‘So are thousands of people in the hospitals around London and they don’t all have people to look after them but we don’t worry about them.’
‘All right, all right... Oh, by the way, Gary got the promotion. He’s in charge now.’ She did not mention Leeson ever again.
Shortly after that conversation, the former trader was released from prison and returned to Britain. I sincerely hope he recovers and makes as much money as he possibly can out of the wonderful Barings Bank incident. I can safely say, though, that I do not expect us to be on each other’s Christmas card list this year.
I suppose it is because I fall under the Hon school of thought. Hon is a Cantonese guy who lived on our corridor in the halls of residence at university. Unlike many of his friends, he refused to join the Hong Kong Society. When Scott asked him why, he replied, ‘If I wanted to hang around with people from Hong Kong, I might as well have stayed in Hong Kong.’ We liked him immediately.
I have to say that I agree with Hon’s profoundly simple outlook on travel and cultural exploration. It is no coincidence that I have more local friends in Singapore than I do Caucasian. With over four million of the former, and only a few hundred thousand of the latter, how could it be any other way? In fact, I would have to actually go out of my way to seek ang mohs to hang out with. Surely no one is going to do that, are they? But of course they are. That is why I cannot blame local friends when they introduce me to expats thinking that I will be grateful because that is what all the others seem to be doing. Have a look for yourself. Go to any Western-style bar and you will see white people drinking with more white people. Alternatively, take a tetanus injection and have a cultural encounter at the legendary Papa Jo’s nightspot in Orchard Road. Like vampires, the ang moh crowd comes out at night, dressed in their best shirts and armed with plenty of tax-free Singapore dollars to woo those local darlings tragically struck down by the Pinkerton syndrome. Like the character in Madame Butterfly, they are somehow lured by the attraction of drunken voices and the possibility of a fat wallet.
Many of the expats I come across merely uproot their Western lifestyle and replant it here. Go to any hawker centre in the HDB heartlands and play a game of ‘spot the white man’. To be honest, you would have better odds if you went over to Pulau Ubin and played ‘spot the tiger’. However, your chances of success would skyrocket if you played the same game at any French-style sandwich outlet. And what is it about these places anyway? Am I alone in thinking that the food is dry, bland and far too expensive? My mother makes more exciting sandwiches and rolls and she does not have to wear those sad, unrealistic French maid aprons while she is doing it.
I went into one of these Western hellholes in International Plaza once in a bid to tackle a raging thirst. As it was lunchtime, the place was heaving with city-slickers. Saying hello to the Chinese auntie behind the counter, I was greeted with the kind of facial expression that suggested I had just vomited on her counter. I picked up a can of warm diet coke and asked her the price.
‘S$1.70,’ she replied, without even looking up. Momentarily stunned, I thought she had said S$1.70 so I asked her the price again. My ears were not deceiving me.
‘Excuse me, do you inject bacardi into it or something? Only it’s not even cold and I’m taking it away so it won’t even come with ice.’
‘It’s S$1.70.’
I threw the can at her silly apron and walked out. Approximately five metres away was a little hawker stall. The cheerful Chinese uncle sold me a cold can of coke for S$1, asked if I wanted a straw and said goodbye. His stall, though doing a thriving trade, did not have a single ang moh around it.
It does not stop there. I have ang moh friends who refuse to set foot in a hawker centre, who drink in Western-style pubs and only eat Western food. Their wives stay at home and perform the dutiful role of housewife. They sit by the swimming pool or watch videos of English soap operas or dramas that they have either rented from the British Council or had sent out to them by relatives. Their children go to international schools and mix predominantly with other rich white children. After work, they drink in coffee shops in Western-style areas like Holland Village. In other words, there is little attempt to acclimatise to the local way of life. They live in a cocoon, a Western bubble of condos, cars, maids, cable television, bars and restaurants, thus ensuring they have only minimal contact with the average Singaporean and his way of life. Such a self-centred lifestyle can only further exacerbate the idea of ‘them’ and ‘us’ and make Singaporeans less susceptible to the notion of foreign talent, even if it is euphemistically called global talent.
