Tales from Exile – Tara Singh

  

Dear Sir, of the bicycle, the strung-back beard and the spun turban,

 Greetings

 

I am writing, after all these years, to thank you for your service with the snake.  Do you remember that day?  You, the retired Sergeant of Police from the Punjab, then 78, upright, correct and immaculate in your guard’s uniform,  you must be 90 in the shade now, at least, as I always felt you put your age down, to keep your job.

You would open the gate for us and salute; and close the gate and salute.  I am not entirely sure who the gate was to keep out, but keep them out you did.  Each morning, you would bring up the mail, exotically addressed to Jalan Pantai, Batu 1¾, your stick tucked horizontally under your left arm, your right arm extended, carrying the letters.  ‘Good morning Ma’am, your post.’ Bowed head, heals clicked – almost a caricature of yourself – and always a gentle smile.  You could have put the lot in the post box, but then we would have been deprived of our regular encounter.

When the children were home on school holidays, you would speak gruffly to them, admonishing them to ‘Listen to your mother.  Make your parents proud of you.  Always do your homework.’ And ‘Love them, you have the best parents in the country.’  In spite of these lectures, they adored you, Tara Singh.  Young Primus used to ask you about the war and Partition, and you would tell him about your family life, back in India.  You explained about your sword, handed down from your father, and your silver bracelet, which all devout Sikhs wear with pride. You took off your turban for him showing him how you folded up your uncut hair and harnessed your beard.

Primus and his sister were home the day the cobra got in.  He ran down the hill to your hut to ask for help, and ran back to tell me that you were coming, we didn’t need to call the fire brigade to remove it – a normal duty for those worthies in country Malaysia. 

We stood around watching the snake explore our verandah, waiting for you and hardly daring to move.  You took your time coming.

When you finally arrived, you explained you first had to stop and pray.  I am not sure if you were seeking guidance or praying for the soul of the cobra, and I never thought to ask you.  You came to the front door and removed your boots.  I remember you had thick scratchy-looking socks on.  I begged you to leave your boots on – ‘It is a cobra Tara Singh!’ – but no, you were certain that socks were sufficient protection.

‘I will not kill it Madam’ you said.  ‘It is very bad to kill a snake.  But show me and I will remove it for you.’

I pointed ‘On the verandah, amongst the chairs and tables.’

We, cowards, watched through the windows as you leapt about, your stick whirling, your feet prancing from seat to cushion to table.  Then it was over.  You’d hooked the chap – limp like a garden hose – over your stick and flung it far across the garden.  Then you stood still, head bowed, hands folded, giving thanks for the safe delivery of you both.

You turned to come to us, smiling and touching the end of your moustache.  You saluted.  ‘It is safe Ma’am, Boy, Girl, you can come out.  I have sent the snake away.’  You wouldn’t accept a cup of tea or even a glass of water before you returned to your post, even though you were breathing heavily now, and trembling, almost imperceptibly.

I am sure we thanked you Sir, at the time.  But now, across the years, your eyes come back to me, and the realisation that you too, were terrified of the cobra.  You earned medals in the Police, so my thanks are not grand in comparison; please believe that they are from the depths of my heart.

I wish you a healthy retirement and a peaceful transition to what awaits you in the next world.

Isabel

Tales from Exile -- Peking Duck

image courtesy of Magpie Tales

Tales from Exile – Peking Duck


You want 12 duck lady? You not so fat? How you eat 12?

You want frozen? Bad for ducks, not so good cold.

You want to fly with them? Lady these ducks are dead. Not flying again, eating.

No! You take duck to Africa? No duck in Africa?

Special dinner party on island?

You crazy lady.



Africa does that.

(A true story)


more flying ducks at Magpie Tales   Thanks to Tess for the prompt.

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Tales from Exile - Cultural Village or Travelling Circus?

 A few nights ago, one of the local colleges was hosting a conference dinner, and the evening's entertainment was a ****** Village that one can hire for $US25,000 a night.  It was billed as an authentic village experience, with various cultural elements. 

My photos are never great, and these were taken without flash in low light, with my phone, however I think they are interesting and unusual, if not representative of 'real' life here, more a circus fantasy of what it might have been like 50 years ago.

These are some of the cultural icons of life here in Exile.

The majalis, where men (usually from one family or tribe) gather to drink coffee,
 smoke shisha and gossip.

acres of carpet with part of the majalis in the background
and a collection of children 'dancing'

the woman cooking is wearing a white cloak, like a giant apron,
 over her black abaya, but her face is carefully veiled

a falconeer, note the leather gauntlet on his left hand, the rifle in the corner
and the leather hood on the falcon

carpet making: on the right preparing the fleece and on the left a loom
we didn't see them produce anything so I suspect they were merely posing with the tools

more actors with props

model pearl fishing boats

Camel and driver

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Tales from Exile – I’ve been Everywhere

map from exitoserver.com

It is the season of farewells here in Exile-land.  The schools all follow the northern hemisphere curricula, so end-of-school-year brings end of assignment to lots of folk, not limited to the Education Sector.  Marius and I attended farewell parties on Thursday and Friday nights, and have two more scheduled for early next week.  

