Leaves from the Trees (Sarbat A. & Nilla, JB)

Lad at Sarbat Asli in the afternoon sat at the shorter bench washing the dishes.

Sunk was on the other side; the lad sat opposite at the untiled bench covered with plastic sheeting, beside a small tub full of his thin dishes of green—ribbed banana leaves.

One had wondered over the years at these places whether it was a new leaf every time, hygiene and all that. There were still banana leaves at KV in Sing. Were they really OK in the Republic with the authorities obsessed as they were to the point of derangement, cleaning & re-using leaves? The health inspectors, municipal authorities, environmental police letting that pass? In Sing? 
         Such washing-up had not been seen anywhere before, Malaysia & Indo included. 
         At Sarbat Asli they might have taken turns each afternoon after the lunch hour. Fairness and principle. The boss here diced the ginger with his workers, after all.
         In the evening Nilla for a change, where the lad at the appam counter pulled a kind of swifty, the boys at the Football club might have said, back in the day.
         Six burners in a row on the stainless top, two pair of three. The cheap dessert was popular—thin, exceedingly thin wafer base, coconut milk & brown sugar spooned on the side. 

Couple minutes done. Delighted the punters. Chock-full of tradition. The saints when they visited partook these treats. Ads in India showed beefy older chaps licking their chops & winking at the camera. 
         Lad manning was presented a task nevertheless; not unlike a modern percussionist in an orchestra leaping across the stage to reach the various instruments. 
         Pans remained on burners the while, only covered when the flame beneath was shooting. When the 5 - 6 were going at once, the performer played his clattering lids with some deftness—lifting for a brief look and dropped quick smart. Wafer thin; easy to stick.
         Now, how might the fellow light the burner for each new order?
         There were no buttons or switches here. No electronic gun.
         You think a ciggie lighter in the back pocket fished out with sticky fingers? Reach for a matchbox on a ledge, or call for assistance?
         No, no, thrice times no.
         If you must know, beneath one of his banana leaves the man keeps a long, perhaps 8 - 9 inch twisted taper. Some kind of cloth or twine it looked. Close on 10 inches. Lighting transfers the flame as needed. 
         Mission accomplished, back it goes between the leaves and a little squeeze, a little pressure. Tamping down on the lit end. It could wait there for the next order
         Regular relief at that station it appeared, a load needing to be shared. Some of the other tasks around the place were much less taxing.
         As in every Tamil eatery frequented here over the six and one half years, a pleasure to be part of the furniture at Nilla. Combination of the lovely lads over the floor, great nutritious tucker, cost that can’t be beat—RM3.20 / AU$1.20—and diners of a certain fine, easy temper, unlike any Western establishment.

This, mind, even within the unappealing, echoing Nilla halls, with the aluminium chairs, fluro lighting, floor-to-ceiling tiling and no prospect on the street or temple across the way, sunken like that beneath the pavement.

 

NB. A shock seven years later turning the corner on Jalan Trus to find Nilla completely burnt out. There had been a big fire in August.

 

 

