Singapore Swing (17 page)

‘Something's bothering you. What are you looking for?' she asks me.

‘I am looking for Little Boy Lost,' I say.

‘Aren't we all?' she counters.

I explain to her that I had an Internet date but the picture was fuzzy. What I know is that the guy works here and his online handle: littleboylost.

‘Leave it to me,' she says and before I can stop her, she leans forward and whispers to one of the barmen. By the time I pay for my drink she's back with the information.

‘It's Richard,' she says and points at a cute guy at the other end who waves at me.

I'm embarrassed but pleased. ‘Can I buy you a drink?' I ask her.

She looks at her half-empty glass.

‘Oh, yeah, stack them, why not? A lychee Martini, please.'

I give the order and try to catch Richard's eye, but he's working non-stop like a steam locomotive on speed.

‘He doesn't like me in real life,' I tell Jacky.

‘Patience! It is Friday night,' she scolds me. ‘Wait a little bit.'

I examine her closely for the first time. She is a petite thirty-something, carrying a stylish Prada bag as large as herself. She is also very pretty, her delicate features more Eurasian than oriental.

‘What do you do?'

‘I'm a fashionista,' she replies mysteriously.

I don't probe further. ‘And what are you doing here?'

She narrows her eyes. ‘I'm here every Friday, my sweet. And afterwards I cross the road to Taboo. I'm going back to my roots.'

That she has to explain.

‘I'm clubbing with my gay friends again,' she tells me with a hint of drama. ‘I've been married for fifteen years and I recently separated from my husband.'

‘I'm sorry.'

‘I'm not. There's no better place to be single than the gay scene. I'm rediscovering my past.'

‘You mean you are fag-hagging your way around Chinatown,' I tease her.

Jacky laughs heartily. I like her because I like people who open up to strangers in dimly-lit bars. ‘

What about the straight scene?'

She looks up, over-elevating her eyebrows like a diva. ‘Pur-lease! I don't need any of
that
.' And after a pause. ‘Are you coming to Taboo with us?'

I forgot to mention that Jacky comes with an entourage. ‘

I don't know,' I say, pointing at Richard with my chin. ‘

Well, he's not going away.' ‘

He doesn't like me. He doesn't want to speak to me.' ‘

Doesn't he?' she asks and looks on as Richard hurriedly comes over and greets me. ‘

I'm sorry,' he says. ‘We're so busy on Friday nights. It's John, isn't it?'

‘It is – and you are Richard?' ‘

Yes.' He hands me a piece of paper. ‘And this is my cell.' ‘

I'll text you tomorrow,' I promise, as he dashes off.

Jacky is purring like a Siamese cat, her expression one of feline satisfaction. ‘

He doesn't like me
,' she says mocking my accent. ‘HE DOESN'T LIKE ME!'

I can do nothing except pout contentedly. ‘

So are you coming now with us?'

She likes me, too.

Like Singapore itself, Taboo has spent a lot of money desleazing and refurbishing, since I've last been here. The sound system is better, Hoegarden is on tap and the sofas upstairs have been newly upholstered. Caucasians abound as everyone straight, gay and all the shades in-between mix with each other. The most noticeable – and unmourned – difference is the disappearance of the ladyboys. (‘Who cares? They were Indonesian, anyway.') Their corner has been transformed to a drinking area with benches and stools. Young sophisticates, amongst whom the design and fashion industry is over-represented, are sipping cocktails at the same spot where pole-dancers used to tease the well-heeled sugar daddies. Exhibitionism has gone upmarket: male punters, who spend their lives in the stale humidity of gyms, dance shirtless on the bar instead. Waiters, wearing a red top with the club's logo, mix with the clients, offering to fetch drinks from the bar.

One of them is coming towards me.

‘Can I have that?' I ask and point at his vest.

He looks at me. ‘Wait until I finish,' he replies.

I sober up. ‘I mean the
vest
.'

‘Oh,' he says and his face turns to stone. ‘We only have small and medium. You are, what? Large?'

