by Pavle Radonic
語言:
English
Photo Credit: Terence Ong/WikiCommons/CC BY 2.5
The Players
SHORTLY AFTERWARD time by the bakery clock down the road showed half-eleven. Certainly rather late for a gathering such as that, you would have thought. The group of six men had chosen the corner of Lorong 26 & Guillemard, where a large, grassy square awaited some opportune time for development. Beside the deep, partly covered channel they had formed a loose circle, sitting on the grass like schoolboys, with their packs behind.
On busy Guillemard the traffic kept up, three lanes each way along that stretch. The outer lane on their side of the footpath was no more than three metres away.
They had washed and changed after their work-shift. Earlier up the other end near the highway a company lorry had off-loaded a score of Indians, who had quick-stepped into their building in the race for the bathroom. Half hour on, these were Chinamen, loosely joined in the round they had formed.
Older than the Indian crews, these men were well into their thirties, supporting families back on the Mainland. Many of the foreign Indian labour were unmarried, saving up in order to be able to afford a bride.
There were no dorms in the vicinity there on Guillemard; the men had likely walked down from Geylang after supper. A similar Chinese group had been seen on that corner once or twice before. It could hardly have been another gathering. On the last occasion there had been a lesser number, but very likely the same contingent, or like-minded Chinamen at least.
Greying and balding in a number of cases this group, in drab, nondescript clothing. Unlike the young Indians, there were no loud colours or brightly patterned tees. After a long work-shift the men sat comfortably, without any sign of weariness.
There were four printed files to go round, 3 – 4 pages in each. As the dialogue developed, the sheets were passed round to the designated speaker. The entire reading may have been unrehearsed, but it was clear the men had some familiarity with the material, and more particularly with their respective roles.
Youngest in the group wearing glasses was early-thirties; one or two of the others were at least seven or eight years older. It was this young chap, however, who was in the primary role. First he engaged the man on his left, then right; finally, one of the older fellows further off, raising his voice to pitch. Once or twice the young man cued his interlocutor on the beat.
Now! With a hand striking in that direction.
While the other returned the response, the young man beat time with nodding and was quick in response.
The last, older chap in the final exchange had nervously rubbed his bald spot half a dozen times through his delivery. Later it was brought to his attention by a man who had not taken a turn, at least in that final part of the recitation. While still very much part of the circle, this man had withdrawn from proceedings, keenly following from a remove.
Why the rub, rub, rub like that, hey? he asked smilingly of the stage-frightened fellow, passing his hand over his own thinning crop in gentle mockery. Sheepish, bashful smiles were returned.
The whole matter lasted about twenty minutes. After the final exchange a chap in a bright blue polo with his back to the road showed himself the true leader of the group. This man too had not participated in the reading. When it was over he rose up to his knees to give his commentary on the performance, gesturing and motioning. Momentum and correspondence seemed to be part of the concern; answering what had been received from the previous speaker was indicated. Just prior to that intervention, another—the one who had ticked off his mate next to him about the rubbing of his scone—led a brief applause for a performance well done. Light, brief clapping all round, with up-raised hands in this man’s case.
This latter faced the street and had smiled at the curious intruder when he stopped at the railing.
The sheets were loose A4, dense with horizontal script it seemed, rather than vertical. Possibly the different speakers were not clearly marked. Certainly none of the players, even the keen, younger man, knew the text by heart. Something of it only might have been known.
On an earlier occasion on another night, one of the men in a smaller group had held a book and seemed to almost harangue the others. To rouse them it looked like, not passionately or sternly, but the force was apparent.
The thought of falung gong had curbed the interest that night. Closer to the city centre the falung gave out leaflets. This last night was almost certainly something else.
The gentle critic returned a wave and smiled again at the end. Plainly, none of the men had any English. Joining their circle to better catch the tone and rhythm would have been an intrusion.
