Final Notes From a Great Island

by Neil Humphreys

  Outside the Wild Wild Wet water theme park, I glimpsed four teenage boys flirting with girls as they tottered past. That is what it is all about—getting away from the books and blogs for a little quality time with the opposite sex. With far too many teenagers going to single-sex schools here, they need to savour every opportunity they can get to mingle.

  As it was Friday, the weekends-only Escape Theme Park was closed so I hired a bicycle and poked my nose around Pasir Ris Park. Built on reclaimed land, the massive 71-hectare park is a charming, well-maintained retreat for families, fitness fanatics and, well, just about everyone. The Fishermen’s Village served up the kind of seafood on the water’s edge that once packed them in at Punggol; children had a quaint cycling trail for beginners, a maze garden and an adventurous adventure playground; and the mangrove swamp boasted a new boardwalk for nature enthusiasts. There was even a birdwatching tower that provided some decent graffiti on its top level. Someone had written “You shit on me, I shit on you”, which displayed a Corinthian spirit of fair play if nothing else. Another hand had scrawled “No Vandalism!”. I loved that.

  Convinced I could not embrace Pasir Ris any further, I whizzed past a couple of carpenters who were hammering in the final few nails of a brand new pony stable. The foreman told me that within a month, children would be able to come here for pony-riding lessons followed by dinner at the adjacent café, all within the secluded setting of a breezy park overlooking the sea. Until the glittering doors to those integrated resorts are opened, there is simply no better venue to take your children for a day out, and that includes the half-finished Sentosa. The fad culture makes the pony stable a bit of a risky business venture but I sincerely hope it survives. Singapore can always eke out a little space for an alternative leisure activity and I have long had a soft spot for horses.

  When I first met my wife, she was 16 and an accomplished horse rider. She devoted every spare moment to her beloved pony Pepi, attending to his every grooming need. Anyone in the horsey fraternity will tell you that the magnificent sturdy studs are prone to uncomfortable penis scabs. Pepi was no exception, and my wife would clinically pick them off. Now, most teenagers usually spend their puberty years drowning in a maelstrom of hormonal insecurities and self-doubt. So have you any idea what it does to a teenager’s self-confidence when he discovers that his girlfriend spends her weekends examining the sexual organ of one of the most prodigiously well-developed mammals on the planet? When she said her favourite companion was hung like a horse, she meant it.

  Having returned my borrowed bicycle, I reluctantly left Pasir Ris. I planned to spend the rest of the day in the neighbouring town that still conjures evocative images and scarred memories for people across the Asia-Pacific region by the mere mention of its name: Changi.

  Home to both the world’s finest airport and the darkest chapter in Singapore’s history, Changi generates pride, sadness, anger and bitterness, depending on your age, race and nationality. Younger Singaporeans are proud of their airport; older Singaporeans recall Sook Ching. Australians and Brits think of concentration camps, hardship and brutality. The Japanese do not really talk about the place. And Nick Leeson will always equate the town with a prison cell and colon cancer. It is many things to many people but, for me, it has always been about the history. So I took the No. 89 bus along Loyang Avenue to find Fairy Point Hill. I was going for three reasons. First, the name made me laugh. Second, I knew that there was something vaguely historical about the place. And third, no one I had spoken to had a clue where Fairy Point Hill was or what was actually there.

  I alighted beside Hendon Camp, home to some of the finest commandos in Singapore, and almost bumped into a couple of Singapore’s military elite. Surely, the buffed, bronzed pair would know where I was going.

  “Hey guys, do you know where Fairy Point Hill is?” I asked.

  They had no idea. “I’ve never heard of the place. Oh wait, do you mean the one over at Changi Village beside the hawker centre?” one of them ventured.

  “No, that’s the ferry point. I mean Fairy Point. It’s supposed to be off Cranwell Road, which we’re in now.”

  “Sorry, never heard of it. But I know for sure it’s not anywhere around here.”

