Singapore Swing (25 page)

What about Muslim fundamentalist extremism, wonder.

‘It is one thing that is worrying this government – the Christian–Muslim, hmm,
chasm
if you like.'

They can't do much there. Unless they invent a new religion.

‘Don't give them ideas! You know we have three prime ministers in government? The actual prime minister, Lee Kuan Yew's son, Senior Minister Goh Chok Tong and the Minister Mentor Lee Kuan Yew himself. We already have a political trinity. They're on their way.'

I cringe.
The Father, the Son and the Holy Goh.

‘We have political humour even here, you know.'

What about the PAP itself? In the 1950s and the 1960s they were a very progressive force. At some point what was progressive became the establishment and as a result, repressive. When did they lose their direction?

‘They haven't lost their direction! I think you are underestimating their ability to adapt to change. The direction is different now than it was ten years ago and certainly twenty years ago. They are evolving. They maybe evolving in a direction we don't like, but they are. They could not keep their grip on power if they were as monolithic and as unyielding as, say, the Brezhnev-era Soviets. Certain things are non-negotiable but many others are.'

What are the non-negotiables?

‘You should not insult their ego. You should not cause offence to their sense of honour and reputation. Do not ever accuse them of corruption or nepotism. But what appears non-negotiable now might appear negotiable five years from now. For instance, control of the media. They had no choice there – because of the Internet they had to have a re-think.'

And gay rights?

‘Well, they are in the process now of updating the penal code. They had an item there which criminalised any kind of non-vaginal sex including oral sex: if it doesn't produce babies it was criminal. So they decided that times have changed, and they will repeal that section. But only if it is a female that is sucking your cock. The gay equivalent, which they call gross indecency between males, they will retain as a criminal act. But they said they will not be enforcing it. You see, they want to have their cake and eat it. They give you enough so that you are partly satisfied, but they won't make you happy at the expense of another lobby group.'

The other lobby group being?

‘The American evangelical churches. Christians have much too much power in Singapore.'

Of yes, the humble servants of God. If, like Raffles' parish priest, they could quote from the Bible to judge the emancipation of slaves ‘unchristian', what are the chances they are now infallible towards homosexuality? I shake my head. Pity. The government could lead the way. They have done in other areas.

‘You are right. It is lack of leadership. What are they afraid of?'

Who else is there except the PAP?

‘Absolutely. They would win any election. On their record, they deserve to win, and I would not begrudge them this. But because they haven't seriously contested any, they have lost the knack of persuasion – to go out there and win people over for their manifesto. They have sued and contained the opposition, so they have not had to justify what they're doing and come clean. There's a lot of spin and little transparency and this, in my opinion, degrades the honesty and integrity of public discourse.'

They just have to open up and trust the electorate.

‘Exactly. Because we are a little hypocritical in Singapore. On one hand we don't like the government, we don't like the laws, but on the other hand we appreciate the passport when we are on the fast lane abroad. The Singaporean passport is very valuable. Because everyone knows that our laws are very strict, when I cross borders they never check my luggage. They know I would never smuggle anything not just drugs. But if I had a Thai passport I would get inconvenienced at airports. With the Singaporean passport I sail through: UK, Australia, everywhere. We dress well, we look middle class, we have the air of Australian Chinese; there is a certain confidence. So the customs officers think that if they are going to spend time, they had better spend it checking the guy from Indonesia or Thailand.'

As we prepare to leave – and hopefully warm our bones that have been frozen stiff like ramrods from the air con – Alex sees a couple he knows who are eating at a table on the way out. He goes over and greets them.

‘Do you know everyone in this town?' I needle him afterwards.

‘Singapore is a small city,' he says, ‘and I have a high public profile. But sometimes I wonder. Some years ago I went to Bangkok on holiday with a friend who wasn't ‘out' at the time. I took him to a gay bar and, as we came in, there were cries of “Alex! Hey! Hi Alex” from every corner. My friend was shocked. “I'm not going on holiday with you again,” he complained. “Might as well have come out publicly at Raffles Place.”'

Not for the first time during the night, I burst out laughing.

L
et's have a story with mindless violence and no deep message for a change.

Sultan Mahmud Shah was lying on a sofa in his veranda listening to the melodious airs of his
merbok
. The mullahs in his court alleged that some of these birds recite whole suras from the Qur'an, but in all his time listening to his prize-winning bird he had not been able to make any out.

He rolled over and picked a rambutan from his fruit tray. A lot of things were on his mind. His sultanate of Johore-Riau was being attacked by pirates and his faithful admiral, the Laksamana, was dealing with the problem, but he had been away from the capital, Kota Tinggi, for three months with no news. The Sultan couldn't make up his mind whether no news was good news or not. He leaned on his side and picked on a large
nangka
fruit, when suddenly a piece fell off.

The Sultan examined it carefully. A square portion had been cut and patched back in place, but underneath the flesh had been eaten.

Was it poison
?

The Sultan clapped his hands and asked for his Bendahara. He, in turn, called for the kitchen master who ate the fruit trembling but survived, so it was quickly established that no poison was involved.

The royal gardener was next to be summoned.

