boywhitebald

[boywhitebald]

25 - Shit Jia Ling Says, Part II

Singapore Postcard Story #2

Jia Ling and I are in her kitchen deciding what to do for dinner. I’m too lazy to cook and we’ve agreed not to go far from the apartment. We either wander Holland Village or walk across the main road to the hawker centre. I suggest the hawker centre. Jia Ling balks at this.

“I don’t do hawker centres.” There’s a hard definiteness in her voice that makes me ask why.

“Can’t do them, a few reasons.” She holds up a hand and begins to count again on her fingers.

“One, I don’t like the crowds. I can’t handle the stress of finding a table during the lunch or dinner rush. I don’t like making sure I’m nearby the stall I’m ordering from, locating the utensils, finding where to put my tray when I’m done.”

They can’t be that bad, I say. There are food courts in Kuala Lumpur that are atrocious, you didn’t do those either when you lived there?

“Hawker centres here are a little more sophisticated than the ones in KL in terms of politeness,” Jia Ling explains. “Like, you won’t get a crowd of people hovering around your table so they can take it once you’re done eating. In fact, here in Singapore, people can reserve seats by placing napkin packages or chopsticks on the table and everyone understands that the table is taken.Still, can’t do crowds.”

Having started on what I could tell was going to be a rant, Jia Ling leans back in her chair and points to her second finger.

“Two, I never know what to order. If I haven’t been to the hawker centre before, how do I know what’s good? Finding a good stall will make or break my meal. Most stalls are either good or bad. Not much space in between.

“Do I go by the queue? If it’s a long queue, it’s probably good, but I might be waiting 40 minutes for my food. Nuts to that, I’m hungry and I want to eat.

“Three, and this is shameful, the language barrier.”

I’m confused. “What do you mean?”

Jia Ling shakes her head, admonishing herself. “I can’t speak Chinese, and it stresses me out when the stall lady speaks and I don’t know what they’re saying. See, you,” - Jia Ling reaches over and presses her finger into my pale skin - “you have this as an excuse. They’ll forgive you but not me. Stall aunties get verbally abusive with me. This one time I thought I ordered beef ball soup but when it came it was dry noodles in beef broth with a side of vegetables. I tried to take it back but the lady brandished a ladle in my face saying it was what I ordered. This is why I don’t do hawker centres.”

I ask what she wants to do for dinner, then. Jian Ling crosses her arms and looks at me.

I go to the hawker centre by myself and bring food back for us. Jia Ling takes chicken rice with steamed breast, I eat pork noodles.

Image: author’s own

[boywhitebald]

24 - Pork Rice, Noodles Broth

Hat Yai Postcard Story

Yang Ming leaned over to the stall next to hers and prodded a thin, withered thumb into the ribs of the old lady standing behind the display case. “Hey, check out those two over there.”

Ying Yue looked up from the scallions on her cutting board, resting her cleaver against the heavy circle of wood. A large cauldron of pork stock boiled nearby, sending steam upwards and across her face. She waved it away, looked over at the couple - a small Chinese-looking girl and a tall farang - and shrugged.

“So?” she asked. Just two people sitting in the restaurant. Sure they didn’t get many farangs coming to their stalls, but what was it to her? She turned back to her cutting but Ming tapped her roughly on the wrist.

“I went to talk to them. She wants noodle soup from you, he ordered pork rice from me.” Yang Yue nodded, gathered a ball of thick white noodles from the display case and dropped it into the boiling broth. Ming, however, didn’t move back to her stall to prep the man’s order, choosing instead to lean against Yang Yue’s counter and scrutinize the couple some more.

“Think they’re together ah?” she said to Ying Yue in a low voice. She cocked her head to one side. “He’s so tall, how do you think that would work…”

“Can they hear us?” Ying Yue asked. In a bowl she poured one measure of thick soy sauce and another of pork fat, stirring the two together with the bottom of the ladle.

“No, she doesn’t speak Chinese. Of course he doesn’t.”

“Then why are we whispering?” she said, loudly. Ming threw up her hands and waddled back to her stall to carve the pork. In a flurry Ying Yue roughly chopped several stalks of kai lan and green onion and tossed them into the bowl along with several beef balls, thin slices of braised beef and a heavy pinch of chili flakes. She eyed the amounts to ensure the bowl was balanced.

“Give her more soup, she’s too skinny,” Ming shouted over her shoulder. Ying Yue pulled the noodles from the boiling pot, laid them carefully into the bowl, and poured a large ladle of broth over everything. She finished off the dish with a handful of shredded coriander leaves, inserted a spoon into the broth and gave it a final stir, then placed a pair of plastic chopsticks on top.

Once the dishes were ready, Ming came by with the tray to collect Ying Yue’s bowl and took it to the table. After setting the dishes down she came back and wiped her brow with a rag which hung from her apron. The two of them leaned against the counter, pretending not to watch the couple eat. After a minute in which Ying Yue thought she’d get some peace and quiet, Ming grew agitated.

