Scribbles from the Same Island Page 2

  Yet, our friend hung on Prat’s every word and even attempted to ape his plummy Hugh Grant accent, which was hilarious, because she would flit from Emma Thompson to Liang Po Po in a single sentence. For example, one day over lunch, she told me that Prat’s hair was ginger, only she pronounced it with two ‘Gs’ (as in got or go). I nearly choked on my sesame chicken.

  She now wears clothes where the labels are actually genuine and not pasted on by the uncle at the pasar malam (night market) — and Prat has a stunningly attractive woman on his arm who pretends to find his jokes funny. Do they love each other and is there a future in the relationship? I have no idea. It is never easy to mesh cross-cultural values together anywhere in the world.

  I know the traditional Asian value of filial piety will be a stumbling block eventually, because Ms. Papa Joe’s has elderly parents here and yet both she and Prat want to live in the English countryside (naturally) — so something has got to give.

  Prat also finds it extremely difficult to have sex with his partner when he knows her parents are asleep in the next room. After all, they are not 18 anymore. But he always seems to get the job done, nonetheless.

  As for me, I personally hope that genuine Singaporean girls want more out of a relationship than just regular sex, an affected, artificial accent and Prada bags.

  If they don’t and they’re really that empty, then they might as well rip up the Women’s Charter and follow Prat back to the caves, where they can sit around and laugh at “oh-so-Western-aren’t-we-intellectual” type jokes.

  To be honest, I’d rather have a meaningful relationship with a taxi driver than an SPG. It’d be more stimulating and my girlfriend wouldn’t cut my testicles off for it.

  NEIL’S NOTE: I was actually asked to write this article by a women’s magazine. Initially, I was most reluctant to touch on the subject of SPGs because it was such a cliché. My first book avoided the topic, quite deliberately, almost completely. So I agreed to write the piece, only on condition that I could go beyond the tanned legs and the sarong jokes to talk about this discernible obsession in some quarters with all things Western, which, quite frankly, gets on my bloody nerves. But the magazine article caused quite a stir, so my editor reproduced it in TODAY and it all got a little bit surreal after that. For a couple of weeks, I became one of Singapore’s most loathed/loved men all at once. Despite the ongoing water disputes with Malaysia at that time, it became one of the most popular discussion topics in the country. Unsurprisingly, Singaporean men praised it and those in inter-racial relationships, er, didn’t! But over 80 per cent of the responses were complimentary, rather than critical.

  And somehow, it gave birth to a weekly column. But some of the replies I received, well!

  THE REPLIES

  WELL, I have ruffled a few feathers, haven’t I? My relatively harmless topic of superficial, inter-racial relationships has generated the sort of response usually reserved for greedy bus operators who extort an extra five cents from their customers.

  The newspaper that I work for, TODAY, received more letters about SPGs, Western wannabes and Caucasians living in Singapore than it did on the government’s Newater recycling scheme and on transport operators’ plans to increase fares on buses.

  What does this suggest? That we will tolerate drinking water that has been urinated in but don’t mess with us when it comes to white men and Singaporean women or you will really piss us off (pun intended)?

  The SPG piece has been lauded for its honesty, despised for its “stereotypical comments”’ and applauded for addressing a taboo subject in Singapore.

  I have been warned by one irate writer that I should remember that “generalisations are dangerous” in Singapore. More dangerous, it would seem, than drinking recycled water. She added that I am an expat who does not have a “housing allowance, much less a company car and definitely no fat wallet”.

  No arguments there but she hinted that this was because I was an “ugly bugger”. A tad harsh, but it’s true that I avoid job applications that state: “Ugly buggers need not apply”.

  The most perceptive criticism came from a Singaporean girl who had just returned from her studies in Britain. Understandably, she was critical of my claim that some Singaporeans return from the West with a touch of Western wannabe-itis. She wrote: “Mr. Humphreys, obviously male, is writing about female culture in Singapore — SPGs and what have you.”

