‘Good life?’ I ask.
‘Great life, mate,’ he replies. ‘Singapore is a place where you can make a lot of money very quickly. They micromanage your life, but they don’t regulate your business’.
Rather abruptly, he points at my sling.
‘What happened to your arm?’
Time to go.
‘Swimmer’s arm,’ I reply. ‘You know, like tennis elbow.’
I get up as the panorail arrives.
The next stop is Waterfall Station and I disembark to marvel at its special attraction. At one hundred feet, Jurong Falls is the world’s highest man-made waterfall – this being Singapore, the water is recirculated – and provides the setting for a humid tropical aviary. Hoopoes, crested louries (note the ‘u’), bee-eaters, weavers and starlings nonchalantly cross my path as I walk there and back. But the real special attraction awaits me as I return: two white parakeets are perched right above the station seats copulating with loud gurgles. All children look up – many giggling, most befuddled, some expressionless – whereas every parent pretends not to hear the orgiastic noises and checks the clock in the hope that the next panorail would show up now! Not even its eventual arrival makes the parrots flinch, for they are well into their mating with ardour that puts any semi-respectable rodent to shame.
I’ve heard that Jurong had a fantastic ‘World of Darkness’ but I’m still surprised at its prodigious size. The extensive owl section feels almost complete – what with barn owls, spotted-wood owls, those huge eagle owls, arctic snowy owls, Malay fish owls and the great Ural owls (what, no ear-tufts?) Despite all this and more, everyone queues up to see the ‘mad woman bird’ (bush-stone curlew to the rest of you) which is a short, gangly, grey-streaked Australian bird with large plaintive eyes and an eerie call that’s been compared to the howl of a mad woman – sound engineers who are working on Jane Eyre adaptations, take note. Poor bird, it has probably lost its voice with all these kids tapping on the glass to make it shriek. I catch the eye of their unresponsive parents and tut-tut. To my horror they mistake my disapproval for impatience and start tapping on the window themselves.
Back outside, I stroll past the African hornbills and South American toucans but make a stop by the Window on Paradise. Much that I consider myself well-travelled, I have not seen any paradise birds before. Observing the intricate plumage displays of the twelve-wired bird of paradise – so named for the dozen fragile feathers that delicately sprout from its tail – I can understand why those first Portuguese sailors chose to conclude that such beauty belonged to angels and named the birds accordingly. All this adornment and for whom? I wonder, as I spot the drab, reclusive female, that keeps her beak open like a dog and looks more like a moorhen than the mate of those dazzling males. What do they see in her?
I’ve left for last the jewel in the crown of Jurong: its Penguin House. Here, the temperature is a constant 16ºC and penguins, unseen outside Antarctica, waddle around a pool set in a landscape of cliffs, nesting alcoves and burrows. There are emperor penguins, fairy penguins, macaroni penguins (so called because their stringy crests look as if they’ve been attacked with a plate of spaghetti) and that colony of Humboldt penguins. The success of their breeding program is due to a unique lighting system that recreates the passing of the seasons and allows the birds to maintain their annual biorhythm. But forget the science and watch them dive, for Jurong Park treats the visitor to a specially constructed viewing gallery with a ninety-foot wide window that allows us to witness the antics of these fascinating birds underwater; they swim swiftly like torpedoes and playfully like dolphins, their movements as graceful as they are dynamic.
I hear the thunder and decide to leave. It is not easy to get to Jurong Bird Park by public transport – you have to take the MRT to Jurong East and then you hop on a bus – and it is not easy to leave either. Just take care that it doesn’t start to rain while you’re waiting because the bus stop has no shelter. There is no downpour like a South Seas downpour and after one minute’s non-stop drenching, I might as well have taken a dive with the penguins in their pen.
- 14 -
What caused this jumble of people to storm into the train compartment? Is there a special event, a football match or whatever? There is one British whimsicality that has not rubbed off on the ex-colony: the scrum to get in is as vigorous as the struggle to get out. As usual, my sling acts as a pot of honey to a grizzly with everyone pinning it on me with as much strength as they can muster. But hey, I make it to Farrer Park above ground, and my immediate impression is that I’ve landed on planet Bangladesh.
