The same could be said for the mighty mudskippers and monitor lizards sunning themselves in mudflat puddles and on the rocks. Spotting wildlife ensconced cosily in their natural habitat was ridiculously easy. The Mangrove Boardwalk was almost the Night Safari, except it was natural, cheaper and there wasn’t a tour party from China shoving cameras against my ear to get a closer shot of something blurred.
I then spotted an awed little girl staring up at the inviting Jejawi Tower. The 21-metre structure obviously provided an incomparable viewing platform, but it was seven storeys up and away from us.
“Let’s go to the top, Daddy,” she said cheerily, already heading for the first steps.
“I can’t, mate. I’ve still got to cycle back and it’s getting late,” I replied in vain.
“It’s OK, Daddy,” cried my fast-disappearing daughter. “I’ll climb the stairs myself.”
I craned my head back to take in the tower’s height. It was far too dangerous for a three-year-old, even one who had turned into Bear Grylls in the previous hour. I sighed, wiped my brow, fished her into my arms and carried her 21 metres to the top. The climb was exhausting, but the view exhilarating. I plopped the little one onto a bench, shared out some crisps, sweeties and blackcurrant juice (unhealthy, I know, but she had been bounced around forest tracks, bypassed wild boars and dragged through mangroves, so she deserved a break). I peered over the platform fence just as a chatter of parakeets soared above the trees beneath me. With dusk sneaking upon us, a red hue hung in the air, the spangles gliding lightly along the sea surface like a concert pianist’s fingers. Some yachts dotted the horizon off Changi Sailing Club in the distance while herons and egrets continued to peck at the mudflats in the foreground. From my breezy vantage point, I surveyed Serangoon Harbour, the mangroves under my feet and the forest canopy behind me. I savoured the stillness. The place was just about perfect. Chek Jawa need never change. I smiled at my daughter as she counted out her sweeties into two piles: one for her, one for her Daddy. Soppily, I grabbed her suddenly and kissed her on the cheek. Such moments are so rare.
“Hey, Daddy,” she said, smiling back at me, her blue eyes sparkling. “I need to do a wee wee.”
But it didn’t matter. The ride back to Pulau Ubin Main Jetty was more enjoyable for both of us. Time was on our side. I had made low tide. She had an empty bladder. Plus the return journey was more downhill than up, so I pedalled slowly (ride that brake carefully coming back from Chek Jawa, especially with children on board). We cruised past the splendid Petai Quarry, slowed down in Jalan Sam Heng to gawp at long-tailed macaques, the first wild monkeys my daughter had ever seen, and even picked out two more wild boars through the trees with more confidence.
We returned the bike and I carried my sleepy girl out to the jetty to wait for the bumboat home. The time was 6 p.m. Our adventure had taken just two and a half hours. To keep her awake and stop her from lying beside the dozing feral dogs on the jetty’s concrete floor, we summarised our whirlwind trip to Singapore’s protected piece of rural paradise.
“So, let’s remember what we did,” I said enthusiastically. “We took a taxi, then a fast boat and then a bicycle right into the forest, all the way out to sea, and how many animals were there?”
“Three warthogs, two big lizards, lots of mudskippers and orange-and-white crabs, big birds, some butterflies and two monkeys,” she said matter-of-factly.
“That’s amazing. What was your favourite bit? Was it the big wild boar, I mean warthog, in the road? Was it climbing to the top of the tower? Was it the monkeys? Or was it going really fast on the boat? What did you like best of all?”
She sat up suddenly.
“The sweeties,” she said.
Twenty-two
I STOLE a peek at the CCTV camera. I knew they were watching me. They were following my every move. They had to be. I was standing at the entrance to their private, exclusive fortress, taking notes, snapping photographs and eyeing the building. I was most conspicuous. Blue-collar workers passed me in Changi North Crescent, dashing off into the SATS Inflight Catering Centre next door to pack airline meals. Others waited sleepily at the bus stop for the loop service back to Tampines. Meanwhile I continued to examine the deliberately nondescript building, its design, architecture and interiors tailored for new Singapore’s specifications. A crane, raised 30 metres in the air, gently eased a crate across the roof. The building’s rectangular facade, set back 50 metres from the main road and hidden behind a green fence, was shielded further by eco-friendly brown slats, making the building resemble a huge patio door blind. The drapes kept out the sun. They also kept out prying eyes. Vertical greenery undoubtedly appeased environmental crusaders but they really provided another layer of privacy. There were no discernible windows, not from the street at least. Like detectives behind a one-way mirror in an interrogation room, they see whatever they want. You see only what you’re allowed to see.
