Not easily deterred, I noticed that the cleaner had almost finished mopping the floor so I asked her if I could go in. She nodded and stepped outside to let me pass. Letting out one of those healthy ‘aahs’, I was in the middle of my private call of nature when I heard a swooshing sound. Taking a discreet look over my shoulder, I realised that the auntie was standing right behind me, mopping the floor without a care in the world. Thinking I was imagining things, I rubbed my eyes (with one hand, of course) and took a second look. To my horror, she was most certainly there, cleaning the floor just millimetres from my feet. It suddenly dawned on me that if I turned anything other than my head around, I could be arrested for gross public indecency. I was half tempted to whip around and cry ‘What do you think of that then, auntie? You don’t get many of those to a pound, do you?’ But I strongly suspected that she might have giggled and mentioned something about already having bee hoon for breakfast.
This is not the first time that this has happened. Off the top of my head, I can recall three separate occasions when an auntie has been cleaning a public toilet while I have had the old willy out and none of them displayed the slightest hint of embarrassment. Yet I have never had such a strange encounter in a public toilet in England before. The closest I have ever come was when I went home for Scott’s wedding last year. I was in the toilets in a club in Dagenham when I found myself in a conversation with a young bloke who inexplicably began and ended every sentence with the word ‘fuck’.
It was most bizarre. I was washing my hands and chatting to a friend about my new job in Singapore. When I mentioned the word ‘journalist’, a voice said, ‘Fucking hell, mate. You’re a journalist, fuck. For which paper?’
Looking up, I saw a guy in his early twenties walking towards me, doing up his zip. He joined me at the sink.
‘It’s called The Straits Times, mate. It’s the national paper in Singapore, mate.’
If it sounds like I was using the word ‘mate’ quite frequently, all I can say is strike up a conversation with a loud, drunk chap in an empty public toilet (my friend had disappeared pretty sharpish) and see what approach you would adopt.
‘Fuck,’ he continued, ‘that’s great, mate. Nice one. What do you write about then, like?’
‘I cover local sports over there.’
‘Fucking hell, mate. That’s blinding that is, mate. So what the fuck are you doing in Dagenham?’
‘I’m from Dagenham. I’m visiting my family.’ I hoped that a shared socioeconomic background might impress the bloke, who seemed to have no intention of leaving or washing his hands for that matter.
‘Ah, you’re from Dagenham, fuck. Yeah, I live in Dagenham as well, mate. Fucking hell, small world, innit? So Singapore, lot of thieving over there like there is over here?’ This was a loaded question and I had no idea what kind of answer would pacify him.
I said, ‘Well, there’s good and bad everywhere. I’ve got respect for both places. Anyway, I’ve got to go.’ And I left him to his swearing.
In among all that nonsense, there was an obvious truth. I do sincerely respect both places. I love Singapore. For a country that is considered, again by Westerners who rarely come here, to be static and uniform, I still find it wonderfully varied. Where else in the world could you empty your bladder while an endearing old auntie, whom you have never seen before, stands over your shoulder?
This is the country where I can be sitting on my settee in my boxer shorts watching television, when Mr Eggy knocks on my door. He is a lovely old Chinese guy who walks along the corridors of my HDB block selling trays of eggs from a trolley. No matter how many eggs I already have, I make a habit of always buying a tray from him. Because as far as I am concerned, computers, the Internet and all those other geeky things will never replace the warmth of the personal touch. The same goes for the owners of the local mini-mart who always try to have a conversation with me using their smattering of English. Not only is it humbling because my knowledge of local languages is so inadequate but it unfailingly serves to remind me why I enjoy the company of the average Singaporean so much.
This was further brought home to me after a trip to the wonderful Sungei Buloh Nature Park. I went with Lawrence, who was returning to Canada shortly after and wanted to take in as many sights as possible. The park is set way back on Neo Tiew Crescent, which is in the middle of nowhere and dotted with just the odd industrial site and a few farms. I would thoroughly recommend the park to any Singaporean or tourist but would advise a couple of precautions. If you have a car, take the car. Alternatively, order a taxi or ensure that you leave the reserve by 7 p.m. to catch the last public bus of the day. Lawrence and I failed to do any of the above so we found ourselves stranded outside the closed park at 7:30 p.m., facing the prospect of an extremely long walk just to get to the main road because we had no loose change to call a taxi.