The recent rainstorm has just flooded the empty area in front of the exit and through the clean, crisp air I can glimpse something novel: rotting rubbish, unmaintained high rises and moulding fruit being pecked off by mynah birds and magpies. For the first time in Singapore I see swallows flying. They probably shoot them in the CBD – if the streetcleaners can’t stand gum, they must go ape with birdshit – but here any droppings would make absolutely no difference, lost as they would be among the, well, dirt. Yes, real dirt – I nearly cry for joy. What’s more, the food shops do not offer char kway teow or prawn mee but good, fine English fare like chicken Madras or sheek kebab. They don’t call this district Little India for nothing; what, with the lack of hygiene and all, I feel like I’m in London.
Yet this India is more like that of old: both Muslim and Hindu. At Farrer Park, the temples are mosques like the tired Masjid Angullia in the corner – looking more like a villa in Marbella than the Taj – and as for the names, well, there is only one plastered all over Serangoon Plaza. Here is Mustafa Jewellery, there is Mustafa Foreign Exchange, an Al Mustafa restaurant and a Mohammed & Mustafa general store. That’s discounting the Mustafa Centre, a sixties glass-and-frame box where bhangra muzak hums shrilly in the background. Like the other shoppers, I am prepared to surrender my bags in the entrance, but they wave me on. Why this racial profiling? Don’t they think I can shoplift like the best of them? Mind you, there is nothing to tempt me. The Mustafa Centre may only be a few metro stops up from Orchard Road, but the product choice, budget manufacture and stacking (one shelf full of detergent, the opposite full of light bulbs and Mickey Mouse pencils) is unequivocally subcontinental.
What is this on Jalan Besar? Is it a bazaar or the most tired and limp car-boot sale, I have witnessed? The sellers are all gloomy, tetchy and uninterested; maybe the sheer god-awfulness of the second-hand crud has got to them: old typewriters from the age of Noel Coward, black-and-white dusty television sets, mountains of mobile chargers (as if the average user doesn’t already own a dozen), well-worn trousers, boxing gloves (not exactly superwaxed), useless currency notes hardly in mint condition, pens that do not write, clocks that do not tick, penknives that do not cut, muddy boots, mouldy video tapes, soiled tennis balls. I stop, stunned. Who will buy this guy’s faded family pictures? That fax machine, will it turn on? As for that Coca-Cola can, easily the most functional commodity on sale: it is past its sell-by date. I look around for the holy cows but thankfully they’re missing. Lee Kuan Yew’s autobiography is titled From the Third World to the First. Looking around, this designation is sorely tested.
I shake my head as I head up Race Course Road, a street that used to lead to an equestrian arena that opened as early as 1843. On non-racing days, sheep – kept in sheds nearby by the Muslim population – were left to graze on its grounds, eventually to become rogan josh on the feast of Eid. The road kept its name in defiance of efforts to rationalise it, because the racecourse moved to new grounds in Bukit Timah in 1935 (and more recently to Kranji) so the name was judged ‘deceptive’. I’d like to see those bureaucrats come to London and walk down Poultry: they’ll have a fit if they intend to buy chicken livers.
It is the Temple of 1,000 Lights I’ve come to visit, but the Leong San opposite steals my attention. It is constructed like a traditional Chinese Palace with black ornate timber beams welded together nail-free like an Ikea cabinet. I discover t
hat it is relatively recent, built in 1917 by Venerable Zhuan Wu. He came to Singapore with a statue of the Guan Yin, the Goddess of Mercy who, upon entering Heaven, was so moved by the cries of unsaved souls that she decided to stay back and help mankind. Protector of children, she is often seen with a baby in her arms, her iconography similar to the Christian Madonna. Revered as a kind of Asian earth mother, her blessing is an unconditional requirement for the new harvest to flourish. She is worshipped wherever rice is the staple crop, as far as Korea and Japan, where she is called Canon. Yes, like the cameras and printers: the giant corporation is named after her and its original 1934 logo was an image of the deity herself.
