Notes From an Even Smaller Island Page 2
With no hesitation whatsoever, I left for Singapore three months later.
My good friend Fran swears this story is true. He lives in Bukit Batok in the western part of Singapore and was late for work one day so he hailed a taxi. The taxi pulled over to the kerb and Fran got in. He was greeted by a middle-aged Chinese Singaporean in perpetual motion, suggesting that he might explode if he stopped moving. His English was a little broken and the brief exchange that followed will stay with me forever.
‘Hallo, where you go?’ began the taxi driver breezily enough.
‘Somerset Road, please.’
‘East Coast, you go East Coast?’ asked the taxi driver excitably.
The East Coast is a popular beach area among locals and tourists. I like the place but it is nowhere near Somerset Road, which is in the centre of town. In Singaporean terms, where you can be just about anywhere in 20 minutes, it is a million light years away from the East Coast.
‘No, thank you,’ continued Fran, ‘I want to go to Somerset Road.’
‘Yeah loh, East Coast, very nice. East Coast very pretty, what.’
‘No. I would like to go to Somerset Road, please.’
‘Oh... don’t want East Coast?’
‘No.’
‘But East Coast nice. You go East Coast.’
‘Somerset Road, please.’
‘Yah, East Coast, you go East Coast.’ The taxi driver was now having difficulty containing his excitement.
‘Look, Somerset Road, I have to go to Somerset Road,’ said Fran impatiently.
‘East Coast, nice place, what.’
‘Oh, fuck it.’ With that, my friend bid the near-hysterical man a fond farewell, strangled him and hunted for a saner taxi driver, which is by no means an easy task.
What is the point of mentioning this alongside my two muggings? Well, I believe that each incident provides a neat microcosm of both England and Singapore, or at least they do for me. Of course, not everybody who lives in or visits England will become a mugging victim and not every cab driver in Singapore is half-demented but it goes much further than that.
England had and continues to have a vibrant arts scene that I, as a young Englishman, miss terribly. I could give a million reasons why Oasis will never play in Singapore. All of them, like fans needing to get permission to stand up and dance, would be depressing. I miss having a few beers with friends without having to mortgage my house first and, most of all, I miss the country’s piss-taking sense of humour.
Nevertheless, Singapore gives me the one thing that I now cherish more than anything else – safety. Before people start thinking ‘Oh, here we go again’, I am not about to preach about the virtues of law and order. I agree that Singapore still has a long way to go in many respects and there are things about both the country and its people that drive me to distraction but I do feel that people here take their well-being for granted. Just think about those English and Singaporean incidents. The first gives an indication of the exciting freedom that a youth in England can have and the hedonism that money can buy. Make no mistake, sex, drugs and rock ’n’ roll were readily available to me as a teenager and pursuing all three can be great fun. It is not a big deal. However, following that path almost culminated in one of my friends being carved up by a drug addict. That is a big deal.
That is why I prefer the Singaporean story. In essence, it is irritating, impatient and, to some, may even be downright annoying but it is also quite humorous and, most importantly, comparatively harmless. This is how I view Singapore right now. I know that I will return to England because I miss my family but for me, right here, right now, this city-state in Southeast Asia is a wonderful place to be.
Chapter One
In Singapore, a food court is called a hawker centre and I did not experience one on my very first night in the country. After a twenty-hour journey, I had arrived with my good friend Scott, a promising young architect from Yorkshire, at Changi Airport earlier in the day. Now anyone who lands at Changi Airport and fails to be impressed is either a liar or Helen Keller. It is a staggering example of what modern architecture and human efficiency can achieve. For those seeking a contrast, visit Malaga Airport in Spain and, after fighting your way through loud, sunburnt British families in matching shell suits, take a casual look around. Be enthralled by the countless non air-conditioned buildings, the sweaty armpits and the delayed flights. Then return to Changi. You will consider it no longer an airport but a Mecca for seasoned travellers. Enjoy the pleasurable sensation when you are struck with an irrepressible desire to bend down and kiss the spotless carpets. Although I attempted to do just this, I was promptly told to get up by a police officer wielding a very large gun. I tried to explain the whole Mecca thing but I could tell he was not really interested.
