“Hey Cliff, how are you, mate?”
“I’m fine, fine. Wondered if you wanted to get that Tiger Beer we talked about. Still tastes the same after all these years, you know. I’ve borrowed this phone from a lovely woman, who’s standing next to me ... You really are nice to let me borrow your phone, love. You don’t mind me talking to my friend, do you? Thanks, love. We met when I was looking for a toilet in Washington.”
We spent an unforgettable day together in Singapore. Cliff served in the British Royal Navy during World War II as a signals yeoman and was stationed near Penang. He joined the navy at 15 because he assumed it was an easy way to meet women.
“But you ended up worrying about the men,” he said, sipping a Tiger Beer at Boat Quay. “When we were in the Malacca Straits, the bloke in the bunk above me kept reaching into my hammock. And he wasn’t after my bloody boot polish, I can tell you.”
In September 1945, Allied forces left Cliff’s ship off the Penang coast and set foot on Malayan soil for the first time since the Japanese Occupation. On 12 September, Admiral Lord Mountbatten accepted the Japanese surrender in Singapore, thanks to Cliff and his brave band of brothers. This man was not just entertaining company, he was living history.
After the war, Cliff stayed on in Singapore for a few months, working in naval communications. Over 60 years later, my wife and I took him back to the Padang to pick out all the places he remembered: the Fullerton Hotel (then a post office), the Victoria Theatre clock, St Andrew’s Cathedral and the Supreme Court. But one place eluded us.
“I’m trying to get over to Blakang Mati,” he told me and I nodded. But I nodded in that slightly patronising way. Like you do when your grandmother points at the television and you say, “Yeah, nan. That’s right. It’s called a t-e-l-e-v-i-s-i-o-n. You can press this thing here. It’s called a remote control. It changes the channels so you watch different programmes.”
“Fuck off, funny boy, I want to watch Desperate Housewives.”
The name sounded familiar and I knew I had heard it before. Perhaps he meant Bukit Merah.
“Ah, you mean Bukit Merah? Little estate in the south, not too far from Queensway?”
“Were the Allied forces stationed there after World War II?”
“Don’t know. But I think IKEA is there if that helps.”
Of course, he was right and I was wrong. A few months later, dear old Cliff wrote to me and said that he had visited Pulau Blakang Mati, although he had barely recognised the place. Because Blakang Mati no longer exists—it is now called Sentosa. I had not put the two together at the time, but as I stood in front of a machine gun post overlooking Siloso Beach, I thought about dear old Cliff.
The post was called a machine gun pillbox and its location was ideal. Hidden within the dense foliage, the lookout had an unblocked view of the sea. Built between 1936 and 1940 in anticipation of rising Japanese militarism, the pillbox once housed two Vickers machine guns and most probably two extremely bored soldiers. Because, as we all know, while they played pocket billiards with each other, the Japanese came through the Malayan jungle and across the Causeway, invading Singapore from the north. Some of them came over on bicycle. By the time the poor bastards in the south around Labrador Point and Blakang Mati knew what had hit them, it was too late.
All of which makes Sentosa’s relaxed setting today rather ironic. Even its name (Sentosa is Malay for “tranquillity”) is at odds with its history. With pillboxes every 550 metres along the coastline, the island once formed a strategic part of the overall beach defence plan. The island had been a peaceful fishing village before it became a military fortress, first for British forces and then for the occupying Japanese. After World War II, the British used the island as a military base once again, which was when Cliff stopped by. Some of the troops, including my late Uncle Johnny, knew the place as the “Island of Death from Behind”.
My Uncle Johnny was desperate to return to Blakang Mati before he died but he never made the trip. In 2004, my mother paid pilgrimage on his behalf and was left deeply disappointed. She expected sombre, touching tributes to the members of the Allied forces who had defended and protected the country from here. Instead she found a poor man’s Disneyland—an island dotted with half-finished attractions, piles of rubble, fenced-off building sites, incessant drilling and crowded beaches with inadequate facilities.
