Final Notes From a Great Island

by Neil Humphreys

  For non-National Servicemen, kiao kah yo lum par roughly translates into “raise your legs and wiggle your balls”. Now, I find it a mite peculiar that an officer orders a soldier to jiggle his genitals, but there you go. Like the masons, Singaporean men possess the ability to converse in an exclusive, members-only language. It is not Malay, it is not Singlish, it is not even Hokkien. It is Army Speak. If you do not know the language, you can go “fuck spider”.

  Finally, there is the big fish phenomenon. When three anglers discuss their respective catches together, the fish always get progressively larger. National Servicemen are the same. They have seen and caught everything in the jungle. They are Buaya Dundee. At times, you wonder whether Singaporean men carried out their Basic Military Training on Pulau Tekong or in Serengeti National Park. If you mention casually to a male colleague that you spotted a small monitor lizard in a canal at the weekend, he will nod slowly and then ask in a piteous voice, “How long was the lizard?”

  “Well, it was about this long,” you demonstrate proudly with your hands. “That, with the tail.”

  “Aiyah, when I was on night duty on Tekong, I saw a lizard so big I thought they were filming Godzilla. We needed a helicopter to get a leash around its neck. Couldn’t send this one to the Singapore Zoo. Sent it to Universal Studios instead.”

  If you see a monkey, NS men have spent three months on Planet of the Apes. If you come across a wild boar on Indonesia’s Bintan Island, they have lassoed a herd of buffalo with their own belt. If you spot a snake, they have wrestled an anaconda (and then probably wiggled its balls). In fact, they wrestled it, speared it, killed it, skinned it and ate it, using nothing more than twigs from a tembusu tree.

  But one elusive beast remained. One rare creature that I knew guaranteed a certain cachet in masculine circles if I could find it. The deadliest predator in its environment, this guy’s ancestors did not walk with dinosaurs, they ate them, to paraphrase the National Geographic Channel. This particular species is the largest reptile on the planet, found in northern Australia and across Southeast Asia. And at least one has been photographed roaming freely along the banks of Singapore’s coast. I had spent five years trying to track it down, but to no avail. In desperation, I had asked the staff at Sungei Buloh Wetland Reserve to phone me if the reclusive reptile ever made a cameo appearance.

  Then the call came. It lasted 10 seconds. “Hi, Neil, it’s Andrew from Sungei Buloh ... Crocodile!”

  “Right, I’ll be there in 25 minutes.”

  I was there in 20. But the traffic along Kranji Road still suggested my desperate dash had been in vain. The estuarine, or salt-water, crocodile, the biggest reptile on the Earth, had submerged again. At low tide, the beast tended to appear on the banks of Sungei Buloh Besar, a stretch of fresh water, bordered by mangroves, that flow into the Johor Straits. But it came up only to allow the sun to roast its back. When it was overcast, the buaya (Malay for “crocodile”) buggered off.

  “You must be patient,” said Andrew. “The crocodile bobs up and down every day. That’s why we call him Mr Bob. When the sun comes out, so will he.”

  And in one sublime, unforgettable moment, Mr Bob’s snout appeared above the murky water. To borrow a relevant phrase here, he was a beauty. His snout was long and brown, but he looked surprisingly benign. Crocodiles have been known to kill lions, bring down ungulates and attack sharks so I had expected to be exhilarated and petrified in equal measure, but I was just quietly respectful. Mr Bob glided effortlessly over to the water’s edge to lie on the rocks, providing a stunning view of his entire body in the shallow water. His body was a muddy brown, with black, scaly squares down his back. This particular estuarine crocodile was not going to shatter any records, but he was still a respectable 2 metres in length. Toe to claw, he was longer than any human being on the island. But he was slenderer than most crocodiles, about 25 centimetres at his broadest point, and only a little wider than the fatter monitor lizards at Sungei Buloh. That could explain why he did not look fearful. (I must stress to Singaporeans and tourists here that there is nothing to be fearful of. You have got more chance of winning the Singapore Sweep first prize and then being struck by lightning on your way to the betting outlet to collect your fortune than you have of being killed by a crocodile in this country.) Instead, Mr Bob was a picture of serenity. Oblivious to the handful of gaping nature lovers who stood just metres above him on the overhead bridge, he was content to bask in the sunshine.