Anyway, Scott and I waltzed through customs (that raised a few eyebrows) and then we met David. Lots of embracing followed before we stepped out into the November sunshine. Thwack! Unlike Greece or Egypt, where the heat gently strolls up and tickles you under the arms, the Singaporean humidity positively head-butts you. Scott was raining sweat and I was seriously blushing. In fact, things could have got pretty tricky if we had not removed our coats and scarves when we did.
On the way to his car, David said, ‘Did you bring umbrellas? There’s going to be heavy rain today.’
I could not see a single cloud in the stunningly clear blue sky. ‘Good one, Dave,’ I said, ‘you’re still as funny as a migraine.’
Five minutes into the journey and I thought we had got caught in the middle of a marble throwing tournament. I cannot say that it started to rain because it did not. It just rained. Sun. Rain. Sun. Then rain again. Welcome to the Singaporean monsoon season.
Like the impending visit of the Inland Revenue, there is no warning. It just happens. Clouds appear, the deluge hits you and you are left wondering for the one thousandth time how those old women living along your corridor instinctively know when to bring in their washing. Then, just as you have manoeuvred your life raft into position, the Sun comes out, the miraculous drainage system has cleared the water and you are left looking a fool in the middle of Orchard Road holding a pair of oars.
We reached David’s apartment in Toa Payoh, which is in central Singapore, shortly after. When he dropped off our two jet-lagged bodies into his apartment, he said there was a hawker centre opposite the apartment block if we got peckish.
Speaking to us as if we were mentally ill, David explained that a hawker centre is essentially a food court that contains a series of food stalls, each specialising in an Asian culinary delight. We simply go in, sit at one of the tables and wait for the person selling drinks to take our drink order. We then go to a stall, tell the hawker seller what we want and then retake our seats. Now what could be easier? At around 11 p.m., two tired young Englishmen set off on their first Asian adventure.
Following David’s instructions, we crossed the road and spotted lots of tables with matching chairs. People were sitting around these tables eating various dishes and talking quietly: so far so good. With a boyish eagerness, we found an empty table, sat down and waited for the drinks seller to come round. Time passed and we noticed that we were attracting some strange looks. I would not say that these looks were aggressive but rather shocked and puzzled. I assumed it was because we were in the heart of the Toa Payoh community, one of the oldest housing estates in Singapore. It is not every day that two Caucasians, one standing at 6 feet, 4 inches and the other just over five feet, walk into a hawker centre.
After about five minutes, the staring had intensified and the drinks seller still had not appeared. Suddenly, Scott, who is not usually known for his eloquence, exclaimed, ‘Fucking hell! There’s a fucking dead body over there.’
‘Where?’
‘There! Fucking there. The one who is lying down and not fucking breathing.’
‘Oh, shit. What are we going to do?’
‘Well, I’m not fucking staying here if that’s what the food does to
you.’
We stood up with an indescribable sense of urgency, leaving our numerous observers open-mouthed, and fled the scene wondering what the hell went on in this bizarre country. I mean, I have eaten at places where you pick out the fish you want before it is cooked but this was something else. Had we inadvertently stumbled upon some satanic cannibalistic ceremony, where ‘dishes’ were carefully displayed and chosen? Were we to be the next course on the menu à la steamed ‘ang moh’?
Of course not. We had simply walked into a funeral ceremony. If anyone who knew the deceased remembers two crazy jet-lagged white men treating the funeral service of their loved one like a restaurant, then I can only apologise. Having spent some time in the country, I now realise that funerals are often held at the bottom of apartment blocks in an area called the void deck. Should I now pass a funeral, I nod respectfully to those in attendance. But you have to admit that those wooden tables and red chairs are remarkably similar to the ones used in hawker centres.