  Fairy Point Hill proved to be 200 metres away in the next street. Those commandos have got a wonderful sense of direction, haven’t they? Not that I can blame them for being unaware of Fairy Point’s whereabouts because, technically, I am not sure if it is even supposed to exist. Besides, they were not alone in their ignorance. After ambling past the government bungalows and reaching the end of Cranwell Road at Changi Beach Club, the security guard there also insisted that Fairy Point Hill did not exist. The road proved to be right behind him.

  I turned back down Cranwell Road and noticed a side turning that obviously did not intend, or want, to receive any visitors. A striped barrier and concrete pillars ensured that vehicles could proceed no further. There were no street names, signposts, mailboxes, lamp posts, electricity cables or anything to suggest that the crumbling path was a street. But it clearly led to a grassy hillock and, according to my street directory, the location of Fairy Point Hill so I smothered myself in insect repellent and ducked under the barrier. I followed the cracked, uneven road up the hill, past the overgrown weeds. In the overhanging branches of a tree, a couple of green parrots screeched at me. The heat was insufferable so, after checking that there were no giggling lorry drivers around, I peeled off my drenched T-shirt and invited all the mosquitoes in Changi to attack my flabby nipples. They duly obliged.

  I turned a corner at the top of the deserted hill and there it was—the most haunted of haunted houses. On the crest of Fairy Point Hill stood a stately two-storey colonial mansion. The majestic building was cream-coloured with bright, sturdy pillars that have long been popular in military architecture. There was a rusty flagpole on the roof. Several archways, flawlessly carved out of timber, adorned the façade and gave the doors and windows an undeniable elegance. You do not come across historic structures like this in Singapore very often.

  Sadly, the house was falling apart. The interior had been gutted, the paint was peeling off every wall, chunks of plaster were strewn across the floors and electricity cables hung out of every crevice. With all the doors and windows either smashed or removed, I peeked into the rooms. They were all empty. I lacked the courage to step inside because signs all over the building warned that trespassers would be prosecuted and, if I am being honest here, the house was spooky, even in daylight. So I wandered around the back instead. Weeds covered the outside toilets and storeroom. I was desperate for a pee but the constant rustling in the undergrowth and the strange surroundings ensured I left Fairy Point Hill cross-legged. The place was just too damned eerie. At the bottom of the slope, I noticed a sign that I had missed earlier. It had been posted up by the Urban Redevelopment Authority to inform interested parties that Fairy Point Hill, now euphemistically named Changi Point Cove, was up for sale as a prime residential and entertainment site.

  Now, at what point will all this stop? How many historic sites, sacred grounds or green spaces will be auctioned off, demolished or dug up before someone suggests calling it a day? With every parcel of historic land that is sold off, Singapore sells another piece of its soul to the highest bidder. It really is that simple.

  I later discovered that the dilapidated building was originally a command house for British forces. Designed by colonial architects and completed in the 1930s, Fairy Point Hill’s strategic location in the island’s leafy northeastern corner ensured it played an integral role as a British air- and naval base. After Singapore’s independence, the building was taken over by the Ministry of Defence and served as the SAF Command Headquarters. History oozes from every nook and cranny and the National Heritage Board could work wonders with the house. The dying site is crying out to be resuscitated and turned into a World War II museum or archive, a tribute to those imprisoned in Changi, a memorial to those who perished in the Sook
Ching operation or even an administrative centre for the Heritage Board. Changi has more than enough hotels and chalets to take care of the future; what it does not have is enough buildings to take care of its past.

  CHAPTER 24

  I should point out that Changi is doing many things right. I left Fairy Point Hill and found myself on the exceptional Changi Point Boardwalk. Over 2 kilometres long, the boardwalk begins at the Changi Beach Club, follows the edge of the coastline and finishes at the ferry terminal in Changi Village. When I say the edge of the coastline, I mean just that. At one point, the platform took me above the rocks on the shore and within a couple of feet of the crashing waves. And its information panels are faultless. I learnt that a famously tall “Changi tree” (most likely Sindora wallichii and believed to have provided the town with its name) was removed by the British to stop the Japanese using the local landmark as a marker for their guns. I cannot help but feel that if the British had spent less time chopping down historic trees and more time worrying about the tens of thousands of Japanese troops who were making their way towards the Johor Straits, the events of 1942 might have been a little different. I also found out that Changi Village was a popular destination for tigers in the early 1900s. They swam over from Johor, stopped over in Pulau Ubin for a bit of wild boar and then made their way over to Changi. That route is now popular with illegal immigrants.

