Final Notes From a Great Island

by Neil Humphreys

  I reached the budget hotels around Talma Road, the heart of the red-light district, and witnessed the very entrepreneurial zeal that Singapore’s government now demands of its people. Behind the prostitutes standing outside the hotels, I noticed an ice cream vendor who was doing more business than all of the hookers put together! Whenever the ice cream van stopped near our house in Dagenham, only teenagers and young parents queued up for a cornet. But the ice cream queue at Talma Road comprised four hookers, two of their customers and a pimp. It was marvellous. In Britain, adults light up cigarettes after sex. In Singapore, they lick a chocolate chip cone.

  Time was getting on so I took a bus to Jalan Besar, marched purposefully through its empty street and turned into Desker Road. I had been to Desker Road only once before when David played tour guide around Singapore’s saucier streets. We stumbled across the finest pair of breasts ever created that night. The only drawback was that they were the work of a gifted plastic surgeon and attached to a man. Older Singaporeans often refer to Desker Road as Kin Jio Ka, or “banana foot” in Hokkien. This has no relevance whatsoever, I just think that “banana foot” is a superb name for a street. I am also particularly fond of Kay Poh Road off River Valley Road. It is childish, I know, but before I leave Singapore for good I am determined to tell a taxi driver that I live in a condo there. What a spectacularly brief conversation that would be.

  “Where you go?”

  “Kay Poh.”

  “Yeah? Well, balls to you, ang moh.”

  Like Geylang, Desker Road is internationally recognised for its nocturnal services. Instead of hookers, however, it specialises in transvestites. I wandered down the street just before midnight and the only nightlife I came across was a bustling fruit and vegetable market that reminded me of my short career at Spitalfields Market. I lasted two weeks working with my uncle at East London’s famous fruit and vegetable market before someone offered me cannabis behind a lorry and my mother promptly ordered her brother to sack me. No such social concerns in Desker Road though. The most serious threat to public order came from a group of mercurial Indians shouting at a TV in a coffee shop. I thought they were watching a political protest or hearing about news of a natural disaster back in their homeland, but they were watching WWE Wrestling. As they waited for The Undertaker to make his grand entrance, I enquired if Big Daddy or Giant Haystacks was on the bill. I was quickly shooed away.

  I ambled over to Syed Alwi Road and found myself in the middle of a shopping maelstrom; Mustafa Centre was packing them in. Desker Road might have been largely deserted, but this 24-hour shopping district had families, couples, singles and tourists queuing up to get in. Midnight had come and gone but a security guard directed traffic into a burgeoning car park while another pedantically checked the bags of every shopper entering the store. Singapore harbours pretensions of becoming a round-the-clock global city. Although it is not there yet, Mustafa’s and the coffee shops around Little India are on the right track.

  I was ready to call it a night when I reached Serangoon Road but I saw a small crowd of foreign workers gathered around in Rowell Road. I took a peek and realised that the famous transvestites of Desker Road had apparently moved to the next street. As it was still only 1am, they had not yet ventured onto the streets. Instead they sat on the stairwell of the two-storey shophouses behind a locked gate as prospective punters peered through the cracks. This peculiar setting may have been for the prostitutes’ own protection, but the scene seemed so desperately sad.

  I walked a little further down Rowell Road when a voice beckoned me over. I peered through the gate and thought I had confronted the American rock group Kiss. Five male faces, practically obscured by long, straight hair and startling amounts of make-up, were crouching on the staircase and smiling back at me. As they sat beside, above or below each other on the stairs, they formed a neat circle of talking heads in the shadows. For one fleeting moment, they reminded me of Queen in their “Bohemian Rhapsody” video. One of the transvestites, who bore an uncanny resemblance to the singer Robert Plant, blew me a kiss, licked his lips and asked if I fancied having a good time. I politely declined his offer, wished him well and headed back to Serangoon Road for supper.

  I have absolutely no problem with transvestites; I am just not a big fan of Led Zeppelin.

