Return to a Sexy Island

by Neil Humphreys

  A little later, I reached Bedok North Avenue 1 where people were gathering beneath Block 550. Clearly, the meet-the-people session with Aljunied MP Muhamad Faisal bin Abdul Manap was in full swing. I tried my luck again with a guy walking my way.

  “Excuse me, am I in Aljunied GRC?” I asked, feigning my best ignorance. “Is this the opposition’s GRC?”

  “Yeah, this is it,” he replied, smiling.

  “Ah, good, I wanted to have a look around. You seem quite happy about it.”

  He nodded and smirked.

  “It was time,” he said simply.

  “You felt it was time for a change then?” I enquired, rather transparently trying to push buttons.

  He put his hand to his mouth

  “Yeah, I voted for the opposition,” he mumbled.

  Bedok North Avenue 1 was nigh on deserted. And still, the opposition voter felt compelled to put his hand over his mouth, presumably for the benefit of the Internal Security Department lip readers sitting at a nearby coffee shop table.

  “You voted for the opposition?” I asked.

  “Yeah, I did,” he clarified.

  I had heard him the first time. I just wanted to see if he cupped a hand around his mouth again. He did.

  “And nothing’s really changed, has it?”

  “No, of course not. What did people think was going to happen? It’s so funny,” the guy said, still smiling. He glimpsed over at the residents waiting in line at the void deck of Block 550. “Well, that’s changed. Look at everyone sitting outside sweating. Under the PAP, they had their meet-the-people sessions in the air con. Now they have to wait outside in the heat.”

  He was right. I crossed over and watched the elderly fanning themselves as they sat on plastic chairs and watched videos on a cheap TV and DVD player to pass the time waiting to see Aljunied MP Muhamad Faisal bin Abdul Manap. They did not look particularly comfortable. No one complained. When the government ran the Aljunied show, residents used to chat with their local MP at the other end of the void deck inside the Kaki Bukit Park Residents’ Committee Centre next door. I wandered over. It was closed. Residents’ committees in Singapore were initially set up in 1978 to encourage greater neighbourly interaction and preserve the increasingly elusive kampong spirit. Volunteers mostly help out at the residents’ committees to organise programmes, activities and events for those living in the area. One might assume a meet-the-people session with the local MP comes under one of those categories.

  Residents’ committees fall under the purview of the PA.

  Ah.

  So residents are being made to sweat, literally, each time they meet their Workers’ Party representative. That’s not making voters repent. That’s like kindergarten kids squabbling over crayons.

  Most of all, it’s redundant. On foot, I ambled around Hougang, Bedok Reservoir and Bedok North and saw no bolt of lightning. No one was struck down. The cat got the tongue when the eye caught the notepad occasionally. Other than that, life chugged along in Singapore’s first opposition GRC as it always has done. With the landmark general election less than a year old, physical differences were impossible to spot. Indeed the housing estates around Bedok Reservoir had obviously been upgraded and their gardens and playgrounds relandscaped, presumably by the previous town council before the election, and yet the voters still got rid of the incumbents.

  As I wandered around the elderly and young families waiting in line to chat with their MP, I thought about that voter’s comments.

  It was time.

  New Singapore’s changing political landscape is in the mind of a growing number of residents. There is a growing restlessness, an impatience for new policy, a growing coffee shop culture quick to tekan, or whack, the government at every opportunity. There is a slow but gradual demand for change from the bottom up. But I wonder what kind of change new Singaporeans really want. What is it time for? Is this about Martin Luther King or Marlon Brando in The Wild One? If there is a growing acceptance that Singapore’s labour and human rights issues are a cause for embarrassment— and they are—when it comes to the elderly, foreign workers, domestic helpers and homosexuals, then count me in. But if there is a desire to follow Brando and rebel for the sake of rebelling, then I have reservations. What are the protest votes really protesting against? By all means, tekan the government for making aunties clean hawker centres into their eighties and for tolerating the rampant property speculation that has made it so difficult for young couples to get onto the first rung of the ladder. I’m not so sure a government deserves to be toppled because of a few MRT breakdowns. If that happened in Australia and the UK, governments would be booted out once a fortnight.

