Return to a Sexy Island Read online

  The centrepiece of the exhibition was a working scale model of Marina Barrage, demonstrating how each of the nine crest gates opened sequentially at low tide during heavy downpours to release excess water and prevent CBD flooding. The model even showed how the water was released slowly through drainage pumps at high tide, complete with a miniature Orchard Road shopping district being submerged because the water didn’t clear fast enough. I’m kidding, I’m kidding. As I write this, an international panel of drainage experts concluded that Marina Barrage did not cause the Orchard Road flash floods. For two consecutive years, the shopping belt has been washed out and the coincidence was too much for many. Pre-Marina Barrage, such flash flooding was rare. Post-barrage, Orchard Road went under twice in two years. But computer models attributed the shopping soakings to increasing rain frequency and an inadequate drainage system. I am still tickled by those images of soaked designer handbags floating in shop windows. Mother Nature hasn’t lost her sense of humour.

  She is, of course, the large elephant in the room. Marina Barrage has two primary, and very public, purposes: to increase Singapore’s fresh water supply and reduce periodic flooding. But there is a third reason. The United Nations Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change has projected sea levels will rise up to 59 centimetres by the end of the 21st century, but this figure did not take into account the melting of the Greenland or Antarctic ice sheets. Singapore is a tropical, low-lying densely-populated dot on the landscape. I don’t need to paint you a picture. Singapore has built all reclamation projects since 1991 at 125 centimetres above the highest recorded tide level. Marina Barrage cannot hold back the tides of climate change but it will buy time as our grandchildren run for Bukit Timah Hill. Their soggy iPhones won’t save them but Marina Barrage might.

  On a positive note, the government has got really rather revolutionary (and it wasn’t that long ago when the mere juxtaposition of “government” and “revolutionary” would have had civil servant letter writers needing a lie-down) with the Active, Beautiful, Clean Waters (ABC Waters) Programme. Launched in 2006, water catchment areas were to become lifestyle attractions: recreational destinations for families to swim, kayak and generally splash around in. It really was safe to get back in the water. In old Singapore, reservoirs had all the aesthetic qualities of a safety deposit box, with security protecting the environmental crown jewels. I know because I once went skinny-dipping in MacRitchie Reservoir with a couple of Canadians at 4 a.m. I’d like to say they were Canadian women but, alas, they were Canadian men, one skinnier than a twig, the other a more deranged version of Kramer from Seinfeld. The twilight paddle under a moonlit night was delightful, but why my Canadian male friends insisted on us being naked remains a mystery. When we spotted the torch of a security guard on the shore, we ducked under the water and held our breath (and that’s all we held, I can assure you). It’s not the rebelliousness that disturbs me, but the homoeroticism. Why didn’t we just keep our underpants on?

  No need to resort to such antics now in order to get wet in a reservoir. The PUB wants the public to take stewardship of its water supply, to grab a paddle or a snorkel and dive into a local ABC Waters project (there are currently 15 but there are plans for more than 100 within 15 years). Skinny-dipping with skinny Canadians is not an option at this stage.

  Five

  MY sister made me play with dolls. That’s my story and I’m sticking to it. I had Star Wars figures. She had Sindy dolls. (The British version of Barbie, I seem to recall. Rather than hang out at pool parties with Ken, Sindy made cups of tea, watched soap operas and moaned about the weather.) My Star Wars figures were housed in a rusty Rover biscuit tin. My sister’s Sindy dolls resided in a three-storey penthouse furnished with lift and hot tub. Naturally, little Luke Skywalker was often found hanging out with Sindy’s mates in the third-floor spa. The trouble was those original Star Wars figures were half the size of the average doll. Even Chewbacca only came up to Sindy’s groin. When they stood face to face, quite frankly, the image was disturbing. When the rebels surrounded Sindy’s bikini-clad beauties in the hot tub, the scene belonged in that veritable pornographic classic Snow White and the Seven Inches (I’ve never seen the film, I just Googled funny porn titles involving dwarves and I’m still laughing).