  CHAPTER 27

  On a damp November morning in 1996, Scott and I set foot in Singapore’s most famous street for the first time. Being enthusiastic tourists, we arrived an hour before the shops opened and shuffled along an empty Orchard Road desperately trying to fathom what all the fuss was about. We reached Ngee Ann City, spotted a monstrous billboard advertising an ongoing Star Wars exhibition and immediately concurred that this was the very country for us. Scott was also pleased that Singapore had been courteous enough to name the adjacent shopping street after him, reinforcing the belief that kismet was firmly in our corner. From a historical perspective, it now seems particularly apt. I explored Orchard Road for the first time with Scott, a street that took its name from Captain William Scott’s orchards. In the 1830s, Scott was both harbour and post master of Singapore and his plentiful orchards, pepper farms and nutmeg plantations were dotted all along the street, partially concealed by colourful shrubbery and shaded by thousands of breezy trees. Now, Orchard Road boasts several Coffee Beans, a handful of McDonald’s and a number of 7-Elevens. Singapore’s premier shopping district has come such a long way.

  Fortunately, Orchard Road boasts two of the finest city parks in the world at either end: Singapore Botanic Gardens in the north and Fort Canning Park in the south. Being in absolutely no hurry to drift along in a sea of a thousand shoppers on a Saturday afternoon, I happily strayed over to the Botanic Gardens. Originally established by dear old Tommy Raffles in 1822 at Fort Canning to satisfy his naturalistic tendencies and provide his house with a decent view, the first garden closed just seven years later. An agri-horticultural society set up the present one 30 years later and, today, the Botanic Gardens is maintained by the assiduous National Parks Board. It is over 52 hectares of lakes, gardens, heritage trees, rainforest trails, sculptures, fountains and cafés, with a children’s garden on the way. Unfortunately, it pissed down when I visited.

  As I admired one particular tree, the extraordinary 47-metre-tall jelawai, one of the tallest indigenous trees in Southeast Asia, it started to drizzle. I am no botanist but I was desperate for a pee and examined the tree’s girth to determine whether it was broad enough for me to nip behind. To my consternation, the low, menacing clouds decided to release their water before I could so I dashed to the bandstand and narrowly escaped the deluge. I have always relished the unexpected equatorial downpours here. In Britain, the incessant drizzle that passes for rain is uncomfortable and irritating, rather like a baby dribbling down your face. It is neither here nor there, just gloomy. But there is nothing remotely babyish about Singapore’s rain. Oh no. This is primeval Neanderthal stuff. It roars down from the heavens, thunders along the streets like a Hobbesian brute, beats you around the head for an hour and then swiftly disappears to terrorise another neighbourhood. I will miss it a lot.

  I sheltered in the bandstand with four couples. It was like hanging around for the next meeting of the Social Development Unit. To compound matters, a young couple occupied their time by fondling each other. He was discernibly French and she might have been Japanese and they spent the first 15 minutes of the thunderstorm declaring their unfettered love for each other and groping various erogenous zones. When I was young, and this is true, I thought an erogenous zone was part of the London Underground. I knew the Tube network was broken up into zones and just assumed that the erogenous zone was off the map somewhere past Upminster. I have been to Upminster and have since concluded that this might well be the case.

  After about an hour of chest rubbing and doe-eyed staring at the relentless rain, however, the Frenchman’s patience was clearly wearing thin. His exotic girlfriend continued to expound upon the romantic virtues of a tro
pical storm and he responded with a forced smile and a nod. But his stiff, fidgety body language really said, “It’s just rain, darling. I can no longer feel my legs and I’m desperate for a curry.”

  I shared his impatience so I took my chances in the blustery conditions, splashed blindly through the puddles and headed for the toilets beside the National Orchid Garden. They were the best that I have ever had the privilege of relieving myself in. Whoever designed the public facilities at the Botanic Gardens must be recognised at the next National Day Awards. The toilets boasted freshly laid tiled floors and ceilings that were cleaner than most hawker centre tables. Tropical plants adorned the three individual basins and every immaculate toilet and urinal had an automatic flush. Not only did the toilet provide a welcome respite from the rain, its open concept, a familiar feature at Singapore’s parks, made it breezy and cool. I would live in here. Do not come to the Botanic Gardens for its rainforest trees and free Symphony Stage shows, come for its toilets. The National Parks Board even provided a helpline above the urinals for visitor feedback. I was so impressed that I called and notified the bemused operator that I had never peed in a more welcoming toilet.