  There is always a bigger picture. Mine was painted by a couple of muggings in London, a burglary in Liverpool, a deranged home invader in Manchester, a friend’s violent death in an Essex nightclub and a once proud hometown fraying at the seams and edging closer to economic irrelevance. There is much to be gained politically in new Singapore and still plenty to lose. Sure, make the ministers work harder for their inflated salaries. Make them sweat. Demand a level playing field, even for grassroots events in Aljunied. Expect to be included. But kicking out a government because taxi fares go up a few cents is not much different to making residents wilt in the heat to meet their opposition MP.

  It’s petty.

  Twenty-four

  I PUMPED the tyres, checked the handlebars, filled the juice bottle, threw the rucksack over my shoulder, checked the route in the street directory again, had a wee, lifted the bike through the apartment, whacked the pedal against the front door, swore for a bit, apologised to my daughter for the swearing, kissed my wife goodbye and promised to come back alive.

  There was a tremendous sense of déjà vu.

  I pedalled quickly through East Coast Park. If there is a more uplifting Singaporean image on a bright Sunday morning than throngs of picnickers, parents teaching their children to rollerblade, couples holding hands whilst walking their dogs, retirees nodding off into their newspapers and those wheezing families who puff past merrily in those four-seater carriages, then I’m buggered if I know what it is. I’m still not sure about the Billy Whizz solo skaters though. I passed the time picturing myself running the bare-chested, hands-behind-the back brigade off the road. I’m sure others do the same. It is a testament to our remarkable self-restraint that East Coast Park isn’t strewn with the bodies of upended solo skaters, their skates sticking above the sand, the wheels still turning.

  Following my trusty street directory, I intended to complete the East Coast Park cycling trail past Fort Road, continue through the greenery of Marina East, then pick up the trail again beside the Marina Bay Golf Course, following the reservoir as I made my way through Gardens by the Bay, and finally on to Kallang Riverside Park near the Singapore Indoor Stadium.

  A corrugated green fence put paid to that plan. Building work denied entry to the Gardens at Marina East cycling path, which was agonisingly close beyond the fence, so I turned around, changed gears in a huff, shifted my body weight hard onto the right pedal and the chain came off.

  This happens to many riders on a weekend jaunt along East Coast Park. But only I get joined at the otherwise deserted end of the cycling path by a bronzed, buffed beefcake strutting along with not a bead of sweat on his hairless chest. As I bent over the bike, perspiration pouring through my head to create a most magnificent Mohican, bare-chested man swung his biceps in my general direction.

  “Are you OK down there?” he asked.

  I heaved my sopping frame up over the seat and wiped my forehead. I examined my oil-covered hands and realised I’d just splattered an oily black streak across my forehead.

  “Yeah, I’m fine, mate, no problem at all,” I replied chirpily.

  “Are you sure?” he queried, eyebrow cocked quizzically as he examined the chain dangling pathetically beneath the bike.

  “Yeah, no trouble. Cheers.”

  “OK, then. See ya.”

&n
bsp; In such moments, I thoroughly loathe my Englishness. He was American and willing to help. He appeared physically capable of lifting the mountain bike with a solitary finger and reconnecting the chain with his own teeth whilst discussing the economic turmoil in the eurozone. But I am English and conservative and insecure and stupid and therefore mumbled something about being fine when what I really should have said was, “Do I need help? I’m alone at the end of East Coast Park. There’s no one else within a kilometre. My hands and face are covered in grease and my bike chain is sagging like an old man’s scrotum. What do you think, Muscles?”

  My irritation at my own inertia and general ineptitude spurred me to a little victory. Through gritted teeth and a couple of cut fingertips, I wrenched the chain back on, cut across Fort Road, reached Tanjong Rhu Promenade and spent a further 15 minutes going around in circles. The popular connector of Kallang Riverside Park did not appear to connect to either the river or the park. I could see it in almost every direction but was unable to actually get to it. At the picturesque river-end tip of Tanjong Rhu, I marvelled at the dragon boaters but had no idea how to follow the river to cover the short distance to make the connector.