We ended up having instant noodles before collapsing into bed where we proceeded not to sleep for almost six hours. The room had no air-conditioning so two exhausted Englishman, who had left brisk November temperatures of around 5–10°C, tried unsuccessfully to ignore the sweltering humidity and were forced to watch the Asian Sun rise.
We had heard about the ferocity of the local mosquitoes but being on the thirteenth floor, we had assumed that unless the flying pests were armed with rocket packs, we would be beyond their reach. We could not have been more wrong. Looking in the mirror the next day, we looked like we had spent a night in the village of the damned. The pulsating bites on Scott’s legs were so big that he had to go to the doctor for fear of having one of his calf muscles burst.
As our flesh began to resemble a plate of beans on toast, I asked David out of desperation what we could do.
‘Nothing,’ he laughed, ‘they only bite tourists.’
I have since concluded that he is right. I am not a doctor but I am sure that your immune system builds up some sort of defence to the ‘mossies’ as I seldom get bitten now. I have trekked through Bukit Timah Nature Reserve and I have cycled around the rustic island of Pulau Ubin. Each time, I have returned without so much as a peck on the cheek from our flying bloodsucking friends. So if you visit a new country and you spot one heading for the jugular, sing that country’s national anthem or greet the mosquito in the local language. This should confuse and disorientate him and he will fly off in search of a new tourist.
Thankfully, though, my first impressions of Singapore went beyond the psychological habits of the mosquito and I soon detected a trend that enabled me to make a profound observation: size does matter. In everything. Everywhere.
Genetically speaking, Asians are not as tall as Westerners. Men are usually short and stocky while women are shorter and more petite. Of course, these are very general descriptions. Singapore has a population that is rapidly racing past four million. The Chinese, at 77 per cent, make up the majority while 14 per cent are Malay and just over 7 per cent are Indian. Foreign workers, like myself, make up the rest. Hence, it would be ignorant to suggest that the average Singaporean is of a certain height or build. However, it would be fair to say that I have yet to meet a Singaporean who is just over 1.92 metres tall, long-legged and has size 12 feet. Yet that figure stands before me in the mirror every morning. It also followed a dear old Chinese lady into a lift on the ground floor of an apartment block in Toa Payoh one afternoon. She looked at me, muttered something in Chinese and got out of the lift as fast as her little legs could carry her. The lift was still on the ground floor. I wanted to chase after her and say that I had just moved in but I figured that a lanky Caucasian chasing after a little old Chinese lady in flip-flops might cause a bit of a scene to passers-by.
Nevertheless, it must be said that if Singapore is guilty of any kind of ‘ism’, it has to be ‘heightism’. I was once standing in a mini-mart, having a chat with the owners, when I felt a fly brush past my trouser leg. Thinking nothing of it, I swiped the fly away with my hand and carried on talking. Collecting my change, I felt the brushing sensation below my left knee again, only this time it felt more like a tug. I looked down to find the cutest little Chinese boy fiddling with my trouser leg with his right hand as he held his mother’s hand with the other. He could have been no more than two years old but he had balls the size of watermelons. He made eye contact with me by craning his head so far back that it was almost at right angles with his spine. He then pointed up at me and bellowed in an astonishingly loud voice, ‘Wah, so tall ah!’ Looking exceedingly pleased with himself, he then started to giggle. I resisted the temptation to launch him into orbit with a swift dropkick and found myself laughing with him. His mother’s red-faced apologies only made me laugh even more.
There was another incident in the same shop that not only shows the problems I have suffered with my height here but also demonstrates what a complete prat I am. I was once again being served and as I moved my arm suddenly to reach for my wallet I felt a dull thud against my right elbow, followed quickly by a distinct ‘ooh’ sound. Looking round, I saw a frail old Chinese woman rubbing her chin while repeatedly muttering ‘ooh’. Quickly calculating her height and recalling the circular motion of my arm, I realised I had socked the poor woman on the jaw. I felt terrible. I mean it was an awful situation that was not helped when I spotted two schoolboys over her shoulder turning purple in their efforts not to explode with laughter. Anyone who has ever been in such a situation knows the predicament I was in. The episode was not without humour, to say the least, and laughter is contagious. Had those boys erupted (and the shopkeeper was not far behind), I would have followed and I know that laughing in the old dear’s face would not have been the appropriate reaction. My precarious position was made worse by her apparent inability to say anything other than ‘ooh’.