  I toyed with visiting the National Orchid Garden next door but thought better of it. I know the importance orchid breeding plays in Singapore and, as flowers go, the orchid is one of the most attractive. I even had them at my wedding to give the ceremony a Singaporean flavour. However, the idea of paying $5 to see bunches of flowers in the middle of a free garden covered with all kinds of tropical flora and fauna strikes me as a trifle odd. I would not visit the Sahara Desert and hand over $5 to peer into display cases of sand. Instead I sauntered past the majestic Symphony Lake and watched children feed bread to the ducks. There are far worse ways to spend a Saturday afternoon.

  It was here that I encountered one of those anal pet owners who believe that their pets are human beings. When these poor souls are not barking at the moonlight, they are dressing their pets up in human clothes and putting pigtails in Rover’s hair. The storm had stopped by now, but this particular woman thundered towards me dragging a yapping sausage dog in a blue rain mac. Only the helpless canine’s stumpy legs and perspiring, panting face protruded through its ill-fitting coat. Why do owners bestow such a cruel punishment upon their pets in the tropics? It is a dog. It is already wearing a bloody coat. As the woman marched past me, I registered my displeasure by releasing a distinct odour that the poor dog would have been proud of and headed for the exit.

  Orchard Road has never really appealed to me. It has no identity other than being a street full of shops, a characteristic that barely distinguishes the place from Toa Payoh Central. Orchard Road is revered by most tourists, even though it has no central feature to attract those with interests other than credit card abuse. The pagoda-shaped Singapore Marriott Hotel at the junction of Scotts Road and Orchard Road comes close to being a national landmark, but it is hardly the Sydney Opera House. For a road that is namechecked in every guidebook and tourist guide written about the country, Orchard Road offers no iconic building or structure, no vivid history and little in the way of heritage. London’s Regent Street and Oxford Street boast glorious histories. New York has Times Square and the Champs Elysées relies on the Arc de Triomphe to fill its Parisian postcards. Singapore has its fair share of famous buildings and tourist attractions: the overrated Merlion, Raffles Hotel, the Padang, the Singapore River, Boat Quay, Clarke Quay, Chinatown and Little India are just a few. But none of them are in Orchard Road.

  To borrow the vague language of Scott’s favourite shopping centre sign, Orchard Road offers shops, more shops and even more shops. What is more, most of them are the same. It is like a day trip to Toon Town. Do you remember watching older cartoons such as Scooby Doo in which the hooded villain always raced past that same nondescript backdrop every few seconds? Well, that is Orchard Road. In Scooby Doo, it is tree, grassy knoll, house; tree, grassy knoll, house. In Orchard Road, it is McDonald’s, 7-Eleven, Coffee Bean; McDonald’s, 7-Eleven, Coffee Bean. Originality is not high on the street’s list of priorities. That is why it has plenty of familiar retail outlets behind polished glass frontages, but no identity. It undoubtedly does the all-under-one-roof concept very well. But then, so does Lakeside Shopping Centre, a characterless suburban behemoth on the borders of Kent and Essex that serves the populations of both English counties. And tourists are not clocking up air miles to visit that place.

  Orchard Road’s only real function is to satisfy one’s materialism and the annual Great Singapore Sale is proof of its success. Every year, the Singapore Tourism Board sets higher targets of visitors and the media gleefully reports the record-breaking retail revenues as those tills just keep on ringing. The desire to create a nation of soulless shoppers who flood Orchard Road to upgrade their phones, buy electronic gizmos they do not need and toast their efforts with a well-earned latte is relentless. To help achieve the dream, one of the street’s last green lungs, Orchard Turn, was recently sold off for redevelopment with the caveat that the site must house premier residential and retail outlets. The small grassy hillock beside Orchard MRT Station is just 1.8 hectares in size and has long been a popular spot for maids to meet for picnics as well as providing space for the occasional funfair. But the sale of Orchard Turn for over $1 billion dispelled any confusion or ambiguity regarding Orchard Road. The message was unequivocal: fuck ’em. The bulging Boss wallets and Prada purses from China and India are coming and more shops are needed to satisfy demand. So the maids can scurry away to the Botanic Gardens and the funfairs can stay in Chinatown.

