Singapore - high rise pearl of the orient
3rd October 2005

Is this SE Asia?
Organisation can be frustrating
Doing the sights
Paradise postponed
Back to business

Out of the frying pan, into the cooler

We thought that the Philippines would give us a taste of SE Asia and prepare us for what was coming up. Then we flew into Singapore ........

Manila airport authorities are a tad more anal than others we have rubbed up against. They were not happy at all that in our hand luggage we had spare parts for the bike. We had been called to the gate for departure and the security guard wanted to part us from our parts, as it were. They were two spark plugs, an oil filter both in their original packaging and a second hand ignition coil. Clearly he thought there was bomb creating potential out of these random parts or they could be fashioned into an effective anti-stewardess weapon. Somehow we were not happy about leaving our stuff to go and fetch the security guard as directed. There was something very shifty about this dude, like he was after a bit of graft. I left Pat guarding the guard, while I rushed off to secure a security guard. Given that we were on a bit of a time limit, I was frustrated by the nonchalant behaviour of the Singapore Airlines staff, seeing none of the urgency of the situation.

When I returned to the security desk complete with security guard, he muttered that the offending items must be removed from our hand luggage, but it was unclear whether we would ever see them again. We were stressed, was this anti-terrorism gone mad. Did they really believe, that an oil filter, voltage regulator and spark plugs was a bomb in kit form. Was the fact that we were in faded bike jackets in a tropical country not evidence enough that we on our way to be reunited with our bike, or was this considered the sort of far-fetched ruse that a terrorist would come up with.

His almost deliberate evasiveness to our questions was irritating. He scolded us on the way to the boarding gate for our stupidity of putting such ambiguous things in our hand luggage. We tried to explain that we only put stuff in the hold that was easily replaceable items, and these spare parts may not be. His evasiveness, was explained; he had not wanted to belittle the other guy concerned in front of him, and had every intention of allowing us to take them with us onto the plane. But had made out to the other guy and they would be put in the hold. Admittedly, just as a precaution he wrapped enough packaging tape around the spares to circumnavigate the globe a couple of times, to save face, I think. Was this our first encounter of Asian etiquette that even if someone is wrong you allow them enough space to save face. I just wish he had let on sooner his intentions and saved us the stress of potentially losing our precious spares.

Singapore is a wonderfully efficient, and courteous country.

It started at the information desk when we’d efficiently cleared customs. Instantly recognising us as the backpacker type didn’t temper the outgoing friendliness and helpfulness of the charming chap whose only wish in life was to make arriving tourists relaxed and happy. “You will be wanting to know how to get to the InnCrowd Backpackers?” he suggested. We affirmed and he briskly dealt out the options available to us on the rapid transit system; routes, best stations to change, ticketing options. So different to England, where the lass had been laconically humorous but not really that helpful.

We dropped down the squeakily clean, silent, smooth escalator into the squeakily clean air-conditioned departure hall for the tube train. The ticket machine was user friendly which made a nice change. When the train arrived, it aligned itself with millimetre accuracy so that the carriage doors were perfectly opposite the matching sliding doors of the station. So it was with minimal climatic change that we passed from platform to spotless compartment. Disappointingly, the interchange station wasn’t air conditioned and we had to wait a whole 3 minutes in the natural environment of Singapore.

I watched as a fellow local traveller of the Metro guilty hid the small water bottle he was drinking from, when the announcement came ‘No drinking or eating is permitted on these carriages, thank-you’ There was something almost, 1984-ish about it. Had the fellow traveller been spied on CCTV camera?

There was something, super-organised and safe about walking the streets of Singapore to our hotel; there was no litter, no graffiti, no dirt. I almost felt that if you did have the hugely unlikely, misfortune to be mugged in Singapore, a CCTV camera would spot the perpetrator, in action and clamps would spring up from the floor and capture him, within seconds of the deed.

All things must pass and as we weren’t prepared to spare the loose change and take an air conditioned taxi to the air conditioned hostel, we had to suffer a stifling walk wearing motorcycle jackets for a whole six blocks. Quite enough to drench me in perspiration. Helen was quite excited to see a piece of litter on the way and we debated whether it might be appropriate to get in touch with the authorities about it. The hostel we’d booked into is in Little India which is a mostly squeakily clean area of low-rise shops cum housing selling all the requisites for the sizeable Indian community; saris, curry powder and religious paraphernalia were in abundance.