I await the bad news, for this is not a size they are used to in Singapore. When orientals are big, they are not just large – they are massive enough to create their own gravitational field. Chubby chasers are thwarted in a part of the world where waist size 30 is considered XXL, but when they eventually meet Mr Sumo Wrestler – which they do, they do – they are more than compensated.

The waiter sizes me up. ‘Let me check,' he says, leaving never to return. There are predictably no sizes between medium and baby elephant.

I buy myself another drink and wonder if I will meet Nick; not sure I want to. I know I won't meet Chang again. I kept in touch with him while he was in Singapore. Then he came to London and I lost him, or rather he lost me. Last time I tried to contact him on MSN, he didn't remember who I was.

I shrug my shoulders and check that I still have Richard's number safely tucked in my wallet. I take out two pieces of paper.
Two?
Oh yes, I got Jacky's number also.

‘Let me know how you get on with Richard,' she'd said.

H
ere is a well-known Malay myth to keep the book's race quotas above board.

'Twas in the reign of the Paduka Sri Maharaja, one of the kings of ancient Singapura, that a unique plague befell his kingdom. When the Maharaja himself heard about it, he could hardly believe his ears. Short-tempered and mercurial, as he was famed to be, the semi-naked
orang laut
who brought him the news was fearing for his life.

‘You said
fish
?' asked the Maharaja.

‘Swordfish, my Lord.'

The Maharaja tapped his fingers nervously on the throne.

‘Let me get this straight,' he said. ‘A school of flying, ahem,
swordfish
is terrorising our southern shores?'

‘Yes, my Lord.'

‘And they're spearing the fishermen with their, ahem,
snouts
, I suppose?'

‘Yes, my Lord.'

The temperamental ruler exploded.

‘Listen here! I would understand it if the swordfish speared our people in the sea. I would understand it if they speared them in their boats. But, in the name of Allah,
on the beach
? They are fish! Out of water!'

‘They fly back into the sea, my Lord.'

The Maharaja lost his patience and threw his embroidered slipper at the messenger.

‘Put this man in jail!' he bellowed. ‘I'm going to the beach to see for myself whether this is true. And your swordfish had better be flying like djinns in an oil lamp shop or else you'll see what a real sword feels like.' He clapped his hands: ‘Eunuchs! Prepare the howdah!'

And so it came to pass that the Maharaja marched to the beach on top of his favourite elephant, accompanied by the Bendahara, his prime minister, who was riding a black stallion by his side. He was preceded by 50 men from his Royal Guard, specially selected for their loyalty, and a dozen trumpeters who declared to his subjects that their Supreme Ruler was approaching. Behind him rode in formation his ministers, his mullahs, his eunuchs, his wives...

A swordfish suddenly flew from the sea and speared one of the men of his Royal Guard through the chest.

After a moment's silent disbelief all hell was loose. The Royal Guardsmen lanced the swordfish before it had time to fly away. The mullahs started praying. The women started ululating. The elephant raised his front legs and blew his trunk with a trumpeting sound as if to compensate for all the stunned court musicians.

Another swordfish flew by. This one was aiming at the Maharaja. Miraculously, it only ripped the long sleeve hanging by the sides of his silken shirt. The resulting uproar, as the shocked ruler gave the order to retreat, was heard as far as the island of Bintan.

Once back at his palace on top of Forbidden Hill, the Maharaja collapsed into a sulk, while his government met in a closed session for three days and three nights. But, despite such brainstorming, the problem appeared insoluble.

On the fourth day, a boy of 12 was brought to the Maharaja with a petition. Choleric as usual, he asked the boy what he wanted while glancing sharply at the courtier who let him in.

‘I beg you to let my father out of jail, my Lord,' said the child whose voice had not yet broken. ‘I have no other family.'

The Maharajah turned to the Bendahara. ‘What is this boy talking about?' he asked.

‘His father is the messenger who brought you the bad news about the swordfish, Your Majesty.'

The Maharaja jumped; he had forgotten all about him. Nervously he made a gesture to his retinue to let the man free. Then he regally dismissed the boy with the back of his hand. But the boy wouldn't go.

‘Yes, my child?' he asked impatiently.

