Notes From an Even Smaller Island Read online

  However, everything changed at the weekend. The apartment was cleaned, the shopping was done and Saudita changed her clothes. Yes, she changed them just once a week and how she did it was chilling. Standing at the kitchen sink, she would take off her shirt and bra and wash her hair and upper body without making any attempt to cover herself whatsoever. Now if there was one woman on the planet who had two gigantic reasons to conceal her chest, it was Saudita. Being a rather large woman in her sixties, her breasts came down like two sacks of potatoes. Without a care in the world, she would then take her newly washed shirt, lean out of the kitchen window and peg it to one of the washing poles that were outside, with her ample bosoms bouncing all over the place. That is not all. The apartment was on the eleventh floor and faced another block that could not have been more than 20 metres away. I used to imagine some little boy in the opposite block saying, ‘Mummy, there’s a woman over there hanging out her washing and she’s got three heads.’

  Like most apartment blocks in Singapore, Saudita’s shower room faced onto the kitchen. After taking a shower one evening, I opened the door to be faced by my bare-breasted landlady making roti prata. Astonishingly, she made no attempt to cover herself and scolded me in Tamil for not being in the habit of walking around with my eyes closed. Not wishing to get a nipple in the eye, I made a sharp exit. It happened many times after that. She could be making a variety of sumptuous dishes, all of which would leave you salivating until you found yourself face to face with the bare-breasted woman and you would make an instant decision to never eat anything again. To this day, I cannot buy a bag of potatoes without thinking about Saudita’s chest.

  Despite her hard exterior, she was quite a caring woman. On a delightfully sunny Saturday afternoon, my partner hung some washing on the line and discovered two hours later that it had been saturated by some uncaring soul who had hung out a dripping wet duvet on the floor above. Of course, no one is saying that a duvet cannot be cleaned but there is an unofficial law of courtesy within the apartment blocks whereby you do not hang out something that is large and soaking wet if there is washing hanging below. Now, the woman above had broken that unwritten rule and Saudita did not stand for it. She stormed upstairs and convinced the guilty party, via some carefully selected Malay swear words, to bring in the duvet until our washing was dry. Consequently, the duvet was withdrawn to allow my sopping wet underwear to win the day.

  However, it is important not to get carried away here. I do have a tendency to romanticise things that I am particularly fond of and the older generations would certainly fall into that category. Nobody is perfect and the older generation has faults like everyone else. For me, the worst one has to be dogma. Every individual is entitled to his or her opinions but not to the exclusion of everybody else’s. Elderly Singaporeans remain doggedly loyal to their own culture, cuisines and customs but I sometimes wonder how appreciative they really are of those of other racial groups. Of course, the moral do-gooders will jump up at this point and cry ‘racial harmony’. Well, a racially harmonious society is the ideal and the government is certainly bending over backwards with its recent Singapore-21 committee. Still, I am not convinced. Just scratch the surface and look beneath the rhetoric of government committees and grassroots banners to see that the elderly might tolerate other cultures and customs but they do not accept them. In a world of constant change, they are shackled stubbornly to the past.

  In 1997, the infamous haze, caused by the forest fires in Indonesia, engulfed parts of Southeast Asia. Singapore was badly affected, with air pollution reaching unhealthy levels on several occasions. Without sounding overly dramatic, the haze was so thick that I recall the Sun being obscured for long periods. If you stayed out for too long, you stood the chance of getting a headache or feeling nauseous. Around November of that year, the haze seemed to peak with the daily Pollutant Standard Index (PSI) recording extremely hazardous levels of over 200. The sky looked like it stopped just above your head and resembled the pea soup days of London’s smog in the fifties.

