For a lark, we strolled down the dodgier lanes of Jalan Besar after a blazing Sunday brunch to peruse the scene of a recent crime. The relative calm and quiet of these short and surly streets belie both the days when they witnessed Great Worlds in passing as well as present proposals of brief passion behind closed doors.
Down the Marshal's way, Flanders faces a field marked by ghosts of fanfare past all the way to the Somme. The square proper boasts some of the most run-down tenements on the island, offering glimpses of dull red and peeling paint behind a facade of sordid gray and grime. The way to the alley behind the square is marked by a mature fig with aerial roots that threaten to embed their ends into the heads of men too stingy to stoop.
We follow an invisible trail of urine to a narrow aisle of love on short leases, where old men mill and mull the wares of whores young enough not to be their daughters. "Use condoms during oral sex", warns a poster in Malay on one door, while the bare boobs of Oriental beauties line a make-shift stall advertising ersatz eruptions. Sensing the sensibilities of the regulars with regard to intercourse with strangers, I decided to poke neither my duck or digits at the faces that squinted at us with suspicious desire.
The flip side of Flanders is a row of two-storey terrace units that'd be run-of-the-mill middle-class dwellings in much of Malaysia, but serve as homes of landed pride anywhere in Singapore. Save perhaps this district of questionable sorority. The cul-de-sac ends in a tiny temple guarded by two grumpy mutts and a pixie in the form of a middle-aged man lounging on a deck chair.
The original shrine is shrouded by a rude zinc extension that probably outgrew the founder's ambitions. Syncretic in both design and devotion, the temple is fronted by an altar in the Thai school, while the front entrance is secured by a pair of pale plastic equines, beyond which stood an altar that we guess is dedicated to the region's most popular bestower of blessings. The side gate is flanked by two small altars, one to the Earth God (土地公) and the other to a cheerful lady who is probably his consort (土地婆).
The temple was not open that afternoon but inside there were two ritual chairs with armrests of horseheads and a gaudy painting depicting the judgement of Hades upon a hapless mortal. Most striking though is a man-size figure in faded black skin and hair that seems to be linked to both his scalp as well as his eyebrows. Despite the presence of an abacus on the table before him, I doubted he had anything to do with the business of good business, but rather the task of ensuring the integrity of spiritual accounts receivable and much overdue.
Other parts of the temple were hidden behind chain fences, so the master of mischief who lent his name to the Far Kor Sun (花果山) Monkey God Temple could not be seen. Credible sources less given to flights of disreputable fancy inform my duck that the temple was founded in 1943 by the father of the present medium.
The swarthy figure whose stare probably serves to discourage nocturnal visitors and who also wields a nunchuck-like chain is, according to the same source, Jee Ya Peh (二爷伯), one of a pair of sworn siblings (大二爷伯) who "act as bailiffs for the underworld". I am less convinced by his claim that the brothers are becoming popular subjects of worship "as they are more casual and more inclined to grant favours." There was no sign though of Tua Ya Pek (大爷伯), who is clearly a pea from a paler pod with his fan of judgement and tongue of asphyxiated length. Little Brother seemed nonplussed by our silent promise to pay him another visit, and the day that began with a convivial sun took a dark and damp turn that caused us to flea to friendlier markets and face the thread of safer steps.
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