  Then a suicidal fish brushed across his teeth, so he nonchalantly opened his mouth and ate it. That was a sight. His open jaws protruded out of the water like a jagged letter V as the witless fish wriggled around before they were quickly snapped shut. Clearly, Mr Bob had thought, “Look, I’m not hungry but don’t take the piss. I’m one of the world’s oldest predators and you’re swimming in and out of my teeth. You wouldn’t wiggle your arse in front of a heron’s beak, would you?”

  A little overcome with excitement, I became an impromptu, unpaid guide for the day. Whenever visitors passed, I pointed out Mr Bob (even though he was 2 metres long, he was still well camouflaged among the rocks) and stressed, rather manically, how lucky they were to catch a glimpse of him. A young Chinese couple peered down for five seconds, clearly unimpressed that they stood over Singapore’s only known wild representative of a group of reptiles that can be traced back to the Triassic Period, roughly 230 million years ago.

  “Oh, yah, it’s a crocodile,” said the bored 20-something woman. She could have hosted her own nature programme. “Not very big, is it?”

  “How big would you like it to be?” I shouted after her. But the child of the American blockbuster movie had gone.

  A couple of German tourists expressed their understandable shock at encountering such a prehistoric creature in a city-state. Lucky bastards. I spent a fortnight in Australia’s Northern Territory and the closest I got to a wild crocodile was seeing a photograph of Paul Hogan in a glossy magazine.

  Only an elderly Chinese couple matched my enthusiasm. Indeed, I am surprised that their excitable exclamations and constant jiggling did not trigger a bout of incontinence, particularly when I insisted that they check out Mr Bob. I was quite blasé about it by now. In fact, I had turned into a National Serviceman.

  “Yah, there’s a wild crocodile over there,” I said, while casually flicking a piece of invisible fluff off my shorts. “It’s been there about an hour now. Got very sharp teeth. Just ripped a fish’s head off.”

  I neglected to mention that the fish was smaller than a tea bag.

  “Wah, really ah,” said the combustible auntie. “Where is it, ah? I mus’ see. Mus’ see. Where is it?”

  “Where’s what, sorry? Oh, the crocodile? That little thing? It’s over by the rocks.”

  “Oh, yah. There it is. It’s on the little island now. A crocodile! Look at its teeth! A crocodile!”

  “That’s a monitor lizard,” I sighed. “The crocodile is still over by the rocks.”

  But the reptilian cousins did almost cross claws a little later to ensure the wild encounter ended on a memorable note. A prime candidate for a weight-loss diet, the fattest, most cumbersome monitor lizard in Singapore splashed around in the water under the bridge. With a bulging neck and an enormous body, the lizard wobbled and thrashed away, splashing everything around it. Including the crocodile. Mr Bob did not take too kindly to being disturbed by the world’s stupidest creature. The sleek swimmer turned his periscope-like snout towards the blubbering embarrassment in front of him and dove under water. There was not even a ripple. Then that brown snout reappeared, just a whisker from the monitor lizard’s tail. The stealthy Mr Bob had covered a distance of over 25 metres, undetected, in a matter of seconds. It was breathtaking, but worrying. The dopey lizard took an eternity to clamber onto the riverbank. At one point, the tubby twit stopped, presumably to ask its pursuer, “Now, be honest, Mr Bob. Does my bum look big in this to you? I’ve tried to exercise I really have but I just don’t have the ti
me.”

  The crocodile had positioned itself just behind the lizard, which had decided that now was the opportune moment to top up its tan. It was unbearable.

  “Get out of the water, you silly sod,” I found myself shouting. “There’s a crocodile behind you and it’s going to tear you in half. Move your fat arse!”

  The unaware lizard looked up at the noise, as if to say, “What was that? Did someone say something then? Do you know, I could’ve sworn someone said ‘crocodile’. Silly me, that couldn’t be right. This isn’t Australia, you know!”

  Finally, the dopey sod crawled off into the mangroves. According to the staff at Sungei Buloh, the crocodile was not hunting for its dinner, just protecting its territory. But that was irrelevant. As far I was concerned, Mr Bob pounced on Fatty, bit into its fleshy neck, performed the death roll and dragged it to the murky depths of Sungei Buloh. That is the story I will recount to my grandchildren anyway. I fancy even National Servicemen will have their work cut out trying to eclipse that one.

