CHAPTER 18
Few people walk over the Causeway. There is a footpath on the left-hand side of the bridge, if you are entering from the Singapore side, but it is seldom used. That is because only an idiot would stroll across the 1,056-metre-long bridge. You will never hear a sensible Singaporean or Malaysian say, “It looks like it’s going to be a lovely day. There’s not a cloud in the sky. Let’s take a gentle amble across the Causeway and marvel at the sights, sounds and distinct smells of the Johor Straits.”
In the interests of authenticity, I thought it might be awfully windswept and debonair to return to my island home on foot. It was not. After spending several minutes explaining to the impatient immigration officer at Johor Bahru why I had entered the country illegally, I was allowed to leave once I had surrendered my train ticket as evidence. Malaysia is a country where dozens of ah bengs can illegally peddle pirated products while two coppers try on polo shirts in the same shopping centre, but an overzealous immigration official confiscates a used $2.90 train ticket.
I followed the railway line that brought me into Malaysia and realised I was on the wrong side of the Causeway. I dashed between crawling lorries, reversed around stationary cars and jogged alongside packed No. 170 buses. And those bloody motorbikes are relentless, aren’t they? Standing at a small zebra crossing just a few yards from the footpath, I waited impatiently as the army of revving ants refused to stop. Getting across the Causeway is akin to playing a board game. You need to throw a six to start. In the end, I cheated death by marching across with my hands held aloft like a deranged messianic figure. They soon stopped then.
The walk across the Causeway was abominable. Opened officially in 1924, the bridge is drab and colourless and there was little to see other than the corrugated iron fences that some underlings had kindly put up to obscure any vista that might possibly be more arresting than that of a crawling traffic jam. And yes, it is not a myth—the Johor Straits really does stink. The odour from the sea, coupled with the carbon dioxide cocktails served up by the endless stream of zigzagging motorcyclists, created a combustible toxic stench that left me with a headache. The lengthy queues at the Woodlands Checkpoint followed by an even longer wait for the buses to clear customs left me to draw only one incontrovertible conclusion—if you are not driving, always take the train to and from Malaysia.
I found my way to Woodlands Town Park East. Naturally, I staggered around Woodlands Street 13 for a bit, looking in vain for the entrance, before I clambered up a grassy hillside and found a few canoodling couples and some people walking their dogs, who kindly pointed out that I had come up the wrong side of the park. There was a gentle path on the other side that I had missed completely. Annoyed by my myopia, I threw my bag down in a huff, removed my sweaty, sticky shirt with some difficulty, kicked off my shoes and socks and settled down on the grass for a nap. I lasted less than five minutes. Ants had apparently mistaken my hairy chest for a nest of twigs and were setting up base camp. And three foreign domestic workers were now sitting on a nearby bench, giggling at my perspiring, flabby stomach.
I left the park, which provided a wonderful view of the sunset, and cut through the tidy housing estates of Marsiling. The neighbourhood was so open and spacious. This tour was forcing me to stubbornly accept the fact that there were other roomier and more colourful estates than my beloved Toa Payoh. My suspicions were confirmed when I reached the junction of Marsiling Road and Woodlands Centre Road.
Woodlands Town Garden must be a contender for the country’s finest town garden. Toa Payoh’s pond and green penis tower look woefully inadequate in comparison. An impressive 11 hectares in size, Woodlands’ green haven boasted two ponds and cleverly incorporated Sungei Mandai Kecil, a river that ran through the park. The ponds were separated by a tasteful stone bridge and the park also offered a couple of pagodas, good fishing, some great picnicking spots for the family and a middle-aged taxi driver groping a woman half his age on one of the benches. What more could you want? Standing on the stone bridge, I could still make out the Malaysian coastline, but this lovely garden, with its manicured lawns and tidy flowerbeds, seemed a million miles away from the putrid drains on Lido Beach. Not for the first time, I realised I was really going to miss this country.
