Singapore Swing (14 page)

I shake my head as I head up Race Course Road, a street that used to lead to an equestrian arena that opened as early as 1843. On non-racing days, sheep – kept in sheds nearby by the Muslim population – were left to graze on its grounds, eventually to become rogan josh on the feast of Eid. The road kept its name in defiance of efforts to rationalise it, because the racecourse moved to new grounds in Bukit Timah in 1935 (and more recently to Kranji) so the name was judged ‘deceptive'. I'd like to see those bureaucrats come to London and walk down Poultry: they'll have a fit if they intend to buy chicken livers.

It is the Temple of 1,000 Lights I've come to visit, but the Leong San opposite steals my attention. It is constructed like a traditional Chinese Palace with black ornate timber beams welded together nail-free like an Ikea cabinet. I discover that it is relatively recent, built in 1917 by Venerable Zhuan Wu. He came to Singapore with a statue of the Guan Yin, the Goddess of Mercy who, upon entering Heaven, was so moved by the cries of unsaved souls that she decided to stay back and help mankind. Protector of children, she is often seen with a baby in her arms, her iconography similar to the Christian Madonna. Revered as a kind of Asian earth mother, her blessing is an unconditional requirement for the new harvest to flourish. She is worshipped wherever rice is the staple crop, as far as Korea and Japan, where she is called Canon. Yes, like the cameras and printers: the giant corporation is named after her and its original 1934 logo was an image of the deity herself.

Originally Guan Yin's statue presided over a simple lodge on Race Course Road. which was expanded by a rich local merchant in the mid-1920s, as this was the age of fortune and philanthropy. It has been constantly maintained and restored and, now a temple, it contains a main hall, corridors, guest rooms, monk's chambers, a kitchen, an ancestral worship yard and several rooms for meditation. My eyes focus on the wavy, tiled central roof. Its ridge contains a blazing pearl flanked by two protecting dragons whereas its gables depict dramatic warrior scenes. As I enter the narrow courtyard, a stone bell stands on the left; I am told that its sound fends off Bai Hu, the man-eating White Tiger, Guardian of the West.
What does it all mean?

The instantly recognisable statue of the Laughing Buddha greets me warmly at the entrance to bring luck, happiness and a good, all-round vibe, but this is where any familiarity with images or symbols ends. Directly behind the Laughing Buddha and facing the main idol in the holy of holies, towers Wei Tuo, the guardian of faith, poised serious, demonic, macabre. He was a general devoted to one of the incarnations of Guan Yin as Miao Shan, the Princess who remained a virgin, spurning her father's orders to marry. Wei Tuo, in return, remained faithful in his unrequited, platonic love and helped her escape from the clutches of her father, the king. Although his dedication was his undoing– he was captured and executed – Buddhist folk memory has elevated him into a
deva
, a human being of great moral authority, forever called upon to guard the main deity of a temple. In our case, this is his old flame, Guan Yin, looking imperious like Turandot frozen in time in the middle of ‘
In questa reggia
'.

An elderly monk emerges out of the temple depths maybe attracted by my camera flash. I guess he is the Resident Monk. He's followed by a round-faced boy. I point at my camera with a questioning look.

‘
Can
,' the Monk says, which I take to mean ‘yes'.

He sits by a statue of Confucius on the right watching every move I make, while the boy directs me silently to the left and gives me a leaflet explaining that I should walk in a clockwise direction: it is good feng shui (does this change in the southern hemisphere?) Anyway, I like the idea, because it means that Europe got it wrong and Britain got it right: driving on the left brings good luck which is easily confirmed when you check the accident rates on French roundabouts. Then again, it could also be that the boy has sent me to the donation box where two statues are coiled together in permanent struggle; donations help them uncurl from each other and at the same time let us resolve any quarrels with our own loved ones. I hesitantly put some money in.

The boy looks happy and points at a bell and drum hanging high above my head. Tradition dictates that the bell be rung 108 times and the drum beaten 3,000 times every morning whereas the order is reversed at dusk. I look at the boy's arms – he was sixteen, maybe seventeen but his arms were surprisingly muscular: even if as rapid as one second per beating, 3,000 seconds corresponds to a 50-minute battery twice a day.

My examining look was reciprocated.