Mechanics’ Institutes & Workingmen’s Associations from an age ago came to mind. Those restored buildings in our cities had been converted to other, more mundane uses. The halls of those places had been filled precisely by men such as these after their work-shifts, spread across the hard benches, keen and alert expressions.
2. Rodent
EN ROUTE to lunch a closer look at the Haig was needed at the newly arrived items for NY. Cards, stickers, mounts, hanging lanterns that needed ducking. Along the shelves by the walkway the beasties must have numbered well over a hundred. A couple days before some kind of firecracker pendant hung at the end of the lanterns had suddenly begun blasting infernal machine-gun slaughter that sent one ducking for cover. There would be serious trouble up in the pigeonholes with such products.
The mystery regarding this particular emblem remained, however. It was an unusually tricky proposition in those red tones, with Christmas still ahead. Children would be confused in a month’s time and parents having some explaining to do.
A couple of evenings before the Indo-Chinese guy from the minimart at the base of Block 10 had been asked about this new animal fast descending upon us. Looked like a cat, but of course there was no cat in the Chinese zodiac. Right, my man?
Ah. Well, no. But. But. It was too early for NY…
Face screwed in a grimace.
We were in full agreement there. Precisely my point, Mr Daik Lingga. What, then, was actually in the offing? Where were we now in the cycle?
The cycle? Ah. Duh. Search me.
Chap eventually turned to a Chinese customer coming from the refrigerators.
…Raaat, was it?
Confirmed. Ya. The rodent. ‘Twas indeed none other than the canny old fink, the host of the Black Death in other parts, who would rule over the coming year.
Here on the Equator and beyond the animal was accorded due honour. There was nothing suspect about the rat you needn’t think, for these people. The resourceful, quicksilver, elusive pirate of the garbage mound. Handsome even, had one eyes to see. As was evident on the shelves in that half-feline form at the Haig.
One of God’s creatures, and not the least; not by a long shot. And neither mere vermin either, as some figured.
Traditionally, the Chinese admired and consumed too didn’t they, roasting the rat on their skewers, like the roach?
The shopkeeper, like others of his generation, would not be the guy to ask. Originally from Daik Lingga, in the Riau group couple hours off Batam; the same island called home by Mr Malayu, currently delivering for KFC. (The latter man the year before had told of his frightful experience accused by an angry mother of improperly touching her boy in the J. C. Complex toilets. Another story.)
Daik Lingga—“k” elided. It presented another off-the-beaten-track prospect for investigation. Very kampung, of course, as one would expect down in those waters. Yet even at Daik Lingga there were now beachfront atap huts with hammocks, attempting to draw tourist trade.
Mr Shopkeeper would not be returning to the island of his birth for NY, it turned out, still a month away. There was no particular need, as the man’s parents were settled in Sing’. No, the return there would come in April, in fact. For?…For?…
Could the ang moh guess the reason? How abreast was he of the local culture, of Buddhism and its markers, after his long term here? Particularly being, as he liked to think, such a specialist.
Shopkeeper wanted to play ball.
Well, OK then. Ready for you, pal! Would be a crime taking candy from a baby. Otherwise this guy was cherry ripe. Sorely tempted for a moment.
The Hungry Ghost Festival, of course. Duh! What else?! You got somethin bit sharper than that, Bud?
Hmm. Well, yeah. OK. (Ungraciously.)
Cleaning the graves, the chap called it. That particular remembrance did demand the man’s return to the island of his birth and that of all his known ancestors.
The old bones. The line of those who had gone before. Still laying there in their final resting place and needing to be honoured. Presumably, at least couple of generations in the case of the shopkeeper. As time went on one or two might possibly have been let slide.
3. CNY Variety Show
A NEW PHONE & accessory shop opened beside Tasvee in the last number of months. Another added to the half dozen in that stretch either side of Aljunied on Geylang.