It was absolutely true, then, what we’d heard about Singapore; more modern in many respects than any European city, little crime, no litter to speak of and no chewing gum. This was all very hard to believe. There must be some serious problems below the surface that are hidden to the world. There is tolerance of most things except drugs. Seemingly all of this has been achieved in 30 years. Given the seemingly unstoppable downward spiral in some inner cities in Britain, I wonder what the difference will be between Singapore and Britain in the next 30 years.

There’s a bit of an eerie ‘Brave New World’ quality about it all. There is a huge reliance on the people accepting the status quo and not rocking the boat. In all our time there did we come across a single suggestion that there might be a way to cheat the system a little and in order to explain that I have to start the great paperwork saga that was involved in liberating Berthette from the docks.

Look, just follow the rules, will you!

Once again, I’d failed to do my homework and make sure that all t’s were crossed and i’s dotted. (obviously after we had gone to the effort of redirecting the bike to Singapore, Fi told us that she had not shipped to Singapore because she had heard the paperwork was a nightmare. Hey ho.) Getting a vehicle into Singapore is straightforward but needs to be approached with military planning. There are three main areas to consider. Firstly, a vehicle must be issued with an ICP (International Circulation Permit). This has to be issued by the AAS (Automobile Association of Singapore). In order for them to issue this document, one needs to present passport, carnet de passage, registration document, international driving license, and insurance (second hurdle). I presented myself at the AAS with everything but the insurance as, when I’d spoken to them in the morning, they’d told me that they could do a bit of insurance for me. Stupidly, I’d not checked the cost for the insurance before going to see them only to discover that they wanted £40 for two days or £80 for a month that would include Malaysia. I gagged. I knew that in Chinese society maintaining dignity when dealing with authority is essential but I couldn’t stop myself going into Victor Meldrew mode. Fair play to the lass, she offered a couple of options to me; go and pick the bike up at the crack of dawn and tell the customs dudes that I didn’t have time to get into the AAS and they’d probably just give me the nod and let me through or nip over to Malaysia to buy insurance which would cover me for Singapore, too, but for a much lower premium.

Hippy dragged me away to lick my wounds.

When we discovered that I could get to Malaysia and back for a couple of quid and in a matter of a few hours, there was no stopping me. The result was that I got 3 months insurance for under £20 - a twelvefold saving. Thank you for the tip, my little AAS lady. Back with them the next day I had my ICP promptly in my hand and the carnet counter-stamped which, uniquely, is a requirement in Singapore. First and second hurdles leapt in a single morning. We now enter a new complication, the bike is not in Singapore yet, but the AAS lady insisted on stamping an entry stamp on the carnet, and even worse an exit date from Singapore. What if the bike is running late and the bike doesn’t come in on time or perhaps it takes us several days to extract it from customs, so it in fact will be entering after it was supposed to have left. If you see what I mean. Could the woman not see, that importing a bike by boat is not a precise science, there is weather to consider, variables like unloading time and customs. She in her Singaporean organised way, could not allow flexibility into the equation.

I’d found the brief glimpse of Malaysia, Johor Bahru to be precise, quite reassuring. Somehow, having been in Manila and then Singapore, I was expecting a big step down again but, approaching over Singapore Island from the city, I was amazed to see another high rise skyline on the other side of the straits. OK, so it wasn’t quite as clean and perfect as Singapore, but it certainly seemed a lot more upmarket than I’d predicted. Passing the BMW showroom within a few hundred yards of the customs post was reassuring. The taxi driver did rip me off, of course, claiming that his meter wasn’t working. As we agreed on a fee of £1.20 instead of 70p, I decided that it really wasn’t worth arguing as I was in a bit of a hurry. Thus did I do no favours to other tourists passing this way - obviously we must all be suckers.