Oasis (Johor Bahru) Feb25

The memory was a much longer foot-slog, half hour or more. In fact fifteen minutes did it comfortably and the drop well worth the march under the hot sun. Big Tuan Besar Ali emerged from out back in his black trousers and white shirt today. (At the first introduction the man had worn a beautifully laundered white dhoti with black and gold inlay.) First up over to the mirror by the drinks counter combing back his fine salt & pepper quoif, watched by the lad brewing and smiles exchanged. A small 4-door Proton Elite it might have been in the car park, taking food out to an elderly neighbour perhaps with his wife of a similar age on the Friday. Such a joy sitting in the midst of the smooth, warm rhythms of the staff, foreign and local, from one end of the shed to the other. One felt immediately drawn to the big old guy for having enabled such an establishment. Thirty years ago Mr. A. had added the last improvements here: tiling over the wash-up sink and long bench opposite where the man had first been encountered a couple of years before dicing ginger from twenty litre tubs; a couple of additional fans in the gaps overhead and some of the plastic sheeting and blinds renewed. Let the youngsters make their improvements later, a comparable paterfamilias in Montenegro would say. Cash was not king here, nor Birkin bags or jewelry from Swiss houses of couture. There was no Bersih Zon sticker visible, but little doubt where the vote had gone here in the last election. Dicing the onions, boy in the corner smiling through his tears when a regular entered and took a seat near-by. Supreme cap would make no never mind: this lad was planted right—he would be able to negotiate the path of thorns. (So-and-So was nakrivo sadjen, planted crooked, the Serbs say.) And how the lad performed his task so deftly, bringing off the thin skin with lightest blade-work. They would sharpen their kitchen utensils regularly here. Kampung Italiano, satu, the drinks lad calls out to the Indo cook in back. One village nasi, Boyo—faulty grammar for the case of the femme. The latter’s consulate was a hundred metres away up off the road, built around the time Pak Ali was establishing himself and in remarkable state of disrepair.

NB. In fact the Bersih – Clean stickers are municipal notices and not as assumed of the political group in the new governing coalition in Malaysia.

Warung Teh Sarbat Asli, Native Sherbet Teahouse at the head of Jl. Tun Abdul Razak, named after the second PM shamed by his son, the recently deposed sixth Man of Steal.

Cursed Coin

Pretty bland. Egg bryani was rice with a boiled egg on the side. Three veg. small serve @ RM3 ea. kept the intake low. The waiter who served the food seemed to understand removing the egg was to save it, not let it go to waste. When he came up for the operation he brought a small stainless dish like surgeons use in theatre, delicately cupping with a spoon out it went. When the original waiter came by later quizzical looks, a wordless question, eventually articulated properly when he showed the size of the missing article with thumb and forefinger. Presumably he had placed it on the platter himself. Yeah, well. Thought it would be poached or fried on top, not like that…. Ah. OK. You want more rice? (In order to make up the calorie shortfall chap meant.) Nah. Sweet. All good. Not more rice. Earlier Western kool cafe August at the top end of Tan Hiok Nee had been tried for its broccoli salad minus the salmon, reconnoitred couple days before. Too busy in the downstairs area along the bench seat. The former place opposite the teahouse at the other end of Tan Hiok turned out had changed hands recently and now did nothing but meat—duck, pork, chicken, chicken, chicken. Footslog down the other end of Jalan Trus to the Indian up opposite the fertility clinic. Whilst waiting for the bryani to be delivered another young lad with markings on his forehead was caught making eyes at a little girl on the end of the table at the rear. There had not been sufficient savings as yet for him to marry the girl back in the village. One day by god’s grace he would have his own little daughter loving her daddy more than anyone else in the world. Finest array of lads as usual at these places, all young here, the eldest manning the till, familiar from a couple of years ago, was only in his mid-thirties. Lad taking the initial order looked familiar too: he would be the one chosen for a little inquisition. The itch had come on. Could he ID then this Tamil movie star in the sticker bought the previous evening at the nightmarket? HERO TAMIL. APA MACAM? the tags. (Google had “like what” for the latter.) Good looking mid-aged dude in sunnies with a practiced fan portrait smile. Four stickers for RM10 from the nice young Malay graphic artist trading in Tan Hiok most nights. A second for the front of the same journal that the lad had obliged in sticking properly himself read CASH IS NOT KING. Yeah, sure. Waiter knew the actor. Of course. Wasn’t he a Tamil too!... In film he was OK that guy, not bad. But in life he was bad. In politics. Take wrong way, explained the young critic. And the cash insight was perfectly intelligible too. Well understood. Only a good devout Tamil boy knew it could never be ultimate king. How could it? The local context here with the former PM, Man of Steal, Malaysian Official 1, who had billions routed through his private bank accounts, could not be understood by a lad out here only a year. (Not the two or three years that had been thought. He was a newcomer.) Ahma resto, but not spelt in pinyin—AMMA a tee later revealed.

Uppers & Boosters (Pol.)