Tasvee itself was crowded with patrons, Chinese and Indian construction workers, mixed with the old locals, many familiars among them. The prata counter had a queue attached that stretched almost onto the inner footpath, chap behind the glass clenched against the heat, while the smiley, gap-toothed flipper worked with good humour. The pair appeared a well-rehearsed double act, something like good cop, bad cop. Flashes of pity and fellow-feeling for the poor chap at his furnace in the heat of July failed to land.
The intermediate section up from G. Serai had been almost completely deserted, even the karaoke joints shuttered most of them. One place was attended by a desolate young woman in high heels and black crepe bodice, eyeing a screen in hand. Either tall Viet, or Mainlander.
Almost all of the eateries along there were closed. On Lorong 32 the durian stand collected two or three tables of devotees.
Buses were fewer and there were much less cars. This segment was never busy; in the NY shutdown it was always especially bleak. Landlords here were awaiting the expected price explosion.
Approaching Shandong Little Kitchen, the tide suddenly turned, as if from no-where.
The tech/accessories shop had gathered three dozen or more on the footpath, the spill flowing over the roadway. Finding a share table at Tasvee had diverted attention.
It was a tight mass of middle-aged men of a size, similar attire, bent, craning their necks, leaning on garbage bins, down on their haunches those in front, hands on knees those who had one foot up on the gutter.
On first notice the quiet focus of the group created an impression of a creeping up in the dark, as of some kind of large, docile beast.
A small little sea of faces, eager, alert. Three dozen and more. The schoolyard suggested itself, football crowd, work brigades of former times. All over the Communist world there had been such photographs for dam construction projects, traffic corridors and the like, from the period of nation building. In those days the group would have gathered around a crackling radio broadcast; here it was the picture-box, mounted high just inside the store facing the street, not visible from the Tasvee pavement tables.
In the housing slums of Indonesia you saw similar knots of viewers gathered before the coloured, flickering light of a communal television.
On first arrival a chair was only available in the second row from the gutter. As soon as a table in the first was vacated, it was quickly claimed.
On the counter above the phones there in the cabinet sat a large tray of mounted mandarins. Likely patrons were drawn by the cheap calling cards. A hundred metres back up the road a smaller crowd had gathered at one of the Cybers that had likewise turned its display screen onto the roadway. Locals of course had the money to take a private screen indoors, play the shoot-em-up games and the rest. The construction workers used the places mainly for skype-ing back home, on a Sunday particularly. Movie watching and the rest cost.
Recently the cheapest place at the Aljunied junction had put its price up to $2.50 an hour. Nevertheless, this entertainment was more affordable than beer & girls. No doubt the same operators of those lures had diversified into these new ventures that captured both the immigrant and local lonesome.
Weekends it was almost impossible to find a seat at that particular Cyber, many of the patrons buying value-voucher hours, bringing take-out & drinks and folding their legs up on the seats. At ground level around Aljunied there must have been a dozen of these venues, larger ones cramming sixty and seventy chairs.
Trooping past before Shandong, grainy images of the Long March generation it looked like, the heroes who had finally kicked out the foreign devils. A battleship exchange of fire must have been the Reds against Chang Kai Shek’s forces, perhaps off Formosa.
Quickly the scene switched to upbeat music; hardship mixed with songs of renewal.
Sometimes EPL football on the weekends drew a couple of dozen viewers to that screen between Shandong and the durian corner. Not an especially large crowd on this night for some reason.
Beside Tasvee it must have been the same broadcast beaming from the Mainland, now at the lighter end of festivities. The men’s faces told the story. Minor rhythms pulsed now and then in short bursts onto the street. Mostly the men strained to hear, just as they craned to catch the visuals. The faintest hints might have been enough for them.
The bus lane had been entirely taken over. Passing by, the painted ladies received not the merest glance; nor did the women turn in that direction. Cars in the second lane needed to slow and gear down; the traffic as a whole was forced to slow for the crossings and foot traffic either side of the road.
How did a group this size keep so still, quiet and orderly on New Year? These men could comfortably squat on their haunches hours at a time. At home there might be low stools, but not chairs for these men.