Meanwhile, there was the final problem to overcome. Singapore, in its Europe-beating way has the whole country covered by a road charging system. OK, its a small country but it is rather impressive all the same. Every vehicle has a little box mounted on it that records if and when it has passed into the central business district or passed under a stage gantry on the expressway. This system is not universally liked by the Singaporeans, I imagine if you will a sleek Ferrari, or your executive Jag, and how the owners are none too impressed by having a rather ugly plastic box on the dashboard to ruin the line of their car’s chic design. The LTA (Land Traffic Authority) manages the payments of these ERP’s and VEP’s (not sure what those two acronyms stand for) and makes sure that one of the IU’s is fitted to every vehicle. The lady at the LTA was adamant that I had to have an IU fitted. Basically, it is a cashless way of managing road tax, congestion charges and toll fees, on a ‘smart’ system that can be topped up by cash point credit or visa. I explained that I would be collecting the bike from the docks, staying only one day in Singapore and leaving the next but she was unshakeable.

While she was away from her desk referring to a higher power, I read one of the brochures I’d been handed.
FAQ “I have a foreign vehicle, do I need to have an IU fitted?”
Ans. “A foreign car does not need to have one fitted but may choose to pay a flat rate of 5 dollars per day”

I pointed this out to the charming lady and quick as a flash she pointed out that I wasn’t bringing a car in. Fair cop, but surely this was semantics as the question asked about a vehicle? Nope.
“You have to go and get an IU fitted for 150 dollars (120 refundable) plus 5 dollars per day hire as the road tolls are lower for a motorcycle than a car and so this would save you money.”
“Excuse me, but that means I will pay 5 dollars per day plus road charges plus 30 dollars. How can that be cheaper than a flat 5 dollars per day for a car?”
Logic was falling on deaf ears and so I just paid 10 dollars for an Autopass card, which is used for paying off the road charges, and legged it, thus body swerving the third hurdle.

I got a call to come down to the docks two days after the ship got in. Stupidly (as usual) I’d been hoping to get to my crate on the day the ship hove to. I’d nagged and nagged at the guys at the shipping company, pointing out that I’d only arranged the ICP to last for a couple of days and so urgency was required. I got myself down to the docks within an hour of the call only to be held up at the gate where I had to be issued with a temporary entrance permit. Nearly blew it here. Amongst other stuff, the officer asked me for my international driving license. I still can’t fathom why on earth it was any business of theirs but sure enough she discovered that it was out of date. Flannel time. I presented one of our cards which shows us perched atop Bertha in The Sudan and explained about our round the world mission that has taken us many years and that to renew my IDL, I’d have to go back to Britain. I failed to mention that I’d just been back to Blighty and had been a dawbing idiot, forgetting to renew it. She let it lie. Thanks to some greater power!

Although I’d had difficulty getting my man on the phone all morning as he was extremely busy, he managed to spare an hour with the rest of the chaps in the warehouse to stand around and gaff while I unpacked and assembled. clearly this was why he was busy all morning watching other people doing stuff. I was so chuffed to be reunited with Berthette, all the frustrations cleared from my mind. I even managed to drink most of the terrible tea they made for me. I was doing my best to be diplomatic but I think they now know that yer average Brit isn’t too keen on tea made with Carnation milk. Still, the lads rallied around and lifted at the right moments and within an hour I was ready for the off.

I had the huge wad of paperwork ready for the guys at customs. Were they interested? Not one jot. I was amazed that I had to explain to them how to deal with a carnet. After a bit of gaff about Premiership football, I was out on the highway. It was all too easy. I pulled up next to a policeman in a van and pointed out that I didn’t have an IU fitted as I was a foreigner, could he possibly tell me a route to Little India that didn’t involve any toll charges. What on earth was I thinking of? Pointing out that I was breaking the law (according to the girl at the LTA) Was I suffering temporary insanity with the euphoria of having my bike back? “Take a left down there, get on the CTE and come off the first exit after the tunnel.” “Thank you” This was definitely turning out to be my day. OK, so I got a bit lost but then I recognised the pyramid tops of a group of flats near Little India. No worries.

Stopped at a tyre fitting bay where Bobby, nice boy, happily filled up my tyres with enough air to keep a scuba diver going for a year or two. I let them back down again with the tip of a key and eventually managed to achieve the right pressure. Filled up with a bit of petrol. Everything was right with the world. Back at the hostel I parked up and made to put the lock on ............ bugger, what did I do with those keys. OK, so the day was not perfect after all. Losing that bunch of keys leaves us with only one for the petrol tank and one for the wire lock. The first we can get cut but the second could prove to be a problem.