  Well, I hold my hands up on that one. It is true that I am male; and in some aspects, “obviously so”, though not in others, which is most unfortunate. So I suppose being male — that terrible, genetic failing of mine — must have had a subjective bearing upon my writing. Though the criticisms were most welcome, they were surprisingly few. The article certainly touched a nerve with so many Singaporeans.

  One writer, obviously female, wrote: “I must say that your observation is something that most of us are embarrassed to talk about. It has become a norm to see a Singaporean girl-Western male couple. I’ve seen middle-aged Western guys with young Singaporean girls along Orchard Road, buying them branded stuff.”

  Well, who hasn’t? And, according to some readers, it isn’t just about money. One writer, who was also educated in Britain, wrote: “I guess some of them do it for the money. Many of them do it for what they imagine to be glamour. Little do these sad creatures know that back home, many ang mohs here are working-class individuals.”

  Another reader added: “Most local women don’t realise that these ang mohs are your average Joe in England. They are only somebody in Singland, primarily because they are ‘white’ (no racist remark intended).”

  None taken because, as I mentioned last week, I could name a handful of Caucasians who fall into that category, as could many other Singaporeans, it would seem.

  It was interesting to see the situation from the other side of the fence. A Singaporean wrote: “My ex-girlfriend clearly suffers from the ‘Western’ syndrome, the details of which are too painful to put down in writing.”

  Of course, there were those who saw such “bitching” as a case of sour grapes. Letters arrived from people who are in happy inter-racial relationships, complaining that the article was too harsh. But even one of the sternest critics, on the subject of SPGs and Western wannabes, admitted: “That’s not to say there aren’t any. I know a few.”

  Don’t we all? Judging by the overwhelming response from readers, many Singaporeans certainly do. That’s the point. And, thankfully, it’s hardly a taboo subject now. The can of worms has been spilt all over Emerald Hill. But then, would you rather talk about drinking water?

  NOTE: Six months after the article and the subsequent reply came out — and I’m not making this up — my old friend Fran called me up and asked: “Did you say in the press that you wouldn’t date a Singaporean woman?” Now this was a delicate issue, to say the least, because I’ve known Fran for years. And he’s Canadian. And he’s married to a Singaporean. But when I explained that I never said that at all, but merely commented on those who are only in it for the money and the social status, he was pacified. It transpired, though, that he’d been in Canada on vacation and when he’d returned, he heard a couple of colleagues refer to the article. Six months after it came out! It’s bizarre. Nothing I have ever written before or since has touched a Singaporean nerve like the subject of inter-racial relationships. Funny, that.

  THE DOCTOR

  I DON’T like doctors. I didn’t like them in England and, until recently, I didn’t like them in Singapore. From the first time I heard the words, “You’ll just feel a little prick in your bottom”, I’ve viewed all forms of medical practice with a respectful distrust.

  This uneasy relationship began when I was four years old. Sitting in the back of a delivery van with no seat belt on, my father hit the brakes sharply and I attempted, quite spontaneously, a Superman impression from a sitting position. The subsequent head injury required six stitches and my first ever tetanus injection.

  Having been forced to expose my t
ender bottom to a rather buxom nurse (weren’t they all, back then?), she whispered that immortal sentence involving “pricks” and “bottoms” for the first time. There was a slight pause, which allowed a builder to come in and insert a pneumatic drill up my arse.

  Laying face down on the bed, my legs kicked out like a bucking horse, striking the terrified nurse in the chest. Though in truth, this was a difficult target to miss.

  She jumped back clutching her breasts, I waddled off the bed with my trousers around my ankles like a petrified penguin and my mother slapped me for embarrassing her in a public place.

  Since then, I have treated every successive visit to the doctor’s surgery with mild apprehension, though my phobias of needles and breasts have subsided in recent years. But last week, the fear of all things clinical returned with a vengeance in the surreal waiting room of a doctor’s surgery in Toa Payoh. My regular doctor, over in Lorong 8, was closed and I required urgent treatment for a brain tumour. What this hypochondriac really needed, of course, was a stronger pair of contact lenses and a deft blow to the head for wasting the doctor’s time.