  At the end of the boardwalk, I took a bus to Upper Changi Road North to have a quick peek at something that the National Heritage Board really has got just right. Opened in 2001, the Changi Chapel and Museum is housed inside a gentle, respectful white building and commemorates those who were imprisoned in the vicinity during the Japanese Occupation. Admission was free, as it should be for every museum, and there were excellent storyboards and poignant keepsakes, diaries and clothing that once belonged to the POWs. And the touching replicas of the Changi Murals, sketched by ailing bombardier Stanley Warren, have to be seen to be believed. Warren’s story is truly one of the most uplifting accounts of World War II.

  Increasingly sick from his incarceration, Warren kept his spirits up by drawing a number of religious murals, such as The Last Supper and The Resurrection, on the walls of Roberts Barracks, Changi Camp, which was used as a POW hospital, beginning in October 1942. Now, this was one brave man. He had eight kidney stones removed with no anaesthetic, and still worked on the murals. The Japanese were hardly going to provide paintbrushes and easels so Warren improvised. He used clumps of human hair for paintbrushes, brown camouflage paint and crushed-up billiard chalk for blue paint. When the war ended, Warren assumed the paintings had been destroyed by the Allied forces’ bombing campaign, returned to England and thought no more about them.

  Then the story took a remarkable turn. In 1958, the murals were uncovered, by accident, in Changi Camp Block 151. Stanley Warren was somehow tracked down in England, where he worked as an art teacher, and was invited back to Singapore to restore and finish the Changi Murals. He made several trips back and they were finally completed in 1988. He died in 1992. Due to their sensitive location, the originals are not open to the public, but the replicas at the Changi Museum are respectfully displayed. You must see them.

  What I have always liked about the Changi Chapel and Museum is its sombre subtlety. I visited Pearl Harbor several years ago and it felt more like a Disneyland attraction. First, there was the film with the bombastic sound effects, accompanied by the ever-present chest-beating patriotism and bugle blowing. Then came the trip to the viewing platform from which you could peer into the sea and stare at the rusty USS Arizona, an experience that I found rather uncomfortable. But that was only slightly less macabre than the sweaty tourists in floral shirts and knee-high white socks dashing around with their camcorders, ordering their children to pose beside the watery graves of dead servicemen. Americans just cannot do subtle, even when it comes to war memorials. But the quiet, reflective tone at Changi is perfect.

  I continued down Upper Changi Road North and stopped outside the new, pristine Changi Prison. Part of the modern complex opened in 2004 to some controversy. Not for the first time, the authorities had not entirely considered the political and historical sensitivities when announcing that the old, decaying prison, built in 1936, would be torn down and replaced. For many war veterans around the world, as well as thousands of elderly Singaporeans who suffered Japanese persecution, the prison was a symbolic reminder of their horrific past. And we are not talking about a handful of aunties and uncles here. Between 1942 and 1945, around 76,000 POWs were interned in the area. Not surprisingly, letters to the press came from Australia and New Zealand, begging the authorities to respect their memories of the dead. But if cemeteries cannot be spared, then an archaic, crumbling prison has got no chance.

  The original Changi was demolished, but a sensible compromise was made and I was here to see it. I strode quickly past the shiny Prison Link Centre, which bears more than a passing resemblance to a shopping centre with its gleaming glass frontage. I arrived at the main entrance to the prison and found what I was looking for. I could not miss it. An old, grey, 180-metre stretch of wall facing Upper Changi Road North, with a turret at each end, stood out among the new shiny structures. The stark, depressing façade now provides the only gateway to the site’s past as it was rightfully gazetted by the Preservation of Monuments Board as a National Monument. Common sense prevailed as the authorities finally acknowledged the tremendous emotional value of the original Changi Prison. Even the present Australian foreign minister, Alexander Downer, whose father endured three years as a POW in Changi, applauded the decision.

