by Steve Tait

‘You sure this is okay, Rafiq? It’s not out of your way?”

“Okay. No problem. But I go to my house first.”

I ponder this. “Um. Okay. But isn’t your house somewhere in town?

“Apartment. Where I stay – yeah. Hospital accommodation.”

“Hospital. But you’re quite okay, right?”

“My wife. She’s a nurse.”

“Oh, right. Of course.”

I slump back into silence. I like this guy, even though I always feel one step behind. Maybe that’s why I like him – always a surprise just around the corner. I’ve only known him for a month, but he has become something of a guide, a guide dog for the blind you might say, helping me navigate around this new world I find myself in. The far north-east of PeninsulaMalaysia, the Muslim Malay heartland. I’m here to run a series of training courses for the budding gold and iron ore mining industries. Rafiq is a mid-level government official ordered to attend one of the courses.

The local government promised a rental car. Like so many things, it hasn’t happened. Or, to view things from the local perspective, it is happening but slowly. Meanwhile, Rafiq has taken hold of the reins.

“So, we’re heading to your house, Rafiq.”

“No.”

“Um, yeah, your house.”

“No.”

“Okay…”

“My father. His house. And before that, his father.”

“Ah, I see. So we’re going to visit your father.”

“Dead now.”

“Your father?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh, sorry to hear that.”

A dismissive wave of the hand. “No problem.”

“So we’re going to your house.”

“No.”

“Yes. Because…”

“Family house. Eight brothers, two sisters.”

“And so how many of them live there now?”

“No one. Only me.”

“But you don’t live there.”

“No…”

He is an honest man, Rafiq. I’m pretty sure of that. But I was still finding it hard to actually believe anything he said.

“Down here. This is my street. There, right side.”

I look ahead as Rafiq slows the car and prepares to turn into a dusty, weed covered driveway. He pulls up right in front of a schizophrenic house, half lovely old weatherboard, painted a funky shade of lime green, part modern concrete abode, still unfinished, roughly painted in white.

“Hey, looks like a nice…”

But he’s gone, out of the car, wandering around the side of the building. I wonder whether I’m expected to stay in the car, but curiosity sees me hurry along after him.

He’s standing at the back of the house, a hand holding a dark wrought iron gate covering the wooden door. “New gate. For extra security. If nobody here then even local people they come. They think, ‘Ah what’s inside?’ Then they break the lock…”

“You were robbed?”

“No. But look. New.”

“What is it? Looks like a metal box.”

“Yes. Metal box. But under…” I watch as he reaches under this small box attached to the solid gate protecting the door. “Lock. It’s in here. Now somebody wants to saw through, they cannot.”

“Clever.”

“I make on all the doors. And bars on the windows too.”

“Do you keep a lot of valuables here?”

“No. Just junk. But I have a beehive.”

I wait. I must have misheard.

“Inside. Bees. Beehive. You don’t disturb them, they are okay. Good honey. But a lot of mess.”

“A lot of mess. Well yeah, I guess. Among other things.” I look at the security laden door, guardian of the bees. “But what if people want to, like, stay inside?”

“No problem. But better you wear shoes. Else you get stung on the foot. Not good. But now I must make more ventilation holes. Help them coming and going.”

“Of course. Clear passage for them.”

I’m left speaking to myself. Rafiq has set off again on his tour of the house. Happy that the security has not been breached, he heads off to the overgrown yard beside the house, towards an area where some construction work is underway.

“Need to make a fence. Around the land.”

“Sure. To keep the bees in.”

My wit is wasted. Rafiq is already absorbed in his inspection of the work to date. I see the ugly gash that has been cleared around the perimeter of the quarter acre plot, notice where the concrete foundations have been laid, see the rolls of chain-link fencing waiting to uglify the land. Then something else catches my eye.

“Hey Rafiq. What happened there? Looks like a cyclone passed through.” I point past the perimeter of the land to seven or eight enormous horizontal coconut trees with their broad shallow roots poking lifelessly into the air.

“Gone. All gone.” Rafiq gives another dismissive wave of the hand as he inspects the fencing materials.

“What a shame.”

“Not a shame. Have to go. Too big now, too old.”