The Sultan and the Bendahara had no doubts as to the identity of the culprit when the gardener entered the audience room on his knees and looked up ashen-faced.

‘Forgive me, Your Majesty,' the poor wretch said. ‘I was only being kind to a pregnant lady from your harem. She asked me to cut a piece and give it to her because she had a craving for
nangka
.'

The Sultan and the Bendahara exchanged glances. There was no pregnant wife or concubine in the Sultan's harem; the lack of an heir was one of the problems that taxed the Sultan's mind.

‘Search the palace for a pregnant woman,' ordered the Bendahara, second-guessing the Sultan, ‘and have her confront the gardener.' Within an hour, a well-heeled gentlewoman in an advanced state of pregnancy was forcibly thrown at their feet crying and begging for mercy.

‘She has confessed Your Majesty,' said the one of the guards. ‘She was the one who ate the fruit.'

Mahmud Shah rose. He was furious at being fed leftovers from his own garden.

‘Have the gardener beheaded,' he said, ‘and as for this woman: slice her open and retrieve the missing piece of
nangka
from her belly.'

In spite of protestations at his harsh pronouncement – some arising from the appalled Bendahara himself – Mahmud Shah retreated to his veranda to listen to the song of his favourite
merbok
wondering again what the fate of his Laksamana was.

Not long after, he received the news: his admiral's ship had arrived and initial reports were positive, speaking of a routing of pirates around the islands of Bintan and Temasek. A jubilant Sultan gave notice that he would be holding a formal audience with his brave naval commander in three days' time and lay on the sofa in his veranda, occupying himself with thoughts, while listening to his
merbok
–

His
merbok
?

The bird was silent.

Mahmud Shah stood up and approached the cage with trepidation. The bird, was lying on its back, no breath disturbing the tiger-like stripes on its belly. A piece of
nangka
lay half-pecked by his side.

Was it poison
?

He clapped his hands, but instead of his servants, his Laksamana appeared. Alone. He was holding a long
kris
that had seen recent action in the South Seas.

Mahmud Shah fell back on his sofa, in shock. He clapped his hands more loudly. ‘Guards!' he shouted. ‘GUARDS!'

‘They will not hear you,' said the Laksamana. ‘They are all dead. Killed by my men who are standing watch around the palace.'

‘In the name of Allah,' cried Mahmud Shah, ‘rising against your ruler is blasphemy! Cursed be your children to the seventh generation – if they ever set foot on Kota Tinggi, let them die vomiting blood!'

The
Laksamana
moved closer and stuck his
kris
into Mahmud Shah's stomach.

‘My children?' he shouted, as he worked the dagger's curves all the way to the Sultan's belly and below. ‘That's for my wife and unborn child that you killed on a whim.'

The last thing Mahmud Shah saw before he died screaming were his intestines, pulled out and smeared with the flesh of
nangka
fruit.

- 29 -

Ah, what a hoot!

The one-hour catamaran journey from the lateritic cliffs of Tanah Merah to the scenic island of Bintan was at best choppy, at worst gut-chundering. The monsoon was blowing on our side and the waves were devouring our stem. I was at the front with three Australians enjoying this unexpected bronco ride in spite of repeated motion sickness checks by the crew, but as far as we were concerned they could charge extra for the roller coaster fun. One of the Aussies was man enough to drink a couple of tinnies without spilling the contents from the can, let alone once they had disappeared down his gullet. Only when we arrived at Bintan and got up unsteadily did we realise that about two dozen rows divided us from the rest of the groggy passengers who had squeezed pell-mell into the back.

But that's in the past
, I think blithely, and the jolly smile on my lips seems summarily ill-placed, as I am confronted with Indonesian passport control who are most certainly not laughing. They are working in threes. The first studies your picture and looks at you, the second stamps your visa, and the last one interrogates you.

‘Born in Athens, Sir?'

‘Yes.' (It's best to be as monosyllabic as possible at borders).

‘And your British passport was issued in
La Paz
?'

‘Yes.' (Don't ask, dear reader, don't ask).

I offer no further explanation and they frown.

‘Where are you staying in Bintan?'

‘Banyan Tree Resort.'

‘Expensive isn't it?'

I shrug my shoulders. I am a guest there.

After what appears to be an interminable interval, the officer stamps my passport with a surly grimace, and I enter Indonesia.

Bintan Island – about the same size and shape as Lesbos in Greece – was one of the main centres of the Johore-Riau sultanate, being considered as an alternative to Singapore until the Dutch moved in. Even its subsequent history is fascinating: it became a centre of Muslim learning and scholars published a grammar of the local language which, for this reason, is considered as the ‘purest' Malay in the whole of the archipelago. Its position has led to a constant flow of Singaporean investment in the north, where a resort section has been cordoned off from the rest of the island. Ironically it was in this part, facing Singapore, that artillery was based during the Konfrontasi; what a difference four decades make. The extent of the island division hits me when my Nissan 4WD stops at a private checkpoint and the security guards use a mirror to check for bombs underneath the car. Once inside the guarded perimeter the luxury surrounding me is unreal. I pass through a magnificent 18-hole golf course, designed by none other than Greg Norman, that can double as a birdwatching site. I catch a glimpse of a yellow bittern before a silver leaf monkey nonchalantly crosses the road and monopolises my attention.

