Final Notes From a Great Island Read online

  “Neil Humphreys gives readers a wonderful inside look at Singapore from an outsider’s point of view. And it’s all written in an honest and humorous way. As soon as I started reading, it felt like I was in Singapore and actually visiting the places Humphreys talks about. He describes the people, places and the city in such vivid detail.”

  — Galaxie Magazine (Malaysia)

  “Final Notes From a Great Island is a great read because it’s full of little scenarios that we can relate to in our daily lives. Far from trying to tackle the big issues, Humphreys is adept at capturing those tiny idiosyncrasies that make us who we are as a people.”

  — IS Magazine

  What the media said about Neil Humphreys’ first book, Notes From an even Smaller Island.

  “He pokes fun at Singaporeans ... but rather than bristle at his observations, you are likely to twitch with mirth. The ribbing is always cushioned by good-natured quips often sprinkled with hilarious anecdotes.”

  — The Sunday Times

  “The book presents a warts-and-all view of the city-state and celebrates many of the things most often criticised.”

  — BBC World

  “A candid look at the idiosyncrasies of Singapore and Singaporeans.”

  — TODAY

  “It’s a great insider’s look at Singapore from an outsider’s point of view.”

  — Malaysia’s Sunday Mail

  “Humphreys’ laugh-a-minute self-deprecating manner makes this book very entertaining ... No punches pulled. Bravo!”

  — Malaysia’s Sunday Star

  “Humphreys’ humorous take on Singapore is an entertaining read ... It is hard not to smile while reading this book.”

  — Woman’s World

  “Blatant prejudices are chewed on, digested and spat out with an equal measure of candour and tongue-in-cheek.”

  — Singapore Seventeen

  “A thoroughly enjoyable read on the virtues (or hazards) of living in Singapore through the eyes of a 6-foot-4-inch Briton whose style is so disarmingly honest, you will laugh at the things you once considered the bane of your existence ... Decidedly Singaporean, distinctly British.”

  — Singapore FHM

  © 2006 Marshall Cavendish International (Asia) Private Limited

  Reprinted 2006 (twice)

  This edition with new cover and Epilogue published 2010 by

  Marshall Cavendish Editions

  An imprint of Marshall Cavendish International

  1 New Industrial Road, Singapore 536196

  Cover and illustrations by Lock Hong Liang

  All rights reserved

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the copyright owner. Request for permission should be addressed to the Publisher, Marshall Cavendish International (Asia) Private Limited, 1 New Industrial Road, Singapore 536196. Tel: (65) 6213 9300, fax: (65) 6285 4871. E-mail: [email protected]. Website: www.marshallcavendish.com/genref

  The publisher makes no representation or warranties with respect to the contents of this book, and specifically disclaims any implied warranties or merchantability or fitness for any particular purpose, and shall in no events be liable for any loss of profit or any other commercial damage, including but not limited to special, incidental, consequential, or other damages.

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  National Library Board Singapore Cataloguing in Publication Data

  Humphreys, Neil.

  Final notes from a great island : a farewell tour of Singapore / Neil Humphreys. – Singapore :

  Marshall Cavendish Editions, c2006.

  p. cm.

  eISBN-13 : 978-981-4398-96-1

  1. Singapore – Anecdotes. 2. Singapore – Humor. I. Title.

  DS609

  959.57 -- dc22 SLS2006026175

  Printed in Singapore by Times Printers Pte Ltd

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  I must thank all at Marshall Cavendish for enquiring about the possibility of a third book every seven minutes. Joo Sin and Leslie championed that cause for a couple of years before I finally caved in. My indefatigable editor Katharine was then on hand to point out my various shortcomings. Usually every seven minutes.

  This kind of book could not have been written without the dedicated support of staff at the National Heritage Board, the National Archives of Singapore, the National Museum of Singapore, the People’s Association, the National Library Board, the Raffles Museum of Biodiversity Research and the magnificent National Parks Board. The great team at Sungei Buloh Wetland Reserve tracked down “Mr Bob” for me and NParks’ Benjamin Lee went to commendable lengths to ensure that I did not die in the jungle.

  Everyone at TODAY deserves praise for not laughing when I announced my grand plan to drop everything and embark upon a tour of Singapore. Mano, Margie, Clement and Zul offered content suggestions, many of which I dutifully pinched, and Puay Koon even agreed to illustrate my tour with a superb map. I should also apologise to my fellow columnist Siva Choy for stealing his story on the Dagenham Girl Pipers.

  A decade ago, my mother ordered me to “see a bit of the world”. Scott accompanied me and David guided us to Toa Payoh for a short holiday. The incomparable people of Singapore did the rest and I am indebted to all of you.

  But I dedicate this book to the wonderful woman who shared my Singapore story. Thanks, Tracy, for making it such an entertaining journey.

  PROLOGUE

  On 1 January 2006, my wife and I thought we were going to be arrested for loitering. We certainly looked like burglars. We were standing beside the rubbish chute on the 40th floor of the biggest Housing and Development Board (HDB) apartment block in Singapore when the shocked owner of the nearby flat appeared.