“Yeah, but they must have taken generations…”

“You got monkey? No monkey, then no way to get coconuts. Only way to get coconuts is when they fall down on your head. Or fall down on the house. Anyway, have to make room for the fence to go straight.” He stands up, hands on hips, looking towards the neighbouring property to his left. “You see the road. Over there.” He swings his arm to indicate a single lane asphalt road leading between the two properties towards a clutch of houses partially obscured by the thick forest beyond. “One coconut tree. On her side of the road. I offer to cut.”

“Ah.” Why? I think but don’t say.

“She says okay, no problem. I tell her I do for her. And then she comes back to me. ‘I want 100 ringgit.’ She tells me like this.”

“Seems like a lot,” I say, wondering where on earth this is going.

“A lot! But okay, I think. Better we do now. Because she wants to make fence too.

“Sure. Might as well just chop ’em all down while you’re at it,” I say, trying to keep the sarcasm out of my voice.

“Yeah. Better this way. Too old. But now I have my men.”

“Your family? Brothers?”

“Workmen. They come for making the fence. I tell them to cut up the coconut trees. But everyday, more problems.”

“What problems?”

“Fruit.”

“Fruit’s the problem,” I say, waiting for the inevitable clarification.

“Fruit – that’s the problem. Mango, rambutan, papaya, longan, other fruit. They take it all. They come early with ladder. Take everything. They think I don’t know.”

“But you know.”

“I know!” he shrieks. “So I tell them. Here. Here is a basket, I say. You put half the fruit for me here. Other half, up to you. You can take.”

“And this works?”

“I get a papaya. Maybe a few rambutan. What to do? I’m not staying here with them!”

 We’re walking now, checking out the length of the foundations for the fence at the back of the land.

“So coconut trees gone. But she’s so stupid. Making problems now.”

“Your neighbour?”

We have reached the road separating the two properties. “You see here? Straight along, near the edge of the road.”

I look where I’m told, mentally tied in knots from Rafiq’s ceaseless petty drama. I am exhausted from trying to follow each new intrigue.

“Your fence – it’s going to be along the side of the road, right?”

“Now you look there.”

I let my eyes follow the small lane as it works its way back towards the bigger road. It takes me a moment to spot it. “Hey, has she already dug the holes for her fence foundations?”

“Ah, you see now. She is stupid lady. No thinking. This lane, it goes down to the houses behind here. But really, the lane was made through private land. Half my land, half neighbour’s land. Of course, I make my fence on the side of the road. Normal, yes?”

“Seems sensible.”

“But neighbour, she says, ‘no, I put up my fence on the border of my land.’ She says she doesn’t want to lose her land.” Rafiq throws up his hands. “What to do?”

“Well yeah, what to do? I mean, it kind of makes the road narrow, doesn’t it?”

“Narrow. If fire, big problem. If you need materials for building, big problem. You think truck can go down?”

“Huh, probably not. So what, did you talk to her about it? Try to sort it out?”

“I tell her already. This is a public road.”

“But it’s not, right? You said it goes through your land and your neighbour’s land.”

“No.”

“But you said…”

“No. I went to the land office already. Because I know. I know what’s what.”

“What’s what?”

We are heading back towards the house now, Rafiq stopping to pick up a couple of buckets on the way. “Here. You carry.” He hands me one of the buckets. “After ten years it’s a public road.”

“Sorry?”

“After open for ten years, then the road is not private anymore. The road becomes like any other road. It’s a public road.”

“So she can’t…”

“She cannot do!”

“Did you tell her that?”

“Here.” He’s led us to a tap by the side of the house. I put my bucket under it and look up at Rafiq.

“You talked to her…”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Not me.”

“Why not you?” These games are killing me, draining me of energy, but I’m trapped. I can’t stop the repartee.  

“Because – I tell you – she never listens to me. I say black, she says white.”

“So you haven’t told her about the public road.”

“Tell. Tell already.”

“Um.”

“My sister-in-law. She lives over there.” Rafiq points to the other side of the main road. “I tell her. She talked to the lady.”

“Oh, good. So is she going to move the fence back a bit? I mean, we’re only talking a metre or so, right?”

“No. Cannot.”