The next morning I fulfilled a promise to Cliff. When the World War II veteran visited Singapore in 2005, I promised to visit Pulau Blakang Mati and the Sembawang Shipyard, which was once home to the British Royal Navy. Criminally overlooked in many history books and guidebooks here, the old Sembawang Naval Base played host to the British battleship HMS Prince of Wales and the battlecruiser HMS Repulse as preparations to confront the Japanese fleet off Kota Bahru, Kelantan, were finalised. With the men of Force Z, the vessels left Sembawang on 8 December 1941 and never came back. Like the American ships at Pearl Harbor, which had been pummelled a day earlier, they proved to be sitting ducks in the open sea. Military warfare was changing, with air power triumphing over heavily armoured warships, and over 760 British sailors and dozens of Japanese aircrew were sent to their watery graves off Kuantan.
It is one of many significant events in Singapore’s modern history that is sadly neglected. Students can regurgitate facts regarding Stamford Raffles, the battle for independence, the rise of the PAP and the transformation from third world to first almost parrot fashion, but the sinking of the Prince of Wales and the Repulse gets scant coverage in comparison. It is deplorable. Apart from the loss of life, the decisive air attack had far-reaching consequences for mainland Singapore. With their enemies’ major sea vessels destroyed, the Japanese were confident enough to launch a ground assault in the New Year and storm Singapore with a force roughly three times smaller than that of the British. Yet I have met many Singaporeans who have little knowledge of one of the most pivotal moments in the country’s history. Fortunately in September 2005, the 60th anniversary of Japan’s surrender, a memorial was finally dedicated to the men who lost their lives on both ships. It was unveiled on the very dock where the ships had set sail and I had promised Cliff that I would pay a visit one day.
The only problem was that I had absolutely no idea where the memorial was. I took the MRT to Sembawang and the No. 856 bus to Admiralty Road West. I headed past Sembawang Prison DRC, which is never going to be confused for NTUC holiday chalets. At the top of two watchtowers, soldiers brandishing machine guns observed me wandering down the street, flicking through my street directory. I gave them a cheery wave. Neither waved back. This part of Singapore has long housed the armed forces of Britain, the United States, Australia and New Zealand, among others, and the commodious black-and-white colonial houses and accompanying gardens certainly provide the officers with luxurious living quarters. There are Singaporean CEOs who do not live as well as this. The names of the streets were fascinating: Jamaica Road, Tasmania Road, Fiji Road, Falkland Road and Gibraltar Crescent. It is a dummy’s guide to the rise and fall of the British Empire. I propose that if the Union Jack is ever lowered in both the Falklands and Gibraltar, then some street renaming might be in order in Sembawang.
I ambled along Admiralty Road East and passed the Terror Club. Now, isn’t that a frightening name? It is a social club for the stationed or visiting naval servicemen of one particular country. There are no prizes for guessing which one. Only straight-faced Americans could come up with a name like the Terror Club and not laugh. At a push, the British might opt for the Slightly Scary Club and the Canadians may plump for the genuinely applaudable We Never Go to War Club, but only the Americans could conjure something so terrifying and so pitiful at the same time. The young troops that passed me certainly looked scary. I had never seen so many crew cuts and pimples. Bouncing along wearing oversized shorts and baseball caps, some of these guys should not be trusted with a calculator, never mind a gun. A banner above the club’s swimming pool read “The Terror Club Welcomes USS Blue Ridge”. That only meant one thing for Singapore. The working women (and men) of Orchard Towers were in for a busy weekend.
After reading several news reports, I suspected that the memorial was behind the Port of Singapore Authority’s (PSA) Sembawang Wharves in Deptford Road, which was a private building with security at the gate. I had neither my passport nor my employment pass with me. My chances of bluffing my way through were slim at best. I figured that I had more chance of eating a hotdog at the Terror Club with one of its dudes.
Well, I have to say, the security guards at PSA were wonderfully helpful and accommodating. They made a call and, within minutes, I was being driven around the extremely private shipyard by a petty officer in the British Royal Navy! A considerate chap by the name of Geoff Fawcett, he went way beyond the call of duty and gave me an informal tour of a place that is not open to Singaporeans, never mind a strange ang moh with no formal identification. It was an extraordinary, private world occupied by foreign military. The navies of the United States, Britain, Australia and New Zealand all continue to operate at Sembawang, which serves as a logistic base and an administration centre for visiting vessels. I passed a minimart, a money changer, a tailor’s and a hairdresser’s, all of which were managed by Singaporeans, yet relied exclusively on the foreign forces for custom. The tailor’s shop was over 40 years old and the owner has measured up the same senior-ranking officers since they were teenagers. The local hairdresser is even allowed onto the gargantuan vessels to cut the hair of the rank and file on board. It was quite amazing.