A German girl on work experience is dealing with my passports, my rides, my maps and my visas. She welcomes me with a sweet, fermented ginger-and-lime drink. ‘Until I came here, I hadn't heard anything about Bintan,' she admits. ‘It's the best-kept secret in Asia.'

If the Germans haven't discovered this island, then it is very exclusive, indeed.

‘The clientele is mostly Singaporeans, but somehow we also have a lot of Koreans and quite a few Japanese. Some Russian millionaires, too.'

It is Western Europe's loss,
I think, as I am being driven to my villa in an electric golf-cart. The sun setting over the South China Sea through the palm trees and the tall, thick banyans is spectacular. I nearly swallow my tongue when I see my villa. It is perched on a hill and shaped like an Indonesian longhouse. It is set well apart, so that I can fill my open-air jacuzzi and swim in it naked, scandalising no one but the roosting birds. I could live here forever. I have a four-poster bed with mosquito netting with a spray of orchids spread on my sheets; a DVD player and satellite TV; and a large teak wardrobe with ‘his and hers' kimonos. In the bathroom a tub is chiselled into the marble floor with various shampoos, soaps and conditioners in Laura-Ashley inspired and Thai-manufactured ceramic urns. Packets of tissues, toilet paper, even joss sticks are wrapped in floral, embroidered pouches. I take a shower and ask myself why the soap bar isn't foaming until I realise that it is cellophane-wrapped so tightly, I didn't notice. I dry myself in towels that are large enough to serve as queen-size duvets and speculate whether they have been individually pre-fluffed by an army of maids. (I am not too far off: next morning I count three persons working on my room plus, of course, the gardener). I open the window to catch the last, limpid rays of the sunset and admit to myself that this must be the most honeymoony place I know. No wonder the waiters at the restaurant – one of three tending me – keep asking whether my wife will join me later.

As I lie on the bed, I reflect on a line from the Venezuelan film
Secuestro Express
where a kidnapped well-off woman asks one of her captors: ‘Why me? I volunteer in a hospital for poor children. I'm one of the good guys,' and he answers back promptly: ‘Half of this city is starving and you go about driving a flashy car and you expect that people won't hate you for that?'

Let the pangs commence tomorrow when I venture out.

- 30 -

Deva is a slim, intelligent 23-year-old Sumatran who is so thin that, had he been born in Milan or Paris, he would be making a career on the catwalk. Instead, an accident of birth has determined that he should live on Bintan to make his fortune in the tourist business. He needs to: although his scraggy, undeveloped body still looks that of a teenager's, he has a Javanese wife and two babies to feed in a village outside the resort perimeter. Once we pass the guards, the contrast is immediate; gone are the lush, first-class villas and in come the long, faceless bungalows of Pasar Oleh Oleh, some of them dormitories of the resort's staff.

Deva is driving me to Tanjung Pinang about one-and-half hours down the island; his eight hour day including car hire and petrol costs me 30 quid. I find out later that this is the average income of the locals per month.

Deva's English is passable – did he learn it from school? No, from his brother who works here, I manage to understand.His father sent him to a religious school to study the Qur'an. For three hours a day, they had to speak only Arabic. He tells me this and slaps his thigh.

‘But in hotel, tourist no speak Arabic! Tourist speak English, Japanese, Korean. My brother speak Korean. A lot of money, Korean,' he says laughing with his tongue against his teeth.

It was then we hit our first hole in the road. The road within the resort confines and over to the dormitory village of Pasar Oleh Oleh is excellent; beyond there, it becomes narrower and windier like a god-forsaken country lane in the Scottish Highlands. The landscape changes from thick forest to plantation – pineapple, banana or rubber tree – to scattered bush as we travel south. The only constant in the horizon is the outline of Gunung Bintan, the 1,000-foot high mountain surrounded by primary rainforest. Local companies offer a trek up to the summit, where climbers are rewarded with a 360-degree view all the way to Singapore. Much that I try to imagine the splendour, the state of the tarmac monopolises my attention. Most of the other road users travel on scooters and swerve around the road holes; we don't and as a result, our suspension and bone cartilage take a beating. The occasional motorbike balancing timber in the back pannier also becomes a major obstacle as the surrounding vegetation reduces the visibility. And all this time I am contemplating the alternative. Is this what Singapore would be like, if Raffles had chosen Bintan as his base?

We pass several Chinese factories. Until recently the Chinese had kept a very low profile in Indonesia. During Suharto's 32 years in power, their organisations, schools and language were banned. The great communist purge in that ‘Year of Living Dangerously' resulted in hundreds of thousands of Chinese being murdered: in the sixties almost all communists were Chinese, though certainly the reverse wasn't true. Post-Suharto, there has been a flourishing of Chinese culture but they are still considered as foreigners by the locals.

‘Chinese good in business, no?' Deva says. ‘Many Chinese in Bintan.'

‘How many?'

‘Mmm, sixty per cent,' he replies without thinking. ‘Tanjung Pinang more.'