The sign at the entrance deliberately revealed nothing: The Singapore FreePort. There was a red-and-white, whirly, globe-shaped logo above the name, which again gave little away, quite purposefully. I peered down to the car park up ahead. There were barriers between us, clearly manned by people sitting in front of TV screens, presumably wondering what the note-taking ang moh was doing.
I wanted more. I found a number that I had scribbled down in my notepad earlier and thought, Sod it, let’s go into the art-collecting business. My nerves jangled as the phone trilled.
“Yes, hello,” a polite, well-spoken voice answered.
“Ah, yes, hello, is that The Singapore FreePort?” I stammered.
“Yes, how can I help?”
“Ah, well, the thing is, I was recommended your place by a friend. I have some artworks.”
“I see, well maybe you could send us an email at this address, and we can answer your queries.”
“Yeah, I could do that ... argh, bloody hell, hang on, argh.”
I was covered in red ants, the nippy little bastards. I had leant against a tree, grateful for its shade as I rested one hand on the trunk and held the phone in the other. The biting blighters had marched along my outstretched arm, led their army through my sagging polo shirt sleeve and pitched camp beneath the rainforest under my armpit. One or two had already made it across to my chest, gnawing their way through my nipples when I started a spontaneous jig to shake the buggers off.
“Hello, are you still there?”
I had forgotten about the phone call.
“Yes, I’m still here ... argh ... sorry about that,” I said breathlessly through gritted teeth, jumping up and down and slapping my nipples. I looked like a cult. Or something like a cult anyway.
“OK, yes, well, if you’d like to send us an email, then I’m sure we can ...”
“Argh ... Only the thing is ... get off ... I’m an Englishman, you can probably tell from my accent ... shoo, shoo ... and I’ve actually come down to have a look at the place for myself. Just to see the location ... argh.”
“Yes. I can see you.”
That stopped me in my tribal ritualistic tracks. He could see me jiggling and flicking away at my body parts in a frenzied state of arousal that might have been giving the wrong impression from 50 metres away.
“You can see me,” I muttered rhetorically.
“Yes. You had better come inside.”
The barrier magically raised itself. Fort Knox for the fabulously rich had allowed me onto its property. With a dry throat, I nervously set foot on a new Singapore road paved with gold bullion.
If The Singapore FreePort belonged in a movie, Ocean’s Eleven might have robbed it by now. New Singapore makes no secret of its ambitions to stash the cash of the world’s richest, through property and retail investments. Now it wants their knick-knacks, those little keepsakes lying around. You know, Van Goghs, gold bars, things like that. The Singapore FreePort represents the island’s plans to carry on where Switzerland has left off. With those pesky European Union regulators insisting on grea
ter banking transparency, Swiss authorities are under pressure to expose tax cheats. No questions asked in Switzerland became some questions asked. As many Europeans faced unprecedented austerity measures, it seemed only fair that the continent’s wealthiest pay a little more tax for the Rembrandts, right? No, sod that, they chorused. Isn’t there somewhere else to park the paintings, the vintage cars and the cigars, like a Switzerland of Asia? Somewhere quiet, discreet, peaceful, with a stable government, low taxes and a compliant population that isn’t likely to start with all that protesting malarkey and maybe rob our Rembrandts? Changi seemed like the perfect location. It was even beside a golf course. Hence, The Singapore FreePort was born.