“He’s not adding anything to the rice. Do you think it’s too bland? No one likes bland rice.” She craned her neck to get a better view of the farang’s plate. Ying Yue rolled her eyes and said nothing. “I’ll get him more sauce, farangs like my sauce.” Ming ambled off to her stall. “Maybe another bowl of soup too, what do you think?”

When the couple had cleared their plates and paid, they walked off to the train station and the small restaurant was quiet again. Ying Yue leaned against her counter and watched Ming fuss over her display case, adjusting the angle of the roasted pork belly so that the bubbled, crispy top faced outwards. She sighed and shuffled towards the rear of the restaurant.

“Going for a smoke,” she said.

“Feed Pokki while you’re back there,” Ming called after her. “I put the bag below the sink.”

Ying Yue raised a hand, unsure if Ming was looking at her or not.

Image: author’s own

[boywhitebald]

22 - Minesweeping

I live in what used to be a jungle. You can’t tell now, what with the malls and restaurants, the high-rise condominiums, the paved roads and street lights, the highway nearby, and if you told anyone “This used to be a jungle, you know,” you would be greeted with blank stares. But trust me, this used to be a jungle, and it is pushing back against us. It is leaning against our door, the door we put up to keep it out, trying to get in and we’re barely keeping it shut. I see it happening every day.

It came in small ways at first. One day I was walking up the hill from the train station when suddenly, from the few tall palms that weren’t cleared to make way for the street, came a long and loud bird call that echoed between the high-rises. The sound was so unique and exotic and seemingly out of place that it stopped me in my tracks. Immediately I felt with intense clarity a multitude of things: my own alienness in the environment, how dense and high the tree canopy was, a deep sense of being unwelcome, and, despite the sweltering heat, a cold uneasiness bordering on fear that a predator lurked in the bushes. Among the parked cars and the security guard houses, I felt like I would be eaten alive. When I searched the trees for the bird who made the call, I found nothing.

It came in big ways too. In monsoon season the rains are too much for the storm drains and they overflow, gushing grey silt-coloured water into the roads, flooding the entire area. I saw cars carried down the road by waves, expelled from higher ground by the ferocious onslaught as their owners chased after them.

But mostly it was during my walks past the fruit vendor when I could feel the jungle pushing back at me. The sidewalks were tiled with large, heavy squares and were wildly uneven, the result of nearby banana trees boring their roots beneath the foundation over the years. After a flood, the remaining water beneath the tiles mixes with the underlying soil and, when leveraged by the mere act of stepping down with one foot, would shoot a cheeky jet of brown sludge up the front of my pants.

But it wasn’t me, dear Jungle, I would say, trying to scrape off the mud. I didn’t make it this way.

You live here, do you not?

Why do you push against us so? Do you hate us?

I am indifferent to you, the jungle would reply. But remember - nature always wins.

I keep those words in mind whenever I walk down my hill after a flood. I tread carefully, mindful of my steps in the jungle, minesweeping my way to the sleek, speedy symbol of human progress.

Image: author’s own

[boywhitebald]

21 - To The Farm

Johor Bahru Postcard Story

Call 911. Tell then I’m at Skudai Plaza Parade and that the building looks abandoned. Looks like it’s about to collapse and that no one here has given a shit about it in over a decade. Sad, faded advertisements still hang from its once shining walls, putting a brave face towards the highway that runs past it, but no life can be seen inside. Shutters are closed, the gardens outside are in desperate need of a good trim, and cabbies park at the petrol station across the street like red-capped vultures waiting lazily for prey. So much movement from the highway tells me life exists further down the road from here, but none of it seems to be here at Skudai. I worry for this place. Oh, and when you call 911, tell them I’m waiting here for Adila, she hasn’t shown up yet. It’s 7:45am and the Johor sky is breaking spectacularly, the clouds demarking the sunlight’s path to shine brilliantly on the tall blue minaret of the large mosque across the street. City buses packed with commuters roll by towards the Skudai bus stop, and gradually more and more people in work uniforms are trudging towards the plaza to open up shop. Perhaps’ there’s life here yet. But don’t tell them that when you call, I’d like them to hurry up.

See, I’m not entirely sure why I came here. There was a Tuesday public holiday so I took the Monday off for no reason. I figured I’d find a suitable enough purpose or destination for a four-day break, but only last week when Adila invited me to join her at her farm in JB did I find what I was waiting for. Bring a tent and a sleeping bag, she said, I’ll take care of the rest - and mosquito repellant! Don’t forget that. So here I am in Skudai outside a slowly busying but still rundown shopping complex waiting for my rake thin, wild-haired savior. The one who brews witches potions in her parents’ garage, who teaches kids to dance and yell, who captivates audiences during spoken word performances with her pagan stories of monsters and heroes. Stay away from me! the ancient Panda tells children who stray near his lair, or I will crush you up like sambal in my pestle and mortar. 

Wasn’t she last in Auckland? I’m sure they’ll ask you when you call. Yes, she was, living with her boyfriend who looks more like Jesus than anyone else could. We thought she was still there until a few months ago when she showed up in a photo taken on a farm, large sunhat covering her face, shovel in hand, standing proudly in front of a large dirt pile she had just unearthed. Why are you here, O child of the sun? we had all asked. Where did you come from? Where are you going next? Catch me if you can, she dared us.

