Scribbles from the Same Island Read online

  There is a tendency, however, to become too protective of one’s culture. Some Singaporeans can be very elitist when it comes to their dishes. Fish is my Singaporean failing. I simply don’t like it. I never have and I never will. End of story. But it isn’t. It’s never allowed to be in Singapore. Lengthy explanations are required to pacify your host and dinner guests; occasionally, it gets offensive. I have been told so many times: “You know, it’s actually quite rude not to eat a dish that’s been prepared for you.” I should reply: “You know, in England, it’s actually quite rude to humiliate someone in front of friends and strangers at a dinner table. You know, in England, it’s actually customary for me to smack you in your mouth about now.” But, of course, I refrain. I bite my tongue instead. That way, it becomes numb and I can no longer taste the fish.

  So I have a confession to make. For seven years now, I’ve been living a lie. It’s time for me to come clean, publicly, in this book. I’m not really allergic to fish. It doesn’t liquify my bodily waste and leave me sitting on the toilet for four hours. Nor does it make my eyes weep a yellow pus. Nor does it render me impotent. I’ve used all of these stories and more to pacify my dinner company, when they enquire about my non-fish eating. It’s a last-ditch attempt to thwart the oncoming sales pitch. But it rarely works.

  You see, if I don’t like the fish, my eating companions often try to ‘sell’ it to me. When informed that I don’t like fish, they look as if I’ve just stepped off a spaceship and reply: “But it’s been cooked steamboat style, you know. It’s really good.”

  “I believe you, but I just don’t really like fish. I never have.”

  “I know. But this tastes different. It’s cooked in a steamboat.”

  “I understand. But it wouldn’t matter if it was cooked in a canoe.”

  “But it’s been steamed. It’s been fried. It’s been grilled. It’s been boiled. It’s been baked, barbequed and roasted. It’s been firebombed and it’s one of Singapore’s most famous dishes, you know.”

  “I’m really sorry.” And then comes my favourite.

  “This fish is very expensive, you know.”

  “Look, it doesn’t matter if the fish has the brains of Free Willy, the figure of the Little Mermaid, has been boiled in liquid gold for 15 years and you had to sell your HDB flat to buy two kilograms, I really don’t like fish.”

  That’s when the comments usually come in about offending the cook, the custom, or the festival and how this ang moh doesn’t understand local culture. I do. I really do. I just don’t eat fish. That’s about as complicated as it gets. But that food protectorate is ever present. I rarely eat Western food, unless the girls at the office bring some back, because it’s too expensive. Yet the second a french fry touches my lips, someone from the Food Force seems to be on hand to say, “Why don’t you try fish ball noodles, roti john, nasi padang, chicken rice, rojak or satay? There’s so much more to eat than just burgers.” You don’t say.

  Yet I’ve got Chinese friends who won’t go near an Indian or a Muslim stall. I had a late night supper of chicken curry at an Indian stall, while a Chinese friend tactlessly informed me that he’d never order from a stall like that. I know Indians who have never eaten fish ball noodles in their life. And I once asked a Malay friend to pick up some char siew fun from the coffee shop and he didn’t know what barbecued pork rice was, even after I’d explained it to him. Yet, because my girlfriend is a vegetarian and I don’t take fish, we’re the ones who get criticised for not assimilating into another man’s culture? The hypocrisy is astounding. But we can’t even go there, can we? Religious and racial harmony and all that. Let’s not rock the steamboat. Point the finger at the ang moh instead. There will be less repercussions and, ultimately, it’s safer.

  That’s why my girlfriend’s vegetarianism is a testament to her patience. Having endured disparaging comments for over four years, she’s coped remarkably well. I would join her, but I know I would end up punching someone. Besides, as I’m always cruelly reminding the missus, mutton korma, nasi briyani and beef kway teow all taste so bloody good, don’t they?

