Return to a Sexy Island Read online

  “It is often said that an outsider sees truths that a local cannot. Neil Humphreys’ witty, insightful, warm-hearted take on life in Singapore (warts and all) proves that point over and over again.”

  Shamini Flint, author, Inspector Singh Investigates mystery series

  “Neil Humphreys sheds a good humoured and tolerant light on Singaporeans. After a sojourn Down Under he is back in town, revealing his fondness for all our foibles—vomit, kaka, casinos and more! Give him honorary citizenship!”

  Lim Kay Tong, actor, Growing Up, Mee Pok Man, Perth, The Photograph, The Pupil

  “Singapore is lucky to have Neil Humphreys—an ang moh visiting places we have never been to, recounting histories we are unaware of and, most importantly, showing us how to laugh, love and forgive all the imperfections of this little island we call home.”

  Chew Gek Khim, executive chairman, The Straits Trading Co. Ltd.

  “Whenever Singaporeans gripe about ‘foreign talent’ crowding our shores, they always give Neil Humphreys an exemption, and with good reason. Not afraid to be critical, but also clearly affectionate about the people of our crazy little republic, Neil’s work is always astute and filled with generous humour. Not say I say what, but Singapore can’t be all bad if we managed to lure someone as talented as he is back.”

  Colin Goh, writer/director, Talking Cock the Movie, Singapore Dreaming

  “Neil Humphreys is a believer—he believes that the human spirit will prevail to make things better all around. So he writes his stories with humour, an eye for detail and, most importantly, an empathy for the downtrodden. I’m glad that he has always reserved a special place in his heart for migrant workers— ‘maids’, construction workers, undocumented workers. In his own unique way, he has given a nudge or two, jabbed us once in a while in the ribs, asking us to see how migrant workers are human beings with similar aspirations, quirky habits, fears, as many of us. Singapore has become richer with Humphreys’ observations and commentaries.”

  Braema Mathi, former NMP, founder-president of Transient Workers Count Too and President of MARUAH, a human rights NGO

  “We should do a Neil Humphreys Musical. It would be completely Singaporean, in Singlish, absolutely irreverent but at the heart of it, true. With so many ‘Notes’ already written, all we need to do is to put them together and we’ve got a hit musical on our hands. Double confirm!”

  Hossan Leong, actor, The Singapore Boy

  “Neil Humphreys has that rare gift of telling non-Singaporeans what they would never in a million years otherwise know about our glorious Island, and telling Singaporeans about what we think we already know about ourselves, and making us go, “**** ... I never thought about it that way!” Reading his book once made me laugh so hard I squirted kopi out of my nostrils onto my Bermudas. And now he returns to find that our island has got its sexy back. Warning: This book is a High Squirt Zone and can be hazardous to your shorts.”

  Adrian Pang, actor, Forever Fever, Spy Game, The Pupil

  “A more local kind of ang moh

  You’d be severely pressed to find

  A jaundiced view, nay, honest

  His musings come to mind

  The chap is tall as gangly

  For useful observations found

  The bits they say are dangly

  Five feet off the ground

  We’ve claimed for our own, Neil Humphreys

  In truth forsooth, God knows

  Long stick his nose in our business

  And his business long stick in our nose.”

  Will Xavier, veteran broadcaster

  “I read what he wrote. I read what was written about him. Then I met him. He was all of what I thought he would be. And more. The Ang Moh who lived in Toa Payoh. The Ang Moh who wrote local stories. Of course the stories are coloured. With a different sensibility. But at long last we have reached a point where we have a foreign local writer, if there is ever such a thing. As a filmmaker, I am looking forward to working with Neil. Someone with a perspective from within and without. Someone who may just connect this red dot with the world. In local and international colours.”

  Daniel Yun, film producer, I Not Stupid, The Eye, 881, Painted Skin

  “Singapore is almost impossible to understand adequately if you use outsider measures to gauge it. Though British humour columnist Neil Humphreys is anything but a native, he writes so knowingly—and so well—that if Singapore’s Ministry of Culture had any sense of humour at all, it would hire him as a consultant to lighten the place up some more. But the Ministry doesn’t. Fortunately Humphreys does—in warmly agreeably huge doses.”