So I came to see her on her farm. I’ll mix earth and till the soil, I’ll harvest honey from the bee traps, I’ll plant vegetables and spend time with the ducks and chickens. Adila will bring me to farmers markets and show me organic produce and I suspect she’ll attempt to feed me mealworms, a good source of protein (or so I’m told). She’ll show me the plating etiquette of vegetarian cuisine. She’ll teach me to roll joints with the papers I brought. She’ll show me her pile of earth and ask if I’m proud of her. Sounds exciting right? So you see why you must help me. Skudai is waking up and I need to move. I’m surviving off a bottle of water and the hollow sugar from my vape smoke. I crave noodles with meat and spicy broth or roasted char siew over rice with cucumber, and coffee piled high with ice.

Maybe she’s slept through her alarm. She’s been known to do this. I expect she’s awake by now and is hurrying to shower, dress, find her car keys and make the 10km drive from the farm into town to collect me. It makes me cringe to think of how other drivers on the road must react to her. She has an old truck, one which must be stepped up into, as large as it is cumbersome, and operates it with a clunky stick shift. She drives haphazardly, blithely unaware of those who share the road with her, and changes lanes with such detached serenity that I’m convinced she feels someone else is at the wheel. I grimace and shake my head at the thought - she’s yet to cause an accident but this too might not be far off.

The air in Skudai is warming up now; the cabs nearby are getting their first fares of the day. Soon Adila will be here to take me to her farm, merging bluntly onto the highway without looking and driving through town at top speed without a care in the world. The cotton in my vape has gotten used to the juice and pulls easily now with sweet flavour. I’m relaxed and slowly waking up to Johor. This should turn out to be an excellent trip south.

Have you made the call yet, my friend? Please do so. Call 911 and tell them I’m having a wonderful time, and that I’m right where I need to be.

Image: author’s own

[boywhitebald]

20 - Janey Speaks the Cool

I dated a girl in high school named Janey, and she taught me the meaning of cool. She wore studded belts, dyed her hair black and blonde, and had a lip ring. She was loud and outspoken, listened to amazing, new bands, and brought me to interesting events around town where they’d screen old black and white movies in a renovated Chinese dumpling factory or something like that. I had no idea why she liked me. I wore black pants too and could rock out well enough to any punk band she played, but I felt like I was always trying to keep up. Maybe I didn’t have her sense of self yet, or her confidence - I was still figuring that out. But at the very least I thought I had a handle on music since I’d studied it since I was young and Janey hadn’t. She had recently introduced me to this one band she liked and after listening to it, I decided I hated it.

“Ok I like the guitars in it and the lead singer is pretty good,” I told her. “The melody is quite nice and even the lyrics are good in a few songs, but what’s with the guy who screams over parts of every song? I can’t understand him at all.”

“I don’t know,” she said, thinking intently as she listened to the sound coming from the car stereo. “It’s the genre I suppose, it’s part of their sound.” She leaned back to enjoy the music while I continued on.

“Yeah but it sounds horrible. I hear this beautiful, melodic guitar followed by this great singer, then all of a sudden this hoarse, undecipherable screaming comes in and takes me out of the music.” Janey didn’t respond. Instead, she looked out of the window and drummed her hands along to the song. Later on, I would look back and realize that this was probably the moment she began thinking that she should break up with me, and she did eventually, but at the time I kept talking.

“It’s such a weird combination, they’re really limiting their appeal doing that.” At this, Janey turned towards me and said thoughtfully, “Maybe they are. And maybe it’s a conscious choice - they know they might appeal to a wider crowd if they stopped with the scream punk, but then it wouldn’t be the same music, don’t you think?”

“I guess not.”

“And even if they’re limiting their audience, if they’re not making the music they want to make, what’s the point?”

I drove on in silence. Janey smiled.

“Seems like a pretty cool choice to me.”

[boywhitebald]

19 - Her Mouth

Her mouth goes through twenty iterations when she works, her face calm as a statue. Twenty variations of thought, each one clear and distinct, play out over her lips for everyone to see. I can’t get enough of watching her do this. She stares intently at her computer and taps away at her keyboard, not realizing that she is giving away her whole process with her lips. Her mouth has a mind of its own and moves independently, haphazardly, like a hyperactive component fused to the surface of a stationary machine.

Her mouth gapes then scowls when she doesn’t know what to write, it purses and puckers when she gets closer to an idea, then twists from side to side which scrunches her nose in thought. She chews her lips when she searches for a word then presses them into a long thin line, deliberating silently, when she thinks she’s found the right one. When she disapproves she presses them into an O and sharply sucks in air. Her mouth folds in when she finishes a sentence, then opens and speaks her words without sound. She only smiles when she’s nearing the end of a thought and pushes her tongue against her front teeth, pinning the thought there until it’s ready.