Nearing lunchtime rain once again. There may have been some overnight, though it had not been enough to wake on this occasion. Three or four consecutive nights previously it had rained, and on a couple of these occasions the pour had been strong enough to wake. A day or two before leaving Singapore someone had reported the forecast for the remainder of the month had been hot and dry weather. Looking out the hotel window from the other side of the Causeway one could not help chuckling at the daily disproof one day after another. On the streets here this morning mixed messages whether it was indeed the start of the working week, or the weekend still. Day-trippers from the South with their shopping packs were certainly plentiful passing the breakfast table at Muthu. Walking back to the hotel a large crowd at the upper end of Wong Ah Fook near the Servo needed to be investigated. Turned out a great crush at a remittance office, with possibly even a hundred young Indian and Bangla men waiting to send their hard earned back home. The construction & industrial sectors at least were running the conventional Western working week. (A couple years ago the local Sultan in Johor had instituted the Muslim week of Sunday to Thursday.) Here foreign labour might perhaps receive one day off a week, unlike the more usual monthly down in Singapore. And rather intriguing the news of the hacking of the Health records in the Republic, where the PM, a two-time cancer survivor, was particularly targeted. Having been groomed for his post from earliest years, the man was a competent, professional performer, managing all the meet-and-greet and the rest with aplomb, at least judging from newspaper pictures and the occasional sound & vision. What added medications might be involved for stabilizers, uppers and boosters was the question. It could hardly prove a surprise for anyone in such a position. President Trump might be able to devour limelight, ceaseless attention and come back asking for more; others would find it more of a strain. Whether details would emerge over coming days remained to be seen, and if as suspected state actors were involved, possibly unlikely.

Greek Salad in the New Malaysia

Catching the Sec. photo brought up on the screen by the lad at Imigrasi gave a shock. Getting a fright looking in the mirror, as the former beauty Bab used to remark in latter years. Ghastly. Must have been the fluro.
         Smiling young chap was doing much better than average with the routine employment. It was not always the case even among the Malays. Bright humanity retained in that uniform confronted by the passing parade.
         This lad smiled at the mention of Malaysia Baru—the New Malaysia.
         Hearing the further expression of pleasure that the foreigner had gotten from the circumstance prompted the chap to ask somewhat quizzically, — What, you too?...
         A white foreigner taking such an interest in the welfare of another country?...
         But then maybe the young chap knew of the role played by the Sarawak Report lady, the Swiss and American investigators.
         Behind the desk at Meldrum Hotel a short walk away the old uncle was willing to meet you half-way, nodding and smiling.
         —….But then, you know. Many Malays still voted for him.
         At seventy-eight the Chinaman had seen enough to remain cautious, especially through the honeymoon period.
         One really did need to hand it to the Man of Steal too, the Bugis warrior, MO1: firmest bare-faced denial and first rate poor-pitiful-me-set-upon-like-this-when-I-am-trying-to-pay-my-daughter’s-medical-expenses.... Even with a night spent in the lock-up good confidence he could escape scot free. A RM2.4 mil. prize-fighter lawyer might have something to do with it.
         Some little unfinished business from the last visit here needed attention....
         Could the Warna altar trader in Jalan Trus really and truly be a Muslim? An Indian Muslim openly trading devotional paraphernalia to the kaffirs who worshipped the cow and dabbed their foreheads with dung?... Yick’s Sec. Guard had said as much on the last visit, hadn’t he?
         In fact, no. That would have been something extraordinary. Man was a Catholic. “Ceylonese,” said the Yick when he was found out front of the store. Father had been a well-known pastor. (A Catholic lay preacher perhaps in the Tropics, back in the day.)

         All that elaborate, extended ritual opening up shop every morning—the candles, incense, bell up and down the length and breadth—was purely in order to keep faith with the customers?... There was a factory a few kilometres out of town and another back in “Ceylon,” according to the Yick man.