Biting my lip, I said, ‘Auntie, I’m really, really sorry.’
‘Ooh,’ she replied, rubbing her chin.
‘I don’t know what to say. It was an accident.’
‘Ooh,’ came the reply once again.
The rubbing gathered momentum as the auntie adopted this endearing, puzzled expression that suggested she still was not quite sure what had happened. I wish I could lie but I had caught her squarely on the jaw and, to this day, I am amazed she remained on her feet. Eventually, she generously accepted my apology and I helped this wonderful woman, who was still ‘oohing’ and rubbing, out of the shop. If I am ever about to reach for my wallet now, I get the coastguard to conduct a thorough search first. I have also realised that laughing at old ladies who have been smacked on the jaw shows a complete lack of emotional intelligence. But, my God, it was funny.
It took me about a week to realise that Singapore does not cater for tall people at all. Admittedly because it does not have that many. When travelling on the Mass Rapid Transit (MRT) underground train system, the annoying handgrips that are suspended from the roof of each carriage have dealt me many a deft blow. On several occasions, I have had my pleasant daydreaming shattered by one of those stupid things smacking me on the back of the bloody head. Is it essential for these handles to wobble? It makes no difference to balance. I hold the fixed steel pole from which the handles hang and I have not fallen over yet. No, I believe the handles are deliberately made to be flexible by geeky engineers who thought it would be a titteringly-good idea to watch unsuspecting commuters get bludgeoned with them.
Additionally, I have no choice but to make a spectacle of myself every time I alight from a train. It is a real chore. When I am focused, I stoop slightly as the doors open so the sight of a tall, skinny hunchback greets everyone on the platform. That is fine. When, however, I am half-asleep, I get my head taken off by the low doorframe and it is extremely painful. That is most certainly not fine. When this happens, the doors open and those waiting on the platform are greeted by a lanky Caucasian rubbing his head and shouting, ‘For fuck’s sake!’ Yes, it is that painful.
It does not stop there. Lift buttons, doorframes, rotating fan blades, off-the-peg clothing, shoes and urinals in public toilets – my height and build has caused problems in all these areas. In fact, ceiling fans are a particular nuisance.
My first job here was as a speech and drama teacher. At a preschool one day, I was teaching a young class of toddlers the song “If you’re happy and you know it, clap your hands”. Noticing it was time to end the class, I sang, ‘If you’re happy and you know it, wave goodbye.’ I then threw my hands up in the air. The rotating fan blades above swiftly brought them back down again. I was lucky enough to escape with a bad cut on my left hand. I thanked my lucky stars, though, because the kids enjoyed piggyback rides. The idea of receiving the death sentence for decapitating a pre-school child did not seem too appealing. I taught in that room for a year and no matter how much the sweat poured from the foreheads of those poor children, the fan was never switched on. The children might have lost a few kilos but they left the room in one piece.
To give an indication of the height and weight differences between me and the average Singaporean, I recently spent six hours scouring Orchard Road to find a collared shirt. I was not looking for a Ralph Lauren or a Hugo Boss but more of a Neil Humphreys, i.e., a shirt that fitted. There proved to be just one shop that had shirt sleeve lengths that matched my own. Consequently, I have devised a new shopping technique to save on the unnecessary preamble. On entering, I immediately ask the shop assistant to measure my arm length to see if they stock anything that matches it, usually something that Ah Meng, the orang-utan at Singapore Zoo, might have grown bored with. This process, save the assistant’s giggling, takes about 30 seconds and I am soon sent on my way with the cry, ‘Try Mr Frankenstein’s tailors on the corner, you freak!’ It may be humiliating but it does save time.