  But the mood is changing. Most Singaporean teenagers wouldn’t consider vegetarians as freaks. The younger generations are increasingly spurning sharks fin soup, refusing to serve it at their wedding dinners. Singapore will evolve quite nicely in the hands of these brave, politically aware heroes of mine. They’ve watched the documentaries. They’ve witnessed what a despicable, bloody process removing the shark’s fin is. It’s hardly clinical. The sharks are often baited with fish and smashed over the head by the fishermen to keep them from struggling. The fins are hacked off in a pretty haphazard fashion and the shark is thrown back into the sea. Like mammals who have lost a limb, the shark will soldier on for a day or two in excruciating pain before succumbing to its fatal injuries.

  Without its fin, the imbalanced shark struggles to swim properly and he either drowns or bleeds to death. It is an agonisingly slow and painful death. The old Jaws argument that sharks fin soup ensures that mankind has one less maneating predator to worry about is utter nonsense. Shark attacks usually account for around 50 human deaths a year. They are usually accidental, with the shark often mistaking a surfboard for an injured seal. To avenge this statistic, man is responsible for around 100 million shark deaths a year, according to Wild Aid. That sounds fair.

  Yet, for these wonderful Singaporeans, it’s not just about saving the sharks. These guys face tremendous parental and peer pressure to maintain ‘face’ and follow Chinese tradition. Sharks fin soup, once served up by the Chinese aristocracy, represents affluence and wealth. In extreme cases of parental dogma, they risk alienation. To the older generations, not serving the traditional 10-course meal with all the usual dishes would be about as popular as not serving alcohol at a British wedding. But the couples are valiantly sticking to their guns and sharks fin soup is no longer the status symbol it perhaps once was. Just as it’s ‘cool’ among teenagers in America not to eat meat, it’s becoming ‘cool’ in Singapore not to serve Jaws’ broth at wedding dinners. I’m probably biased because you already know my stance on fish. But sharks fin soup tastes like cat’s piss to me so I’m all for keeping it off the menu.

  Moreover, public awareness, again among younger Singaporeans, concerning issues such as the environment, animal rights and the crumbling ecosystems is spreading rapidly. I know the government would like to take credit for this with their countless campaigns and community slogans, but the answer is far simpler — cable television. When I was a child, Ronald McDonald was an icon on television. Today, Singaporean children watch crocodile hunter Steve Irwin remind them that the ugliest lizard they’ve even seen, which is usually green, has three horns, five eyes and a protruding sphincter, is still a “beauty” that must be respected and protected.

  It was cable television that converted the missus. At times, I don’t know whether to celebrate or curse the day the Animal Planet Channel arrived in our living room. Normally, the soppy woman cries when Forrest Gump loses his mother or when ET leaves Earth, which actually makes the alien a ‘quitter’ in the eyes of the Singaporean government. But she cried me a river when Animal Hospital failed to save an iguana called Colin. And she is not alone. In HDB flats across Singapore, children are learning about the ecosystems of the South American rainforests on the Discovery Channel, the emotional intelligence of elephants on the National Geographic Channel and the lack of emotional intelligence of Steve Irwin on Animal Planet.

  Ironically, the Singaporean government resisted satellite television for years, fearing uncensored filth, pornography and sleazy behaviour would be beamed into our homes. But no one wants to watch the daily session of Britain’s House of Lords anyway. Instead, the government can hope that it might just end up with a generation of global citizens aware of issues beyond the economic sphere, who respect the moral choices of others. Not because the government tells them to, in the interests of religious and racial harmony, but simply because their underst
anding tells them it’s the right thing to do.

  I’m not saying that they should, or will, become vegetarians. That would be grossly hypocritical because, at the moment, I’m not one. But the new kids on Singapore’s block will be more informed and less inclined to say: “You don’t eat meat or fish? Never mind lah, you can eat this. It’s chilli crab.”

  THE TOURIST

  THE Bangkok weather was surprisingly cool; the riverboat was cruising along the Chao Phraya River and my view was obscured by an arse that could have covered Mount Everest.

  Prior to booking the Bangkok boat trip a couple of years back, I hadn’t realised that the Pentax pair were also coming. You’ve met them, right? They’re those red-faced ang moh tourists, usually American, with a penchant for floral shirts and knee-high white socks with sandals. They speak only one language — touristese — and they speak it loudly.

