Month: April 2018

I am back working in Singapore and living in the area called ‘little India’ Sure enough, it is about as ‘India’ as Singapore can get, but with the added benefit that its pretty clean. Walking down the ‘five foot ways’ that stand outside all of the old shops and protect pedestrians from the monsoonal downpours, I passed stalls selling the ceremonial garlands of flowers that are used as offerings at the Hindu temples. The smell from the blooms are so strong that often the stalls have their own swarm of bees who determinedly try to gather any remaining nectar.

Forget your aftershave?  No problem, just sling one of these around your neck – bees included…

When we lived here around six years ago as a family, we used to troop down to little India to a restaurant called ‘Fatty’s’ at Bencoolen square. It’s the sanitised version of the Chinese street food that you might have had elsewhere in Asia and a little more expensive than you would get at other restaurants in the area but its good food. Damn it’s good food.

S$25, including the beer.  Expensive for street food in Singapore, but well worth it

The clientele who sit outside, in the waning evening heat are usually Caucasian, with the locals all sensibly sitting in the air-conditioned comfort inside. On the occasions when I do sit down alone with a cold beer on a warm evening, I tend to think and when I can, I write.

I remember Peter, my late father in law, telling tales of Singapore street food, cold beer and transvestites, although it has to be said, he denied any detailed knowledge of the latter during the days when he was here on national service with the RAF Regiment at the end of the war. He loved Singapore but like most men of his age couldn’t bring himself to talk about some of his experiences in uniform, but he was here when there were still inmates from Changi prison around who had lost their way and their minds and couldn’t be repatriated to their home countries. That really affected him and he struggled to talk about it. Official statistics say that around 850 POW’s died in Changi, but of course, that doesn’t count the civilians who died or the servicemen who died afterwards as a result of the abuse and neglect they received at the hands of their captors. Of note during that time was the resistance shown by the prisoners to the demand of their captors that they sign a promise not to try and escape. They refused, of course and the resulting incident became known as the Selarang Barracks incident (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Selarang_Barracks_incident). Read it; it will make you very proud and very angry at the same time.

Contrary to American claims, there were British servicemen who took part in the relief of Singapore. After all, we’d lost it… It was British paratroopers who were personally sent by Mountbatten and six of them, senior officers, medics and administrators, who jumped into Singapore to oversee the handover and prevent the slaughter of the prisoners, although the Yanks like to claim it was all down to them :-). These men were traumatised by what they saw; the living skeletons of men who just refused to lay down and die.

Today, it’s the weekend and I am leaving tomorrow for ‘big India’ – to the cities formerly known as Madras and Bombay to be precise, but before I head back to my tiny hotel room to pack, I am having lunch at the Penny Black pub on the banks of the Singapore river. I am no stranger to this particular wateringhole (pun intended) and I am perched, ever so precariously, on a tall stool at the top of the steps leading down to the water.

Don’t lean over too far whatever you do

A hundred and fifty years ago when large merchant ships came into the harbour, the river would have been so full of small ‘bum boats’ (so called because your bum was so close to the water apparently) that you could walk right across the river without getting your feet wet. The buildings that line the river here would have been ‘go downs’ or warehouses for all of the merchants to store their wares. Now, they all are bars and restaurants, some with bubbling fish tanks outside that house some unfortunate aquatic creatures that are destined to be someones dinner.

Bum boats or Twakow moored up at Boat Quay.  The row of buildings on the far left is roughly where the Penny Black now is. Published courtesy of the NAS.

A few years ago during a very convivial lunch at the Penny Black, an old friend who I am going to again refer to here as ‘Eric’ was holding court at his usual table and as he was wont to do, decided to engage some glum looking perfect strangers, sitting at an adjacent table in conversation. The couple, who were quietly minding their own business, looked up in surprise as Eric barked “cheer up, its not like someone has died” “Actually” the lady replied, “my father has and we’re here with his ashes as he never got to come to Singapore when he was alive” Never one to let an awkward situation put him off his stride, Eric walked over to them and introduced himself; offered them both a drink and upon learning that her late father had been in the Royal Navy, promptly bought a glass of port and set it down upon the small wooden box containing the late sailor.