  I sat on a wall in my least favourite place in Singapore and watched the multitudes shuffle out of the underground exit of Orchard MRT Station. Humming The Kinks’ “Waterloo Sunset”, I watched as hundreds of youngsters scurried off in every direction to spend a few hours staring into shop windows at branded goods that they either could not afford or planned to throw onto a credit card that they probably should not have. I know they are all doing their national service by boosting their country’s GDP, but there must be more fulfilling ways for young Singaporeans to spend their weekends than this.

  I have always been fascinated by the design of Orchard MRT Station. I still struggle to comprehend how someone sat down and said, “Let’s take a hot country with stifling humidity on the equator and build the exit to its most popular station underground. Then attach the station to a labyrinth of shopping lanes with a myriad of retail outlets selling essentially the same thing and link it all up with slow escalators and an inadequate air-conditioning supply. Now, watch the people come.”

  And the sad thing is, they do. They come 18 hours a day, 7 days a week. I gloomily observed the shoppers shuffle through the crowds, carrying too many bags, the sharp edges of which banged against people’s knees and babies’ buggies. No one seemed to smile and no one looked particularly happy.

  I fled the retail prison and took a welcome stroll down Orchard Road above ground, which was practically deserted thanks to the grey weather and damp pavements. I may have escaped the shopping hordes but fell into the clutches of the roadshow MCs instead. You cannot walk 10 metres down Orchard Road without being blown under a bus by a booming speaker promising credit cards with lower interest rates, a free car, a condo and sex with the TV artiste of your choice. And those faux-American accents are exasperating, aren’t they? It is bad enough that you cannot switch on a radio station here without suffering a 21-year-old giving you tips on how to lead your life in a voice that suggests she was schooled with Forrest Gump; now we also have to endure roadshow MCs convinced that they were raised in Boston rather than Buangkok. A guy selling a ladies’ credit card considered approaching me, but checked himself when he noticed the steam coming out of my ears.

  Orchard Road does have its plus points though. I ambled up Emerald Hill to admire the beautifully restored Peranakan shophouses. A certain William Cuppage had a nutmeg plantation around here in the 1840s before the Peranakans moved in and built many
of the stunning pre-war houses that I now wandered around. Some have been converted to bars, restaurants and office units, but they have been stylishly done and most of the original façades remain intact. Emerald Hill provided a timely breather from the credit card salesmen. It is also home to Chatsworth International School, which I indulgently mention because my wife taught there for five extremely happy years.

  At the junction of Orchard Road and Bras Basah Road stands the historic Cathay Building, which, I was delighted to see, had been renovated and reopened. It is the high point at the end of an otherwise drab street. One of Singapore’s oldest cinemas, the Cathay Cinema, originally opened here in 1939 and was the focal point for the entire Orchard area. Even my dear war veteran friend Cliff fondly remembers enjoying an ice cream outside the building and watching the girls go by in 1945. After being closed for a few years, the building (now known as The Cathay) has opened its doors again with a new multiplex and renovated art house with, of course, the predictable shopping outlets to follow. More impressively, its original art deco façade was recently declared a national monument and restored. As dusk approached, I stood in front of the building’s grand entrance, which once led to Singapore’s first skyscraper, and was reminded of the cavernous odeons of my Dagenham childhood. Those eccentric, pre-war gems were eventually converted into bowling alleys or demolished and replaced by generic multiplexes. But The Cathay is still here. Critics have complained that only the original façade remains, but with the construction workers whistling their way over to Orchard Turn, I would be grateful for small mercies.

  Just after midnight, I returned to Orchard Road and walked the same route again. There has been plenty of talk in recent years to turn the shopping precinct into a 24-hour playground with a vibrant street life to rival Nanjing Lu in Shanghai. London and New York supposedly never sleep and Orchard Road is eager to join the exclusive club of city insomniacs. It is already a bit of a chameleon. Once the final train has trundled out of Orchard MRT Station just after midnight, the day tripping shoppers go away and the prostitutes, transvestites and rent boys come out to play. Before dark, Orchard Road harbours ambitions of becoming the region’s answer to Regent Street. After dark, it bears closer similarity to King’s Cross. I stood outside Tanglin Mall and watched several foreign workers scavenge through the dustbins, looking for any gems that might have been thrown away at the flea market earlier in the afternoon. Not a great start. Between Tanglin Mall and Tanglin Shopping Centre, I encountered three people and they were all security guards. Were they bravely protecting their properties from each other? There was more life in Toa Payoh on a Saturday night.