  During the summer school holidays in England, we regularly visited the Bethnal Green Museum of Childhood in East London to gaze at more dolls and action figures inside glass display cases. We followed the nostalgic path of our mother, who had grown up in Bethnal Green and had frequented the museum as a child. It was a generation thing. We were both skint and the museum was free. When my mother accompanied as tour guide, we were obedient. When my sister and I made the trip from Dagenham to Bethnal Green alone, we were bloody murder. We’d leave home at 9.30 a.m. and she’d complain that I had eaten all the sandwiches on the station platform by 9.45 a.m. Then I would moan that I was hungry by 10 a.m. When we arrived at the museum, she’d run off to look at Sindy dolls and anything from The Wizard of Oz while I dashed off in the opposite direction to find the Star Wars figures. We would both get lost and I’d find her in the arms of an elderly volunteer sobbing quietly by the rocking horses. It was embarrassing. This only happened last summer.

  They were happy days. Years later, I found myself standing in the Smithsonian National Museum of American History and staring transfixed at an original pair of Dorothy’s ruby slippers from The Wizard of Oz, the movie that provided the soundtrack to my sister’s childhood (and, therefore, much of mine). Without a moment’s hesitation, I called her on my mobile from Washington and described the iconic shoes in excruciatingly microscopic detail. I thought she was going to cry down the phone. I nearly did when I got the phone bill.

  That’s what beloved pop culture artefacts can do to you. They are Dr Who’s TARDIS, transporting us to wherever our memories allow us to go. Imagine my unbridled joy then when I discovered that Singapore had opened such a treasure trove of prepubescent nostalgia in my absence.

  I walked briskly along North Bridge Street, turned into the narrow Seah Street and almost missed it. Squeezed between the usual eateries, the MINT Museum of Toys was not the most obvious attraction and might be glossed over by the casual observer. The museum, which also includes a rooftop bar and a toy-themed restaurant called Mr Punch, is housed in a graceful, slender, wavy-lined, contemporary grey building. In the mangled syntax of Yoda, who was inside, find it you must.

  I followed the cartoon panels of Popeye and Superman along the entrance slope, bought a ticket (discounted with a POSB card) and headed straight to the fifth floor. The Peter Rabbit collection was interesting but I hurried on after a polite glance. I knew what I was looking for. I didn’t notice any other toys as I dashed across the floor with callow carelessness to gaze upon my childhood. And there they were, on a high shelf in the opposite corner—a row of original Star Wars figures, the Barbie-sized ones from 1977, still boxed, unopened and complete with price tags. The lower shelf was filled with the traditional regular Star Wars figures, untouched in their boxes. Seeing them in such pristine condition, in their original blisters, took me away to my childhood. I was back in 1983, wandering aimlessly around the biggest toyshop in Romford, riffling through the Return of the Jedi racks, checking which figures I had, which ones I needed, which ones I could afford and which ones would match the ambience of Sindy’s hot tub. I had taken leave of my senses. They had gone time travelling. I could smell the plastic of the Star Wars figure blisters, peer down at my old school uniform, hear Billy bloody Joel whining on about his “Uptown Girl” in the background and my mother’s voice shouting, “For fuck’s sake, Neil, how much longer are you gonna be? I’ve got to buy a shower cap and peroxide Sylvie’s hair.”

  As I took my time in the Moment of Imagination and Nostalgia with Toys Museum (to give the exhibition its full—and fully deserving—title), I enjoyed the reaction of other visitors: their smiles of recognition, eyes widening as a stored memory file suddenly got rebooted. A Chinese
uncle stared at a bust of Dan Dare, Britain’s first intergalactic space hero and more than 50 years old. The bust was one of only ten ever made. Younger Asian couples examined the Green Hornet vehicles, Bruce Lee’s star still retaining its enigmatic allure over the continent. Grandparents giggled when they saw the Japanese-produced Robby the Robot toys while their grandchildren pointed at original Mickey Mouse models. I took little notice of the life-size Darth Maul statue, despite him being one of the better villains in Star Wars, and yet I almost wet myself when I spotted a Buck Rogers in the 25th Century pocket watch (I did when I saw its US$25,000 price tag). Buck Rogers was part of my growing up, Darth Maul wasn’t. He belongs to my youngest brother. And that’s what the MINT Museum is for. The admission fee does not grant permission to peer at old (albeit extremely valuable) toys; it’s a unique ticket to ride back to our childhoods. Now that’s priceless.