         Garlic nan the second night had to be Medina opposite the hotel for the superior fare, a thinner, crustier article served with diced raw onion and a tomato-chilli sambal. The last couple of years at least that had been the offering when the Lahorean had manned the oven at Medina. Even once that man had left, his replacement, the younger Marathi, had kept the faith for a time. Something had gotten into the lad since. Now there was hardly anything to separate the Reaz and Medina serving.
         For some reason it had taken over six and one half years in these parts to place an order for a simple favourite treat. Eating by and large—almost exclusively in fact—at the Muslim road-side eateries had perhaps curbed the impulse. Even at the Chinese or Indian eatery of this type any special order was difficult to voice. Everything was chop-chop; items on the placard, See there. Nobody could give a toss for some odd ball order. If you wanted Euro exotica, well, maybe try Clarke Quay or Katong.
         In truth, the venture had never been trialed previously.
         This was a right fine lad the Marathi. A warm handshake had been made on the re-acquaintance the day before. The impulse had bitten. That nan serving was going to be thin again tonight. Give it a go then, Joe.
         — Tomato, have?
         What, juice?... (Commonly. At Medina only a minor surprise. Possibly squeezed on the spot.)
         — No. No. Fresh. A fist shown. Diced. Chop-chop shown.
         Seemed not a trouble.
         And bawang. Diced too. Onion.
         That was a cinch.
         Here it was coming before even one quarter of the roti had been consumed. Good show. With a little chilli added off the lad’s own bat.
         On a coffee saucer was the only thing. It had not been a large tommie; and a shallot rather than the other.
         Was there some shadowed disappointment despite best effort?
         — Lemon? the chap offered cordially as he turned to go.
         That was a good idea. A wild guess from this man.
         As always happened and one always forgot, lime was the tropical lemon. Size of a marble that we boys rolled at school, top sliced for convenience.
         Before the hospitality was given up, — Salt? perchance.
         Chap had watched some of the recent TV shows from abroad.
         The day before a remark had been passed on his thinness. Had he dropped 2 - 3 kgs?
         No. No. He was fine just like that, all as usual.
         Perfectly true too.

Youth Park (June25)

Without exaggeration, this was the first example of obscene graffito in six and one half years here. 

         Was it the first graffiti sighted anywhere on the island? Fair chance. 

         There might be a whiteboard over in Youth Park that was dedicated for the purpose and wiped clean nightly by the foreign work crews. 

         Spelling all A OK in this instance, though perhaps the joining of the last two consonants might be questionable. (The roundness of the “c” was terminated by the vertical of the “k” — hurried hand perhaps and anxious.) 

         Blue marker, front row middle table on the transplanted Mr Teh Tarik beneath the market. 

         Batam lasses sat in the rows behind there waiting for work opportunities and sometimes cruising. 

         A frustrated Malay unable to step up to the plate? Certainly betraying frustration from some direction. 

         They must have constructed Youth Parks of this form here in the early-to-mid-term Eastern Bloc. Years now going by on the bus to Kinokuniya, the sight had truly pricked the eyes. 

         There might have been two separate occasions when youth of some description were found there behind the wire. Possibly cooler evenings drew some, though one did wonder. 

         Basketball hoops, blocks for skaters, a red double-decker bus. The ESCAPE section adjacent was incorporated. 

Ceaseless Innovation

“Duo wins $10k for design to boost wellness in malls”
The winning entry “wanted to create a space where interactions could happen within a public space, and to bring a fun or memorable moment in the day.”
Creating “moments of delight” can break monotony and improve emotional wellness.... (MDF pods fitted with wireless charging & sensor lighting.)
Another entrant sought to make malls more family-friendly with spaces for parents and children to rest. (Fabric cushions.)
One more innovation was a punching bag which when it was hit issued a positive quote from an attached printer.” (Conceived as a stress reliever.)
All sounds like poorly conceived lighthearted playfulness doesn’t it? A gambol.

NB. Straits Times "Home" section, p. B9. 14 July. (On which day the local PM was among the dignitaries over in Paris celebrating Bastille Day no less.)