Eric, having been in the Royal Marines and later, the Royal Navy as a commissioned officer regaled them with salty tales of what sailors got up to in Singapore when her Father would have been in the Navy. It turned out that he had always wanted to be buried at sea off Singapore, but that it hadn’t been possible to arrange through the British High Commission here and they were feeling rather sad that they wouldn’t be able to fulfil his last wish. One of the revellers listening into the conversation was actually a ships master and his vessel was moored in the harbour at that time. He said he thought that he might be able to arrange something for the following day and they all teetered back to their beds after promising to meet up at noon.

At the allotted time, Eric, who was just topping up on his alcohol levels from the day before, called up the ships master who sadly confided that he’d taken the rather rash decision of asking the harbour authorities if it would be ok, if they carried out the scattering of the ashes just off the coast and in doing so, had inadvertently unleashed the sudden wrath of the government who threatened to charge him with polluting the waterways and to bar his ship from ever docking in Singapore again. The couple were running late and hadn’t yet shown up for the promised ‘ceremony’ so the panicking drinkers racked their brains trying to think up alternatives. After ordering yet another expensive round of drinks, they decided that they would pay for tickets on one of the many tourist boats that ply the waterway past the pub every few minutes for all and surreptitiously let the ashes trickle slowly into the water, whilst hopefully avoiding the gaze of the other passengers and the crew.

By the time the couple arrived, dressed appropriately for a funeral service, but wholly inappropriately for the tropics, sat down at the table of grinning drinkers and were immediately handed large glasses of port and assailed with the traditional Naval toast for Saturday* “wives and sweethearts” to which the youngest sailor (or in this case, the oldest sailor, Eric) rejoins “may they never meet”

*A few years ago, it was decided that as more women were serving at sea that someone might be upset by this particular toast and it was changed to ‘our families’ No Matelot worth his salt would ever recognise the change, of course and when not in polite company, the original toast continues to be used.

More drinks were ordered and the plan for the afternoon was unveiled. The bereaved couple were obviously a little disappointed to miss out on the expected trip out to a large vessel and the ships master saying a few words as the urn was consigned to the deep, but they became a little more cheery as more rounds of drinks appeared and disappeared. A couple of hours later, the sky looked ominously dark and the winds has whipped up to around 15 to 20 knots. Not bad in a sizeable vessel, but in a bum boat, it could become quite wet and uncomfortable when they turned the corner of the river into the harbour where the statue of the Merlion now stands. The bum boats quickly returned to their moorings and tied up for the rest of the day. “Never mind” said Eric, “we can do it tomorrow” With tears in her eyes, the daughter explained that they were leaving early the next day. Without missing a beat, Eric called the waitress, who was a long time accomplice to his schemes and asked her to bring a tray of port with enough brimming glasses for two each for everyone sitting in the bar at the time.

Eric suggested that the daughter say a few words about her father and his years in the Navy, which she described as ‘the happiest of his life’ and this left quite a few of the listeners with moist eyes. Her husband proposed a toast to the assembled company and thanked them all for taking the time to listen and for their attempts to organise the scattering of the ashes. As can be imagined, Eric had spent the time taken up by the short speeches perfecting the next part of his diabolical plan. He said a goodbye to the old sailor by proposing a ribald toast and called out “bottoms up” as all the glasses were drained. He then dramatically threw his glass into the water, which caused everyone else to do the same. Wobbling carefully down the stone steps to the Singapore River, he removed the lid of the box and with a flourish, upended it.

In the flush of an afternoons drinking and under the now dramatic skies and gusting wind, the former Marine and Naval officer had forgotten all of his basic seamanship skills and had tipped the ashes into the wind. The swirling grey cloud instantly returned to its recent location, the bar table. That table and all of the others of course. Around thirty people blinked the late sailor out of their eyes and joined the uncontrollable laughter that luckily had started with the daughter of her recently airborne father.

And next, onto ‘big” India.