  One day, I had no choice but to step out into the thick of the haze to go to the mini-mart. On the way, I saw an elderly Chinese guy performing a common Singaporean custom under his apartment block. He was burning paper money in a large dustbin in the belief that the money will reach deceased friends and family members. This is usually done during the hungry ghosts festival or after a funeral. Without getting into a pointless debate about the actual merits of such ancient customs (not to mention their appeal to greed with people actually burning paper houses and cars in the hope that they will be waiting for them in the afterlife), it was his timing that irritated me. There we were standing in smog that was so thick that it reduced visibility to around 25 metres and he was trying to recreate the 1933 Reichstag fire. Perhaps that explains why I turned into Adolf Hitler.

  ‘Do you have to do that now?’ I enquired, just a tad irritably.

  ‘Huh?’ he replied, looking puzzled because, I suspect, he had not understood a word I had just said.

  ‘Look at the sky. It’s dark and gloomy and it’s only 3 o’clock. So why do you have to do that now? Can’t you at least wait until the air is slightly less poisoned? I mean, is it that important that you burn all that paper now? Can’t you see the thick black smoke you are causing?’ I continued to bombard the old man with questions but to no avail. He merely cursed me under his breath and went about his business of trying to turn all his dead relatives into millionaires while children still living on this Earth could not play outside because of the poor air quality.

  On these occasions, I do become somewhat miffed at the elderly’s stubbornness. It is also one of the few times that the government is powerless to react. Apart from grassroots committees putting up posters in apartment blocks asking residents not to burn paper excessively, there is little else that can be done without ruffling too many feathers. It is almost as if traditionalists are saying, ‘We’re happy to have our arts and media censored but please, don’t mess with our ancient customs or you’ll really upset us.’

  Medicine is another area where the aunties and uncles of Singapore still cling to old-fashioned remedies. Some, like acupuncture, have been proven to have positive effects upon the patient and have been implemented in the West but many of these remedies do not work. There is a poster on the wall at my doctor’s surgery that urges people not to ‘burn the snake’ because it is extremely dangerous. It is a belief shared by the older generations that when someone, particularly a small child, has chickenpox, his or her head and tail should be burnt to rid the illness, hence ‘burning the snake’. Of course, the ritual does nothing but leave the afflicted with burn marks on his or her stomach and lower back. Despite concerted efforts to improve awareness on the subject, my doctor says he still gets the odd case of someone suffering from both chickenpox and severe burns.

  Now, do not get me wrong. There is absolutely nothing inappropriate about taking pride in beliefs and customs as long as they do not cause harm to others. Moreover, it should not be to the exclusion of others. I have had dinner with elderly Singaporeans who revel in telling me how they seldom eat Western food because it is so ‘disgusting’. Then five minutes later, they shoot me a look more powerful than a Smith and Wesson just because I happen to mention that I am not too fond of shark’s fin soup.

  After returning from a holiday to England, an elderly colleague opened a conversation with me by saying, ‘What do you people eat in England?’

  ‘Why?’ I asked, my pride more than just a little bruised.

  ‘Well, there’s not much choice is there? It’s all chips and sandwiches. How can you live on that stuff all year round?’

  I would love to say that I suffocated him with a chip sandwich but I just shrugged my shoulders. What else can you do or say to such a cantankerous old sod?

  Despite these shortcomings, the aunties and uncles of Singapore are a warmhearted bunch who will gladly invite you into their home for food during Chinese New Year or Hari Raja celeb
rations.

  If further confirmation of their warmheartedness is needed, I recall an incident that left me stunned. After shopping in Orchard Road with my girlfriend, we got on the MRT train to go to Bishan. The train was relatively packed and I was forced to stand, holding three or four shopping bags. Standing over my better half, we started talking about the usual trivial stuff. As the train pulled into the next station, an elderly Chinese gentleman who had been sitting next to my partner got up and offered me his seat before somebody else nabbed it. I thought this was a most considerate act and I thanked him as he left the train. However, the uncle did not alight.