Originally Guan Yin’s statue presided over a simple lodge on Race Course Road. which was expanded by a rich local merchant in the mid-1920s, as this was the age of fortune and philanthropy. It has been constantly maintained and restored and, now a temple, it contains a main hall, corridors, guest rooms, monk’s chambers, a kitchen, an ancestral worship yard and several rooms for meditation. My eyes focus on the wavy, tiled central roof. Its ridge contains a blazing pearl flanked by two protecting dragons whereas its gables depict dramatic warrior scenes. As I enter the narrow courtyard, a stone bell stands on the left; I am told that its sound fends off Bai Hu, the man-eating White Tiger, Guardian of the West.What does it all mean?
The instantly recognisable statue of the Laughing Buddha greets me warmly at the entrance to bring luck, happiness and a good, all-round vibe, but this is where any familiarity with images or symbols ends. Directly behind the Laughing Buddha and facing the main idol in the holy of holies, towers Wei Tuo, the guardian of faith, poised serious, demonic, macabre. He was a general devoted to one of the incarnations of Guan Yin as Miao Shan, the Princess who remained a virgin, spurning her father’s orders to marry. Wei Tuo, in return, remained faithful in his unrequited, platonic love and helped her escape from the clutches of her father, the king. Although his dedication was his undoing– he was captured and executed – Buddhist folk memory has elevated him into a deva, a human being of great moral authority, forever called upon to guard the main deity of a temple. In our case, this is his old flame, Guan Yin, looking imperious like Turandot frozen in time in the middle of ‘In questa reggia’.
An elderly monk emerges out of the temple depths maybe attracted by my camera flash. I guess he is the Resident Monk. He’s followed by a round-faced boy. I point at my camera with a questioning look.
‘Can,’ the Monk says, which I take to mean ‘yes’.
He sits by a statue of Confucius on the right watching every move I make, while the boy directs me silently to the left and gives me a leaflet explaining that I should walk in a clockwise direction: it is good feng shui (does this change in the southern hemisphere?) Anyway, I like the idea, because it means that Europe got it wrong and Britain got it right: driving on the left brings good luck which is easily confirmed when you check the accident rates on French roundabouts. Then again, it could also be that the boy has sent me to the donation box where two statues are coiled together in permanent struggle; donations help them uncurl from each other and at the same time let us resolve any quarrels with our own loved ones. I hesitantly put some money in.
The boy looks happy and points at a bell and drum hanging high above my head. Tradition dictates that the bell be rung 108 times and the drum beaten 3,000 times every morning whereas the order is reversed at dusk. I look at the boy’s arms – he was sixteen, maybe seventeen but his arms were surprisingly muscular: even if as rapid as one second per beating, 3,000 seconds corresponds to a 50-minute battery twice a day.
My examining look was reciprocated.
‘Your arm?’ asks the Monk.
That question.
‘A fall,’ I say. ‘Down some stairs.’
He disappears behind a screen.
The boy stretches his arms and opens his palms pointing at the Qi Xing Deng, the Lamp of Seven Lights. This is the lamp lit for prayer on the first and fifteenth of each lunar month; it remains open on those days during which the appeals to the gods are more propitious. It is placed opposite the miraculous statue of Guan Yin and a white marble statue of the historical Buddha-Sakyamuni; both are encased behind glass.
He wants me to pay reverence. I don’t do prayers.
Maybe I should.
Under the boy’s gaze, I close my eyes and stand there for a few minutes pretending to meditate. I have no idea what to do. I should ask that my arm be healed. Aum, I cogitate. Auau-au-aum. It has to originate from the navel, does it not? I concentrate and contract my abdominals, but they are of no use: I haven’t been to a gym in weeks.
I open my eyes. The boy is smiling. I am glad and relieved he likes it, and I become more pleased when he leads me to a door next to the main altar and through that to a yard in the innards of the temple. In the middle stands a four-faced status of Brahma to ward off evil from all directions. On the western side are 18 arhats, the first disciples of the Buddha who, being devoted Brahmins, attained nirvana. On the eastern side there are individual boxes and vases with various calligraphic ideograms arranged in five altars. This is the ancestral worship hall where prayers are being said on various days for the souls of those who passed away. They are never far from us, ever watchful, ever caring and ever critical if their descendants stray from the Way.
I think of Chang.