In 2010, the largest safety deposit box in the world opened in its own duty-free zone next to Changi Airport. Wealthy art collectors who treasure discretion almost as much as their own anonymity can sell, view or buy pieces with a level of privacy that is breathtaking (and bloody insulting to the average punter who has to travel in and out of the country the conventional way). Interested parties are whisked from the runway in waiting limousines the moment the wheels of their private jets have bitten into the tarmac. Accompanied with a glass of something fizzy and expensive, they are ushered through the CIP (that’s “commercially important person”, no, I’m not joking) Terminal into The Singapore FreePort to admire their options in private viewing areas, all stored at tax-free rates of course, and can then complete a purchase in a separate meeting room before being driven back to their waiting jets. No questions asked. It’s as though they have never been here, just as they desire. I cannot pick up a DVD in Johor Bahru without going through the rigmarole of immigration and customs at Woodlands but an overseas oligarch can pick up a Picasso without setting foot on a travelator and suffering that interminable muzak.
The old oligarch doesn’t even have to tell the wives that he’s picked up a Picasso. Tenants at The Singapore FreePort register goods with customs by general category only. They just report “a painting”. Whether it’s the Mona Lisa or one of my daughter’s finger paintings, the same category applies. The same privacy is guaranteed. Not surprisingly, Goldfinger would need more than Pussy Galore to get into this place. Swiss engineers and security experts took care of the vaults, which are protected by seven-metric-ton steel doors, and armed guards are provided on request. Getting inside requires scanners, checks and searches of Mission Impossible proportions. I had earlier tried to visit with a respected art dealer but the restrictions were too stringent. No expense had been spared to offer the international mega-wealthy peace, protection, privacy and efficiency to store their Jackson Pollock.
Do think about that, Singaporean residents, when you next find yourself queuing at customs to return to your own country.
Still, never mind the Pollocks, I had to convince the management that I was an art dealer. I removed my baseball cap, rather theatrically, and smiled up at the CCTV camera, suggesting, I think, an aura of confidence and innocence. They do this sort of thing in the movies. As I approached slowly along the drive, running over what I might say, I peered across at the FreePort building on my left but there was nothing to see. It was impenetrable, no windows, no gaps, slits or slats to steal a peek. Van Gogh’s ear might have been hanging on a wall. No one from the outside world was seeing it.
Two gentlemen in suits appeared. One led his younger colleague, checking his hair and tie as he approached, exuding efficiency. The very attributes that a prospective art expert like me would thoroughly appreciate. I had to get my story straight. I figured on the truth. An undercover investigative journalist once told me that the truth is the safest fallback when you know you’re lying.
“Hi there, thanks for meeting me,” I said, shaking hands with the two chaps.
“My colleague tells me you might be interested in storing some artworks,” said the manager, slipping into charming business mode so quickly and smoothly that I almost missed it. “Do you have paintings?”
“Not really, paintings. No, more classic, rare movie art,” I replied truthfully. “I’ve got some pop culture pieces that need looking after.”
I was referring, of course, to my framed Star Wars wallpaper, original and in mint condition, and my limited edition Italian Stallion boxing robe from Rocky, complete with matching shorts. My house can go before those two prized possessions.
“Yes, I’m sure we can help with that,” the manager said, eyeing me favourably.
I was wearing shorts, but they were complemented by a Batam-bought Ralph Lauren polo shirt. The attire tried to say “just stepped off a yacht” rather than “just stepped in cat shit”, which is what my clothing choices usually scream at people. But the white face-Ralph Lauren combination is the right one for new Singapore. The West’s wealthiest are most welcome to dump their baubles and bits and bobs here; the seven-metric-ton steel door is always open for the elites of the East, too. (This multicultural country does not discriminate. There are only two classes of people considered in Singapore: those with money and those without.) My wallet had five bucks in it, but my white face and the little horsey man on my left nipple suggested otherwise.
“All you have to do is email me at this address,” said the manager, a thoroughly decent Singaporean chap I might add, as I now feel guilty for pulling his leg. “Include all your details, how many pieces, their rough size and so on and we’ll work something out.”
“So you can’t let me inside to have a look around?”
He grinned at me. I had overreached, but our smiles acknowledged that it had been worth a shot.
“No, I don’t think so, sir,” he added swiftly, already shaking my hand. “I look forward to hearing from you.”