  I could not really see much of the old wall from the street so I approached a young Indian woman who was coming through the prison gates at that moment.

  “Is there any chance I can go in and have a look around?” I asked.

  “Can you go inside? This is Changi Prison.” Her tone made it clear that she was dealing with a moron.

  “No, sorry, what I meant was, is there a museum or an exhibition inside?”

  “Of course not, it’s a prison.”

  She hurried off to the nearest bus stop as a genial guard gently ushered me back towards the street. Security is certainly stringent at Changi Prison. And I do ask some bloody stupid questions at times.

  The following morning I returned to the charming Changi Village in a very chirpy mood. The giddy prospect of a little sea travel always gets me excited and I planned to spend a rustic day on Pulau Ubin. I arrived at the new Changi Point Ferry Terminal to find it transformed into a modern, airy building with a bar on its roof overlooking Serangoon Harbour. The only downside was the bumboat drivers are more finicky now. They will not start their engines until there are 12 passengers waiting to travel (or you are willing to charter the entire boat for $24 to match the $2-per-person fee). But I was suitably entertained while I waited. A couple of perspiring, overweight Chinese gentlemen sat on the bench beside me. If you needed a stereotypical profile of two loan sharks, these greasy guys fitted the bill. Three students joined us, one of whom was a tall, attractive Chinese girl. Well, that was it, wasn’t it? In a mixture of English, Singlish and Hokkien, the guys remarked how sexy the girl was, what they would like to do to her and in what positions. I have always found these conversations utterly engrossing. Do such guys really believe that all that lustful snorting, guffawing and hand signalling will lead the beautiful young woman to say, “Do you know what? I’ve succumbed to your irrepressible charm. Come, let’s find an empty bumboat. I want to have sex with you both right now.”

  The nifty journey took 10 minutes and I stepped onto Pulau Ubin’s jetty and back to the 1960s. Whatever route you take, whether you walk, cycle or drive, Pulau Ubin is a peaceful, beautiful getaway. Its very charm lies in its simplicity. The island offers a rustic retreat of kampongs, wooden jetties, undisturbed wildlife, old plantations and a traditional agrarian lifestyle, in which residents rely on prawn farms, fishing, provision stores and renting bicycles to survive. Be
ing an island of undulating, granite hills, granite mining once provided work for thousands of settlers in the 19th century. This occupation also gave the island its name; Pulau Ubin means “Granite Island” in Malay. But the quarries are no longer in operation. They are now filled with water and vegetation is recolonising the areas. In fact, I noticed reforestation taking place all over the island, which was most pleasing. Across most parts of the island, the sound of silence is still deafening. Of course, you will still occasionally encounter wearisome types who carp on about there being nothing to do on Pulau Ubin. Shoot them.

  I rented a mountain bike from an ebullient woman who had lived on the island for over 40 years, whizzed past the shops, eateries and stray dogs (those buggers could not catch me on a bike) and headed into the countryside. It was delightful. I cycled through old coconut and rubber plantations and around the picturesque Pekan Quarry, stopping twice to allow monitor lizards to swagger across the road, and then headed west along Jalan Endut Senin.

  One of the joys of cycling is being part of the secret society of fellow cyclists. It is like the masons. There are secret signals, expressions and comments shared only among cyclists and only when passing each other. A brief downward glance denotes a serious cyclist not to be trifled with. Raising your eyes to the sky followed by a brief sigh and a smile indicates a social cyclist who is not as fit as he should be. Looking down at your pedals suggests a red-faced, panting cyclist who is in no mood to talk to anyone. While open-mouthed, wide-eyed horror insinuates that you are about to collide with your fellow secret society member and you might wish to get out of the way.

  There are also the snatches of conversation. The quick “Hello, lovely day” is always practical when cycling downhill. But in Pulau Ubin’s unhurried, tranquil setting, there was time for slightly longer exchanges. There were comments like “The countryside here is beautiful”, “We must be mad to cycle in this weather”, “Hang in there, the jetty’s just up ahead”, “Gee, that’s a nice bike” and “You don’t get many of them to the pound, do you?”.