‘Your arm?' asks the Monk.

That question
.

‘A fall,' I say. ‘Down some stairs.'

He disappears behind a screen.

The boy stretches his arms and opens his palms pointing at the Qi Xing Deng
,
the Lamp of Seven Lights. This is the lamp lit for prayer on the first and fifteenth of each lunar month; it remains open on those days during which the appeals to the gods are more propitious. It is placed opposite the miraculous statue of Guan Yin and a white marble statue of the historical Buddha-Sakyamuni; both are encased behind glass.

He wants me to pay reverence. I don't do prayers.

Maybe I should.

Under the boy's gaze, I close my eyes and stand there for a few minutes pretending to meditate. I have no idea what to do. I should ask that my arm be healed.
Aum
, I cogitate.
Auau-au-aum
. It has to originate from the navel, does it not? I concentrate and contract my abdominals, but they are of no use: I haven't been to a gym in weeks.

I open my eyes. The boy is smiling. I am glad and relieved he likes it, and I become more pleased when he leads me to a door next to the main altar and through that to a yard in the innards of the temple. In the middle stands a four-faced status of Brahma to ward off evil from all directions. On the western side are 18
arhats
, the first disciples of the Buddha who, being devoted Brahmins, attained nirvana. On the eastern side there are individual boxes and vases with various calligraphic ideograms arranged in five altars. This is the ancestral worship hall where prayers are being said on various days for the souls of those who passed away. They are never far from us, ever watchful, ever caring and ever critical if their descendants stray from the Way.

I think of Chang.

To come out as gay in a culture like this…

- 15 -

‘I thought of you today,' I say to Chang who picks me upfrom my hotel.

‘You did?'

‘I was over at a Buddhist Temple in Little India in a kind of memorial hall for ancestors.'

Chang doesn't like to talk about this again so I change the subject.

‘And you?'

‘I was at home watching DVDs.'

‘Like what?'

‘You'll laugh.
Sound of Music
.'

‘How very gay.'

Chang looks at me bewildered. ‘Is it?' he asks.

It's my turn to be taken aback. ‘But of course. It's part of the gay stereotype.'

Chang looks seriously surprised. ‘Really? I'm shocked.'

‘You thought you were unique?'

‘Not unique but –'

‘C'mon. You're kidding me. Do you also like Barbra Streisand?'

This time Chang's jaw drops.

‘YES!' he cries. ‘How did you know?'

‘It's another gay thing.'

‘NO! I can't believe it.'

‘And I can't believe you didn't know about it.'

‘I thought... just in Singapore... or just me and my friends...'

‘You are shocked for liking something gay you didn't know you
ought
to, is that it?'

Chang is speechless.

‘Don't believe in this homosexual lifestyle crap,' I tell him. ‘We are genetically predisposed to Barbra.'

Chang puts an end to the conversation by stopping in front of a door. ‘Happy,' he says. It is a Sunday night and we are at the only late night club in town.

I walk in and am impressed: this is not a seedy here-today gone-tomorrow dingy hole. From the soft sofa furnishing to the mood lighting and the international DJs to the quality of the hi-fi speakers, the ambience screams ‘I am a no-expensespared superclub' – no wonder Happy has been dubbed ‘Singapore's hottest nightspot' by
Wallpaper*
magazine. The pervading thick smell of expensive eau de cologne works like a strong room deodoriser, and the sartorial creations worn by the city's ultra-thin metrosexuals give the place the atmosphere of a Dolce and Gabbana show during Milan fashion week. Not for the first time in Singapore, I feel an outsider: sharp, short, sideways glances scrutinise me and my sling, which I'm now oblivious to, and instantly put me in my place in the pecking order of sexual attraction which is down, down,
down
.

It is with a sense of relief that I lock eyes with the creepy potato-head from Taboo standing at the bar. Well, at least I am not at the bottom of the food chain.

‘Hello John,' he says immediately, checks out Chang and winks at me with studied clumsiness so that everyone– especially Chang – might think that we were old buddies parading our conquests for the benefit of the other. It is for this reason that I pointedly ask him for his name.

‘Hello errm,' I say ‘sorry, I didn't catch your name.'

I hope that Chang heard me there.

‘I'm Nick,' says the guy ‘don't you remember? We met before you broke your arm. In Taboo.'