 On Thursday night I met an interesting woman who I had nothing in common with.  I am not sure if she noticed or just decided that I was pathetic in general.  She has led an interesting life, full of travel and experiences in exotic places, and had lots of stories to tell.  She wore large pieces of yellow gold jewellery jangling and flashing as she smoked.  Her gestures were sweeping and frequent; her voice large too.  I kept thinking I’d stepped back in time and met an old colonial – she had grown up on a property in Africa, had shot beasts attacking the cattle from a young age and didn’t flinch at the sight of a green mamba above her on the verandah.  She’d also run an ostrich farm and taught the farm hands how to slaughter the birds for market.  (None of which I believe I am capable of.)

 It reminded me somehow of that chap in the Flanders and Swann song (Driven to it – by the Spider in the Bath):  

I have fought a grizzly bear,

Tracked a cobra to its lair,

Killed a crocodile who dared to cross my path;

I almost expected a pith-helmet.

 She’s dined with princes and thieves on five continents and smoked sheesha with sheiks and oilmen.  She has lived in Syria, Brunei, Africa, Venezuela and southern Europe, as well as the Middle East.  She loves it here, not that she stays, mind you.  I wondered if all the other places she claimed she’d lived in she also didn’t stay in. 

I felt quite frustrated with myself.  On the one hand I felt somewhat in awe of her skills, her evident physical power and her confidence to engage in the world in such a forthright manner, and on the other hand I was repelled by something.  

Maybe I was looking for some sense of reflection or awareness of the inner life of some of the people she had encountered along the way.  Perhaps I was picking up something of the colonial attitude (if that is what is?) of the world being there for the picking and hang the consequences.  I hope I am not being a snob:  I have nothing to be snobbish about. 

The writer in me was thinking what a great source of story ideas while the poet in me was thinking there is no emotional life being offered, there is no one at home.  And now that I have got here, I think I understand what my difficulty was:  the role of superwoman was so ingrained I had no sense of the true person out of costume.

When I put aside my own sense of inadequacy I feel compassion wondering what could have made her so apparently tough and resilient, and what pain is she burying in herself?  Then again, perhaps I am wrong and she is superwoman all the way through to her spine.

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Tales from Exile – Ming Dynasty Vase Doyle

We have just passed the anniversary of Ming’s arrival in our lives.  I think it was June 4^th, 2003.  She has done very well for a little street cat from the drains of Port Dickson – international travel, a worldwide internet profile, health, contentment, security.  What more could anyone ask for?  As our friend Mart said at the time, from hell to heaven in one leap.

 Her first meal – ever, virtually – was two sardines, imported from Canada, Brunswick.  They were all I had that was suitable to give her, and at 10.30 pm, in a small town in Malaysia, I wasn’t going to be able to buy cat food.

 The first sardine ‘barely touched the sides’.  After a few minutes I decided she could have one more.  I was afraid that if I gave a starving cat too much to eat it would kill her.  The second sardine went down more slowly followed by some serious whisker licking and face washing.  Then she had a drink of water.

 I tucked an old towel on to one of the chairs under the table so that she would feel safe and comfortable.  Those first nights she was locked up in our screened-in verandah, to protect her from civet cats and monkeys and cobras, and not completely ‘inside’ because I was still getting Marius used to the idea of having a pet in Malaysia.  Once he pronounced her as Ming Dynasty-Vase Doyle, I knew she was accepted because all our dependents have three names:  children, dog, and now cat.  (The dog stayed in Australia but that is another story.)

 Ming was a tiny scrap when she first accosted me on the steps of PD Eating Point.  She must have recognised me as a kindred spirit (Marius says she could spot a sucker) because strays usually run from people, not try to trip them up.  She put her paw out to catch my foot and then wrapped herself around my ankle to make me stop, at least to look down at her.  I looked. 

 I thought she was about three months old, maybe younger.  According to the vet, her teeth said she was 6-10 months old (it later turned out she also had a litter of kittens somewhere).  The distance across her hips was less than an inch.  She could fit into the palm of my smallish hand.

 I looked down at her and she looked up at me with huge topaz blue eyes.  She meowed.  She had no obvious injuries or wounds, clear eyes, didn’t smell, a clean shiny coat, but frighteningly thin:  I picked her up.  She purred.  I asked around at the restaurant if she belonged to anybody.  Marius was sure, desperately sure, that she must belong to someone because she was so pretty – like a Siamese cat with a few dainty stripes and a typically Malaysian Zorro tail.

the end of her tail has a little 'zorro'

We had come to pick up some takeaway food on the way to a friend’s house.  In the car I told Marius I would adopt the little cat.  Not a good idea as we were in the last six months of our posting and didn’t know where we would go next.  I wish I could remember my argument because it must have been a good one (mind you Marius is also pretty soft-hearted).  He agreed that if she was still at the restaurant on the way home, I could have her.