In the last decade three hundred villages per day were disappearing in Mainland China, a recent news-report claimed. In 2000 China had 3.7 million villages; by 2010 that figure had dropped to 2.6m.
For all that the news-reports conveyed of the other side of the phenomenon, the figures were startling. Uprooted and deserted communities beyond any measure. The Western Industrial Revolution was nothing to compare, in time-scale if nothing else. The Highland Clearances, Watt’s steam engine, Manchester, Birmingham; even the American continent.
In Geylang among the local, older Chinese and these Mainland cousins, the world of the past played nightly in the eateries and gathering places. Captivating theatres there with no entry charge.
Twenties & thirties the great body of hired labour. The first two or three months when Tasvee was frequented almost nightly, the parade of humanity had been overwhelming. Evenings unrolled there like the largest Chinese scroll paintings, in this case filled with animated figures in the gutter, touching distance from the table. Strongly defined, vivid and compelling features from unknown regions; a tide of humanity stretching back to the earliest dynasties.
The postures and expressions were part of the effect. Hunchback dwarfs walked tall on this macadam; various grotesques with outsized jaws and prominent brows showed a pensive visage. Beneath the verandas handbag aunties in heels and floral dresses attempted to entice in a form that left one abashed. Nothing was excluded in the survey; all the human fates were collected there.
All the portrait paintings of the masters one had viewed over the years, scrutinised and admired, seemed beside the point here; seemed suddenly trivial in their concerns. The portraitists from back home, the local prize-winners especially, ought to have been dragged to that Tasvee pavement and made to sit up straight like schoolboys in their chairs before that parade.
Teeming life of inexhaustible variety funnelled into the brain at that Tasvee look-out. On this first night of the New Year of the Horse, a small, but telling segment was presented.
How long that seat in middle Geylang had been sought night after night in the first year.
The men who stood upright had fanned out to the sides of this audience, watching from an angle and giving up the central ground to the squatters. There had been no crowd controller; the men had arranged themselves like bees at the hive. Within, the squatters leaned and shifted their weight for vantage. Motions in unison came at particular points, as in the choreographed arrangements that featured in the entertainments on the screens.
On the screen showing currently it was variety hour to send everyone off to bed content. Playful humour raised short little grins; more shrewd witticism here and there were interspersed. Busty glamour of the Western form was absent in this kind of production.
The music might have been turned up a little for the finales, a dream voice of an angelic sister was sounding.
There was no drink. Nor were cigarettes in evidence, almost not a single light for the duration. Tasvee itself was halal Indian, serving only juices, teh and kopi.
The lads had come up from the cheap pavement banquet tables nearby. Shandong Kitchen had stretched its seating forty metres to Lorong 24A and even around the corner. A waitress trotting with a steaming plate could not be caught on the walk up earlier.
The angel on the screen trilled and fluted unearthly whisperings, wonderfully captivating. Grown men here were being sung a lullaby to put them all to bed.
In the dorms, twenty-five and thirty to a room was common. Regulations and restrictions forbade it, of course. Around Aljunied corner there were a great many dorms on the upper storeys, bed-heads visible against windows, hanging washing, frying pans & rice cookers.
All night lorries carted these men and others like them in the rear trays like sticks of wood. The construction sites worked around the clock under mounted lights in Singapore. At many sites the men slept in shipping containers, ply-wood huts and the like. There were regulations posted and a great many safety signs. In the last fortnight, deaths in the industry came every second day.
Remarkably, shortly before nine, the show was over. There was no more. Three quarters of the men had dispersed while the attention had briefly turned away. Again, all taking place soundlessly, as if under a spell. The new moon had not been visible; for the following two nights it hung bright, high at the zenith.
The song had been Farewell, we await you in the homeland. All you distant from our shores; all you unable to reach home this New Year. Come soon, your mothers & children await you. Good night. Good night
Geylang Serai, Singapore 2011-26