I was brushed off and buttered up at the same time. I promised to be in touch, pulled my cap back on tightly—still in character as the shadowy art collector desperate to remain incognito— and returned to the bus stop, once the two men were no longer watching me. I’m sure no one buys a Monet at The Singapore FreePort and then carries the painting under their arm on a bus bound for Tampines.
The bus stop was packed. A shift had ended at the SATS Inflight Catering Centre. I watched as more tired workers trudged towards the bus stop and examined the neighbouring buildings. Both had private road access to Changi Airport at the back of their properties. Vans will use that road to carry airline meals; limousines will carry Van Goghs. The same road, serving two distinct worlds. Separated only by a perimeter fence, they will never meet. That’s new Singapore for many of its residents. The two employees at FreePort were warm and courteous. They made me feel important, that I had a chance to belong at some point.
But I was never allowed inside.
So I took the short bus ride along Upper Changi Road East, stumbled along the insufferably long and unshaded Koh Sek Lim Road and kept a date at a new Singapore destination that is open to all.
“Ah, there you are, we were about to call you,” replied the sweet guide. “OK, now that we are all here, we can begin the tour. Welcome to NEWater Visitor Centre.”
Back in 2003, Uncle Leslie, my indefatigable book distributor, handed me a bottle of water during a Kinokuniya launch and encouraged me to take a swig. The audience laughed. The bottle contained the recently-launched NEWater, or recycled water. I really didn’t see what the fuss was about. My instinctive trust told me that the water had already passed every safety test. Common sense made it so, right? Not in Australia, it didn’t. In July 2006, with the world watching, residents of the Queensland city of Toowoomba rejected a water recycling scheme in a poll (the city voted 62 per cent against recycling 25 per cent of its water from its own sewage). Fear and yuck factors put paid to the laudable scheme. No one wanted to drink their own pee. And the city’s indigenous name of Toowoomba offered too many ways to rhyme with “poo” to make the idea palatable. Still, imagine the billboard slogans at the city’s entrance: Welcome to Toowoomba. You’re in Shit Creek.
Of course, the short-sighted doom merchants caused carnage, leaving behind a
panic-stricken, misinformed city still devastated by drought. Six years on, Toowoomba dams were full and ratepayers were funding an almost A$200 million pipeline to move the liquid gold around. But at some point, it will stop raining again in Australia.
Singapore is not prepared to take such chances. In 1974, the year in which I was born, PUB designed a pilot plant to turn used water into potable water. By the turn of the century, technology had reached the stage to make production costs affordable. Today, there are four NEWater plants, the latest opened in Changi in May 2010.
I was at the Bedok plant to understand how Singapore leads the world in providing 30 per cent of its total demand from recycled water. I had earlier signed up for the tour via the NEWater Visitor Centre website (available to all—school parties, families and casual visitors like myself—free of charge) and joined the group in a plush auditorium for a short film. Yes, it banged the government drum, but the movie made no idle boasts. With no natural aquifers or groundwater, Singapore is labelled a “water-scarce country” by the United Nations. Through its “four national taps”—local catchment, imported water, recycled water (NEWater) and desalinated water—the country makes do. Putting it into perspective, the lovely tour guide described how Singapore had so little water during the famous drought of 1963 that the government turned the taps off for 12 hours every day. Not a drip came out for half a day. Singaporeans will not go back. Nor will they be bent over a water barrel by the resource-rich Malaysians and handed the Vaseline. I admire that can-do spirit more than I can possibly tell you.
The tour was surprisingly engrossing. I didn’t get the science jokes. I was the only non-Indian MBA student in the party so the gags about osmosis sailed over my head. But I got how clean the water is. That point was rammed home repeatedly. There are four processes (ultra infiltration, reverse osmosis, ultra violet disinfection and water conditioning to adjust the pH level) but the water already passes every safety and security test after the first two. In fact, the water is too clean. Everything is scrubbed away, including the minerals, which is why NEWater is mostly used for non-potable applications in heavy industry and in air-conditioning cooling towers in commercial buildings. Think about Singapore. Think about the air conditioning. Think about the water involved. Most of it is recycled. Think about how much natural drinking water is saved.
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