  Another building site, this one colossal, provided a second obstacle. I was screwed by the Singapore Sports Hub. Scheduled to open in 2014, the Sports Hub’s original opening date was pencilled in for 2011 but there was not quite the same corporate enthusiasm that was enjoyed by the integrated resorts. (The Sports Hub comes with pitches and tennis courts rather than casinos and blackjack tables, you see.)

  When the Sports Hub is complete, I have no doubt that the complex will provide cyclists and joggers with a stunning, comfortable thoroughfare linking the Geylang River at Tanjong Rhu to the Kallang River on the other side of Merdeka Bridge. I was not afforded such luxury and had to negotiate Stadium Boulevard, Mountbatten Road, Nicoll Highway and a muddy slip road to finally join the park connector beneath Kallang MRT.

  Like parts of the Railway Corridor beneath the underpasses, Kallang Riverside Park provided a glimpse into the other Singapore—not old, not new, just ignored and neglected. Foreign workers, dozens of them, were milling around the MRT station, holding hands on benches overlooking the river, messing around singing songs and strumming guitars. Some of them were even drinking beer. Letter writers may call this scene outrageous. I call it any public park in Australia where friends gather around a barbeque on lazy Sunday afternoons. Many of those Aussies also work in blue-collar industries, particularly construction. No one there suggests they must avoid public transport during peak hours or live in shitholes on the outskirts of town away from booming property prices. No one there expects them to climb into dank, malodorous rubbish chutes in the midday sun to clean diaper crap off the walls. No one there complains when they meet for a couple of beers after work. No one denies Australian blue-collar workers a day off for fear they may get drunk, get violent, get laid or get pregnant (even though there are examples of all four being achieved by the same couple in the same night).

  And yet as I passed my fellow foreign workers hanging out harmlessly by the river, I thought about the recent vitriolic abuse in Singaporean blogs and online postings. Finally, Singapore’s government has conceded that a human being is entitled to a weekly day off. Should a maid choose to work on that day off for a few extra bucks, that’s her prerogative. But the choice must be hers. I’d like to claim that a heightened sense of morality and social decency were the driving forces behind the eventual change for the greater good, but I suspect economic prudence held sway once more. Working conditions for maids in Singapore had deteriorated to such a shameful extent that the best were wisely flying to more lucrative destinations such as Hong Kong and Taiwan, where they benefit from minimum wage laws and regular days off. I was at least grateful to the employers of the foreign workers around Kallang River. It was Sunday. They had the day off. And they were not robbing or impregnating each other either.

  On the other hand, the so-called park connectors were killing me. At Upper Boon Keng Road, I hoisted the mountain bike up a flight of stairs. At Bendemeer Road, I navigated a busy pedestrian crossing. At Serangoon Road, I cursed the ceaseless traffic. In the street directory, the cute pink strips representing the park connector pathways stop and continue either side of Serangoon Road. The cyclist is merely required to stroll nonchalantly across the street, bike at the side, before going on his way. Have the park connector planners ever seen Serangoon Road on Sunday mornings? I turned into Frogger. For anyone below 21, Frogger was a terrific game in the 1980s in which a frog had to cross lanes of traffic and then a river without being hit by motorbikes, cars, lorries, logs and crocodiles in that surreal order. Each time the frog hopped into the first lane, a motorbike would mash him into the pavement. Serangoon Road was no different. With the utmost reluctance, I wheeled the bike over to the nearby overhead pedestrian bridge, refused to look up at the staircase, took a deep breath, lifted the bike against my right shoulder and carried us both to the other side.

  By the time I’d reached the PIE at Jalan Toa Payoh, I was ready to quit. As my jaw dropped, my disbelieving eyes examined the monstrous pedestrian crossing that spanned one of the widest stretches of one of the widest roads in Singapore. Three flights of stairs going up, 16 lanes of traffic going across and another three flights of stairs going down again—that’s how many obstacles Frogger had to clear whilst lifting a mountain bike with a cumbersome child seat on the back. When I reached the top, I sulkily threw my cap on the ground and sat down. Walkers on the bridge eyed me suspiciously. Sitting cross-legged on the overhead bridge with the cap lying in front of me, I looked like a beggar. By that point, I didn’t care. I was shattered. This was not a park connector. A park connector conjures idyllic images of a gentle jaunt along the breezy banks of Singapore’s famous waterways. This was an athletic assault course with the odd glimpse of a river. This was not in the brochure.