  Tom Plate, university professor, author of Conversations with Lee Kuan Yew: Citizen Singapore—How to Build a Nation

  “Whatever you may think about the man, Neil Humphreys is never ever boring. The hours will melt away when you have got a book of his in your hands. And his latest effort, Return to a Sexy Island, is no exception. Told in his inimitably humorous, wickedly irreverent style, Sexy Island is one side of Singapore that many of us have suspected was always there but thank God for Neil, the man has the rare ability to put such indelicate thoughts into words. Lesser mortals would have been hounded into bankruptcy for daring to say what he has. And Sexy Island says it all. Reading his latest, sexy masterpiece, he talks about ladies of the night cavorting in Goodwood Park Hotel (fancy that) and the most impressive phallic symbol at the waterfront—gave me a tingly feeing (quite a rare experience these days for a man in his twilight years). I especially liked that part when Neil went skinny dipping in MacRitchie Reservoir ... No, I won’t go on. That would be spoiling your fun.”

  Clement Mesenas, Pinoy Star editor, author of The Last Great Strike—The untold story of the Straits Times shutdown of 1971

  “Most part Brit, generous portions of Singaporean and an all round hoot of an author, Neil is nothing less than a national treasure.”

  Hamish Brown, veteran broadcaster

  “You think you got balls? This ang moh writer got bigger balls.”

  Royston Tan, writer/director of Sons, Hock Hiap Leong, 48 on AIDS, Mother, 15: The Movie, 4:30, 881, 12 Lotus

  “ ‘Irreverent’ is probably the word most commonly used to describe our author and his work(s). But it is not the only one. A random review might reveal a few we all recognise: provocative, controversial, cheeky, naughty, outrageous. Some may go further and include blasphemous, saucy, profane, impertinent.”

  Kirpal Singh, author of short stories and poems

  © 2012 Marshall Cavendish International (Asia) Private Limited

  Cover image and design by Bernard Go Kwang Meng

  The publisher would like to thank Marina Bay Sands for their assistance and use of the Sands SkyPark.

  Published by Marshall Cavendish Editions

  An imprint of Marshall Cavendish International

  1 New Industrial Road, Singapore 536196

  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 spec
ial, incidental, consequential, or other damages.

  Other Marshall Cavendish Offices

  Marshall Cavendish Ltd. PO Box 65829, London EC1P INY, UK • Marshall Cavendish Corporation. 99 White Plains Road, Tarrytown NY 10591-9001, USA • Marshall Cavendish International (Thailand) Co Ltd. 253 Asoke, 12th Flr, Sukhumvit 21 Road, Klongtoey Nua, Wattana, Bangkok 10110, Thailand • Marshall Cavendish (Malaysia) Sdn Bhd, Times Subang, Lot 46, Subang Hi-Tech Industrial Park, Batu Tiga, 40000 Shah Alam, Selangor Darul Ehsan, Malaysia

  Marshall Cavendish is a trademark of Times Publishing Limited

  National Library Board, Singapore Cataloguing-in-Publication Data

  Humphreys, Neil.

  Return to a sexy island / Neil Humphreys. – Singapore : Marshall Cavendish Editions, 2012.

  p. cm.

  Other title: Notes from a new Singapore

  eISBN : 978-981-4398-85-5

  1. Singapore – Anecdotes. 2. Singapore – Humor. I. Title. II. Title: Notes from a new Singapore

  DS609

  959.57 — dc23 OCN793373104

  Printed in Singapore by KWF Printing Pte Ltd

  Acknowledgements

  Uncle Leslie and Chris have been asking for a new island book ever since I hit the final full stop in the last one. When I finally returned to Singapore, they called the following morning to check if the new island book was ready. I appreciate their support and hope I can switch my phone back on now.