I want to point this out to her but to speak to a person’s habits and ticks, even in appreciation, is to destroy them. Instead, I look back at my computer and continue working. I hear a sharp intake of air. A minute later I look up and her tongue is against her teeth, sticking out like soft lava from a fissure. I pick up my bag and begin packing away my things. We’ll be going soon.

Image: Pixabay

[boywhitebald]

18 - The Best G&T in Luang Prabang

Silver rings, she said. I have to find silver rings, one for each finger. Lydia was that type. So instead of finishing our dinner and going back to the hotel, she pulled me up from the quiet riverside restaurants to the bustling night market that ran the entire length of Sisavangvong Road. It was a sweaty, breezeless evening and my shirt stuck to my back as we made our way up the hill, the noise from the crowd audible even from the river. I could hear a sort of muted and frenzied pulsing, an energy you could feel at a distance, and the rousing din that emanates from cramped areas when people gather by the hundreds in tight spaces.

We reached the edges of the market and dove right in. In addition to the jewellery stores, cafes, and sundry shops that normally lined Sisavangvong there were in the middle of the road makeshift stalls set up for the evening, two abreast and set back to back so that each faced opposite sides of the street.  Lydia jumped from store to stall, her eyes wide and hungry, and hassled each merchant for their best silver pieces, carefully considering the quality and design of each before bartering for their best offer. If we lingered in one place a group would gather near us, curious to see what offerings had made us stop for so long.

The heat and the constant flow of bodies pushing past was getting to me, and I could see she had at least another hour in her. I was ready to call it quits and head back to the room alone when I saw my friend Bella pushing towards me through the crowd. She came up to us smiling widely, her face flushed and wet. “We found a place that serves drinks, fancy one?”

“God yes,” I said. Squeezing Lydia’s shoulder I told her I’d see her back at the room, then let myself be lead by the wrist down the street, dodging past groups of tourists as they paused to gawk at each merchant display. After a few minutes of this we arrived at a small wooden booth, no wider than the length of an outstretched arm, that looked as if it had been hastily nailed together by a few scrap pieces of wood. Scrawled on a meagre shard of plywood and nailed to one side of the stall was the menu, which read simply:

rum cola - 30,000kp

gin * tonic - 30,000kp

Behind the thin service counter a young boy was busy mixing drinks and pouring them into plastic cups. The air was so hot that each cup began sweating the instant the cold liquid was poured in, and glistened as if it were made of ice itself. “Gin,” I told the boy, and thrust a few bills into his hand. He nodded and set about making my drink. I heard a heavy chunk from the ice scoop, saw a flourish of an unmarked bottle tipped upside down, and within a few seconds he had passed me a cup filled generously with ice, a heavy slosh of gin, and half a lime, squeezed then shoved into the liquid so that it floated beneath the cubes.

I looked at it as if it were a thing of beauty. Bubbles bounced off the ice and crackled as loud as popcorn in a hot pan. The sound was so pronounced it nearly drowned out the noise of the crowd. I lifted the cup to my face, putting my nose up against the rim, and felt the soft mist from the tonic caress my face like ocean spray. I sniffed slowly, letting the bubbles gently tickle my lips, and a wondrously sharp and clean scent of citrus filled my nostrils. My mouth swelled as I began to salivate. At last, I sipped.

“It’s good, right?” Bella asked, watching me. I winced and shook my head. It was better than good. It was so cold it hurt my teeth and cut right through the muggy evening heat. I could feel the icy liquid slide down my throat and into my stomach, popping all the way, and the sweat that covered my back underneath my shirt immediately went cold. I took another long pull. It was perfectly balanced; the bitterness of the quinine was offset by the smooth juniper from the gin, and the lime juice mixed with the carbonation to make a delicious combination of flavours that was almost sweet. I felt invigorated. I felt cleansed.

My reverie was interrupted when a passerby bumped against my elbow and some of the drink spilt onto my hand. I pulled the cup closer to my body and once again followed Bella through the mass of tourists and stalls, shuffling slowly towards the end of Sakkaline road. I tried to look back and take note of the stall, but the crowd was too thick and the lights and colours from the clothing vendors too bright that the modest bar, with its plain wooden booth and messy, handwritten menu, had already disappeared from view.

Image: author’s own

[boywhitebald]

16 - Warm, Wet Tea

Hans was passed out in the backseat and Sandy had had a bit of an eye infection earlier in the morning so that meant Mark had to drive the second half of the way to Cherating beach. This made Mark nervous because he didn’t have a license, but Sandy said there wouldn’t be any cops on the highway so it should be alright and that she’d take over once they reached the Kuantan border, and Mark said OK because even though they weren’t dating anymore, he was still fond of her and wanted her to rest. They left at 6 in the morning and even though Celine and Phil had already reached the beach by then, Sandy said not to rush and to take it easy since it was her new ride, after all.

The car moved well enough on the road, passing other trucks and mining lorries with ease, moving through rolling hills of green, green palm oil trees which later gave way to low lying fields of grass and bright ochre earth as they drew closer to the coast. Mark had been driving nearly an hour and wanted to change the music (he was getting sick of Alt-J) but it was Sandy’s phone so he reached over and gently squeezed her shoulder.