  As the train pulled out of the station, the uncle stood in front of me as large as life, occupying the space where I had previously stood. He had done this either to allow me to sit with my partner or get away from my brain-numbing chatter. In such a situation, you tend to get paranoid. There was a cute little baby sitting on her mother’s lap next to me and I swear she would not stop staring at me. I am almost certain that I heard the baby say, ‘In my considered opinion, mother, that tall ruffian should have politely refused the elderly gentleman’s most generous offer. His ghastly behaviour is so quintessentially English.’ To make matters worse, as we passed the next stop, the old man still did not alight. Instead he just stood there, grinning. By this stage, my left ear had begun to melt from all the verbal abuse my girlfriend was inflicting on it. All the stock phrases gushed forth, ‘I’ve never been so embarrassed in all my life...’, ‘If only you had half a brain’ and so on. By now, I wanted to publicly execute my elderly do-gooder just to give me some peace of mind. The man finally alighted at Toa Payoh, having towered over me for a grand total of two stops, during which time I had formulated at least a dozen ways to kill him using one of those flexible hand grips.

  In many ways, the elderly are the most appreciative generation of Singaporeans, which, as far as I am concerned, has worrying implications. They still remember the Japanese occupation, the genuine threat of communism and the riots of the 1960s. They are also far more appreciative and respectful of the modern transport services, home ownership and improved medical and educational facilities. The younger generations, just like in England, have no such perspective. They have known only rapid change so it becomes difficult to impress or even pacify them. Tedium inevitably results. When I was at university, I decided to write a thesis on the birth and development of Dagenham, my home town. After interviewing pensioners, I was struck by the deep-rooted pride they still had in the town. They spoke excitedly about how it had taken them from the disease-ridden slums of central London and provided their families with a decent standing of living. For them, that was enough. They were prepared to overlook its shortcomings and the ineptitude of local government. Many have since died, taking their pride to the grave. I believe Singaporean aunties and uncles, by and large, will do the same.

  In contrast, the younger generations have no sense of loyalty to their environment. In England, yobs on street corners perceive Dagenham as both restrictive and boring. Many cannot wait to leave. Having taught at countless schools, I feel that Singaporean youngsters act in the same way. They are not interested in efficient transport services or in Singapore’s struggle for economic success. Why should they be? They have known nothing else. I only hope they can learn a sense of perspective from their aunties and uncles before it is too late. There may well be more to life than a train that consistently runs on time but there is categorically more to life than soulless greed. As I sit on the train and watch faceless executives jabber endlessly into handphones, I often wonder how many of them would give up their seat to allow a strange-looking Caucasian to sit next to his partner. I do not kid myself though. I know the answer and so do you. That is the fundamental difference between the generations.

  Chapter Three

  In Britain, we have curious phenomena that pop up occasionally to make strange sounds and shuffle around bizarrely. They are called grandparents. I often liken them to UFOs because you want to see them, you really do, but you are not sure why. When they are spotted, fear is the first reaction followed by a certain unease that never really leaves until the visit is over. You pretend to understand them but, in reality, you have very few shared interests and you often end up just staring at each other. To top it all off, your grandmother’s forehead begins to grow, her face wrinkles quite rapidly and she starts to resemble E.T. In Britain, teenagers and young adults are constantly being reminded to visit their grandparents before they die.

  This kind of emotional blackmail seems to be the only way that our dear deceitful mothers can get us to visit our elderly relatives. Well, that is what my mum used. I did love them but watching doddering relatives shuffle around a living room just could not compete with an episode of Friends.

  My mother and I have acted out the same scenario so many times. She would storm into my bedroom and remind me first of my living arrangements because every conversation we had started this way. She would invariably open with, ‘You treat this place like a bloody hotel. You leave your towels on the bathroom floor and you’re still not making the bed. I might as well wear a bloody apron.’

  At this point, I was always struck by what a boarding house owner would say to his son. ‘Now look here, you’re treating this place like a bloody hotel and I’m sick of it.’

  ‘But it is a hotel, dad.’

  ‘Don’t be so bloody cheeky.’ Whack! And so on. And so on for my mum, too.