  Stephanie, Mei Lin and the MCIA team soon whipped me into shape. Bernard made sense of my journey with a damn fine map and took the terrifically sexy cover shot of new Singapore. (All at Marina Bay Sands were good sports to finally let me get my feet wet.) As for the peerless Katharine, well, she remains an editor beyond compare. We started our island journey more than 10 years ago and she still scares the crap out of me.

  Honourable handshakes must also go to Ben Slater for supporting my search for Saint Jack and Singapore’s Otterman, N. Sivasothi, for answering my daft questions about wildlife, mangroves, escaped fugitives and haunted houses.

  As always, I must thank my wonderful wife for tolerating my lost days in the jungle and my daughter for occasionally playing Dora to my Diego. I now look forward to her notes on Singapore.

  Prologue

  MY next-door neighbour was going to hit me. He was actually going to punch me in the face. This wasn’t the Australian Dream, not a sober Australian dream anyway. Owning your own home—now that’s the Aussie dream and I’d already done that. I had bought into the whole suburban ideal, complete with lawnmower, cream-coloured picket fence, leaf-blowing machine, the lot. My garage was filled with household items that had once been obscure but were now apparently essential: weed killer, lawn fertiliser, L-shaped lawn-edge cutting thingies, tins of paint and even secateurs. I didn’t even know what secateurs were but I still knew that I had to have them. I still don’t know how to spell the damn things (I had to spellcheck these ones). Once I was bending over the driveway trimming my beloved, hand-reared indigenous plants when the neighbour said, “That’s a nice pair of secateurs you’ve got there.” I thought I had a hole in my shorts. In truth, I often did have a hole in my shorts but that only added to my newfound Australian masculinity. Weekends were spent oiling decks, painting window frames, assembling bookcases, landscaping gardens and adjusting garage roller doors (usually by smacking them with a hammer and shouting, “Open, you little bastards.”). I even had my own paint-spattered, oil-stained work shirt. I really was living the Australian Dream.

  Singapore, my former home, my spiritual home, had never seemed further away.

  My next-door neighbour took a step towards me and raised a malevolent fist. The Aussie dream was assuming nightmarish proportions. When my wife and I scratched the travel itch again back in September 2006 and left Singapore for Australia, we hadn’t anticipated a close encounter with the next-door neighbour’s clenched mitt. Being wide-eyed nature lovers, we had hoped for the odd date with a dopey, but adorable, echidna, the occasional sighting of a sleeping koala and a lolloping Eastern grey kangaroo bounding home across the paddocks in its daily race to beat the sunset. We had wanted to follow in the footsteps of the irreverent Steve Irwin and explore Australia’s sizeable backyard.

  Steve Irwin was killed by a stingray before we’d even had a chance to unpack our suitcases. Perhaps that was an ominous sign. It certainly was for Steve Irwin.

  Using the hand that wasn’t balled into a fist, my next-door neighbour pointed at the water tanks along the side of my house. It made him look like an unhinged air traffic controller.

  “I’ll tell you what my problem is,” he bellowed, after I’d asked gently what his problem was. “It’s them fucking water tanks.”

  Ah, the water tanks. They were my financial contribution to tackling climate change, Australia’s crippling drought and the global decline of the world’s most precious resource. I fancied myself as the Public Utilities Board (PUB) of the Aussie suburbs. If I couldn’t acquire water from Malaysia or, in my case, the neighbouring suburb (I had tried but all that bucket-carrying at 4 a.m. was getting suspicious), I decided I would trap and harvest the rainwater in my gutters like a conscientious global citizen and filter it through to the toilets and washing machine. In Singapore, I would have been applauded for demonstrating such initiative, even rewarded for fulfilling my civic duties (and possibly fined for installing two 2500-litre water tanks in the common corridor). In Australian suburbia, I was being castigated because the cream-coloured tanks blocked the view of ... the cream-coloured bricks of my house. People get publicly flogged for less in the suburbs.