To come out as gay in a culture like this…
- 15 -
‘I thought of you today,’ I say to Chang who picks me upfrom my hotel.
‘You did?’
‘I was over at a Buddhist Temple in Little India in a kind of memorial hall for ancestors.’
Chang doesn’t like to talk about this again so I change the subject.
‘And you?’
‘I was at home watching DVDs.’
‘Like what?’
‘You’ll laugh. Sound of Music.’
‘How very gay.’
Chang looks at me bewildered. ‘Is it?’ he asks.
It’s my turn to be taken aback. ‘But of course. It’s part of the gay stereotype.’
Chang looks seriously surprised. ‘Really? I’m shocked.’
‘You thought you were unique?’
‘Not unique but –’
‘C’mon. You’re kidding me. Do you also like Barbra Streisand?’
This time Chang’s jaw drops.
‘YES!’ he cries. ‘How did you know?’
‘It’s another gay thing.’
‘NO! I can’t believe it.’
‘And I can’t believe you didn’t know about it.’
‘I thought... just in Singapore... or just me and my friends...’
‘You are shocked for liking something gay you didn’t know you ought to, is that it?’
Chang is speechless.
‘Don’t believe in this homosexual lifestyle crap,’ I tell him. ‘We are genetically predisposed to Barbra.’
Chang puts an end to the conversation by stopping in front of a door. ‘Happy,’ he says. It is a Sunday night and we are at the only late night club in town.
I walk in and am impressed: this is not a seedy here-today gone-tomorrow dingy hole. From the soft sofa furnishing to the mood lighting and the international DJs to the quality of the hi-fi speakers, the ambience screams ‘I am a no-expensespared superclub’ – no wonder Happy has been dubbed ‘Singapore’s hottest nightspot’ by Wallpaper* magazine. The pervading thick smell of expensive eau de cologne works like a strong room deodoriser, and the sartorial creations worn by the city’s ultra-thin metrosexuals give the place the atmosphere of a Dolce and Gabbana show during Milan fashion week. Not for the first time in Singapore, I feel an outsider: sharp, short, sideways glances scrutinise me and my sling, which I’m now oblivious to, and instantly put me in my place in the pecking order of sexual attraction which is down, down, down.
It is with a sense of relief that I lock eyes with the creepy potato-head from Taboo standing at the bar. Well, at least I am not at the
bottom of the food chain.
‘Hello John,’ he says immediately, checks out Chang and winks at me with studied clumsiness so that everyone– especially Chang – might think that we were old buddies parading our conquests for the benefit of the other. It is for this reason that I pointedly ask him for his name.
‘Hello errm,’ I say ‘sorry, I didn’t catch your name.’
I hope that Chang heard me there.
‘I’m Nick,’ says the guy ‘don’t you remember? We met before you broke your arm. In Taboo.’
He is beginning to irritate me. ‘Not really,’ I say, ‘it is not broken. I came to Singapore with my arm in a sling –’
‘Ha-ha,’ Nick interrupts ‘in Singapore with a sling. As if you couldn’t buy enough of those at Raffles.’
‘… but I wasn’t wearing it in Taboo,’ I add. ‘Excuse us.’
I chase the barman down the bar to avoid Nick but to no avail: he follows us. I notice that Chang feels excluded, so I am forced to introduce him.
‘Marketing, eh? I have some contacts in advertising,’ says Nick poignantly. I can sense that the plan to get Chang’s phone number has commenced. Feeling another alpha male’s competitive chat-up breathing down my neck, I ask Chang what he wants to drink. Right, an orange juice. I don’t look at Nick, and I don’t offer.
When I return, they are deep in conversation.
‘… explain that to me,’ Nick was saying.
‘Explain what?’ I ask.
‘David Beckham. Why do you all go crazy about David Beckham in the Far East?’
‘It’s a matter of success,’ Chang replies with his usual intelligence. ‘He’s photogenic and the message he conveys is success and money.’
‘Is that why you have Caucasian faces in ads? Why you don’t have any Asians?’ Nick continues.
Chang shrugs his shoulders. ‘We’ve been a colony for so long,’ he says. ‘We still look up to Britain. We go there to study. And America now is a superpower. Caucasian faces are synonymous with success.’
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