“Hey, what’s your password? I want to change the music.” Sandy stirred and looked over, blinked a few times, then closed her eyes again.

“Don’t need to unlock, just hit the button twice and the skip track option comes up. You can go through the library like that,” she said softly. She adjusted herself in her seat a little then went silent, laying still, wrapped in her favourite sweater. Mark drove on, letting speeding cars pass them in the other lane, thumbing through the music on her phone. Some songs he didn’t recognize but most he already knew. He kept to the speed limit. They were in no rush. None at all.

Just when he thought she had gone back to sleep, Sandy spoke again without opening her eyes. “Hey Mack, this is our third road trip you know.”

He smiled at the old nickname. No one else could get away with calling him that. “It is,” he said. “Melaka first, then Tioman island, back when you still drove that turtle.”

“And we had to stop every two hours to give the engine a rest, yeah, I almost forgot. The timing on the Tioman trip worked out really well, I was so happy. And how we stowed away on that earlier ferry off the island so we could get back in time to watch my shows.” Mark nodded as he scrolled through her library, finally settling on a U2 album he had never heard before.

“How’s Celine doing? Haven’t seen her since she moved down to Singapore. Her and Phil doing alright?”

Hans shuffled a little in the backseat and looked to be waking up, but then turned himself over and lay still again, his head resting on a makeshift pillow he had made by wrapping a towel around a water bottle.

“She’s fine, you know Celine. Who knows how long this thing with Phil will last.” Sandy opened her eyes this time, looking at Mark as he drove. She reached out and squeezed his hand on the wheel. “Thanks for driving,” she said. She let her hand stay wrapped around his for some time until a pothole in the road broke her grasp, and she folded it back underneath her sweater, pulling the garment tightly around her.

“You have a bit of a crush on Celine, don’t you Mack?” she winked at him. Mark felt his face get warm, but smiled and shook his head. She could always do this to him. “Nah,” he said, almost imperceptibly. He continued to watch the road, minding his speed, wishing they could keep driving like that forever. “Nah.”

When he felt the urge to give Sandy a reassuring touch he reached one arm over but realized she had already gone back to sleep. He drove on in silence, the rhythm of the road occasionally broken by a short snore from Hans in the backseat. As they made their way closer to the coast, the highway guardrails changed colour, stained rust red by the constant passing of bauxite mining trucks carrying their ochre earth loads to town.

They had slept together a few times since the break-up but hadn’t the last time they met when she came to his apartment to bring him medicine for his cold. They chatted on his balcony about work and their travel plans for the year, and when she left she gave him a friendly but brief hug. Mark wondered if they would sleep together again in Cherating. He wondered, also, how it would end. In tears? In them getting back together? Or in much less dramatic fashion, with them alternatingly postponing dinner plans to work, then cancelling plans to meet for coffee, then letting messages go unanswered for days at a time, always with a quick “Sorry, I was busy with…” and each assuring the other “It’s ok” until, well...

They soon approached Kuantan, then entered it, and Mark kept driving. He used his own phone to navigate from the Kuantan border to Cherating, not once disturbing Sandy to ask for help. For now, their future held nothing else except a long expanse of sandalwood coloured beaches, and ocean water the temperature of warm, wet tea.

Image: author’s own

[boywhitebald]

15 - Poor Jessica, with all her hands

And what of poor Jessica, there, at her desk in the corner with mountains of papers within, well, the shortest of grasps from one of her many hands, the pile threatening to topple over and cover her completely. When it tilts, her lower far right hand stops its furious writing to reach out and steady it.

Today has been especially hard for poor Jessica. All of her hands are full. With her right hand busy signing booking order after booking order and her left hand judiciously stamping them with a large and heavy lead stamp, her far right hand collects the briefs as they come in, handed over one of the paper mountains by her clients, and her far left hand drafts proposals to her media owners who respond to her with posts she receives with her lower far left hand since it is more convenient that way, and all the while her upper far left hand hands out reports to her colleagues who shout for them from beyond the paper mountains, which is done along with her upper far right hand because that's a two-handed job. She saves the lower far right hand to stop her other hands if they get out of line because even an octopus can forget a tentacle once in awhile.

Today poor Jessica wishes she could leave all of her hands behind and pretend to be a sea cucumber instead, but it all gets too much and by the time her hands are no longer full, it is 11pm and time to go home where her favourite person waits for her on the couch, a warm bowl of popcorn in his lap.

"What would you like to watch?" she asks as she sits down, one of her many hands pulling a thick and warm blanket over their laps. He pulls her close and instantly she feels like a sea cucumber.

"Whatever you like."

[boywhitebald]

14 - Craftsmen, Coffee and Wood

Kyoto Postcard Story #1

It had been a tea house previously, and stood empty for many years nestled between a sweets shop and a cobblestone alley along that famous narrow street in the eastern hills before a coffee store chain renovated and reopened the location to great and controversial reception.

“They have no right,” my friend said as we stood outside looking in. “Occupying this building like they are. This is supposed to be a traditional neighbourhood.”