“Can. I mean she could just redo a small stretch of the fence’s foundations, right? It’s not even finished yet. You ought to go and tell her yourself.” My brain is starting to ache now. Too many dramas. Too many crazy, petty, convoluted little dramas. I can’t process it all; don’t want to. I want to lay my head down on a pillow and turn my brain off for a while. But the movie that is Rafiq’s life just doesn’t seem to do intermission.

“Too late now,” he goes on. “It’s up to her. And anyway, I have a plan.”

“You have a plan…”

“I have a plan. There, there and there. You see? That one’s durian.”

“Huh?”

“Water.”

“Oh. Yeah, sure.” I do my thing with the bucket.

“Come. Eat this now.” I finish my watering and hustle over to another part of the overgrown yard, to a foreign looking tree about as tall as a man, with long thin leaves. “Try.” He holds out a small leaf.

I hesitate, unsure of what I’m in for.

“We make soups, wonderful soups for traditional Muslim celebrations. But also medicine. Very good for blood pressure. But just a little. Just take a small bite.”

I nibble the edge of the leaf. It is the strongest, most bitter taste imaginable. My mouth turns inside out, stretches to breaking point, fissures shooting through every inch of my tongue and gums. “Bloody hell, Rafiq.”

“Yeah, a little bit is enough. Better in soup. First we soak for about a week. Not so bitter then.” He moves on, nonchalant as you like. No smile, no grimace, taking no notice of me. “Anyway, yes, I have a plan,” he says as he walks back towards the house.

Spit, spit, spit. “What’s the plan?” Spit.

“It’s a public road.”

“So you say.” Spit. “And the plan?”

“I talked to the land office. They tell me. You built something on the road – it’s illegal. You cannot.”

“Well that’s why you should tell her!” Spit.

“No. No point! She never listens. But the land office, they know. I tell them. They will come to inspect.”

“What, they’ll come to check out the road?”

“They come when the fence is finished. They come to see the fence. I wait first.”

We are back at the house, the tap in front of me. I wash my mouth out, imagining that it is helping. My taste buds laugh at my paltry imagination. I spit.

“Why wait, Rafiq?” The silliness of this whole battle is getting to me. “Talk to her. Be neighbourly!”

“Ah, I try many times. Before, when she came to live here, she had no water. She asked the other neighbour. She wanted to use their well. They said no. So she asked me. I said of course. No problem. But after that? She never wants to help. Never wants to talk, Never sharing anything. What to do? By hook or by crook she wants to do everything her own way.”

“Well maybe you could at least get the Lands Department official to take a look at the road now before she starts building. Or maybe you could move your fence back a bit.”

“I wait. Then official will send letter. The letter will tell her. You must take down your fence. Make new fence on the side of the road.”

“Ah, but what if she just refuses?” Why was I playing this game?

“I take photos. I show the local Member of Parliament. He can help. He has the power. We go up the ladder.” He gives a small nod of the head. “But it all takes time. Waste so much time. And I want to build the new storey.”

“Huh?”

“Second floor. You see the concrete poles going up through the roof? For the second floor. With three bathrooms. But problem with the toilets.”

“Oh?”

“Toilets too expensive. My wife wants the most expensive toilets. I tell her – we pay for expensive bed. This is important. Eight hours a night. But toilet? How long you spend there? But she wants.” He stands still for a second before turning towards the car. In that moment I feel the insistent throbbing now taking up residence in my frontal lobes. “Let’s go. Have to meet the workman. Manager. He wants money early. Before the holiday. I have to pay him. Also tell him about the fruit. And make sure he’s not fighting with my neighbour.”

He sits down heavily in the car, the weight of all his endeavours weighing heavily.

“Rafiq, why are you doing all this? Why bother? Why don’t you just stop?” I looked at him. “Why not just stop?”

A quick glance, the hint of a smile. “Stop? Then what would I do with myself?”

He turned the ignition, instantly backing out of the driveway. “Let’s go. Late already. Workman waiting.”

Editor’s Note:

Busy it Up is not Steve Tait’s first work to appear in Eastlit. His previous published pieces are:

• Moving was published in the inaugural issue of Eastlit in December 2012.
• Finding a Vein was published in February 2013.
• A Few Thin Jackets appeared in the August 2013 issue.