Having foolishly walked for most of the day on an empty stomach, we were left with only one rational alternative. We decided to hitchhike. It sounds crazy but at least it gives an indication of how utterly desperate we both were. A lorry approached and we both waved to the driver who, understandably, pulled over to the roadside with extreme caution. A Chinese guy in his mid-thirties warily leaned over and asked what we wanted. I put on my most sincere face and said, ‘We’re really sorry to bother you but we’ve just missed the last bus and the only way out of here now is to walk. We were just wondering if you wouldn’t mind dropping us off at the main road.’
He thought about it for a few seconds, his mind obviously entertaining a number of doubts, before he finally agreed. We could not believe it. Lawrence sat in the front with the guy and I sat in the back. Coming out onto the main road, I realised that the guy was going even further and intended to drop us off right outside Kranji MRT station. Now he was going way beyond the call of duty. There was a dusky cool breeze blowing and as we travelled along one of the more rural parts of the island, I vividly recall watching Lawrence through the window having an animated conversation with our Singaporean Samaritan and I remember feeling lucky to be here.
The guy said he ran a guppy breeding farm. Well, if a guppy breeder who once gave a lift to two ang mohs ever reads this, can I just say that you are a thoroughly decent human being. But then so are the majority of Singaporeans that I have come to know. Whether they be the eccentric characters in my HDB block, the fans of S-League football or the hundreds of schoolchildren that I have been fortunate enough to teach, they have all been honest, hardworking people.
But I wonder how things will be for Singapore in future. All the things I love about Singapore are evolving in the name of efficiency and productivity. Just like in England, the little man is mercilessly being crushed.
Take hawker centres. My uncle’s café in London eventually succumbed to the larger supermarket chains with their everything-under-one-roof concept. And there is nothing to suggest that hawker centres will not go the same way. Sanitised, expensive food courts are already in the process of replacing their grimy predecessors but at what cost? These food courts are ripping the soul out of what is a fundamental component of Singapore’s food culture. Step into any food court and you will detect the lack of atmosphere. The whole place is subdued, conservative and, dare I say it, boring. For me, at least, a meal in a hawker centre is an adventure. It is land of a thousand faces. Loud, rumbustious stall owners try to entice you to their particular delicacy while groups of diners at a hundred tables talk animatedly. Old timers sit and watch the world go by while nursing a Tiger beer as dozens of school kids rush in to grab their lunch. That is an eating experience. But going to a food court, with its fluorescent lighting, is about as exciting as a trip to the dentist.
To me, that is just one of the signs of the kiasu times. The money-driven people have no time for the hawker centre. They eat on the run and get back to the office to add a few more cents to their annual bonus. That is what the nation’s government wants its people to do. A good citizen is a productive citizen. Whether it is
the auntie mopping the floor while I am in the toilet or the stock trader in Shenton Way, they must all contribute to the country’s primary goal of bringing in the green. A non-productive Singaporean is a bad Singaporean. Retraining is the order of the day. We must keep learning, whether we are five or sixty-five, so we can continue to raise productivity and the nation’s coffers. Then, and only then, can the majority afford the car, the condo, the maid and the country club and be just like everybody else.
But wait a minute. This twenty-first-century ‘Brave New World’ concept has one major flaw. This production line could well run out of producers. With young executives hell-bent in turning their three months bonus into a 3.5 months bonus, where is the sex? There may be just enough time for a quick shag with one’s fellow executive colleague (clever people cannot sleep with stupid people) before collapsing into bed. But as for having babies, well, one or two is all the maid can realistically cope with. A third baby might put the condo back a couple of years and we cannot have that now, can we?
This unquestionably leads to falling birth rates and Singaporeans are now failing in their civic duties to bolster the nation’s labour forces. Hence, the government has introduced financial incentives to encourage couples to have that third child. Many Singaporeans, thankfully, have been appalled by this course of action. Producing a life should not be decided by one or two token subsidies but one or two letter writers to The Straits Times have expressed gratitude to the government for reducing the financial load of having a third child and they now consider it a viable option.
Since when did a human life evolve into a consumer durable? I remember watching the annual budgets when I was a kid and my mother being concerned by the tax increases levied on cigarettes. If they had not been raised too much, she would send me out to buy a packet. She kicked the habit a couple of years ago, I am proud to say. Well, in Singapore, there are village idiots acting in a similar fashion with babies. I can imagine them at home watching the prime minister’s speech and saying ‘Ooh, that latest discount on a third child is a good deal. We should get one now before the special offer ends.’ It will end if and when the birth rate begins to rise again and there will then be a special offer introduced for those who stop at having one or two children. It is ironic really because pessimists once painted a miserable Orwellian future for Singapore. I believe Huxley’s Brave New World is now much closer to the mark – a place where everyone aspires to be the same thing: a greedy, selfish arsehole.