Fortunately, that is changing. The superb Fort Siloso has been upgraded considerably since my previous visit. Not only does the tour take visitors around Singapore’s only preserved coastal fort, but it has been thoroughly updated with life-sized replicas and interactive exhibits to give a taste of what life was like here for men like Cliff and Uncle Johnny. And rightly so. The history of Blakang Mati, both botanical and political, is there but it needs to be hunted down. The nature trail provided information boards detailing the role the dense forest played for the military and a surprising number of machine gun posts have been preserved along the coastline. Hidden among the 7-Eleven stores, the surf shops and the bistros, they were subtle reminders that even though Sentosa is evolving by the week, Blakang Mati will never be forgotten.
After a glimpse of the past, I had a quick peek at Sentosa’s future. It is called Imbiah Lookout and offers several new attractions. There is the Sentosa 4D Magix, which is one of those cinemas that involves all your senses by spraying water in your face and tickling your feet, while the Carlsberg Sky Tower is Singapore’s tallest observation tower (131 metres), from which you can see the surrounding Indonesian islands on a clear day. No doubt the tower will be followed by the Coca-Cola Roller Coaster and the Maggi Mee Merlion.
The Imbiah Lookout provided some splendid views of the mainland and the port, which is one of the world’s busiest (a fact you are constantly reminded of in Singapore), but it also had its Coffee Bean, Subway and a pizza place, making it a little too anywheresville. But the place was crammed with tourists and locals who seemed happy enough to gorge on mediocre pasta in the midday sun.
But I was here to try the new Sentosa luge, which operators proudly claim is the first in Southeast Asia. Now, might I be so bold as to suggest that that is a rather strange boast to make. You can imagine an elderly couple from Middle America discussing where to stop off on their luxury world cruise:
“So, which is it gonna be, Ella May? Singapore or Sarawak?”
“Well, you know how much I been wanting to meet an orangutan, don’t cha?”
“I sure do, hon’. But wait, says here, this place called Sentosa has got the only luge in Southeast Asia. It’s one-half go-kart, one-half toboggan and one whole lotta fun.”
“Really, dear? Well, then, screw it. Put me down for the luge.”
I sat down for no more than two minutes to determine where I was going when a bird left its mark on my Sentosa map. It had the entire stretch of pavement on the Imbiah Lookout to choose from but, no, it chose my island guide. Birds should focus their efforts on more deserving targets. Like anyone wearing a Hawaiian shirt.
Fortunately, the luge was only a short distance away so I threw my map away and grabbed a crash helmet. I did not get very far.
“Have you driven a luge before?” the young luge assistant asked me as I struggled to squeeze my gangly frame into a vehicle that was clearly designed for ewoks.
“No, this is my first time. Do I need to pass a driving test first?”
“Of course not, it’s very simple.”
And he proceeded to reel off a list of instructions that must have been lifted from a NASA flight manual. The luge was like a small plastic bike, with no visible wheels or pedals. To start the luge rolling, I had to lift the handlebars and push them forward slightly. If I did not push them hard enough, the luge refused to budge. If I pushed them too hard, the brakes came on. It was incredibly complicated. As I sat there, motionless, jerking backwards and forwards like a hormonal teenage boy, children barely out of nappies whizzed past me, shrieking at the fact that they had managed to get the hang of the luge faster
than the dopey ang moh. I was ready to burst into tears. Eventually, after further intervention from the giggling assistant, I managed to push the handlebars forward to the correct millimetre, and I was off down the slope.
Right, I thought, I will soon wipe those grins off their grubby little faces. Using my additional weight, I gained momentum and found myself hot on the heels of the Evel Knievels from kindergarten. One more bend and I would zoom past them with a wave of the hand and a deep, theatrical laugh. But these contraptions were not built for me. Probably for Mini-Me, but not me. Scrunched up in my luge, I turned the bend too sharply, the vehicle veered dangerously to the left and my right knee came up and whacked me in the cheek. Dazed, I had no choice but to concede defeat to the nappy gang.
Undeterred, I vowed to take my revenge. I had three more goes, but those pesky, little brats caught me every time. I felt like the villain in Scooby Doo. If I am honest, though, I used the children as an excuse to keep going back on the luge. I loved it. But caution is advised if, like me, you have the inside leg measurements of a giraffe.