So, is that all we did in Singapore in 9 days?

Well, obviously, Singapore is a budget geek’s paradise. There’s a seven storey tower of electrical shops called Sin Lim Square. Therein is everything from the latest cameras to motherboards. If it runs on low voltage, they have it. No washing machines, vacuum cleaners or other women’s paraphernalia here. The air handling units struggled to clear testosterone out of the air as we sad blokes drifted around slack-jawed coveting all the glittering things. There were even stores full of software. Every single one of them had Norton Systemworks for PCs but not a single one had a version for Macs. As this was all I actually wanted, this gleaming tower that purports to sell everything you could want was found wanting. Poor Helen had to suffer visiting nearly every shop on the quest. To her I can only apologise but stress that it isn’t my fault, I was badly let down.

Recompense was called for. I’d had my geek fix, Helen should have her hippy moment. And so seeking for further amusement we paid and went into the Botanical Garden. Singapore is justly famous for its orchid garden and Hippy is an acknowledged orchid geek - if one can be such without knowing latin names and stuff. I confess I was as bored after 10 varieties as Hips was after 10 different electronics emporiums but I reckon I was rather more even tempered about it.
Come on, at least in the orchid garden there were place to sit and chill and watch out for lizards. Sorry, 100 gadget shops leave me completely cold, just a lot of pretend chrome and buttons that I have no idea what they do.

Pat also knew that I needed some heavy duty cheering up. The night before I had also had a rather miserable night in the hostel. The previous two nights a group of 7 Irish girls had kept us awake with drunken natter. But it was all to turn rather nasty. On the night in question the girls came in noisily at about 4 am only to then giggle and natter, and then to top it all, started shining torches in an attempt to sort out charging their mobile phones. My hope was that if they sorted their phone out quickly, then maybe they would go to sleep quicker. I was on the verge of offering the socket next to me, when Pat reacted with ‘Hey, kids, can’t you manage for just one night without your mobile phone!’ - which was understandable but none-the-less confrontational and condescending. I deterred him from saying any more, but the damage was done. The main perpetrator, then launched into tirade of ‘...king bastard this and that’ ‘I’ve been kept awake too by all those ...king snorers etc, and how important it was that ‘er ma could phone her if she wanted to.’ This went on for about 10 minutes and the girls eventually ‘settled’ into bed. For the two opposite me to drunkenly, whispered and giggled conspiratorially bitchy comments about us both for the rest of the night through past dawn. In fairness it was one making all the comments and the other merely agreeing with the occasional, ‘They can hear us you know’.

I lay awake, trying to make my brain ignore the comments, and unable to stop their hurtful words getting to me. Something about it made the decades crumble away, and I was back in secondary school with the bullies sniggering, whispering cruel words behind me, deliberately loud enough to hear. I was angry with Pat that he could not just let things lie, that in these situations he knows he antagonises, but feels it is helpful to tell childish people, how childish they’re being - and had unwittingly, provided them with the ammunition to taunt me. I was angry at myself, I knew I should not let it get to me, I am 38 years old, it is over 20 years ago. I knew there was no real rational to pick on me, as there had been none really when I was at school. But bullies require no reason.

I abandoned the idea of sleep at eight, by then on a mutual trip to the loo we reached a truce with the nicer of the two girls and the whispering ceased. But I was too upset to sleep, I just wanted to cry, and in fact silently wept into my blanket. That morning over breakfast, I felt the familiar dread of encountering the chief culprit, that same feeling that I would have paid huge sums of money, to be teleported out of there.

I confess I spent the hours while others were catching up on their sleepless night, trawling the internet for flights home. I was sick of Pat’s sharpness and intolerance (I think it is fair to say that having waited until the third night of being kept awake is reasonably tollerant - in fact a gentle word earlier may have made things better instead of being tollerant and getting more and more wound up) and sick of being bullied. But I think my searches came to naught, because I knew that I unfortunately could not leave myself behind, and I had no home to go to.

In the morning other dormers voiced their sympathies with Pat’s comments and clearly few people had been able to sleep. But somehow I could not break free from that feeling of misery, the incident had resurrected. I knew Pat’s suggestion to see the orchids was his attempt to apologise for his part in the night’s events and to try and break me free of the oppressive cloak surrounding me. I thank him for his efforts. The beauty of nature did manage to make me feel more at one with the world. Will Pat learn diplomacy? The jury is still out on that one.

