There are seven buildings within the biomedical complex, but I only poked my head in the Matrix because that was the only name I recognised. I tried to be cynical and jokey about the names on the A*STAR Roll of Honour lists since 2005, which were nearly all Chinese (great for the Chinese, not so good for Singapore’s other representatives). I wondered aloud why the seven buildings hadn’t been named Sneezy, Dopey, Bashful and the like. But mostly, I was happily out of my intellectual comfort zone.
Singapore is utterly determined to acquire a monopoly on 21st-century research by allocating precious space and private and public funds to corner the market on relevant knowledge. What is so wrong with pulling out all the stops to attract only the world’s best? I’ve lived in towns that cornered the market in chavs and bogans so I know which way I lean. I wandered around Biopolis for an hour and not once did a biomedical researcher block my path and say, “Get out of the way, you fucking homo.” This happened to me in Geelong. In fact, this happened to me more than once in Geelong. I was beginning to think it was the clothes I wore. I am not casting aspersions on the Australian chap who revved the engine of his utility vehicle as I crossed the road at the McDonald’s drive thru in Geelong. Nor am I questioning his right to pile his dashboard with empty beer cans and call random passers-by “fucking homos”. Live and let live, I say. But if I had a choice between my daughter one day bringing home an A*STAR scholar or the tattooed fuckwit in the pick-up truck, I tend to side with Singapore. We only want the best in our house.
So Biopolis, Fusionopolis and Mediapolis (a digital media hub pencilled in for 2015) have established a brains trust to secure Singapore’s future as a sexy centre for research and development. Hundreds of millions of dollars have been spent and tenants already include pharmaceutical giants GlaxoSmithKline and Novartis while Procter & Gamble is constructing a $250 million innovation centre. The one-north precinct will continue to evolve, pushing academic and technological boundaries and providing rewarding and, most important of all, relevant jobs for my daughter’s generation. But let’s put the affix polis to bed now. That particular horse has been flogged for long enough. Next time, go with the seven dwarves.
I stood on the kerbside of Buona Vista Road and studied the very deliberate coming together of old and new Singapore. I watched the scientists leave the lab coats by their Petri dishes and scurry across to Rochester Park for lunch. With its modern, functional buildings, Biopolis is a world away from the hidden colonial black-and-white bungalows of Rochester Park and yet they support each other: one is for work, the other for play. At Buona Vista, past and future form a symbiotic relationship (dear me, I needed to get away from one-north).
Rochester Park was built before World War II to house the British military stationed at Pasir Panjang and was handed over to Singapore when the troops withdrew in 1971. Like many of the island’s black-and-white bungalows, they were rented out mostly to expatriates with more money than sense for exorbitant sums. At some point, the “gahmen” must have accepted that Helios, Proteos and Centros say many things about a country’s progress, except possibly cool, chic and trendy. So the Urban Redevelopment Authority (URA), under strict conservation guidelines, called for food and beverage outlets to take up tenancy. Staff at one-north needed more nocturnal options and cultural and culinary experiences than a food court and Rochester Park was tasked with filling the gaps.
So, who was housed in the first beautifully preserved black-and-white bungalow that I encountered? A bloody Starbucks.
I have no issue with Starbucks. I never go there. Or rather my wife does not permit me to go there. I do not like coffee and she is aware that there is something buried deep within my psyche that always has the potential to explode at a Starbucks counter and shout, “Five dollars for a fucking tea bag and some hot water?”
Fortunately, Rochester Park had not been turned into Any Other Mall in Singapore. I ambled down the leafy, empty street and spotted mostly high-end restaurants, specialising in a mixture of cuisines, from American bar grills to Chinese, Indian and Italian fare. I cannot lie. They were not cheap, but nor were they testicle-shrinkingly expensive either. I noticed a four-course lunch going for $28. That would not be considered unreasonable in Toa Payoh. The only difference was that no Toa Payoh eatery offers a garden. That’s the major plus point for Rochester Park’s restaurants. They took advantage of the bungalows’ gardens and their green canopies to include play areas. Children are not usually interested in the menu, only the entertainment. An obvious point so often overlooked in a cuisine-obsessed country. When families go to dinner, children should be allowed to enjoy themselves too. At Rochester Park, they can.