Geoff dropped me off beside the memorial, which is along the west wall of the Sembawang Shipyard. It really was just a few yards from the store basin where the ships had left for the last time all those years ago. It was a simple sombre memorial, with a plaque detailing the events of 8 December 1941, enclosed by three pristine white walls. The plaque was made in Melbourne, significant because so many of the servicemen who died in Singapore or were imprisoned at Changi were Australian. According to Geoff, the British Royal Navy officers stationed in Singapore had long championed the importance of having a memorial to those in Force Z who had perished and that they should be credited for their perseverance. A considerate, respectful guide, Geoff told me he had taken several families to the memorial in the past year, including one who had flown all the way from Plymouth, an area in the southwest corner of England.
I stayed for about half an hour before the genial Geoff dropped me back on Admiralty Road East. I was glad I had visited, for Cliff and my late Uncle Johnny, both of whom had docked at Sembawang and Blakang Mati with the British Royal Navy sometime between 1939 and 1946. But I cannot help but feel that the memorial is a little wasted at the back of Sembawang Shipyard, tucked away beyond the private properties of the PSA. A little later, I visited the nearby Sembawang Park, which offered amazing views of the American vessels stationed at the shipyard next door. Perhaps the park might have been a more suitable location for the memorial. Although it is not the exact spot, the park’s jetty does show visitors where the ships left and there is no reason why a simple plaque cannot still be added there by the National Heritage Board. Building such a tribute around Sembawang Park’s jetty or beach might not be geographically precise, but it would be far more accessible. And a memorial is only a memorial if people can come to remember.
CHAPTER 19
Sembawang was really growing on me. The two-storey terraced houses around Jalan Basong that backed onto plant nurseries had a rustic feel about them and the northern town offered a gentler lifestyle more in tune with its Causeway neighbour than the buzzing multitudes around Orchard Road. More importantly, Sembawang is also home to Singapore’s most eccentric ice cream vendor. I walked towards the entrance of Sembawang Park beside Kampong Wak Hassan when the ice cream vendor zoomed past and stopped at the lay-by. It was 2pm on Friday afternoon and the park was deserted. Queues of eager customers were out of the question. I took pity on the elderly uncle and treated myself to a raspberry ripple.
“You like a cone?” asked a pair of shoulders. His head was buried in the tubs of ice cream somewhere inside the trolley. He was down there for an inappropriate length of time.
“No thanks. I’ll have a wafer,” I replied, peering down into the trolley. If the guy resurfaced licking his lips with a face full of raspberry ripple, the dollar coin was going straight back in the pocket. But the robust chap suddenly reappeared holding a raspberry ripple wafer. Only then did I realise he was impressively tanned and had a shocking head of red hair. I had never encountered such an elderly ah beng before.
“Hey uncle,” I asked, desperate to maintain eye contact and not focus on his red moptop. It was brighter than a baboon’s backside. “Why did you stop here? How to get customers?”
“No lah, I come here to go swimming.”
“Really? Is there a swimming pool here then?”
“There, lah,” he replied, betraying a flash of irritation at the asinine nature of the question. “Can see the sea or not?”
I could indeed see the sea. But having examined the Straits at close quarters on both sides of the Causeway in recent days, I was aghast at the possibility that anyone might fancy a bit of breaststroke around floating turds. I thought only mad dogs and English tourists at Blackpool did that. But the ice cream vendor was obviously an exception. I found a bench that was a discreet distance away from his motorbike and tucked into my raspberry ripple while observing an old man with red hair prepare for a swim. He had a cursory look around and, satisfied that the coast was clear, stripped off in the middle of the street! His shoes, socks and T-shirt were insouciantly discarded and tucked away in the trolley with the tubs of chocolate chip. Then he dropped his shorts to reveal what can only be charitably described as a well-worn pair of Y-fronts. They were pinkish and baggy in all the least flattering places, not helped by the tanned potbelly that protruded over the waistband. Now appropriately attired, I assumed that he would trot down to the seashore. But no, the suave swimmer helped himself to a cornet first. He dove into his trolley holding his neatly folded shorts and re-emerged with a raspberry ripple. Casting aside the traditional notions of public decency, he stood at the end of Sembawang Road in his pink underpants, with one hand nonchalantly leaning on the seat of his motorbike and the other holding his ice cream cornet.