He is beginning to irritate me. ‘Not really,' I say, ‘it is not broken. I came to Singapore with my arm in a sling –'

‘Ha-ha,' Nick interrupts ‘in Singapore with a sling. As if you couldn't buy enough of those at Raffles.'

‘… but I wasn't wearing it in Taboo,' I add. ‘Excuse us.'

I chase the barman down the bar to avoid Nick but to no avail: he follows us. I notice that Chang feels excluded, so I am forced to introduce him.

‘Marketing, eh? I have some contacts in advertising,' says Nick poignantly. I can sense that the plan to get Chang's phone number has commenced. Feeling another alpha male's competitive chat-up breathing down my neck, I ask Chang what he wants to drink. Right, an orange juice. I don't look at Nick, and I don't offer.

When I return, they are deep in conversation.

‘… explain that to me,' Nick was saying.

‘Explain what?' I ask.

‘David Beckham. Why do you all go crazy about David Beckham in the Far East?'

‘It's a matter of success,' Chang replies with his usual intelligence. ‘He's photogenic and the message he conveys is success and money.'

‘Is that why you have Caucasian faces in ads? Why you don't have any Asians?' Nick continues.

Chang shrugs his shoulders. ‘We've been a colony for so long,' he says. ‘We still look up to Britain. We go there to study. And America now is a superpower. Caucasian faces are synonymous with success.'

‘And beauty,' says Nick. ‘You get Hollywood movies with an implied ideal of beauty and you fall for it.'

I don't like the direction the conversation is taking so I steer it back to safe ground.

‘What about China? She's also successful.' I say, clearing my throat.

‘China is on the up, yes. It evokes positive images for consumers regarding family, children, homeland.'

‘And Japan?' I ask mischievously.

‘Never really took off. The Japanese are not so popular in Singapore,' Chang replies matter-of-factly which for him is as curt as he can be.

‘You should know that,' says Nick. ‘You slept with Dan.'

I wish the earth could open up and swallow me.
How did Nick know that?

I put two and two together. ‘You knew him already –'

‘… and I pointed you out,' says Nick. ‘He asked about you and I said I knew you.'

‘Someone I met in Taboo,' I explain to Chang whose face betrays no emotion. ‘I didn't sleep with him.' I stumble. ‘I mean, yes, I did but that's the only thing I did. I took him back to the hotel, but we were too tired and we fell asleep. Or rather he did and I didn't.'

Hell, I'm off to Sydney in two days.

‘Dan kept him awake,' says Nick lowering my discomfort level to Torture Level Nine.

I do not comment and neither does Chang who senses my annoyance. If we only kept quiet for longer Nick might just go away. But then, the bastard tells me this.

‘Poor guy,' says Nick. ‘He's been very ill, you know.'

I look at him, the obvious question forming in my eyes.

‘No, not
that
. Cancer.'

But can no' stand in sun. Danger.

I shiver underneath the air con. Some dissidents in Singapore have complained of police abuse claiming that they've been forced to sit underneath the full blast of the air con. So that's normal treatment, then.

‘So far he's in remission,' says Nick. ‘But –'

We lean at the bar, sipping our drinks. I feel guilty for Dan; I really liked the guy and I don't even have his phone number. Happy is proving very sad, indeed. Maybe it is the company, or maybe it was the knowledge I have acquired. Ignorance is bliss while it remains ignorance.

‘What happened to you anyway,' asks Nick eventually, pointing at my arm. ‘Car accident?'

I shake my head. ‘No.'

‘Fell down the stairs?'

I take a deep breath. What did I know of Dan? What did I know about Singapore? Or, for that matter, what did they know of me?

‘If you want to know, it was self-inflicted,' I say. ‘The most stupid thing I've ever done.'

Stupid or not it has diminished in importance which makes it tolerable.

‘Well, it had been painful already and I thought it was, well, muscle tension, so I exercised it by swimming. But it was still painful, so I went to a sport injuries masseur. No improvement. Then I went to this club. I was – you know how it is – I was dancing and shaking my arms around. And after that I went to another club. I was so out-of-my-face, I didn't feel anything. I remember feeling some stiffness, going back home and using half a tube of Deep Heat on my shoulder.'