Such a rare outdoor dining experience for the whole family came at a price at some of the restaurants. I noticed a Chinese place that must have had a discreet sign that read “Valet parking— except for crap cars. You can park at Buona Vista MRT”. The restaurant’s patrons handed the keys of something shiny and the price of a four-roomed flat over to the valet before heading in for a lunch that wasn’t $28. The soothing sound of something brassy being blown in the name of jazz drifted through the trees. Fancy restaurant proprietors tend to make their safe musical choices from the CD section marked “clichéd”.
I wandered past an unexpected comedy club. All right, it was a healing cafe but its name made me laugh out loud. Not only was the establishment a healing cafe, it was also ably supported in the healing process by a juice bar that boasted low glycaemic concoctions. I spent much of my adolescence working in my grandfather’s East London cafe. My annual earnings were paltry but I would have gladly handed over the lot to witness someone ask my grandad, who survived World War II, if he had ever contemplated adding a juice bar. Or better yet, if his drinks list included anything low glycaemic. He would have replied, “Low glycaemic? We don’t sell anything alcoholic here. We’ve got Tango or Pepsi. Now pick one or bugger off.”
Not everything in new Singapore was wondrous. Some of it was just wanky. But the healing cafe was open to all. Rochester Park’s lifestyle and dining outlets might have edged towards exclusive, but they were accessible. At least the black-and-white bungalows were being utilised for something other than a wealthy expat’s temporary abode.
The same could almost be said for Dempsey Hill.
As I took the short bus trip from Queensway to Holland Road on the No. 105, I was preparing not to like Dempsey Hill. Apart from its old British army barracks, the site remains a symbolic one to Singaporean men of a certain age. When I mentioned Dempsey Hill to my old mate Dave, who first invited me to Singapore, he shrugged his ignorance. When I referenced the Central Manpower Base of Singapore (CMPB to just about everyone), he perked up. That was the place where boys took the road to manhood on the back of a military truck as they trundled off to their army unit. Where locks were shorn and loved ones left behind, CMPB marked the humble beginnings of national service. Where teenagers bit their bottom lips and parents privately celebrated getting an extra room in the apartment for a couple of years. But that’s all gone. The CMPB was relocated to Depot Road in 1989. In new Singapore, middle-aged men can now return to Dempsey Hill and exorcise any lingering army demons with a curry and a crêpe.
National servicemen have been replaced by air-kissing expatriates and tai tais poncing about with their pedigreed poodles. At least I initially thought they had. Within months of my leaving in 2006, the Singapore Land Authority (SLA) announced plans to bring the sexy back to Dempsey Road by revitalising some of the former military buildings and turning them into al fresco bars and restaurants. As much as I recognise the architectural elegance of pre-independence buildings, I accept the elitist cliques that they can attract.
I thought my worst fears had been realised when I fought my way through the BMWs and 4×4s and dashed into a butcher’s to beat the rain. A bottle of sprite for $3.80 suggested the store’s clientele had little time for small change and when a white Porsche later splashed through a puddle to soak my shins, I was ready to leave. H
ow do Porsche owners drive around with straight faces? The Porsche convertible has to be the car equivalent of a big boob job: obvious, expensive, desperate to be seen and admired, but laughed at the moment the owner has left. I couldn’t avoid a soaking from the boy racer with small genitalia (I’m assuming this because it makes me feel better, he didn’t wave his willy at me through the Porsche window). Decent footpaths are hard to come by around Dempsey Hill. The popular hang-out is well served by buses along Holland Road, but most of its patrons do not use public transport.