It infuriates me because I know exactly how Singaporeans must feel. When I was at university, I have to concede that our good friend Hon was very much a minority. The Asians who lived on our corridor brought their little bit of Asia with them. Before you could say haute cuisine, our kitchen was stocked with rice cookers, chopsticks and those huge chicken rice choppers. With the exception of David, I never saw an Asian cook anything mildly resembling a Western meal in three years. Whether they were from Malaysia, Hong Kong, Brunei or Singapore, they always cooked rice and noodles. On top of that, they always cooked together. In fact, they did most things together, such as eating out and going to the cinema. They never came out to the pub or played football with us, no matter how many times we asked them. Such a relationship raises cultural barriers and, after a while, it became a ‘them’ and ‘us’ situation, which makes for fraught living conditions.
Ironically, Scott and I were more willing to hang around with the Asians on our corridor than we were with our fellow Caucasians because we were in the middle of our (admittedly childish) class war. In truth, we really did have far more in common with Dave from Toa Payoh than we did with spoilt, rich arseholes from London or York. We would chat about global issues such as Manchester United, Singaporean snakes and pornography. However, we always went our separate ways when it came to going out in the evenings and that inevitably bred a little resentment. They would go off to the Chinese food wholesaler to stock up on rice while we went to the pub to stock up on cider.
Like Hon, though, there are always exceptions. I have many good friends here who have made every effort to assimilate themselves into the culture. In fact, one of my friends, Fran, tried so hard he ended up marrying a Singaporean. Lawrence refused to eat anything Western because it was too expensive and there was too much local food to choose from. Shawn, another friend, who went a little further north and married a Korean girl, enjoyed the company of Singaporeans so much that he would bare his buttocks to them at every opportunity. Why he could not just shake their hand is a mystery to me.
We were having a few drinks at Fran’s HDB apartment one night when trousers started being dropped with mind-numbing predictability around midnight. On this particular occasion, Shawn got his wires crossed. After half a bottle of Fran’s Chivas Regal, he assumed that Lawrence, who had just mooned him, was in the kitchen. Consequently, Shawn went down on all fours and dropped his trousers to reveal his backside and a little of what can only be called the world’s scrawniest chicken. For what seemed like an eternity, he stayed in that position saying things like ‘Get a load of that, you bastard.’ Only Lawrence was not in the kitchen. He was sitting at the bar with Fran and me, watching this bizarre episode unfold. Fran’s wife was in the kitchen preparing some snacks and she saw a side of Ontario that night that I hope she never gets to witness again.
Such drunken buffoonery is uncommon among most Singaporeans. This is because they substitute beer with good food, something that I begrudgingly admire. Eating a delicious plate of hor fun may not stimulate the kind of excitable behaviour required to bare your bottom to friends but it will not inspire you to try to put your hand up a complete stranger’s skirt either.
Of course, the differences between locals and ang mohs are endless but it is the peculiar ones that intrigue me. In England, for instance, hairdressers like to talk profusely. I knew a gay hairdresser in Manchester who u
sed to cut hair at the local old folks’ home and recalled in minute detail all the old ladies who had died in the chair while he was still cutting their hair. He even expressed regret that he had not been paid for the cut. Then, there was the girl in Dagenham who kindly informed me that I had the kind of hair that was impossible to cut and that she could do absolutely nothing with it. At my old Singaporean hairdressers in Toa Payoh, however, they said nothing. Partly because their command of the English language was not the best but mainly because they just could not be bothered. I would walk in, the hairdresser would ask, ‘Wha you want...short?’ and that would be it. No pleasantries, no chitchat, nothing. If I am in an HDB lift with Singaporeans, they want to know my life story; when I am in a Singaporean hairdresser’s chair, he or she wants me to shut up.