  The Kranji Nature Trail was always going to be an anticlimax after meeting Mr Bob. But that is not to say it was not a splendid amble through grassland, secondary forest and mangroves. Divided into those natural habitats, the 2-kilometre-long trail, which is sandwiched between Sungei Buloh and Kranji Reservoir Park, provides visitors with fascinating examples of the mangroves’ importance and subtly points out the damage urbanisation has inflicted upon the island. In the 1820s, when perspiring imperialists with superb sideburns were springing up all over the place, mangroves covered 13 per cent of the island. Now they cover only 0.5 per cent.

  It is all a bit depressing really. Mangroves provide an island like Singapore with a natural coastline filter for all the flotsam. That is their purpose. Moreover, mangroves are also believed to absorb carbon dioxide emissions, generally blamed for being the major cause of global warming. According to recent media reports, a marvellous team of scientists from Singapore’s National Institute of Education discovered that one hectare of mangrove forest can absorb something like 1.5 tonnes of carbon dioxide a year—the amount produced by one car in the same period of time. Consequently, the scientists appealed to the government to plant more mangroves around the island. I sincerely hope they succeed. And if you do not want to bequeath a lump of charcoal to your children, so should you.

  Along the Nature Trail, the amount of crap caught up in the mangroves’ roots was astonishing. According to a signboard, much of it is dumped from coastal kampongs along the Johor Straits. What the hell are they doing over there? Apart from the usual plastic bottles and odd shoes, I noticed truck tyres, a windscreen and a car seat. Are people driving their vehicles off the Causeway? It was most disconcerting.

  I left the mangroves and took a short stroll down Kranji Way and headed into the reservoir park. It is not much of a park really, just a couple of old concrete benches, a dilapidated children’s playground and a reeking toilet used mostly by fishermen to wash their rods. But Kranji Reservoir Park does boast the greatest sign in the country. Nailed to a bit of timber, the whitewashed board simply says “Warning! Beware of Crocodiles”. And there is an awful, hand-drawn sketch of a crocodile above the stencilling. Even allowing for artistic licence, it looks more like an armadillo. Mr Bob would be most offended. But I wondered what the equivalent warning sign would be at Parsloes Park, my childhood park in Dagenham. How could it possibly match the exotic beastliness of a crocodile? After several minutes I came up with “Warning! Some kid has crapped in the sandpit”. That was always pretty scary. I had suffered more wild encounters with fresh turds in Parsloes Park than with crocodiles in Sungei Buloh. Although they certainly added a spring to your step when you took part in the triple jump.

  Kranji also hosted a major event in Singapore’s short history that seldom receives the recognition it deserves. Amid the chaotic lack of communication, conflicting defence plans and general military neglect in the first two months of 1942, the sleepy, rural corner of Kranji could proudly claim to have temporarily succeeded where most of Malaya had failed—it scored a rare victory against the invading Japanese forces. On 8 and 9 February 1942, the Japanese Imperial Guard landed here to fight in what became known as the Kranji Beach Battle. But the aggressors landed at low tide and found themselves stuck in the deep mud. The enterprising 27th Australian Brigade, working alongside Singaporean volunteers, had earlier released oil into the sea. The Japanese were stuck in the oil slicks, which were then ignited. As a result, the attack was largely repelled. However, the British military command feared a Japanese landing in Jurong, so the exhausted troops at Kranji were ordered to withdraw south. This decision paved the way for the Japanese to land in greater numbers, take control of Kranji Village and consolidate in the north. It is a tragedy that such a bold stand ultimately proved futile, but that does not mean that it should not be remembered. There is a small, tasteful memorial dedicated to the ingenuity and resilience of the men who successfully defended Kranji in the middle of the reservoir park. But they deserve something more.

  I sauntered along the shoreline for a bit, admiring the engineering marvel that is Kranji Dam. Have you ever been to Kranji Dam? It is a charming place. Ignore the dusty trucks bound for the farming estates and pay no attention to the tanned fishermen washing their groins at the public toilets and focus instead on the spectacular views. I stood on a grassy slope on the side that faced Malaysia to take in the stunning vista. The natural, breezy charm of Kranji Reservoir was on my right, the mangrove forest of Sungei Buloh behind me and the Johor Straits on my left. The tide had receded so the sea was a bit smelly, but that certainly did not detract from the splendid image of Malaysia’s coastline. It is a familiar statistic, but one well worth repeating. The Johor-Singapore Causeway is only 1,056 metres long. Just 1 kilometre separates the two countries. Yet on a public holiday, it can still take four bloody hours to get across the Causeway.