  On that Bangkok trip, they bellowed comments like: “Gee, Mary Jane, I got me a real Thai pauper here. He ain’t wearing nothing but a pair of ripped shorts and a toothless grin. He’s doing his laundry in the river. You see him, Mary Jane? Come on, honey, get your glasses on and get yourself some culture here. You see him? Right there, in front of his wooden stick house. Be quick now, Mary Jane, I got me the long lens on my Pentax ready, so you just wave and get that peasant to wave right back.”

  The Thai economy depends on the Pentax pair and their tourist brothers and sisters worldwide to bring in foreign currencies, by selling the more intimate aspects of its culture. And now, Singapore wants to do the same.

  In March 2003, the Singapore Tourism Board announced that it was contemplating taking over two vacant HDB blocks in Tiong Bahru Road so it could transform them into budget hotels. The idea is that tourists will scratch beneath Singapore’s superficial veneer to gain a greater understanding of real, heartland life. The scheme is aimed primarily at an increasingly affluent and jet-setting middle class in China, because they’re big spenders here. They are only in Singapore for a couple of days, but, apparently, they whip out the credit card more frequently than most other tourists, including the Americans and the British.

  Well, the average Chinese teenager must be beside himself with excitement after hearing of the Singapore Tourism Board’s plans here. “So let me get this straight, mum,” he will say, in Mandarin. “You want us to get on a plane, fly to Singapore... to look at people... living in tower blocks. No wait, that’s not quite correct, is it? You want us to look at predominately Chinese people living in tower blocks. Now that’s something I’ve never done before. Do you think I could rebook that appointment to have my irritable bowel removed?”

  Don’t get me wrong. I’m all for tourists moving away from the colonial track and the spectre of Stamford Raffles. It takes a week just to visit every statue, street, monument, school and so forth with the man’s bloody name on it. I don’t know about you, but I have better things to do with my time than listen to Singaporean tour guides say: “And on my left is a statue of a fat British imperialist with silly sideburns. And on my right is a street named after a fat British imperialist with silly sideburns. Indeed, in the days of the British Empire, Charles Dickens and public floggings, it was considered necessary for imperialists to be fat and have silly sideburns. They were prerequisites for the job. Public servants were required to resemble the Empire’s ruler — Queen Victoria.”

  And while we’re on the subject of Singaporean sightseeing, the city-state certainly has more to offer than the Merlion, which is the nation’s tourism symbol. Once the initial, disturbing image of a cross-dressing lion wears off, there is little to be excited about other than its basic plumbing.

  “Look at the Merlion spewing water. Isn’t it fabulous, kids?” Desperate tourists ask their distinctly unimpressed children as they glide along the Singapore River.

  “Yeah, mum. But our shower does that every day and we don’t all stand under that to take pictures, do we? If we did, mum, you’d be arrested. And another thing, mum, does this mean that Singapore was created when a randy Lion shagged a hormonal mermaid on the banks of the Singapore River?”

  Undoubtedly, providing the coach parties with more sightseeing options is certainly an admirable plan. But are the HDB heartlands of housing blocks the place to go? I can imagine the poor guide travelling past my block in Toa Payoh.

  “And on my left, ladies and gentlemen, we have the large troughs for leaflets and flyers. There has been a misconception, judging by the pungent smell, among those who believe them to be urinals. They are, in fact, a place to throw junk mail for lazy bastards who cannot walk two metres to the nearest dustbin.”

  But, to be honest, the notion of affluent tourists snapping away at HDB dwellers is both intrusive and patronising and I speak from experience on this one.

  Last year, some bright spark decided that my old hometown — that east London borough called Dagenham — was a suitable tourist destination. Having lived there for 20 years, I have no idea what the attraction is, but guided tours now snake around the streets. Coaches actually travel past the countless, two-storey terraced houses, which once formed the world’s largest municipal housing estate. There were rumours that some coach drivers actually got lost because every house looks the bloody same. The biggest mistake, though, was playing Groundhog Day on the coach’s video. Three Japanese tourists had a nervous breakdown that day.