And if this world is to become a reality, what will happen to the locals that I really do admire? There will be no place in a condo for the likes of Mr Eggy, the aunties in my mini-mart or Saudita, my legendary old landlady. The very people who helped build this country will be left by the wayside and all the spiel in the world about ‘retraining’ will not change that. Wonderful but crazy characters around my HDB block like Vidal Sassoon and bra lady will have no role to play in the New Economy. And when that tragic day finally comes and the geeks and the greedy take over completely, I like to think that I will be sitting in a coffee shop with Mr Kong, laughing at one of his eccentric reminiscences.
This, however, is all in the future. It might yet be avoided if the government declares kiasuism to be a disease of the mind, which requires a spell in a mental institute.
Right now, though, Singapore remains a great place to be. Despite spending most of my life on the outskirts of a sprawling, unpredictable city like London, Singapore is still a colourful, vibrant metropolis that is full of variety if you go looking for it.
Where else in the world would you encounter a landlady who has a penchant for preparing food with her bared breasts bouncing all over the kitchen? Or adorable kids not only refer to a penis as a cuckoo bird but also call you one for good measure? This is a country where its cab drivers are either demanding your life story or warning you of the perils of organ stealing government hospitals. The island’s most feared group of people are the hordes of aunties who can carry half a supermarket in two plastic bags, knock out an entire bus queue with one shoulder, barge and be on call to drown any unwanted rats with their bare hands. Believe me, no two days are the same in Singapore.
My partner teaches at a pre-school that is tucked away in a little rural haven. After a stressful morning of chasing rich kids around a classroom, my girlfriend retired to the lavatory to be alone with her thoughts, plan her afternoon’s activities and, most importantly, empty her bladder. Sitting on the throne, she heard a gentle splashing sound, which was somewhat startling because she had not actually started doing anything yet. Slowly, she got up and turned around to find Singapore’s biggest frog gamely attempting the breaststroke. Her initial scream terrified the entire school and almost broke Freddie the Frog’s concentration. However, the shock was short-lived. She quickly regained her senses, washed her hands and gently picked up the frog and released it into the garden. She said he looked grateful but muttered something about having his ‘bloody training schedule messed up for the amphibian Olympics’.
Her bravery left me speechless. Had the same incident occurred to me then, I guarantee that Tanglin Road would have been greeted by the sight of a lanky Caucasian, waddling like a penguin with his underpants round his ankles, waving his tackle about and shouting, ‘There’s a fucking frog up my arse!’
I cannot deny it. My urban working-class upbringing has left me totally unprepared for the trials and tribulations of living in a tropical Asian country and it is wonderful. Every incident in Singapore is a brand new experience that I am wholly unequipped for. And the best part is, I know another one will come along tomorrow.
Of course, the time will come when I will return to England to the faint strains of my mother’s voice crying ‘Where the hell are my grandchildren?’ And eventually, in the dim and distant future, I will find myself in an English pub having yet another futile argument over the quality of life. Only this time, I will lean across the table, wink knowingly and whisper, ‘You know, you ain’t never lived until you’ve had a huge frog swimming laps in your toilet bowl.’ My friends will fall silent and I will sit back contentedly, with a boyish grin slapped across my face. That, in a nutshell, is why I would rather be here now.
About the Author
Neil Humphreys grew up in the working-class town of Dagenham, Essex, where he survived one of the worst comprehensive school education in Britain and two muggings. In 1993, he escaped to the University of Manchester and argued his way to a First Class Honours degree in history. After graduating in 1996, however, he soon realised that the ability to distinguish Nazism from Fascism was less popular in Dagenham than the ability to drink large quantities of alcohol. Therefore, he decided to travel.
Singapore was suggested. He immediately agreed and bought a book on China to discover which province the city was in. After getting by as an English teacher with a strong cockney accent for two years, he switched to journalism. In 2001, Notes from an even Smaller Island was released in Singapore and became an immediate best-seller. The book has since travelled across Southeast Asia, Australia and Britain. In 2003, the best-selling sequel Scribbles from the Same Island was published. In 2006, Humphreys published his third book, Final Notes from a Great Island, before bidding a final farewell to the small island he has grown to love and moving to the big land Down Under.
Notes From an Even Smaller Island Page 21