We had a pleasant evening with our friends and later we took another visitor back to their hotel on our way home.  We passed the turn off to the restaurant and we passed our house.  On the return journey, I said ‘Now we can see if that cat is still there.’

 Marius said ‘I thought you had forgotten about her.’  He drove back to the restaurant and then told me ‘I’m not getting out or stopping the engine.  You have two minutes to find her.’

‘Okay.’

There is a side terrace facing the street, with tables and a man cooking satay on a make-shift barbecue.  I walked up the road beside the diners, calling ‘puss, puss’.  Ming darted out from under one of the far tables.  I picked her up.  She purred and rubbed herself on my neck.

<cue: smaltzy music and shots of the sun setting through palm trees>

 I climbed back into the car and did up my seat belt.  

 Marius put the engine in gear and turned for home.  ‘Couldn’t you find her then?’  He almost sounded disappointed. 

 I’d been gone less than the two minutes.  ‘No, I found her.  She’s here tucked under my chin.’

Hippopotamus Redux

Yesterday I wrote about Mr and Mrs Hero and their adventures in Africa – and I think that all my bitterness and cynicism and sense of betrayal shone through.  It was very much a me, me! perspective.  I failed to consider or convey their point of view:  the enormous upheaval the posting must have caused to their physical lives and their emotional ones.

Ten years later or maybe fifteen, they were still ‘dining out on it’ and clinging to their escapades as self-defining tropes.  Newly retired from the game, any new thrills would have to be manufactured by themselves.  What I failed to appreciate was their sense of loss, of missed challenges and opportunities.

At the time I did not recognise the competition for exoticism points, hardship honours, or medals for bravery.  I was too appalled by what I was facing myself, and crushed that I was getting no discernible sympathy or applause, to think clearly.

I remain an innocent.  I want to trust and believe rather than scoff and dismiss hyperbole and self-aggrandisement.  It was not that the stories weren’t true of course; places and names had been changed to enhance the protagonists. 

I must learn to be more charitable.

The Hippopotamus on the Rug – Tales from Exile

They loved to tell stories of their time in Africa, as if they saw themselves as late 20^th century adventurers, faced with the edge of civilisation, shortages and dangers, but always making do with what a century earlier would definitely have been a stiff upper lip and missionary zeal.  The only conversions they were interested in during that last decade were ones involving their bank accounts, tax status, inheritance-tax-proof gifts and retirement provisions.

Three years or four years, the details of fixed points vague, yet the challenge, the effort, the accomplishments, what he said to her and how they were always cast in a favourable glow, clear and precise.  They didn’t claim to be heroic, only clues, of course.

There were stories of dinner parties augmented with reconstituted-in-champagne dried fruit from the cereal; camp politics and the head girl condescension of the old hands patronising the overwhelmed newcomers.

He built the camp and the plant – you would think single-handedly.  A captain of men.  Organising defences when the helicopters were called in.  Always fair-minded and interested in the natives.

They spoke of walks on the beach, keeping an eye out for snakes, crocodiles and other carnivores.  There was nothing we could mention they hadn’t experienced first, better and harder.  Any comment met with ‘Remember Nigeria’ and an exchanged rolling of the eyes.

Watching, I first thought the look was about sympathy for each other, for the challenges and privations, and a gentle superiority that we could never know life as they did; such privileged experience was banned to us.  I didn’t realise it was deeper and more complex than that.  We tried to introduce them to friends who’d had similar experiences but they demurred, unavailable.

There was a murder in the camp, unexplained but most likely domestic, connected to infidelity – also rife and the moral order of the island – blamed on external forces, savages, never solved.  They nodded about that in unison.

It was such fun! they told us.  When the ship came in with supplies, when the wives left with the children for the summer, when there was a crisis in the construction programme.  All conquered, nothing skimped.

How we admired their resilience and fortitude:  such wisdom and expertise to be gained from their old hands.

When we visited them at home, there were souvenirs of their exotic life:  black wooden carvings, spears, fabrics and baskets.  There was a stuffed leather hippopotamus, the size of a large dog, lounging in the conservatory.  Oh yes, we had such trouble bringing him back.

We nearly marvelled and shuddered and gasped in appreciation.  We listened to the stories with growing politeness and unease.  It was not only the one-sided heroics that were off-putting, but a sense of cruelty that was not far below the surface, a smugness of triumph and something else amiss.

Years later a casual comment from a colleague who knew them in darkest Africa suggested their story was incomplete, shorter, less dramatic and primeval.  The wife only visited twice, the husband possibly participated in the camp rituals with too much enthusiasm:  not quite keys in the bowl.

I have a picture of the ferocious jungle coming down to a swirling shore, with hippos bathing, cars on the beach, quicksand and witch doctors, and a container-load of lies.