“Seems pretty traditional to me,” I said and lifted the soft blue noren to enter. Inside we placed our orders at the front counter (which seemed normal enough) but were then directed down a darkened corridor to the far end of the shop where, in front of floor-to-ceiling windows through which we could see a carefully arranged Japanese garden, the baristas prepared our drinks. Above them, I noticed the most intricate lattice work of beams and braces in the ceiling, all fresh cedar, the same soft brown material the shop’s facade was made of. I caught my friend glaring at a pair of charcoal bamboo boxes meant to hold the serviettes that we both knew had come from a local shop.

“Oh, these are made nearby,” I said.

“I know.”

Upstairs it was very busy. At every table and tatami mat cushion, there were Japanese and foreigners alike drinking coffee and taking photos. They had all come to see what they had read about in those articles. We removed our shoes and squeezed into a small table in the corner. The soft straw flooring felt like moss on rock beneath my shins. Next to our table was a small pot with pointed flowers branching out, and a large clay bowl with tiny blonde coffee beans inside. It was obvious my friend was resisting the place.

I said to her “I heard of these old Italian button makers. Masters of their craft; they make very fine custom buttons for bespoke men's suits, and charge upwards of fifteen thousand per set.”

“Why so much?”

“It’s not the cost that matters, it’s that these old men have worked out a way to be the absolute best on earth at what they do, and their clientele is almost exclusively the world’s wealthiest. Without their patronage, their small role in Italian craftsmanship would disappear.”

“Are you saying that without the patronage of major coffee chains, all of Japan’s traditional arts would die out?”

“I’m saying we don’t need to always turn our noses up at money.”

Through the bamboo blinds, we could see a maple tree planted in the garden. Its leaves were already reaching the 2nd floor and would look spectacular against the wooden walls when their colour changes in autumn.

“The coffee is shit but the place sure is nice,” my friend said.

“Isn’t it.”

Image: author’s own

[boywhitebald]

13 - Bomb Over Bagan

Myanmar Postcard Stories #3

It’s 4:30 am. My head hurts; too many shit sleeps. I wake up before my alarm. I wonder if the other two will drag themselves out of bed. I put clothes on and step into the hallway to wait. It’s fifteen minutes before the first girl comes out. We blink at each other, then stare at the doors of rooms 301 and 302.

“Do you remember which room it is?” I ask. She shrugs. I choose one and knock. A minute later our third bleary-eyed companion peeks out from behind the door, mutters something in Korean to the other girl. “Two minutes,” she says.

And it’s another fifteen minutes until we’re on our bikes heading to the temple area from our hostel. The third girl holds the map in one hand, her other arm wrapped firmly around my waist. We drive off and I can feel her chest press into my back when we stop at traffic lights. She said no the night before when I invited her to spend the night in my room. I believe it was for the best. Her touch now feels just as nice as it would had she stayed anyway.

The roads are deserted and our bikes run silently on electricity. The only noise we can hear is the suspension bumping over holes in the road. It’s chilly in the early morning and her skin feels cold against my neck, and I’m happy we’re together to bomb down roads in Bagan, on our way to see the sun rise over ancient temples and marvel at it like it’s something that doesn’t happen every day.

Image: author’s own

[boywhitebald]

11 - Pearl Villas

Myanmar Postcard Stories #1

It must have been fourteen, no, sixteen storeys tall, towering far above the other buildings and homes in the area, and its once-white walls and balconies had given over to tar black grime and weather, giving its exterior a damp, moldy look. The first four floors were dedicated to commercial spaces, but only those on the first floor were still occupied; empty spaces and “For Rent” signs dangling from bare windows made up most of the second and fourth floors. There weren’t many lights on in any of the apartments above.

“Even three years ago, this was the place to live in Yangon,” my companion said. She lead me around the side of the building, stepping over potholes and dirt mounts in her flip flops, and pointed to a shuttered store that said “A K Grocers” above it. 

“And this used to be the largest supermarket in the city,” she laughed. A stray dog was curled up under a nearby awning and a cabbie was napping in his car with the windows rolled down.

“I wonder what it was like back then in its heyday,” I said.

“Oh, it looked just like this,” she responded.

Image: author’s own

[boywhitebald]

10 - Kak Bayar, Bad Ass Bitch of Tioman

Kak Bayar ran the beach bar at the far end of Kampung Air Batang on the small island of Tioman, a last bastion of fried chips and cold beer which sat just before the stone steps that took travelers from the foreign hostel area to the other side of the island which was predominantly Muslim. Everyone on the island knew Kak Bayar, and everyone knew Kak Bayar was a bad ass bitch.

How one attains such status is a mystery; there is no certification, no process by which one becomes a bad ass bitch. You either are, or are not. And Kak Bayar was a bad ass bitch.

Not as much in action but in attitude was Kak Bayar this way. She could normally be found on her stool behind the register, the only person allowed to handle the money, while her staff bustled about her making drinks and snacks for her guests. Indeed, she would be all smiles and jokes when it came time to settle a bill, and had kind words for most people.