  The MINT Museum ranks as the world’s finest collection of toys simply because it isn’t a collection of toys, but a collection of collections. Whatever the cultural or geographical background, every visitor will unearth a childhood gem from their past among the diverse range of international artefacts. I loved the Batman items, including a tinplate Commissioner Gordon car model that is the only example on the planet. Circus figures and performers, so crucial in the evolution of the toy, also form another magnificent collection, with a pair of German tumbling acrobat toys made in 1840. The female acrobat, like Gordon’s car, is assumed to be the only one around. There are teddy bears; Matchbox, Corgi and Dinky cars; London buses (a personal favourite); classic enamel signs and even lunchboxes. (The Incredible Hulk lunchbox took me back to Saturday nights in the living room watching through teary eyes as poor Bill Bixby tried to thumb a lift at the end of every episode accompanied by that haunting piano theme.) No generation in the last 150 years has been neglected.

  As parents are the gatekeepers of our toy collections, I kept thinking of my mother. As I took photographs of an original 1977 Star Wars poster (worth a small fortune!), I remembered a bizarre long-distance phone call that we’d had several years ago.

  “Here, guess what I found in the loft?” my mother asked, taking a break from packing up and moving away from our old Dagenham home.

  “I don’t know,” I wondered. “The cat?”

  “No, we got him out this time. I must remember to close the hatch when we’re not up there ... No, I found some Star Wars wallpaper from when you were a kid. A whole roll of it, in decent condition.”

  My voice trembled.

  “You mean the one I had on my wall when I was four years old?” I enquired, the anticipation rising. “That’s the original Star Wars wallpaper from around 1978, with the beautiful hand-painted images of key scenes in the film?”

  “Yeah, that’s the one. I’m holding it now. Got almost a roll of it here, still in the cellophane.”

  She was holding a rare artefact. She was also holding a family heirloom.

  “That is amazing, mum. Just amazing. I can’t believe it. I don’t know what to say.”

  “Well, yeah, anyway, Christmas is coming so I thought I’d wrap all your presents in the stuff.”

  I dropped the phone.

  We exchanged a few words and the rare Star Wars wallpaper ended up in a frame rather than as wrapping paper and currently sits in storage as I determine its permanent home.

  Prudent toy choices can be a profitable enterprise. The MINT Museum had more cameras on each floor than the average bank. The Buck Rogers pocket watch was one of many expensive gems, including a Robby the Robot and a Green Hornet car (both worth US$15,000) and a collection of Beatles memorabilia worth many times that figure (there were items with John, Paul, George and Ringo’s signatures scribbled across the front, which immediately add a couple of zeroes to their value). By the time I had reached the James Bond Aston Martins and the still-boxed Sean Connery figures from Thunderball, I was ready to steal the lot. At a conservative estimate, the collective value of the artefacts runs into the tens of millions. So forget the Rolex watches, save Buzz and Woody when the kids are done.

  There was one particular display that was provocative, emotive and, to some, distasteful, but necessary for those very reasons. It was a golliwog collection. As a toy, the golliwog has every reason to be in the museum, being a popular rag doll in children’s books dating to the 19th century. Whether it’s a cultural artefact that deserves preservation or a racist caricature depends on your point of view. One can lead to the other. The Darkie toothpaste, the Alabama Coon board game (promising a “jolly game for the players”) and salt and pepper shakers in the form of mammy figures, or black domestic workers, were appalling. That is why they should be chronicled. The dolls and the “nigger” games and toys are uncomfortable reminders of past ignorance and intolerance. Hopefully they will not pander to persistent prejudices. We must be repulsed. But I saw a couple of visitors snigger.

  After spending far more time in the museum than expected, I headed for the warmth of the exit. Here’s an invaluable tip. Dress warm for the museum’s air conditioning. Some of the fragile tin-made playthings have survived two world wars and Singapore’s humidity, so the older the toys, the cooler the floor. Rather fortuitously, I bumped into the museum’s owner, the endearingly passionate Chang Yang Fa. An engineer by trade, Chang opened the museum in 2007, originally to provide a public showcase for his personal collection. Astonishingly, the five floors provide him space for around 5,000 items at any one time—he rotates the displays—which make up only 10 per cent of his entire collection (he stores the rest in Ang Mo Kio). He paid for the entire building, including the interior fittings, the rooftop bar and the enamel sign-filled restaurant, out of his own pocket. The MINT Museum is not a moneymaking exercise; it is about philanthropy. Chang’s only ambition is to establish the world’s finest collection of international toys in Singapore and encourage as many people as possible to visit. A self-made Singaporean, Chang has essentially given his collection to the country (the admission fee barely covers costs). He’s preoccupied with preserving childhood memories rather than profits. It’s not a bad legacy, is it?

