzer). Then Lone Star Austin, Texas Vy, born in Vietnam... Wait for it... No reader in the Western hemisphere could possibly guess the young gal’s inspired choice... Vy carried in her hand—one—white—covered—S-v-e-t-lana Alexievich, no less! Da-Da!...Never sighted previously by this author on any shore. Sveta had only been translated into English in the last year or two. The Chernobyl. Big, big ticks guys! Done your country really proud.

Beating the Drum

No screen at Reaz Corner, and no music either. The only music at Reaz was provided by the calls and prayers from the mosque next door. Neither the mosque nor the Hindu temple or gurdwara here had been visited. Touristic inspections of places of actual worship simply went against the grain.

         A belated visit five years later had been made to the old Chinese temple in the morning. Interesting enough of course; as expected. This place was OK, its raw homeliness gave reassurance. The Johor Old Chinese Temple was a functional local hub without any pretense about it; apart from its Johorean worshipers it was mainly Chinese from the region seeking it out. A short half hour for introduction was sufficient.

        More than the altars and statuary, all the various old relics on the walls and in the vitrines out back, it was the building itself and the compound that held most interest.  A half-pie former builder was immediately caught admiring the structure, the fine pillars and trusses, the roofs and entry-ways. In all of these cases the sturdiness, the shaping and colour carried some kind of intrinsic, persuasive artistry.

        The guide was a pleasant, informative chap, comfortable in his role. There were rarely Western visitors here one could tell. The prospect from the street, from the outside of the perimeter walls, produced perhaps the strongest impression. It seemed in the years since the temple had been built funds had been lacking for any sprucing of the exterior. Possibly some of the roof tiles had been renewed; otherwise crumbling, discolouration and sagging of roof lines. Quite authentic.

         Nevertheless, despite the fact the building was worthy of support from any visitor, after the circuit the thought had been to creep off dignified and upright, nodding perhaps to the guide and slipping away without further ado. The chap certainly would not have said a word nor pulled a face. No doubt not all visitors here made a donation.

        There had been only one reason for the donation made at the end before leaving. Ultimately what drew the fiver from the pocket at the Johor Old Chinese Temple was the prospect of the drum-roll that would result from it. Ten minutes before the beating had sounded and the guide had explained the procedure.

         On the right toward the altar on that side an old grey office safe that stood over a metre high held a little wooden insert in the slit cut on top. This was a giant money-box such as might be used in some kind of wacky TV comedy of cops and robbers. With all the array of colour, the rich reds and greens, macabre figures of gods and demi-gods, it had not been noticed immediately.

         A tall Montenegrin in a fine panama this August day at the temple on the rise of Jalan Trus caused the taut skin of the drum on the other side of the floor to be beaten and its brief roll of thunder to echo through that quarter—three rapid strikes, the first slightly more forceful and the resulting note longer. From within the walls of the little cavern there on the rise the ancestors had been reached.

         The guide and his father had been born in JB; it was the grandfather who had come down from Fuzhou city itself it seemed (where they spoke a language distinct from Hokkien), roundabout the time of the founding of the temple a 120 years ago. Four or five language dialects had worshiped at the Johor Old Chinese Temple over the years, melding together their various local deities and practices. Down in Geylang Mr. Cheong the Cantonese had been meaning to go up to the temple for fifty and more years. Trips over to the badlands across the Causeway meant engaging a reliable and trustworthy driver and wits about you all the while. When he heard the old man would be a little pleased at the proxy visit.

Big Shots & Their Big Motors

Light veg., cuttlefish and fruit lunch on the usual corner. In this case sitting precisely on the corner, leaning against the last end pillar where with the crawl of the traffic the heat rose 2 - 3 degrees. A blast of 6 - 7 degrees too suddenly when a big shiny motor inched along. Razali the Indian convert here who runs the food-stall remarked yesterday on all the development in JB that had left behind the basic infrastructure from the days of his boyhood fifty years ago. A couple of months before Razali had complained about the big expensive cars parked illegally outside the mosques while the big shots ran in for their prayers. In and out all in a rush; nothing like what was intended for the mosque gathering in Islam. Once when Razali went to speak to a chap blocking the way double-parked an old grey-beard had unexpectedly emerged from the vehicle and Razali had to button up. It was not just heedless youth who didn’t know better acting in this fashion. Yesterday Razali was having radiator troubles with his own car. With five driving-age daughters still at home and a wife, a single vehicle was tough trying to conduct a business; on the narrow old pot-holed roads particularly tough. Finally some cloud moderating. A large crowd at the tea-house. Not all the big chariots here were from over the Causeway either; plenty of locals had made a packet of ringgit. Nearing 2pm for the meeting with the ThinkCity people around in Jalan Pahang regarding this projected chapbook featuring precisely this quarter of Johor Bahru. Five hundred copies distributed locally for free, funded by the urban regeneration group and its partners. Finding appropriate readers would be the problem it has always has been. Then photographs and design considerations. Aduh!

                                                                                                                         JB, Malaysia 

Irresitible Baby Boulder

Near quart 8 after an hour at the Net place trawling through the archive for a fitting competition submission. At Reaz Corner beside the mosque the lad with the good English recalled the standard order from three months previous, down to the raw onion on the side. (Nan, dahl & veg. otherwise, with teh RM8 — about $2.75.) For a little blast of aircon after the PC a circuit of City Square had been in order, Body Shop called into just for the bona fides. In the back corner before circling around a boyish impulse suddenly at the little park-like way-station. Seats provided on cut-out coloured pods placed within a sci-fi cartoon strange park-cum-recreation zone it had to be called. It was the mini baby boulders that immediately drew attention. Already once earlier that day this corner had been scouted, the sight taken in and onward without pause: nothing to see there like. Second time round a trigger-niggle, almost a reflex of some primordial sludge time. How many little rocks had been kicked innocently along the streets over the journey, rocks thrown, even at high stained-glass church windows? (There was an enemy territory Mick school that needed to be passed on the way to the State.) Then the yonnies that were strewn between the rails of the line at the top of the street. Strong arm long developed as well as a pretty good hoof. A Montenegrin passing up the opportunity? the taunted red rag to a bull? Not bloomin' likely. Lucky it wasn't more forceful. The toe of the KEEN sandal may have made a little dint—certainly a crack was clearly audible and the mini baby boulder definitely slid over perhaps half the floor tile. Jeez! The uniformed guard right behind too in something that looked like brigadier's uniform.  (City Square was probably the flashest mall in Johor, all the usual culprits represented.) First pair of the lighter model KEEN had lasted almost twenty months daily footslog no let-up. (But no foot odour either.) The major part of the central plaza at City Square had been given over to the Mid-Autumn Festival traders—moon cakes galore, biscuits and shortbreads it may have been additionally. Polo-smart guys and dolls offering tastings. No money-burning obvious thus far, nor food plates, oranges or candles anywhere on the streets; that part of the observance might in fact have passed a day/two ago. Only on the next day were the swan cut-outs around the pretend park noticed, the lilies and lotus may have been the other. The charcoal burnt-out bole of a large grainy tree sprouting new (plastic) growth up top had been cordoned off in order presumably to prevent children clambering. The whole here sat on segments of coloured felt or fine grade hessian. ESPRIT behind with adidas and MANGO; Dorothy Perkins had flown in. Perhaps a stall-holder had cancelled at the last minute and a hole needed to be filled. Five years later finally a visit to the old Chinese temple on Jalan Trus has been scheduled. In fact the intention is to perform the service for Mr. Cheong back at Geylang Serai, who has been meaning to visit for over fifty years. 

                                                                                                      Johor Bahru, Malaysia