  Luckily, I stumbled upon a doctor’s surgery in Toa Payoh Central, which was still open. Two things should have struck me at this point. Firstly, how many private surgeries do you know that stay open after 8pm on a Saturday? Secondly, there was not a single patient in the waiting room, just two young receptionists watching a Chinese drama.

  After registering at the counter, I started to read the posters in the waiting room. I was struck dumb with terror. My regular surgery had the usual warnings about vaccines for polio and hepatitis, but these were something else. For a start, they were handmade with marker pens and a stencil, which gave them a personal, homely touch. But the lines were jagged and shaky and I swore to myself that whoever the artist was, he would never be granted the opportunity to insert a needle in my bottom unless there was either an anaesthetic or copious amounts of vodka involved. Not that I was ever going to let myself be treated by a man who offered such a diverse, bizarre range of services.

  On a single poster, he offered medical check-ups for work permits, hair replacement programmes, treatment for “sexual problems”, medicine to improve the passage of stools and ear piercing! I pictured patients walking into the surgery, with some difficulty of course, and saying: “I’ve come to speed up my stool movement, not to mention my sex drive, and while I’m here, do you think you could put in these lovely diamond earrings because I’m going to a swanky dinner and dance.” I’m sure she would look beautiful at the dinner, just make sure you’re not caught sitting next to her when the stool potion kicks in.

  If that wasn’t enough, though, there was a printed poster next to the homemade efforts, which tackled the issue of herpes around the genitalia. Little was left to the imagination, but I’m afraid I’m going to leave it to yours. Let’s just say there were enough graphic images of both men and women to put you off having sex — for the rest of your life.

  Perhaps if the doctor offered a “set treatment”, like a “set meal” at an economy rice stall, his waiting room would have more patients. Something like, one Viagra, a clear back passage, two earrings and free-flowing hair for 100 dollars.

  The Chinese doctor was a most affable chap, who admitted that he specialised in cosmetic surgery, hence the unusual treatments and services on offer. But his surgery struck me as somewhat ironic. According to stereotype, Singaporeans are supposed to be the boring, ultra-conservative Asians and the British are supposed to be the gregarious, liberal Westerners. Yet every male member of my family, back in England, would cut his penis off before discussing his sex problems with a National Health Service doctor. In Toa Payoh, no discussion is even needed; one can point at poster A, B or C and say: “I’ve got that one there. The one with lots of weeping fluids.”

  I was so impressed by the openness of the surgery. After all, what is there to be ashamed of?

  With National Day fast approaching, there is the usual talk of what it means to be a Singaporean, what makes a Singaporean a Singaporean and so on. Well, I propose that this Aug 9, we celebrate the unique and wonderful diversity of the average doctor’s surgery in Singapore.

  I’m no globetrotter, but I’ve visited enough countries to know that any medical establishment that can cure constipation and fix a receding hairline in one sitting is pretty special and a cause for celebration, surely. You don’t think it will take off? Well, that’s what cynics said about Viagra.

  NOTE: The doctor’s surgery is still there in Toa Payoh. Funnily enough, I’ve never been back since.

  THE CROCODILE

  CALL me a geek, but I visited the excellent Raffles Museum of Biodiversity Research recently. I went because I had read somewhere that old Stamford Raffles, Singapore’s founder and British imperialist, was a bit of a naturalist. Rather excited by this, I went to the Museum at the National University of Singapore hoping to find lots of old oil paintings of Raffles in the buff and baring both cheeks for the artist.

  Imagine the postcards one could send from Singapore. The two statues of the old Imperialist would have to be knocked down and two new erections would be in order. But, alas, Raffles the naturalist had a love for all things living and enjoyed cataloguing various plants and animals in his spare time. Apparently, he was fascinated by zoology and founded the famous London Zoo in Regents Park.

  I’m sure all this nature talk is riveting, so allow me to reveal what I discovered at the Raffles Museum — there are still WILD CROCODILES IN SINGAPORE! Not baby ankle-biters that could give a nasty nip on your big toe, you understand, but two-metre-long buggers that can split you in two with a mere peck on the torso.