‘My Lord, I think I know how to get rid of the swordfish,' the boy replied.

The Maharaja's irritation was so great he didn't even flinch. Things were getting more ludicrous by the minute. There he was, humouring a lowly-born boy who purported to have solved the biggest problem facing his government.

‘Yes?' he said, whilst innerly debating whether the boy's father should not be now boiled alive for bringing up such a brat.

‘Sharpen up tall bamboo stakes and place them tightly on the beach next to each other, like a wall. The swordfish will impale their snouts there, as they fly to the beach.'

There was a long silence while everyone's brain in the room started processing the boy's words, a silence only broken when a jubilant Maharaja rose and clapped his hands.

‘Do it!' he shouted. ‘You heard the boy, do it!'

The scheme worked as predicted and the people of Singapura were freed from the worst nightmare that had befallen the Kingdom since, well, the last one.

The story should end here, but – that's the point – it doesn't.

About a week after that crucial audience the Maharaja called the Bendahara for a meeting in his private chambers.

‘Do you remember that boy whose plan rid us of those marine pests?' asked the Maharaja.

‘I do, Your Majesty. How could I forget him?'

‘Do you know where he lives?'

‘Indeed, Your Majesty. Only yesterday I took the liberty of sending him a few presents on your behalf to thank him. Nothing expensive, of course. He and his father were easily satisfied. The poor normally are.'

‘That's it,' the Maharaja said. ‘
The poor
. It was not me or you or any members of our exalted court that thought of the solution, but a
poor boy
.'

‘A boy with a bright future, Your Majesty.'

The Maharaja stopped him.

‘A boy with
no
future. I want you to send two of my most trusted guards to kill him and his father tonight.'

The Bendahara choked on his saliva. ‘I don't understand…'

‘Make it look like a robbery. Good timing with those presents. Say it must have been some jealous neighbour.'

‘But –'

‘But what?'

‘The boy did us all a great favour.'

‘No. The boy spoke and thought above his station and caused a rift in the natural order of things. I rule by divine right. You preside over day-to-day matters because I have delegated you that right. If we let excellence decide promotion and start judging people by worth and not by birth, then society will collapse throughout Malaya and I can not allow that.'

That same night, the bright boy and his father were strangled by strangers. None of the Maharaja's presents were found.

Two neighbours were arrested and were never seen again.

- 18 -

So how come Singapore is a city-state?

The story may be lengthy, but boring it isn't. Biographies sometimes read like fiction – the more so if you don't know anything about the subject. A country's history can equally be as fantastic, especially if you approach it with a clean slate. And so it is with Singapore.

Let's start in 1945: Year Zero. Colonialism is dead in South East Asia. Chairman Mao's long march to power is galvanising both the intelligentsia and the proletariat of the South Seas. The Dutch returned expecting to plunder according to the status quo ante and are being chucked out unceremoniously. The French pretended there is no distinction between 1950 and 1850: they are about to get the biggest slap of all in Dien Bien Phu. The British are withdrawing willingly and gradually, but not before they try to raise a bulwark in Malaya which is in the throes of a communist resurrection. Little credit and fewer congratulations still have been offered to the British forces and political operatives who succeeded in putting down such an insurgency in a region where even the Americans would flounder two decades later.

London convened its own colonies, the various sultanates, and the independent Malay states to create a centralised and strong Malayan Union. Although colonial policy had been to favour the Malays as the native ruling class, the Union was to give everyone the vote, thereby enfranchising the Chinese immigrants and lessening Mao's penumbra that fell upon the peninsula. But when the numbers were added, the results were shocking. Chinese immigration under the Empire had been relatively unchecked; the inclusion of the Straits Settlements of Malacca, Penang and Singapore would make the Malays a minority in their ancestral land. There was only one answer: Singapore, with its massive Chinese population was not to be included. This left a more acceptable 55:45 Malay/Chinese ratio in the Malayan Union founded with pomp and circumstance on 1 April 1946.