And he did not move. Even when a bus pulled into the Sembawang Road End Bus Terminal beside him, reversed and went back out again, he stayed by his bike in his underpants, licking his raspberry ripple. Only when he had finished the cornet did he finally decide to saunter down to the beach, where he swapped the pink undies for a pair of trunks under the cover of his towel. But he did not swim. Instead, he stretched out on his towel, lit a cigarette and let out a satisfied sigh. His ice cream cornets, it seemed, were better than sex.
I waited at a nearby picnic table for 15 minutes to catch a glimpse of him paddling in the Johor Straits, but he appeared to have dozed off. It then occurred to me that there was something deeply disturbing about loitering around a beach waiting for a near naked uncle to show off his doggy paddle so I wandered off into the park.
Sembawang Park is considered to be one of the country’s most ulu spots because of its comparative isolation, and it was almost empty. But that suits some people. As I passed a shelter, a breathless Indian couple hurriedly stood up and the man adjusted his zip. There was something about Sembawang Park that made Singaporeans want to take their clothes off. The park also has several monkey puzzle trees, which are stunning Chilean pine trees, with symmetrical branches that make them look like Christmas trees. I only mention them because there is no other tree on the planet that has a better name than the monkey puzzle tree. According to legend, the name derives from some daft Englishman who, in the 1800s, remarked that its scale-like leaves and prickly branches made the tree a puzzle to climb for most monkeys. No one is quite sure what the Englishman had been smoking. The name does not particularly convey a romantic mood though. In Dr No, Sean Connery and Ursula Andress sang about being under a mango tree together, but I wonder if the Indian lovebirds were aware that they had shagged under a monkey
puzzle tree.
Whistling the tune of “Underneath the Mango Tree”, I set off to visit the jewel in Sembawang’s comely crown. In 1909, a Chinese merchant by the name of Seah Eng Keong discovered something unique at the heart of the northern kampong—a hot spring. It did not take long for local residents to flock to the natural phenomenon, believing the water’s purities tackled common ailments like arthritis and rheumatism. During the Occupation, the Japanese constructed several thermal baths to enjoy the warm water. And by the 1960s, there were plans to transform the area into a spa to rival the world’s best resorts. Tourists were expected to come from far and wide to experience the curative benefits of the spring. But nothing happened and, by the 1990s, the spring had fallen into disrepair and most Singaporeans had forgotten about the place.
But a handful of older, wily Sembawang residents, who remembered the hot spring of their kampong childhood, began to quietly return when the opportunity presented itself. In early 2002, the landowners, the Ministry of Defence, cleared the surrounding land to build an extension to the Sembawang Air Base. The story reached the newspapers and suddenly hundreds of Singaporeans were springing up in Sembawang. And they were not amused that the Ministry of Defence intended to fence off the area. Before you could shout “Eureka”, community leaders presented a petition to the government, demanding that the spring be preserved.
Singaporeans are certainly a funny lot when it comes to picking their protests. In previous general elections in my Bishan-Toa Payoh constituency, no opposition candidates have stood against the PAP incumbents, which meant a walkover, so voters were denied the chance to troop down to the ballot box. But there were no organised complaints or protests. Threaten to close the island’s only hot spring, on the other hand, and the petitions come out. It is most strange. A few months after I visited the hot spring, the 2006 General Election was held and Bishan-Toa Payoh residents were, once again, denied the chance to vote. But in the build-up to the election, the populace was up in arms over a more pressing issue—the price of a cup of coffee had gone up 10 cents. To offset the rising price of coffee, stall owners had been forced to increase their prices. Letter writers to the media suffered an apoplectic fit at the injustice of it all. The message came through loud and clear. Singaporeans will accept a one-party state, but do not take away their hot spring and never mess with their coffee.
Final Notes From a Great Island Page 16