Before leaving Sentosa, I felt duty-bound to visit the old Merlion. The tourism symbol of Singapore, it is a strange creature whose origins are dubious to say the least. Surely, it can only be the offspring of an escaped African lion that had sex with a mermaid at the edge of the Singapore River. Perhaps that is what Sang Nila Utama really saw back in 1299. According to the Malay Annals, the Sumatran prince spotted a strange animal, possibly a large cat, running into the forest. As tigers had lived across Southeast Asia for thousands of years, he naturally assumed the animal was a lion. No one said he was a smart prince. So he called the island Singapura, which is Sanskrit for “Lion City”. I prefer my interpretation of events but I have no idea what the Sanskrit is for “Lion Caught Shagging Mermaid City”.
But their love child was in a dreadful state. On its left, sweaty construction workers were busily finishing off the Merlion Station, part of the new Sentosa Express. The station platform was practically in the beast’s mouth. Can visitors really not walk anywhere anymore?
The dust from the building site had clearly taken its toll on the concrete hybrid. There was a sizeable brown stain down one side of the Merlion’s chin, suggesting it had been eating fish head curry. But I am sure someone will have wiped its chin with a handkerchief and it will be accompanied by a gleaming train station by the time you read this chapter. And when you do visit, behave like a child and go and play in the Merlion’s tail. I always do; the water pools and mini-fountains are much more fun than the Merlion itself.
I thought I had better have a polite look around a gift shop before I left. My God, I hope Sentosa’s upgrading programme incorporates its gift shops. I have never seen so many things I did not want or need (except my books of course, well done Sentosa!). A souvenir shop inside the ferry terminal sold a toy poodle money bank, for what I believe was $22.90! Are they expecting Paris Hilton to pop in?
My favourite Singapore souvenir was a computer monitor cleaner that was shaped like a Scottie dog. Why are they selling such a household product? Surely every home on the planet already has one? Get one of those little beauties wrapped up and you could solve your shopping woes at a stroke. Return home from Sentosa and say, “I couldn’t decide on the ‘Singapore is a fine city T-shirt’ or the cheongsam. In the end, I realised they don’t really sum up what Singapore is all about. They don’t encapsulate the mood of the people or the city’s modernity. Fortunately, this computer monitor cleaner shaped like a Scottish terrier does.”
Realising I was a credit card swipe away from buying every Scottie dog in the shop, I headed for Mount Faber.
CHAPTER 6
I knew I had forgotten something. How could I leave Sentosa without watching its light-and-laser show, with musical fountains, dancing fountains and a fiery Merlion shooting green beams out into the night? And best of all, the show was free.
The attraction has certainly come a long way since 1997, when I recall it was nothing more than a few fountains swaying to classical music, with a few green laser beams thrown around. In the realm of entertaining technology, it was about as futuristic as an Atari—that enthralling tennis game in which each player was represented by a stick and every time the ball struck the stick, it made realistic beep and boop sounds. That was how hi-tech the old musical fountain show was at Sentosa.
The new version was clearly geared towards the Playstation generation. On a wall of water, images of balletic dolphins were projected dancing into the air before splashing back into the ocean. Robots shuffled along the water and beautiful women did some weird, supposedly exotic, wooing at the audience. The older spectators “oohed” in all the right places and the children appeared sufficiently entertained. Although it was not exactly a ride on a roller coaster.
But the show’s storyline must have been written by someone high on LSD. The MC, who served as a conductor for the musical fountains, was energetic to an alarming degree and possibly in need of psychiatric help. To spice the show up a bit, Kiki, an animated green monkey, turned up and invited the MC into his “world”. Appearing on a video projected onto the wall of water, the two of them explored the deep seas surrounding Sentosa. Then a beautiful princess rose above the surface and Kiki, the monkey boy, declared his love for Princess Pearl, who, I think, was supposed to have pearls in her hair. On closer inspection though, they looked like inflated condoms. The infatuated pair blew kisses at each other, the Merlion shot his green laser beams all over the island and, suddenly, the lights came on and the show was over. It was like an acid trip. If I understood the story arc correctly, a hyperactive MC chased a green monkey into a dark tunnel, but the primate was not interested because he had the hots for Miss Condom 2006. Try telling that bedtime story to your five-year-old. Distracted by the images of a randy, animated monkey, I left for Mount Faber.