  I sat on a bench and peered over at the next door neighbour. The evening prayers at a coastal mosque drifted across the Straits. Condos, shophouses and the names of the Hyatt Hotel and New York Hotel were all discernible. Being rush hour, the streets were jammed with cars and lorries. From the tranquil setting of Kranji Dam, Johor Bahru was clearly a hive of bustling activity. The world of cheap seafood, discounted petrol and pirated DVDs looked quite inviting. So I decided to pop over.

  CHAPTER 17

  I set foot on Malaysian soil. But I was nowhere near the country. I was still in Singapore, in the train station at Tanjong Pagar, which is owned and operated by Malaysian Railways (Keretapi Tanah Melayu Berhad—KTMB). I took a bus to Keppel Road, darted through the dusty, grey building of the railway station and entered Malaysia, thanks to a crumbling empire. In 1918, the British colonial government allowed the grounds around the station and the line that runs through the heart of the island to be sold to the Federal Malay States with one caveat—they were only to be used for train services, not commercial development. Now we are not talking ulu land here, we are talking prime real estate: some 40 kilometres of rail track from Keppel in the south to Woodlands in the north, stretching to over 50 metres at its widest point, all owned by Malaysia. Not surprisingly, it remains a contentious issue on both sides of the Causeway. The dogged Singapore government has bought back segments of the land in recent years and asked its Malaysian counterpart to move the station up to Bukit Timah or, better yet, Kranji. But the Malaysians continue to stall on an agreement. I cannot think why.

  However, the anomalous station’s colonial history makes it a fascinating building. Its high, arched ceilings resembled several train stations in London and had the floor been delicately coated with pigeon shit, it could well have been the Waterloo and Victoria stations of my childhood. Stained glass windows depicted scenes of a nostalgic Malaysia, with men in traditional Malay costume working in a rural world that looked more like an illustration from a children’s storybook than an accurate reflection of life over the Causeway. But then, the whole station had a dated, stale
air about it. Faded posters of Kinabalu and Sarawak said many things, but visiting either destination was not one of them. There was a drab, Malay coffee shop, a magazine stand cum money changer and a few tatty souvenirs that only the most charitable of travellers would take a fancy to. There were a handful of backpackers and a few foreign workers; otherwise the cavernous station was pretty much empty.

  I was nosing through the magazine racks when I realised, to my dismay, that I had less than five minutes to fill out my immigration form, clear Malaysian customs (at a counter positioned beside Keppel Road, it was so bizarre) and make the train before it departed at 10.30am. The immigration officers pointed out that forms could be completed and checked on the train. As that was not the case, I inadvertently spent the entire day in Johor Bahru as an illegal immigrant.

  The train itself exceeded my expectations. I had taken a slightly, negative Singaporean view of the Malaysian train and anticipated an antiquated, non-air-conditioned carriage with lowly paid workers hanging out of one window and hens, goats and chickens the other. Instead, the air-conditioned train was modern, clean and comfortable and the wide windows offered expansive views of the journey. The carriage was about a third full with the usual foreign and local blue-collar workers and the omnipresent backpackers.

  The train was ready to pull away when another pair of breathless backpackers jumped aboard. The 30-something woman had long, unkempt hair, à la Janis Joplin, and the 40-something man had blond-in-a-bottle hair, à la sad old git. He was one of those ageing, backpacking hippy types who gravitate to Southeast Asia for its bohemian lifestyle, eastern philosophies and naive, olive-skinned women. Less common in Singapore, they are all over the beach resorts of Pattaya, Phuket and Bali. They are usually in their mid-forties, tanned, but craggy from overexposure to the sun. The best ones favour ponytails to cover their bald spots and hang out at (or lease) beach bars and restaurants with Asian women half their age. Locals often view them as exotic, worldly travellers respected for their free-spirited values. Fellow expats often view them as wankers.