But one time, and only this one time, on my third night drinking at her bar, did I see Kak Bayar drop her amicable smile for a patron and ruthlessly, in the most bad ass bitch way possible, put a grown man in his place.

It was nearing last call and while most of the guests were drinking quietly and listening to the sea behind them roll lazily back and forth across the sand, a man of about thirty with a receding hairline and red eyes was getting loud. He had returned from his fourth trip to the washroom and took a seat at the wrong chair, picking up an empty beer can someone had left there and exclaiming “Who drank my beer?”

He leered at the girl two seats down. “Was it you?” Did you drink my beer?”

This was said with a bit of a wink, the girl was pretty after all, but was aggressive enough that she smiled shyly at him then glanced at Kak Bayar, speaking to her in their dialect. Kak Bayar gestured to the beer can next to the man.

“No, that is your beer. That one. You in the wrong chair.”

Realizing his mistake but not fully willing to acknowledge himself, the man took his beer and grumbled “Well, lucky for her then.”

Everyone thought that was the end of it, but a few minutes later he was back to leering at the girl. She had a striking smile, snow white teeth set against dark brown skin, and the look of learned innocence the girls who spend time on this side of the island had; the kind that could place her age anywhere between thirteen and thirty. But where she would give the man a polite glance when he spoke, Kak Bayar only had a terse glare and steely calmness for the display he put on, as if she were waiting for him to move closer to the girl.

The man continued. “Hey, you. Thought that was pretty clever huh? Trying to take my drink.” He laughed at her like it was a good joke, but when she did not return his laugh he grew agitated.

“What’s the matter? Don’t feel like talking?”

Kak Bayar began laughing loudly to cover the silence that followed. “You’re drunk,” she said. “How about another beer?”

He grinned and turned to the girl again to slur “You want to drink with me?”

“Don’t talk to her,” Kak Bayar said. With this her tone shifted slightly, imperceptibly to the man but noticeable to the others. The kitchen staff were peering out from behind the pass, and guests drinking on the patio chairs had turned around to look at Kak Bayar, whom everyone knows is a bad ass bitch, as she sat unmoved on her stool. “You want one more?” she asked again.

“I’ll talk to whoever I want!” he said, raising his voice.

“We have Tiger beer and Carlsberg.”

Ignoring her the man continued staring at the young girl. “What about you, huh? You can make your own decisions.”

Kak Bayar smiled at him with alligator teeth. “She’s fourteen.”

“What?”

She repeated herself. “She’s fourteen.”

I watched the man’s next words get caught in his throat, as if someone had pulled what he planned to say back down into his stomach with a rope. He cowed instantly, mumbled something incoherent and stared into his beer as Kak Bayar watched from her corner. The tension in the air released and I could hear again the lap of the water on the shore, a fishing boat puttering past in the distance. Everyone went back to their own conversations, the cooks back to their kitchen, and peace settled again upon Kampung Air Batang. The man left soon after without finishing his drink, stumbling off into the darkness towards hostel row.

When I went to settle my bill, Kak Bayar smiled warmly and pressed the change into my palm, slapping my shoulder as way of thanks.

“I hope you come again.”

Image: author’s own

[boywhitebald]

9 - Avik’s Toes in the Sand

Daybreak was coming, and in the moment between night and day when the sky’s dark blue gives way to purple then red then orange light and the colour of the sand changes from grey to its natural sandalwood, Avik sat at the high water mark of the seaside promenade, his legs hanging over the short concrete embankment. 

He burrowed his feet into the tight, wet sand and enjoyed how cooling it was, and how pleasant its granular texture felt between his toes. Surely feet, like babies, have always liked the feeling of constriction, of something strong and tight to bind them in place. His young son would fall asleep almost instantly after being wrapped in his sarong. Adults, however, do not feel the same way.

Since their sand was not as fine or pristine as the beaches further south, and their water not a clear clean blue, Avik’s town did not attract the same number of tourists as other parts of the state, but the local families he had grown up with came to the beach often, and when damp after the tide had just receded the sand could scrub the feet clean of dirt in only a few seconds.

Avik was tired, having been up at 5am to receive the fish and meat order. Now that they had been sorted and stored well, he had a few minutes in his morning before the prep work would begin to step a few metres away from his small seafood stall at the open air food court and walk to his beach to put his toes in the sand.

It wouldn’t be this way for long though. The area which the promenade ran through, some two hundred metres of beach which both the food court and a small marina which housed the town’s fishing boats had been for decades, had been marked for development. Soon the bulldozers would come and raze the land to build oceanfront condos and a marina to house yachts. The tenants of the food court had been notified two weeks before of the plans. There had been indignant resistance at first, none more strong than from Avinda who ran the satay stall next to his, but there is little one can do when the sand underneath is sold out from under you. They had been assured a year or more would pass before the work was to begin, but Avik knew the way these things went.

A call came from behind him - his young son had gotten into Avinda’s fridge and overturned the vegetables. Now Avinda was yelling and chiding Avik’s wife for raising such a wayward boy. One of the other shopkeepers came over to hold the boy while Avinda picked up his produce, and Avik’s wife was laughing as she set out the chairs.