  “Er, good evening and Happy New Year,” I mumbled to the middle-aged Chinese woman. “We’re hoping to see the fireworks.”

  The startled woman digested this information slowly, clearly unsure whether to call the police or hit me with her full bag of soiled nappies.

  “Oh, I see. The fireworks have already finished,” she replied warily. “About five minutes ago.”

  “That’s a shame. We really wanted to see them. Okay then, we’ll go back home.”

  “Yah. The view was great from up here. Could see everything. The fireworks were so bright and colourful. Went on for a long time, you know.”

  Now she was just rubbing our noses in it. We stepped aside so she could throw the bag down the chute and then headed sheepishly towards the lift.

  “Happy New Year,” the woman shouted after us, now reassured that we were not casing her property. “Have a good 2006.”

  Her sincere words were most appreciated and timely. We needed all the good fortune we could get. We had welcomed in the New Year from the woman’s apartment block knowing that it would be our last in Singapore. The travel bug that brought us to Southeast Asia had gripped us again and we were now ready to head down under because we were convinced that we really needed to spend some time in a country that offered “roo poo”, several of the world’s most venomous snakes
and Steve Irwin. The year 2006 marked our tenth here and it seemed appropriate to move on after enjoying an unforgettable decade in Singapore. That in itself was a remarkable achievement considering I only came to this sunny island for a Christmas holiday.

  On 20 November 1996, I set foot on Singaporean soil for the first time. My reasons for visiting were extremely honourable: I wanted to see an exotic world beyond the red-bricked, monotonous council houses of Dagenham, England, and, more pertinently, my dear Singaporean friend David had offered free accommodation. I arrived with my old mate Scott, an architecture graduate from Yorkshire, ready to conquer the country. He planned to contribute to the soaring skyline around Raffles Place and I would ... Well, I would think of something.

  Unfortunately, I did not. Scott received two tentative job offers within a fortnight. I, on the other hand, received lots of curt advice.

  “I see you’ve got a good degree,” one stockbroker said during a very brief interview at her swanky Robinson Road office. “But what can you offer us? What can you actually do in Singapore?”

  And the truth was, not a lot. A six-month stint at a London stockbroking firm got me that interview, but my degree was in history. That proved to be about as useful as a Singaporean concert pianist living in London. My chances of succeeding in this country were only marginally better than the political opposition. As we sat in the flat that belonged to David’s family in Lorong 8 Toa Payoh, Scott tried to be upbeat.

  “You’ll get a job here, Neil. The economy’s booming,” he said encouragingly, while trying to batter a feisty gecko with a packet of curry noodles.

  “Yeah, in bloody electronics, engineering and construction. What do they need me for? My degree is in modern history. The job market isn’t looking for someone to tell them who won the Crimean War.”

  I found the irony deeply depressing. The Singaporean economy reached its ceiling in late 1996 as Toa Payoh residents waited greedily for their five-roomed flats to hit the half a million mark. Teenagers had never experienced a recession, no one had heard of SARS and the phrase “Asian Currency Crisis” sounded like a bizarre oxymoron. Newspapers even reported the phenomenon of negative unemployment. In some sectors of the economy, there were more jobs than people.

  Imagine that.

  And I still could not get a bloody job.

  Imagine that.

  But Singapore was a different country then, in every sense. The pound cost only S$2.20, which meant a 50p bag of chips in England set me back just over a dollar. Today, every pound is almost 80 cents more expensive. And that bag of chips now costs Londoners £1. When I used to say I was from London, Singaporeans occasionally replied, “Ah, Nick Leeson.” Now, they say, “Wah, so expensive.”

  In 1996, Singaporeans bought pirated VHS tapes from the Malaysian town of Johor Bahru on the other side of the Causeway for $10 and hid them in their golf bags and glove compartments on the drive back. Today, Singaporeans buy DVDs for $5 each and have them delivered to their homes. Failing that, a Chinese auntie turns up once a month to sell them from a rucksack, in an office broom cupboard. On the big screen in 1996, cinemas were showing some awful, low-budget film called Army Daze, which had grown men wetting themselves with laughter in auditoriums across the country. Not familiar with Singlish or local culture, I thought it was a terrible film. Now familiar with Singlish and local culture, I still think it is a terrible film.

  On our first weekend here, Scott and I tried to find out the latest English Premiership scores, but there were no live matches. Indeed, English-language television appeared to be preoccupied with showing reruns of Mr Bean. Thank God that does not happen anymore. In the end, we found the BBC World Service on a crackling old radio in the apartment and sat on the floor in our sweaty boxer shorts waiting for intermittent sports updates. Today, you cannot flick through Singapore’s cable channels without finding a washed-up English footballer spouting meaningless clichés to bored Asian audiences.

  On the other hand, locally produced English programmes were at the peak of their popularity then, with Under One Roof and Growing Up regarded as must-see TV, even for foreigners like myself. The first was a comedy about a local family who spent most of their time arguing in a living room. The latter was a period drama about a local family who spent most of their time arguing in a living room. Both programmes are no longer on the air and Singaporeans now gather to watch a comedy about a building contractor named Phua Chu Kang, who wears yellow wellington boots, shouts at everybody in Singlish and picks his nose with a long fingernail. Oh, he is such a hoot.