  Inspired by the altruistic toy collector, I embarked on a bit of preservation myself. I lazily took the MRT from City Hall to Raffles Place to go to The Fullerton Hotel. I had two reasons to visit Singapore’s iconic hotel. The Fullerton Heritage Precinct has attempted to amplify, rather than airbrush, the waterfront’s history by incorporating retail and dining outlets in and around its classic buildings. I was curious to see if it had been tastefully done or was a schizophrenic architectural hybrid. In other words, neither historic nor contemporary, just a mess. Most of all, though, I wanted to visit the exact location where Saint Jack told the shrink from The Sopranos to “fuck it”.

  In a bargain bin in Australia a couple of years ago, I was thrilled to discover a dusty DVD of Saint Jack. As I watched it, I sat open-mouthed as the Singapore of 1978 revealed itself. Writer-director-actor Peter Bogdanovich (the shrink to the shrink in The Sopranos) helmed Saint Jack and, in the penultimate scene in the movie, sits on a bench beside Collyer Quay when the titular character, Jack Flowers (played by Ben Gazzara), tells him where to go. In new Singapore, Saint Jack is no longer banned so it seemed apt to return to The Fullerton now.

  Much to my disappointment, there was no bench anywhere near where Bogdanovich had once sat, probably because it would block the al fresco promenade of One Fullerton. But I stopped close by and recalled the dozens of sampans rocking gently behind Bogdanovich on what is now Marina Bay. The imposing Doric columns of The Fullerton Hotel, tastefully lit, rightfully diverted attention from the humdrum high-rises. From a certain angle, the view was no different to the one at the end of the movie when Jack emerges from the General Post Office.

  I crossed Collyer Quay and wandered through The Fullerton Hotel’s side entrance (the former main entrance to the post office). Framed black-and-white photographs depicted post office clerks serving customers on a counter 300 feet long (the
longest in Southeast Asia according to one of the information panels, a curious claim to fame, but then it’s where Singaporeans came to buy their lottery coupons so it’s surprising the counter wasn’t longer). From paintings to books, display cases and photographs showing the building’s official opening in 1928, there was a conscious effort at every turn to tip the hat to the hotel’s past.

  A British red pillar box greeted me at the entrance of the Post Bar, built on part of the site of the former post office counter, which staged one of the funniest scenes in Saint Jack. When Jack Flowers hands a friend’s ashes to a wonderfully no-nonsense Chinese counter girl (quite possibly a real GPO staff member back in 1978 as Bogdanovich preferred to use authentic locals), she asks if the parcel is fragile and then lobs the ashes over her shoulder. I tried to visualise the post office counter but its remarkable length was unfathomable. The counter at our local post office in Dagenham was only 5 metres long.

  I stepped tentatively into the Post Bar but the slightly supercilious looks of the well-heeled clientele suggested I was spreading dog shit across the tiled floor so I took my leave, continued along the splendid courtyard and poked my head into The Fullerton Heritage Gallery. Opened in July 2010, the gallery takes a glimpse into the hotel’s history, with artworks, film clips on the adjacent Clifford Pier, Customs House and The Fullerton Waterboat House and photographs of the legendary lunchtime PAP rallies beside The Fullerton in the rain. (It always seemed to pour down at those PAP political rallies, didn’t it? Was it for dramatic effect? Didn’t anyone check the weather forecast beforehand?)

  The gallery also contained another functioning red pillar box from the UK. I say functioning because it is one of only three in Singapore (the others being outside the Post Bar and the Singapore Philatelic Museum) in which letters can actually be posted. Was it cheesy? Undoubtedly. Did it lean towards pink gins, Noël Coward and closet colonialism? Most definitely. Did I spot British families gathering around the pillar box—something found on most street corners in their homeland—to pose for holiday snaps? Absolutely. Like Singaporeans flocking to Melbourne’s Chinatown or Australians staggering into Aussie bars in Bali to watch the rugby, Brits abroad seem to have a need for a security blanket on the road, something I will never comprehend. If comfort comes only from what’s reassuringly familiar, why not cut the middleman out and spend a two-week holiday in the living room?