I didn’t want to like Dempsey’s trendy village because the area brought back memories of a lunch meeting I once attended just a little further along the road—paid for by a British organisation just along the road—to pick my brains for an hour. It is impossible to go into too much detail for fear of revealing who was at the lunch. I have no qualms about naming the guy, for reasons that will soon become apparent, but his support team was helpful and considerate. Being the flavour of the month for five minutes thanks to the popularity of my earlier books, I was invited along by British people on high to gauge my opinions on what made Singaporeans tick because the host, despite working and living in the country at a considerable expense to others, did not have the first clue. During the discussion, I said, “Well, when it comes to Singapore’s heartlanders, those living in the housing estates, I think that ...”
“Please,” he interrupted, gesturing with his hand as if I were a bothersome bluebottle. “I’m really not interested in the chattering classes here.”
I excused myself and went to the toilet. I had to. I was hearing the voice in my head scream “I’m from the chattering classes, too, you condescending prick” and had to make sure that it stayed there.
Against all expectations, Dempsey Hill wasn’t quite like that. The forest haven still had its share of handcrafted rugs and rare antiques costing more than a taxi driver’s annual salary, but some of the menus were reasonable. I noticed a group of younger Singaporeans piling out of a taxi and heading for an Indian set meal. Local families wandered past restaurants, perusing the menus before making a decision. Despite the drizzle, I enjoyed the easy-going ambience. Sticking restaurants, ice-cream parlours and wine cellars on the site of a former army base does work. The breezy summit has retained its old world charm amid the whistling trees, with new Singapore enhancing the area’s history rather than demolishing it.
And, most important, Dempsey Hill is still interested in the chattering classes.
Fourteen
CEMETERIES hold little spiritual resonance for me. I am a product of the MTV generation. For a while, I couldn’t visit a relative’s grave without expecting an emaciated fist to punch through the soil, followed by lots of shoulder popping and someone shouting, “Cos this is ‘trilla’.” But my cold detachment to cemeteries can be attributed to my macabre mother. When most parents discover that their firstborn son is going to have his first child, they buy a book of baby names so the family can gather and compile a top 10 list. My mother didn’t. My mother dragged us around Ramsgate Cemetery.
“Here’s a good name,” she said one summer’s morning, pointing to a crooked, crumbling gravestone. “Johnny Strong. That’s a lovely boy’s name, little Johnny.”
“Mum, he died of syphilis in 1898,” I replied, peering through the weeds at the faded inscription. “Do you really want a grandson named after a Kent bloke who died of a sexually transmitted disease in 1898?”
“But you said you wanted names from the interwar generations,” she argued. “You said you liked the old-fashioned names.”
“Well, let’s go to a library and get a book out,” I reasoned. “We don’t need to pick a name from Dawn of the Dead.”
“Dawn? I didn’t see her. Where’s she buried?”
Before I had a chance to explain, she was off again, dragging us past rows of headstones, desperate to pick out a winning name from a list of dead people. But then, my mother loves a good cemetery, always has. She takes great pride in telling people that I was born in the hospital near Highgate Cemetery, famous for its bust of Karl Marx. Mum has never read Das Kapital, but knows where its author’s body is buried. Wherever she has lived, she has always acquainted herself with the local graveyard, mentally composing fabulous family histories and narratives of its occupants. She loves this relationship. She works out from the grave inscriptions where they went wrong in their lives and they can’t argue back.
In old Singapore, my mum’s search for cemeteries was already limited. In new Singapore, she might have to rely on a book of baby names.
I took the MRT to Caldecott, a station that did not exist five years earlier and is not in Caldecott, and headed for Bukit Brown Cemetery, which has a nearby station that isn’t open yet. The economic numbers do not justify opening the station. Dead people cannot use ez-link cards so visiting relatives must walk from Caldecott or take the bus along Lornie Road. When the dead have been dug up and the area has been redeveloped, then Bukit Brown MRT Station will get the green light. In new Singapore, however, the dead are not willing to go quietly this time. That’s why I was eager to visit.