  In February 2012, the government shared plans for a 150-kilometre Round Island Route, which will allow Singaporeans to jog or cycle around the entire country. The route will link up Singapore’s cultural, historical and natural attractions via the islandwide park connectors, another attempt to bring sexy to the city. To its immense credit, NParks has already finished 200 kilometres of park connectors and will build a further 100 kilometres in the next five years. All the major parks will be joined by cycling trails along the waterways. In newer estates, such as Punggol, the task is much easier. The connectors can be incorporated into the town’s planning from the outset, which is why the new $57 million North Eastern Riverine Loop will be an undoubted success. But carving a path through narrow stretches of land beside older, established estates is no mean feat. Trying to negotiate the connectors, pedestrian crossings and staircases from East Coast Park through to Bishan Park made it clear how difficult this is going to be. East Coast Park was a joy. Tanjong Rhu was delightful, once I knew where I was going. Kallang Park, thanks to the construction of the Sports Hub and blocked road arteries such as Bendemeer, Serangoon and Jalan Toa Payoh, was a nightmare. Slopes and underpasses are required for the parks to truly connect.

  With a wider path on the other side of Jalan Toa Payoh, kiddies on bikes, skateboards and scooters returned with their families. I particularly recommend the lengthy CTE underpass just before Braddell Road for anyone tall. There is a clearance height of just 1.8 metres. Crouch and pedal throughout and you’ll be fine. Stand tall and pedal and you risk decapitation. The adrenaline rush was better than Universal Studios.

  With no further traffic distractions or roads to hurdle, I whizzed along to Bishan Park.

  I hadn’t visited the place for years. I played football there a couple of times until a kindly Indian chap rested a paternal hand on my shoulder and whispered, “Being an ang moh, I think you are struggling with the heat and pace of the game.” That was when I decided my days at Bishan Park had come to an end. Originally opened in 1988 to provide the estate with a green lung, Bishan Park was built a
round a concrete canal and offered enough space for Sunday morning football teams, but it was an otherwise atypical park in the heartlands. In October 2009, the park was closed for a makeover and reopened in March 2012, when I popped in.

  I did not recognise the place. Only in Singapore could an unsightly, decaying canal be transformed into a natural river without looking incongruous. The Kallang River snaked its way through the park. Pedalling alongside, wherever I could, I had followed the iconic waterway from Marina Reservoir to where it narrows to a trickle at the very end of Ang Mo Kio Avenue 1. At a cost of $76.7 million, NParks and PUB have turned a concrete drain into a river surrounded by native flora and fauna as well as increased its water level by 40 per cent. On my tour of new Singapore, such achievements have been commonplace.

  And Singaporeans are using the outdoor facilities. That was the best part. Teenage anglers waded through the river, holding a net, ankle deep in water. Dog walkers were everywhere. I had never seen so many dog owners in an established housing estate before. Kids flew kites or scooted across the bridges and couples just hung out. I fixated upon one woman who was reading while stretched out on a wooden recliner near the river. She was reading a novel, too, not a “how to be a millionaire in five minutes” or a “rich dad, kill dad” bit of self-help fluff. She was reading for pleasure in a public park beside a river in front of an HDB block without feeling self-conscious. Never mind the rusty playgrounds and stone benches of the heartland parks of yesteryear, this place had more in common with Hyde Park. New Singapore is reaching out for that outdoorsy, greener vibe of East Coast and Pasir Ris and pulling it towards the central, established housing estates of the country. Bishan had never looked more attractive.

  Revitalised, I pedalled purposefully towards my own contribution to new Singapore. I returned to my spiritual home. Though I no longer live there, whenever I visit Toa Payoh, I go home. In Toa Payoh Central, I am “John” in the opticians. (They called me by my middle name 15 years ago and I didn’t want them to lose face so I’ve been stuck with “John” ever since. Even when I filmed a segment for a TV documentary there once and the crew called me “Neil”, the staff still shouted out “John”.) Around the HDB Hub, I am “that ang moh” or “dumpwee”. The residents of Toa Payoh know why. They have given me nothing but warmth and affection.