  Singlish was a bit of a mystery then, too. My initial inability to understand the nuances of the local dialect painted a terrifying picture of how children were disciplined here. In England, naughty children were “told off” by their parents. In Singapore, they were “scalded” by their parents. The Asian emphasis upon the hierarchical extended family is well-known, but chasing little Harry around the living room with a hot iron because he admonished the maid seemed a tad excessive. I soon discovered, of course, that Singaporeans were not saying “scalded”, but “scolded”, a quaint verb, last uttered in Britain by Queen Victoria in 1847 when she “scolded” Prince Albert for admonishing the maid.

  The intricacies of Singlish were as confusing as they were entertaining. I was alarmed by how comfortable local men were discussing their reproductive organ. I can vividly recall David saying, “That guy likes to talk cock.” Does he now? The dirty old bastard. And I thought Singapore was a conservative society. Growing up in England, friends would discuss their erratic bowel movements before they would ever tackle the subject of their tackle. But everyone “talks cock” in Singapore now. There is a website devoted to that very pastime. There was even a movie, unoriginally called Talking Cock, The Movie, which I shamelessly mention only because I played Singapore’s founder Sir Stamford Raffles in the opening scene.

  Other than its residents’ desire to still talk cock, little else remains from the Toa Payoh of 1996. My adopted hometown, one of Singapore’s oldest and proudest estates, was transformed in the ensuing decade. The hawker centre where I had ginger beef in oyster sauce on my first night was knocked down, along with the old bus interchange. Apartment blocks were upgraded and painted several times, new parks and gardens were landscaped and new public facilities were opened. The shops where I bought my first mobile phone, CD, VCD, DVD, badminton racquet, tennis racquet, polo shirt and some ill-fitting underpants all came and went. In Dagenham, my former hometown in England, a new shop could stop the traffic.

  Even the swanky, 40-storey apartment block where my wife and I missed the firework display did not exist in 1996. Toa Payoh, like Singapore, is a different world now.

  And I planned to explore that world one more time before I left. I did not want to say goodbye to a country standing beside a rubbish chute filled with dirty Pampers, staring up at an empty sky. Where is the fun in that? No, Australia could wait. I wanted to see Singapore as I had first seen the country 10 years ago: on foot and unaware. I would venture to places I knew well, places I was vaguely familiar with and places I had never heard of. I would embark upon a farewell tour of an island I fell in love with a decade ago when I called my mother and said, “Singapore’s all right, I suppose. But I’ll probably be back in England within three months.”

  CHAPTER 1

  Singapore was laid out on the map before me. The north offered Woodlands, the gateway to Malaysia and beyond, and Kranji, home to the only wild crocodiles left on the island. The west promised the Chinese Garden, where I make an annual pilgrimage on my birthday. The south boasted a vomiting lion-fish and the east had Fairy Point. Fairy Point? That caused a double take. I had never heard of the place and certainly did not know that there was a designated area for fairies tucked away in the northeastern corner of Changi. That was definitely on the must-see list.

  So I closed the door behind me, took a deep breath and spent a few days walking around Toa Payoh. You do not want to overexert yourself on these things
. My trip needed the royal stamp of approval as I intended to follow in the footsteps of my queen. In 1972, Queen Elizabeth II, her hubby Big Phil and daughter Anne visited Toa Payoh and toured the blocks of 53 and 54 in Lorong 5 and I thought that exact location would make an appropriate starting point. Not because I am a royalist, but because it is only a 10-minute walk from my apartment.

  On the way, however, I was sidetracked by the biggest pair of pink knickers I had seen since my grandmother used to perform the cancan in her living room. I ambled past Block 99A and there they were in all their hypnotic glory. They caught my eye because they were one of three equally roomy, and equally pink, pairs, and they were not pegged to a bamboo pole, the traditional platform for breezy knickers, but hanging beneath a window. It was a cunning method because that side of the apartment block enjoyed direct sunlight. Every time the clouds parted, the pink frillies glowed, like a scene from the old TV programme Highway to Heaven. God obviously likes pink knickers.

  Those glowing knickers brought my attention back to Queen Elizabeth II and her visit to the Big Swamp. In Chinese, Toa means “big” and Payoh is the Malay word for “swamp”. So the royal family popped by the Big Swamp. Marvellous. Apparently, there had been a number of letters to The Straits Times in the 1960s and 1970s demanding that such an uncouth name be changed to something more tasteful (and snobbish) like Orchid Avenue. Fortunately, common sense prevailed.

  Toa Payoh was built on swampy ground and it was the largest housing estate in Singapore (rather like my native hometown of Dagenham curiously enough, which was once the biggest municipal housing estate on the planet and was built on Essex marshland beside the River Thames to the east of London), hence the name. The Big Swamp is both relevant and unique. Orchid Avenue belongs on a Monopoly board.