The one thing Singaporeans most certainly do not do is scratch their testicles in public. This is in complete contrast to the Western male. I had assumed that it was a British phenomenon connected to the seasonal weather. Then I realised that Canadians, if Fran, Shawn and Lawrence are any yardstick, were also guilty of it. Singaporeans, on the other hand, keep well away from their nether regions. This, to me, demonstrates remarkable self-restraint. In a country that sits on the equator and is humid all year round, I have to ask: how do you do it? It is impossible for me not to resemble Captain Hook with chickenpox when I am sitting on a non air-conditioned bus in the midday Sun and feel the sweat trickle down my inner thigh.
Somehow though, Singaporeans can resist the temptation to rip open the underside of their scrotum. Yet strangely, some, particularly the older ones, cannot resist emptying their throat of phlegm whenever the need arises. My next-door neighbour has a spitting session in his bathroom every morning at the same time. His James Brown impressions almost serve as a wake-up call. He saves his best performance for Sunday mornings when he sounds as if he is trying to raise the Titanic. I know that spitting is a sensitive issue in Singapore and Caucasians tend to zoom in on it when they pick out negative traits, but I have to confess that it was quite a startling observation the first few times I saw it happen.
When my missus arrived in Singapore, Dave and I took her to the best roti prata place. We called over one of the women at the stall to take our order. As she stood beside our table, she turned her face to one side, spat into the gutter and continued to write down our order as if nothing had happened. Now, this was not the first impression I wanted my better half to get of the place. Ironically, though, it is the only time that someone has spat while taking our food order in all the time that we have been in Singapore. However, it is not an incident easily forgotten.
As I say, it is a cultural thing among the older generations and it will eventually die out. What is funny though, in a sick way, is how hip these people would be on the streets of Dagenham. Growing up in my home town, everyone seems to go through a compulsory phase of thinking that it is cool to spit. Thus, that little spitting gang of Singaporeans could fit in well with London’s teenagers. They would just fall down in the ball-scratching department.
Yet despite our testicle touching, our teenage spitting, our chatty hairdressers and, more importantly, our tendency not to embrace the Singaporean lifestyle, there is still a discernible emulation of the West here. And it is the quirky Western obsessions that amaze me. I am proud to say that in my entire life, I have only ever stepped in one Hard Rock Cafe. It was in Sydney and I was there, ironically enough, because my partner had been asked to get a few shirts for her Singaporean friends. Singaporeans just cannot get enough of this kind of American merchandise. What is it all about? By all means, wear a product from a country that you have actually visited but I know of many Singaporeans who have never been to any of the Hard Rock or Planet Hollywood outlets but wear their T-shirts. In fact, night markets all over the island sell imitation shirts by the dozen. I could go to Bishan and buy a phoney Hard Rock Bangkok shirt, but why would I? Does the younger generation here have no pride in its culture at all? I see youngsters wearing branded shirts that have come from everywhere but Asia while an Asian-themed restaurant called Celebrities Asia closed down because the long-term interest just was not there.
However, it is Singapore’s attachment to its colonial past that really baffles me. The average citizen takes pride in his independent nation and believes that the role of the British should now be consigned to the history books. I could not agree more. Nevertheless, the invisible touch of the former colonial power can still be felt everywhere.
Just take a perfunctory glance at the city’s major place names. Walk around the business district; street and building names like Raffles, Cavenagh, Victoria, Stamford and Canning will pop up. All of these places have been named after pompous English imperialists. Taking this even further, Fort Canning Hill was known as Bukit Larangan, which means ‘Forbidden Hill’ in Malay, before Raffles arrived in 1819. The hill was a sacred site to the Malays, who buried one of their kings there. Then Singapore’s first British Resident William Farquhar arrived and said, ‘Malays, we’re in charge here so piss off. This place is not of any practical use to anyone so I’m going to stick a nice bungalow at the summit. That way, I’m near to the bus stops, the MRT and P-Mart department store. If you don’t like it, I’ll have you shot. Now fetch me a drink.’ A fort subsequently replaced the bungalow in 1859 and had to be named. Some bright spark must have pointed out that Farquhar was such a funny sounding name that it could lead to American tourists pronouncing it Fort ‘fucker’ Park. Although, in truth, that might have been more appropriate. Instead, the fort was named after Viscount George Canning, govenor-general of India at the time. That is fair enough. However, unless I am very much mistaken, Singapore has been an independent nation since 1965 and these days Britain is struggling to retain the Falklands Islands’ sheep population, so I am convinced that there would be little uproar in Westminster if Fort Canning Hill was renamed Bukit Larangan. It would not affect the tourist dollar and besides, Singapore is trying to build its own identity.