  ‘Take your feet off the bloody table. You’re sitting there like a bloody tramp. And if you have to come in so late, do you have to make so much noise? When are you going to visit your grandparents? They haven’t got long left, you know. They’re not going to live forever. You’re only sitting on your arse, you can go today.’

  And that is it, you are sunk. As all teenagers in a similar position will testify, your answering technique, which has been thoroughly honed over the years, brings about your downfall. It usually works to your advantage. Listening for the appropriate pauses in your mother’s speech, you deliver the correct expression of consent or disagreement. After a while, the technique has been perfected so it can be performed subconsciously. Complacency inevitably sets in and before you have a chance to retract the answer, the word ‘yes’ has left your lips and your mother has already pounced. Like a tornado ripping through the house, she has picked out your best clothes, informed her mother that you are coming and dropkicked you out of the house.

  Therefore, I hope you see where I’m coming when I say that I had never heard of the term ‘filial piety’ until I came to Singapore. It means to be a devout or loyal son or daughter or, in broader terms, to respect and look after your family elders. I first came across the term when I was teaching a creative writing course and found it in a narrative written by a primary four pupil. After looking up the meaning of each word, I was stunned that a ten-year-old girl wielded such remarkable vocabulary and I recall giving her a ridiculously high mark. Talking to local colleagues later though, it became apparent that the term was common among Singaporeans, both young and old, because it is a fundamental family value. Filial piety runs right across the racial and cultural spectrum and is encouraged by teachers, religious leaders and politicians alike. In other words, aunties and uncles are protected and looked after, to some degree, by their children and grandchildren, which, in my book, is most praiseworthy.

  There is more to it than that, though. Singapore, unlike Britain, is not a welfare state. State pensions and free medical and dental treatment for the elderly do not exist here. Indeed, Lee Kuan Yew, the country’s Senior Minister and founder of the People’s Action Party, the ruling party of government, does not believe in welfarism. In the book Lee Kuan Yew: The Man and His Ideas, he is quoted as saying he believed that the early intentions of welfarism to get Britain back on its feet after the war were honourable. However, he stated that by the 1980s, welfare had undermined the work ethic, creating societies in which people become dependent upon the state rather than
upon the fruits of their own labour.

  To counter this, Lee has argued many times that individuals work to improve their own lives and those of their families. Therefore, the Singaporean state has made a conscious effort to foster these traditional support systems that are inherent in the Chinese, Malay and Indian communities. Consequently, Singaporeans, in times of trouble, turn to their families and not to the state.

  I can already hear my fellow Westerners feverishly picking holes with this argument, dismissing it as ultra right-wing and uncaring. However, without wishing to get bogged down in political arguments, I would like to pick out some of the benefits of such a system. Without fail, my friend David visits his aunties and uncles every Saturday night and he sees nothing irregular in this. For an Englishman like myself, distant aunties are usually only spotted sitting around tables at weddings, gossiping. They do this to keep away from their drunken husbands who are clumsily demonstrating that they can dance like John Travolta – a frequent event at English weddings that is only slightly less embarrassing than watching your aunties trying to dislodge the distant brain cell that contains your name. They usually end up saying, ‘Ooh, haven’t you grown?’ To which you can only retort, ‘Well no, I’m twenty-six years old and I haven’t grown at all since the last wedding three months ago.’

  In contrast, relatives are visited regularly in Singapore and are generally well looked after on birthdays, at festivals and on mahjong gambling days. They are respected members of the family. At the Chinese weddings that I have been to, I have always been introduced to parents, aunties and uncles and grandparents with a discernible sense of pride by my friends. And why shouldn’t they be proud of them? In a society that does not support the values of welfarism, they have been clothed, fed and, most importantly, educated by their elders. In recent years, it has become a growing trend to send children overseas for their tertiary education and this does not come cheap. At a conservative estimate, my friend David reckons that his two-year stint at Manchester University would have cost around S$100,000 – not exactly chickenfeed, is it?