Bugis Street

(Singapore, about 1972)

the metallic clatter of a busy wok

will always bring the memory sharply into focus,

or the smell of joss drifting on the wind,

or sickly indian love oil.

most nights the street was blocked

at both ends by about eleven,

and then the festival begins.

no prostitutes in this street

and all of the beautiful women

are men.

a thousand coloured lights glow overhead

and the place is humming

while the USS Enterprise rides at anchor

somewhere out in the bay.

uniforms everywhere...

american bluejackets, english tommy's,

jocks, aussie diggers and kiwi infantry,

and a hundred different accents.

vietnam is the ever present nightmare,

that and the domino theory

so singapore Island is a fortress.

and all the while the stones hammer 'lola'

from a hundred different transistor radios

placed strategically to attract

the punter to those small round white tables.

you sit at mr wong's table...

you drink only mr wong's beer.

but not this night,

an argument developes

between mr wong and the vendor next door,

both men dressed in white t/shirt, white trousers

and flip-flops. mr wong looses face,

leaves the table only to return a minute or two

later armed with a broad-bladed chinese

chopper.

the flash of silver was too quick for the eye to register

but no matter, it slices through bone and flesh

ripping from left shoulder to right side,

staining white t/shirt into crimson.

we drink beer as we watch the chinese man die,

from somewhere in the crowd a policeman draws his pistol

and disarms mr wong. mr wong will also die,

not in a dirty and crowded singapore street,

but suspended on the end of a rope...

two lives for the price of a couple of cans of tiger beer.

i contemplate my beer for a minute or two until

a street kid tries to sell me his mother.

he gives up on the banter and we play 'naughts and crosses'

on his slate for my change. he wins naturally, counts up the money

and calls me a "cheap charlie" when it doesn't add up to a dollar.

eventually an ambulance arrives and take

the dead vendor away...

no-body thinks to wash the blood off the street.

Mike Subritzky

IWVPA 'Festival Project'

July 2002