The omens for a state inaugurated on April Fool's Day are not good: the Union disintegrated as soon as it was formed, with the Malays – let alone the sultans – outraged at the loss of their privileges. A federation was formed and a new constitution gave the ‘sons of the soil', the
bumiputra
, political supremacy: Malays born in the federation were citizens; non-Malays were subject to restrictions; a Malay was the supreme head of state; Malay would later become the official language and Islam the state religion. Politics turned sectarian: there was an assertive Malay Party, the United Malays' National Association (UMNO), a pliant Malay Chinese Party representing the Chinese community and a small Congress Party for the Indians. Sensibly, they fought and won the first Malayan elections together as an alliance where the UMNO was predominant.

And Singapore?

Singapore was to remain a British colony like Gibraltar, Hong Kong or Cyprus. However, the armed struggle in the jungles of Malaya – fought almost entirely by Chinese Communists – had fomented enough unrest in the island-city for some form of autonomy to be put in place in 1954. Not long after, Singapore was granted a constitution and attained self-government with an election in May 1959. This was the beginning of Singapore's modern age, the first time when the bulk of the Chinese residents – soon to be citizens– were able to vote.

The 1959 election was contested and won by a left-wing party called the People's Action Party; its strangely totalitarian insignia – red lightning in a blue circle – would not look out of place in Gerald Scarfe's drawings for Pink Floyd's
The Wall
. It was headed by Lee Kuan Yew who became Singapore's prime minister at the age of 35. Lee's great achievement was the creation of this political body claiming to represent every race, religion and community – just imagine whether this could ever have happened in Northern Ireland. But ours is a Hegelian tale: three steps forward, two steps back– what was young and radical yesterday, becomes tomorrow's conservative establishment.

The PAP's broad anti-colonial front also involved collaboration with the outlawed Communists in order to bridge the gap with the proletariat it was supposed to represent in the first place. Once in government the PAP set off on a course with three objectives: to unite all communities together; to isolate itself from the communist support that had brought it into power in the first place; and finally to achieve complete independence from the British via a merger with the Federation of Malaya (adding a ‘Si' for Singapore to build the new country of Malay-Si-a). It was this policy that resulted in a split with the PAP's left wing that defected to form the Barisan Sosialis, a party Communist in all but name and implacably opposed to the union: had not the peninsular Malays been their mortal enemies during the insurrection? The defection forced the PAP to run a minority administration, but it achieved its aim in distancing itself from the far left and redefining its character. Its main thrust was now union with Malaya and to this effect it started talks with the UMNO and the rest of the Alliance parties.

By now you would have thought that a Malay-dominated, Islamic and staunchly conservative government would have little in common with a non-communal-but-Chinesecontrolled, moderately left-wing, secular party.

And you'd be right.

- 19 -

There is no mistaking Kampong Glam: the landmark golden dome of the Sultan Mosque is perched dead on North Bridge Road. This is the area Raffles conceded to Sultan Hussein Shah and his descendants under the 1819 agreement. It is here, from Arab Street to Changi Road, that the heart of Malay and Muslim Singapore has been beating for nearly two centuries. The
kampong
has a rather unfortunate-sounding name – with its connotations of that seventies musical trend whose prime exponents were Bolan and Bowie, clad in velvet and chiffon – but it derives from the
gelam
tree that used to thrive in the area. The only samplings left today are planted inside the Malay Heritage Centre at Sultan Gate for the benefit of tourists.

The first mosque, built by Sultan Hussein between 1824 and 1828, was bankrolled by the East India Company who wanted to keep their ruler sweet. Faded photos show a brick Indonesian-looking building with a tiered pyramidal roof like a squashed pagoda. It served the community for a century before being replaced by the current two-storey Saracen-style mosque – designed, incidentally, by the British firm of Swan and McLaren. It is being administered by a board of trustees that represents the meshed Muslim make-up of Singapore: Arab, Malay, Bugis, Javanese, North Indian and South Indian. The Saudis have paid for several major repairs and renovations for the last forty years and their most visible contribution is the vast carpet that covers the prayer hall. It is on this carpet that I must not walk, I'm told, as I leave my shoes at the steps of the mosque entrance.