  Aside from town planners and die-hard fans of Dudley Moore and Terry Venables (who were both born in Dagenham), it’s difficult to know what attracts sightseers to the place. You must understand that when the eyesore was designed in the 1920s, the London County Council’s architect obviously built the original model from Lego. Unfortunately, he only had red bricks left. Singaporeans might deride the monotony of HDB estates, but at least your blocks differ in shape and size.

  Apparently, Dagenham tour guides say things like: “On your left is Parsloes Park, a popular place for drunken teenagers to have sex and catch frostbite on their arses. Contraception is optional, ladies and gentlemen, and you might be interested to know that the London Borough of Barking and Dagenham has one of the highest rates of teenage pregnancy in Britain, which, in turn, has one of the highest teenage pregnancy rates in Europe. So you’re actually witnessing a social phenomenon here, you lucky devils.”

  “And on your right is the Robin Hood Pub, a popular place for drug dealers, drunken brawls and police raids. Though, in fairness, the pub does serve a bloody good pint of lager and a decent sausage sandwich.”

  I’m all for a greater understanding of another man’s culture, but when you intrude upon the working man’s abode, whether it be in Bangkok, Tiong Bahru Road or Dagenham, it’s not tourism; it’s just bloody kaypoh. We already have burglar alarms and grills on our windows to prevent unwelcome intruders from stopping by in the dead of night. Now, if you take the Singapore Tourism Board’s grand scheme to its logical conclusion, we’ve got to contend with chattering tourists in floral shirts shuffling along our corridors and poking their sunburnt noses through our windows.

  Would you want patronising coach parties turning up at your HDB block? Should the Pentax pair pay a visit to my home asking to take a cultural photograph of “the working-class ang moh hanging out the washing”, I will allow them to take just one, of a certain part of my anatomy, which I will then invite them to kiss. And you just know where that bamboo pole is going to end up...

  THE CASINO

  THE disturbed auntie was clearly unwell. Attempting to look through a crack in the door no more than 5 mm wide, the elderly Singaporean shouted: “Oi, what time you open, ah? Can come in or not?”

  Unsurprisingly, the crack in the door failed to reply. The auntie’s daughter, obviously embarrassed by a mother who likes bending over to talk to inanimate objects in public places, made an attempt to shoo the elderly woman away. It failed. So she made a last-ditch appeal to the auntie’s dwindling common sense.

  “Mama,” she started. “The casino will not open until we reach international
waters.”

  “International Waters,” came the reply. “Where’s that, ah?”

  I had only just been welcomed aboard a luxurious, five-star cruise ship when I stumbled upon this family cabaret.

  A fortnight earlier, my company said that it wouldn’t mind paying for its staff to enjoy an all-inclusive weekend cruise along the coast of Malaysia. What could I say? If TODAY newspaper wanted to celebrate its second birthday by feeding me six times a day in opulent luxury, then I would just have to grin and bear it.

  But I love cruise ships and all their inimitable quirks. Where else in the world can you be fined for throwing “foreign objects” down the toilet? Sitting on the ‘throne’, I read a warning that stipulated that “foreign objects” could cause a blockage and my room would be charged $200 to pay for the plumber.

  Terrified, I almost ran out into the corridor to check with a chambermaid. But I reasoned that the sight of a semi-naked Caucasian running at you with his trousers around his ankles, waving his tackle about while holding a toilet roll and screaming: “Was this made in Singapore? Is it a Singaporean toilet roll?” might be a tad disconcerting.

  The ship’s telephone operator was also in a league of her own. Eager to speak to a couple of mates, I called and said: “Can I have the room number of Kenneth Goh please?”

  “I’m sorry, he’s not on our guest list,” the breezy operator replied quickly. “Do you know his Chinese name?”

  I didn’t, so I tried another mate.

  “No, I can’t find a Mr. Leonard Thomas on the list either,” said the cheery operator. “Do you happen to know his Chinese name?”