As I left the toots, fumes and traffic of Lornie Road, I turned down Sime Road and then left into Lorong Halwa and savoured the shrilling cicadas, that familiar welcoming call of Singapore’s jungle. I spotted some cars parked ahead and a couple of temporary offices and toilets outside the entrance to Bukit Brown Cemetery. Singapore’s finest had started early. And then I noticed the handiwork of the Land Transport Authority’s contractors— red stencilling. The eye was drawn first to the red stencilling rather than the graves that the red ink was identifying. Stencilled serial numbers have not fared well in modern history. The formal, clinical marking and categorising of human beings and their possessions, dead or alive, through stencilling suggests something sinister—the work of a detached, emotionless, controlling hand. History informs us, our subconscious tells us, that human beings should not be reduced to a stencilled number.
But there they were. On simple whitewashed wooden pegs, numbers had been stencilled in red paint to indicate to the impending, rumbling army of bulldozers which headstones were to be obliterated, almost 4,000 of them (although that figure continues to fluctuate). New Singapore needs a new four-lane dual carriageway to serve a future residential estate expected to be bigger than Serangoon. The development will combine public and private housing spoilt by views of MacRitchie Reservoir and is tentatively pencilled in for 2042 at the earliest (current estimates are between 30 and 40 years) but the Land Transport Authority insists that the dual carriageway is needed by 2016 to relieve rush-hour traffic along Lornie Road.
The road will slice through Bukit Brown Cemetery.
For all its sexy sheen, new Singapore cannot quite shed the image of its uglier big brother.
Despite the island’s cashed-up status, Bukit Brown Cemetery is priceless on every level imaginable. Nestled beneath MacRitchie Reservoir, the graveyard is densely vegetated considering it’s surrounded by the traffic arteries of Thomson Road, Lornie Road and the PIE. I glimpsed some remarkable birds, mostly black but boasting vivid streaks of either blue, yellow or red. (I admit I’m being shamefully sketchy on the detail but I’d never seen such rare breeds anywhere else on the mainland.) Bukit Brown provides a natural, protective shelter to allow some 85 bird species to thrive in a biologically diverse habitat. Life flourishes after death here.
The elegant hillside graves are the final resting places for up to 100,000 people, making Bukit Brown one of the biggest Chinese cemeteries in the world outside of China (some sources claim it’s the biggest). Peering at some of the inscriptions was like reading an MRT map, a street directory and a primary school history book all at the same time. Named after former proprietor George Henry Brown, a ship owner in Singapore in the 1840s, the cemetery includes community leaders, business pioneers and, contrary to some online beliefs, many common folk. Lee Kuan Yew’s grandfather Lee Hoon Leong provides an obvious political link but consider thes
e names: Cheang Hong Lim (Hong Lim Park), Chew Boon Lay (Boon Lay MRT), Gan Eng Seng (Gan Eng Seng School), Teh Ho Swee (Bukit Ho Swee), Chew Joo Chiat (Joo Chiat Place), Ong Sam Leong (Sam Leong Road), Ong Boon Tat (Boon Tat Street) and See Ewe Boon (Ewe Boon Road), among many others. In various contexts, we utter these names more often than those of our own relatives. They are all interned at Bukit Brown Cemetery.
Some of these guys were wonderfully eccentric to boot. Go and see the extraordinary edifice that Chew Geok Leong designed for himself—while he was still alive. He supervised preparations for his coffin, his tomb and a pair of Sikh guard statues that were expected to stand guard for all eternity in front of his grave. Unusual, you might say, yet an ostentatious indulgence so common among the insanely wealthy. But dear old Chew decided that his elaborate creations could all be stored in his servants’ room. These servants had to sleep with two armed Sikh guard statues at the foot of their beds every night. Chew left behind a decadent legacy, which was great for him and us, but not so great for the servants who woke up in the middle of the night thinking they had snuffed it and gone to heaven.
Enjoying the remoteness of this hilly expanse, I followed a tour mapped out by enthusiastic members of Asia Paranormal Investigators, or API for short. I found myself humming “If there’s something strange in your neighbourhood ...” for the rest of the day. But Singapore’s ghostbusters are doing sterling work to raise awareness for Bukit Brown’s plight. They provide online DIY tours and maps, write blogs calling for the cemetery’s conservation and even hang cards and arrows from trees to enable visitors to find the graves of Singapore’s colonial luminaries.
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