  “You didn’t ask for my permission,” the rocking, fist-waving, pointing neighbour cried, making a fine stab at replacing Andy Serkis, should the actor ever grow tired of the ape-acting, motion capture game.

  “Your permission for what?” I enquired. “The tanks are on my property. They block no views. They are up against my brick wall, which is the same colour, cover no windows and are tucked beneath the gutter.”

  “They’re a bloody eyesore. You should’ve asked for permission.”

  My next-door neighbour took another step towards me, his bluster swiftly giving way to outright belligerence. Now I’m not a fighting man by any means. The last time I had a fight was with Matthew Vickers back in Secondary 2. Vickers had cut the queue so I unleashed a sneaky knee to his ribs before he landed a sly blow to my eye. I then proceeded to pummel him with a series of punches that elicited a number of giggles from the gaggle of onlookers. I was well on top when Mr White, an English teacher who, despite the cool name, looked nothing like Harvey Keitel and had a ginger moustache, hauled us off to the principal’s office, where I promptly shit myself. The fact that I remember this petty punch-up so proudly indicates how woefully inadequate I am in such circumstances. But I was still twice the size and half the age of my next-door neighbour. He was certainly brave. Nevertheless, his vacant, absent stare indicated that the point of no return had long since passed. Violence was the only conceivable option now.

  This wasn’t supposed to have happened. I loved Australia. I still love Australia with its dramatic landscapes, its endearing but exasperating weather patterns, its admirable sense of “fair go” for all, its quaint obsession with domestic football codes that are irrelevant beyond most state borders (let alone national ones) and the country’s ability to produce the stupidest animals. (Kangaroos will wait patiently in a paddock for that solitary car to approach at 100 km/h and only then will they decide to cross the road, staring wide-eyed at the speeding vehicle as if to say, “Shit. Where did you come from?” I rest my case.)

  Australia had been a prosperous place for my family for more than five years, in every sense. Our beautiful daughter was born Down Under and one of her first words was “echidna”, swiftly followed by “Your dad’s a Pommy bastard.” (It is a state and federal law in Australia that the adjectival “Pommy” must always be affixed by “bastard”. Traditionally, “Pommy” was usually followe
d by “poofter” but we now live in enlightened times.) We bought our first home in Australia, made many dear friends there and I somehow found the time to write three books that didn’t have “island” in the title.

  But something wasn’t quite right. After five years, the travel itch needed scratching again. But it was more than that. I was starting to sound like That Really Annoying Expat. You know the one. He drones on endlessly about how wonderful the mother country is without ever actually returning there, rather like the Irish expats in New York or Indian expats living anywhere but in India. It’s all superior culture this and superior cuisine that while overlooking the more obvious negatives such as the flailing economy in Ireland and the horrendous poverty in India.

  I had become That Really Annoying Expat. But instead of championing the wonders of my hometown of Dagenham in East London (which is rather difficult to do when teenage residents are caught on camera mugging injured Malaysian students during a looting spree), I would tediously begin every sentence with “This would never happen in Singapore ...” or “In Singapore, you’d never see such municipal inefficiency ...” or “In Singapore, the prospect of running out of water would not be allowed ...” or “In Singapore, the airlines are more cost-effective. Tiger Airways is going to take down Jetstar.”

  You see. I wasn’t always right.

  But the sentiment was proving to be stubbornly consistent. The Little Red Dot rants were not anti-Australian or anti-British, just pro-Singaporean, pro-efficiency, pro-progress, pro-just-getting-the-bloody-job-done. Distance was making the heart grow if not fonder, then certainly more appreciative. I had swapped one country with no natural resources for one with natural resources in comparative abundance and before you could say, “Let’s just dig it all up and sell it to China”, I found myself saying things like “Singapore went from third world to first world in a single generation, yet I can’t post a letter here after 5 p.m. ... Singapore has no natural resources and yet Australia is sending delegations there to learn how to manage its water supply ... Singapore is selling knowledge to the world, Australia is selling brown coal. Which one will last longer?”