Building its own identity, however, will not come about if the country keeps naming everything after bloody Raffles. I mean, how many public sites, roads and buildings can be named after one man? And I would also like to state for the record that Raffles did not build Singapore at all. The migrants who flocked to Singapore in the nineteenth century built this country, not a man who spent less time on the island than my mate Scott.
Nevertheless, Singapore persists with maintaining links with its colonial past. If you are not convinced, go to either the Phoenix or Westin Stamford Hotels and order a taxi. There will be a porter on hand to hail the taxi on your behalf. Only this is no ordinary porter. This is an old Chinese guy dressed up to look like Phileas Fogg on safari. He is togged out in the most embarrassing colonial costume. His polished brown shoes neatly complement his knee-high socks, which are invaluable leg protectors from all the reptiles and poisonous insects that hide in the vast undergrowth that is Somerset Road. His matching khaki shirt and shorts set ensures he does not get separated from his party of jungle explorers while his pith helmet not only keeps the spears of those tribal natives at bay but also guarantees that the poor man spends his entire working day looking a complete prat. I used to see the porter outside Phoenix Hotel every day on my way home from work and say hello. Of course, what I really wanted to say was ‘Dr Livingstone, I presume?’
I have only picked on these two hotels because I have actually seen the extras from Dad’s Army in action. I have been told that porters at some other major hotels have to wear similar uniforms. In fact, for all we know, there could be a string of uncles up and down the country standing outside a hotel right now, dressed like one of the country’s old colonial masters. A rational explanation is quite beyond me. Surely it cannot possibly be in the money-driven name of tourism. When I stayed in Luxor, I was not greeted by porters dressed like Augustus, the Roman Emperor who conquered Cleopatra’s Egypt. Having said this, I did spot people wearing silly costumes when I visited the Luxor Hotel in L
as Vegas but this is a country that bought the wrong London Bridge.
If hotel management is so hell-bent on dressing up its staff, then it should at least allow them to wear their own period costumes. Why not, for example, allow the staff here to wear the kebaya or a sarong? At the very least, the uncles should be allowed to wear the shirt and blazer that the rest of the hotel staff wears to achieve consistency. Given the choice, I would rather wear a giant condom than a khaki suit once worn by a British aristocrat. I have got more in common with the condom.
As far as I am concerned, leave the West to the Westerners. After all, and I hope the MTV generation is paying attention here, they are so much better at being Western. So those Singaporeans who put ang mohs on such a bloody pedestal, stop it right now. Nothing would make me happier than to see Singaporeans dressing, talking, eating and drinking like Singaporeans. At this point, someone will say ‘But there is no particular Singaporean identity for us to hang our coat on.’ My response is: What the hell do you think I have been trying to say? Forget the colonial past, sidestep those bars full of pissed Australian tourists and turn away from the stars and stripes. Singapore only has an interesting future if it is a unique one and this will never come about as long as there are old Chinese porters dressed like Stamford Raffles on safari.
Chapter Fifteen
The only problem I have with Singapore’s wonderful climate is that it makes me pee. Well, the humidity gives me an unquenchable thirst, which I try in vain to satisfy by drinking half of the country’s Malaysian water supply. Recently, I needed to urinate so badly that I became cross-eyed and developed a walk that suggested I had one leg shorter than the other. Making my way to the public toilet, I noticed that an infuriating yellow ‘do not enter’ sign was blocking the doorway. I have a strong suspicion that these signs actually begin their life brilliant white but turn yellow over time as frustrated toilet-goers urinate over them.
Notes From an Even Smaller Island Page 20