  I bet that’s got your attention, because it certainly got mine in the Raffles Museum. Noticing that estuarine crocodiles are indigenous to Southeast Asia, I said, as a joke, to one of the curators: “I saw one mauling a durian seller outside my block in Toa Payoh last week.”

  And he replied, almost casually: “Oh, we still find crocodiles in Singapore from time to time. An estuarine crocodile usually gets spotted once every few months in the wild.”

  I shit myself. It must be remembered that the housing estate I grew up on was not renowned for its wildlife. Two stray dogs mating beside a zebra crossing was about as exotic as it ever got.

  Consequently, I still get excited when I see a gecko in the kitchen, but a crocodile is something else altogether. Estuarine crocodiles, would you believe, can grow up to 40 feet in length and favour mangrove-lined estuaries in this part of the world. Singapore’s northern shore seems to be the preferred habitat for crocodiles. The Sungei Buloh Nature Park, with its wet, swampy environment, is a popular holiday destination for the bloody-thirsty reptile.

  “Yes, we sometimes find crocodiles in Sungei Buloh,” the curator told me casually, as if he was talking about crows being found at a hawker centre.

  “In fact, one was photographed there in May 2002. It was only about two metres long. But it probably wasn’t wild, it probably just escaped from a local crocodile farm.”

  This statement is most disconcerting for two reasons. Firstly, if it wasn’t wild, how do you lose a two-metre long crocodile? When the crocodile farmer locks up for the night, surely he must say something like: “Right, final check: wallet, car keys, handphone and crocodiles. Hang on, where’s Dorothy gone?”

  But, more worryingly, were you convinced by the curator’s reassurance that the crocodile “probably wasn’t wild”? Does it really matter? It’s not as if one is going to go paddling in a little stream near Kranji, spot the snout of a partially submerged Dorothy and say calmly: “It’s okay dear. Don’t panic, this crocodile’s not wild. It’s come from the farm. In fact, bring the kids and the camera down and we’ll take a family photograph. Oh fuck, have you seen my leg?”

  This is, of course, absolute nonsense. Should you spot a peckish Dorothy while out on a family picnic, run like hell and then change your underwear at the first opportunity. But seriously, the Singapore Tour
ism Board should be singing my praises for this wild discovery. Forget the Merlion spouting water, Singapore has crocodiles again. If it’s good enough for tourists in the Australian outback, it’s good enough for tourists here.

  To substantiate my point, have you heard of Steve Irwin? He’s that endearing, though clearly insane, crocodile hunter on the Discovery Channel. He might have more scars than Freddie Krueger, but he’s an international celebrity now and a movie star to boot. More importantly, he has become a symbol for Australian tourism, just like Paul Hogan’s Crocodile Dundee before him.

  Now, Singaporeans can do the same. Let’s have a Singapore Dundee. Prominent personalities and leading politicians could dress up in khaki safari suits and wear hats lined with crocodile teeth to promote this exotic metropolis. Overnight, it would transform the tourism trade into a billion-dollar industry.

  In truth, nature lovers have about as much chance of seeing a wild crocodile in Singapore as they have of spotting a tiger on Pulau Ubin. But Western tourists with fat, gullible wallets don’t need to know that, do they?

  Singapore already has monkeys and primary rainforest to rival Rio de Janeiro; now it can also boast two-metre crocodiles sneaking up its riverbanks. Forget the Northern Territory in Australia; the fierce creatures are here. Modern Singapore remains a wild island. After all, it was founded by a man who liked to run around baring his arse to the world. And life doesn’t get any wilder than that.

  NOTE: Shortly after this article came out, another crocodile was spotted doing a spot of breaststroke down at Sungei Buloh. I told you. The buggers are coming.

  THE GRADUATION

  WHEN I graduated from Manchester University, the degree ceremony resembled one of those prehistoric scenes in the BBC series Walking with Beasts. Like the primitive Neanderthals, those in attendance grunted, whooped and cheered every time a student went up to doth their mortarboards for the university’s chancellor. By the time the occasion got into full swing, the grand hall witnessed chest-thumping, cartwheeling and chants of “you da man” — and that was just my mother.