Avik knew he was needed, knew the impulse was there to stand up and join his family in their small restaurant stall by the beach, but instead he sat still, welcomed the warmth of the sun on his face, felt the stillness he always felt near the sea, and burrowed his toes deeper into the sand, into the surf where he had grown up, as if they could stay that way forever.

Image: Pixabay

[boywhitebald]

8 - Compatriots

One warm evening I was in the park drinking a tall can of beer on a bench while my friends drank at the bar, because beer was 33 ringgit at the bar but only 12 ringgit at the store near the park. A man not much older than I came up and sat at the other end of the bench. He introduced himself and we began to talk.

He was local, from one of the northern states, and had moved to the city to be a veterinarian. We talked about animals and food, about friendship and religion, about the city he loved and the one I had grown fond of. When I left to go back to my friends we shook hands and exchanged numbers, promising to meet again.

I walked back to the bar thinking how pretty it was to still be able to accept people into my life and not feel anxious about it; to feel warm and exposed and human with a stranger once again. It made me feel like maybe, maybe, things could go well soon.

When he telephoned the next week I pretended not to remember him.

Image: author’s own

[boywhitebald]

7 - Cowards

Gareth had just begun putting away the last of the bottles when Travis walked into the bar. The lights had already been turned up, washing out the harbour lights that lined the bay outside the patio, and Gareth knew Karen would be waiting for him at home. He thought he'd nick one of the house reds and take it back, he was sure Heather wouldn't mind. But when he saw that it was Travis, he gestured to the seat the sailor always took against the log beam pillar at the end of the bar and unlocked the cabinet, taking out the Knob Creek bourbon and Cinzano sweet vermouth.

"Alright Gareth?" Travis asked, taking a misstep before falling into the high chair. Gareth could tell Travis had already been at it hard. Maybe the oyster bar up the street, or at Troll's restaurant down the road before getting to his bar.

"Just fine, thanks," he said, wiping around Travis' elbows and placing a bar napkin in front of him. "The usual?"

"That'll do barkeep," said Travis.

Gareth got out the boston shaker and loaded it with ice, then poured two measures of bourbon and one of vermouth into the tin cup, followed by two dashes of bitters. He grabbed the nearest bar spoon and made to stir the drink, but Travis pulled his head up from his hands and pointed a calloused finger at him.

"Nope, not that smooth shit tonight, you shake it and you shake it good. I want to taste the ice shards."

Gareth obliged the Coast Guard coxswain. He noticed Travis was still wearing his uniform under his heavy raincoat, but couldn't figure out why.

He ducked below to grab two griotte cherries from the jar in the fridge, skewering them on a plastic ice pick and placing it into the martini glass he had just strained the drink into, and when he looked back up he saw that Travis had tears in his eyes.

"Everything alright?" Gareth asked, sliding the cocktail in front of Travis carefully. He could hear the storm outside still swelling, still unabated. The ice shards in the glass were still crackling and forming a thin opaque layer on top of the deep amber liquid beneath. Travis was leaning back and glaring out at the ocean, a faraway look in his eyes.

"Cowards," he breathed softly to himself, and turned back to his drink.

[boywhitebald]

6 - Clove Lips, Sweet Lips

When I think of clove cigarettes I don’t think of tobacco but lips, sweet lips. The sweet lips of pretty Stella Kane, a tanned arm hanging out of the window of Alec’s beat up Chevy truck, her thin brown hand with snow white nail polish casually pushing a clove cigarette into the wind when the ash grew too long.

I was laying down in the backseat and watching her pull clove smoke through her sweet lips and blow it out slowly. The cigarette was rich brown, the colour of cinnamon bark, with a deep red filter. “Djarums,” she’d tell anyone who asked, “they’re from Indonesia,” and there weren’t many people who didn’t want her after listening to the way she said that. They came in a soft orange pack with black lettering and she never told us how she got them.

“Can I try?” I asked. She looked over her shoulder at me, her hazel eyes nearly hidden under half-closed eyelids. She lifted her hand - “My last one,” but smiled when she said this to me. “Come here.”

She licked her lips, took a long pull from the Djarum and shifted so that she was leaning into the backseat, one arm folded over the bench. I sat up and brought my face to hers. She pulled me closer with one finger under my chin and pressed her lips to mine. I inhaled, breathing the spiced tobacco into my lungs, and tried to stay as long as I could against her mouth. When I pulled away and exhaled, watching the thick smoke swirl around her hair and out of the window, I licked my lips too and tasted sweet cinnamon, clove, the spices of Christmas, and her.

“No, stop,” said Alec. He pushed Stella back into her seat. “My two best friends are not making out on my watch.” Stella smiled and shrugged, giving Alec a playful look, then settled against the door, her hand outside the window again.

We drove on and I sat in the backseat watching the back of Stella’s neck, watched her blow clove smoke out of her sweet lips, watched her throw her last clove cigarette onto the highway, and it wasn’t until we had reached home that the Djarum flavour left my mouth.

Image: author’s own