When Scott and I first arrived in Singapore, David selflessly accepted tour-guide duties. He drove us around the city in the early hours of the morning: three young men looking for some action. This was before hubs and all-inclusive societies were the order of the day. Singaporeans still went to New Zealand for their bungee jumping, 24-hour party people belonged in Bangkok and bar top dancing remained a wet dream. So we drove to Mount Faber to watch young couples have sex. Not literally, of course. We did not intend to peer into car windows and give marks out of 10 for length and longevity; we merely drove past rocking cars pretending to be undercover CID officers.
I thought Mount Faber was fabulous. As it rises to around 117 metres, it provided an arresting vista, with Sentosa and the old World Trade Centre on one side and the skyscrapers of Raffles Place and the Orchard Road hotels on the other. For the first time, Dagenham seemed like a long way away. From the top of Dagenham Heathway, a man-made hill built to allow the District Line Tube service to run underneath, the only visible landmarks were hundreds of red-tiled rooftops and the Ford Motor Company’s car plant. At Mount Faber, the twinkling lights of an Asian metropolis sparkled in every direction. It looked like Manhattan. If you squinted. But there was no one there. On foot at least. There were a lot of cars rocking to the Kama Sutra on the way up, but Faber Point at the summit was deserted. I had always believed that the 56-hectare site had been underutilised by a government famous for developing and cultivating its land to the nearest square inch. But apart from providing a quiet place to have sex, Mount Faber offered little else other than a cable car station to take dissatisfied tourists back to Sentosa. Something had to be done.
It was. And my sitting on a No. 409 bus bound for Mount Faber proved that. The bus service leaves the bus interchange beside HarbourFront MRT Station every half an hour after 6pm on weekdays and only recently came into existence. The loop route around Mount Faber Road was established to serve The Jewel Box (a spiffy new restaurant and bar for the more discerning diner), part of the $8-million makeover the old hill has enjoyed. There was also a bistro, which offered a panoramic eating experience that would cost at least twice
as much around City Hall.
I got off at Faber Point and was pleased to see that I was not alone, even though it was almost 9pm. But I was the only single person there. Countless couples huddled together on benches holding hands, with bulges in all the right places. They had only one thought on their minds: I wish that leering ang moh would get lost. Trying to avoid stepping on a saliva-sharing couple was difficult. Faber Point was a minefield of randy men and women. There was a signboard with a labelled photograph highlighting all the visible landmarks from Faber Point, but I could not get near it because a pair of young lovers were leaning on it and eating each other. At one point, the girl almost had his head in her mouth. It was like one of those crocodile shows in Bangkok. Pornography might be illegal but, at Mount Faber, you get a great view and a free live show.
I lingered around the signboard because I really did want to pin down the Marriott Hotel at the corner of Orchard and Scotts roads. From there, I would be able to make out Toa Payoh. But I was crossing the line from being an interested tourist to becoming a dirty ah pek, so I went downstairs, where there were some fine sculptures by an artist called Sim Lian Huat that depicted Singapore’s history. They kicked off with the country’s humble beginnings as a 14th-century trading settlement and progressed to the arrival of Stamford Raffles in 1819. Now, I have a question about old Raffles: Why is he so often portrayed in the same pose? You know, the one where he is folding his arms and tilting his head slightly to his left. The other sculptures displayed all the usual suspects: the arrival of cheap immigrant labour from China and India in the early 1900s, the Japanese Occupation, the PAP’s quest for self-governance and the racial harmony bit, which, to be honest, gets a bit wearing after a decade or so.
With another 20 minutes before the No. 409 returned, I took a slow walk down Mount Faber Road. Dozens of bats flew overhead and I instinctively ducked every time one came near me. My wife always laughs at this. Behind our old block in Lorong 1 Toa Payoh was an underpass that provided a welcome short cut to the bus stop on Thomson Road. But the underpass was also a popular hang-out for bats and I was convinced that one of them would eventually fly into my face.
Final Notes From a Great Island Page 5