Yes, I regret my approach to the situation, but purely by chance I had clearly vented spleen on possibly one of the most unpleasant people on the face of the planet. Would it have been any better if I had been diplomatic? Probably not. As Hippy says, though, there is no point in winding up a situation. There is an argument that by staying in backpacker hostels one has to be tollerant of other folk, but there is a counter argument that staying in these places demands a little common courtesy.

China town was a bit of a disappointment. One imagines narrow twisting streets where you can never find the same shop twice. In fact it is a grid of streets of fairly drab frontages; selling all manner of chinese stuff, it’s true, but an awful lot of it is dreadful tat. Curiously there is a splendid Hindu temple in China town, better than any we saw elsewhere in Singapore. The only really Chinesey bit for me were the rather excellent street performers who blended juggling, balancing feats and uni-cycling. Mean buggers that we are, we’re often known to cop a couple of seconds of a street performance and then move on without contributing to their coffers. Here we were spellbound and in an amazing act of rare generosity tossed a whole 60 pence into their pot. Bearing in mind that a full lunch can be had for £1.20, it wasn’t really that paltry. Honest.

Little India is rather more Indian, but still missed the spot for me. The streets are narrower. Cars park rather randomly outside shops full of spices and hindu worship gear. Curry houses abound as do internet cafés. (One must remember that the internet was an Indian invention, or so someone once told me). Even the draconian Singaporean cleanliness laws are stretched a little. I actually saw someone spit in the street. I’d got so caught up in the Singaporean thing that I almost took him by the arm to find a policeman and have him arrested. As we were staying in Little India, we got to experience it around the clock. Curry fumes wafted in at all times of day through the ever open bathroom window. Bangra music and the soundtracks from Bollywood movies serenaded us down the streets.

The Arab quarter is the least akin to its namesake of the three ethnic boroughs. There are a couple of mosques, sure enough, and a couple of cafés with hookah pipes but that’s about your lot. We had our finest lunch in the Arab quarter only to discover as we perused the buffet that all the food was Indonesian. We could have had kebabs and humus from down the road, but as there were no customers we moved on. (this being our usual way of judging unknown restaurants)

We did squeeze in a whizz around the colonial bit, with statues of Raffles and stuff. As with many former colonies, there is a whopping cricket pitch occupying prime development land in the middle of the city. The lord knows how much this little plot is worth. And then there’s the ultra modern bit, with a durian shaped theatre building rather charmingly decorated inside with mobiles, each labelled with the name and form of the child that created it. Oh, and one in the eye for the Americans ‘ the largest fountain in the world.’

Something rotten in the city state of Singapore?

So what is the downside to this amazing three decade tiger economy phenomenon? There was a book that I only just managed to pick up for a moment or two that was about the ‘friendly dictator’ Lee Kuan Yew. In the preface, by his own admission, it was declared that he would crush anyone that disagreed with his philosophy or plans. Hmm.

I can’t knock Singapore on the basis that it seems to produce very little and relies totally on its being a trading hub. Britain doesn’t even trade a great deal other than within the financial institutions. Land there is so scarce that everyone has to live in rather drab (but scrupulously clean, of course) apartment blocks. One man’s drab apartment block is another man’s soulless Barrat estate. Most of the land is owned by the government and flats are bought leasehold. This rather puts the Singapore government in a rather unique planning position, where it can more or less completely control, what, how and where things will be built. Having said that Singapore has the highest per capita home ownership rate in the world. I bet the government would love to get their hands on that cricket pitch, though.

There have been a few ideas put forward and debated in the Singapore parliament that would be considered plain barmy in England. One time it was proposed that people of low intelligence should not be allowed to have children. Hmm.

Every nine days (I’m not sure it’s always exactly nine days spacing) some one is put to death. There is no big hoo-hah in the newspapers about these executions. What can one receive the death sentence for? Narco-traffiking, kidnapping involving weapons or possession of a fire arm. This final category includes possession of bullets, not necessarily with a gun. Hmm.

Spitting in the street, littering, and chewing gum are outlawed. I don’t have a problem with that. Be aware though, would be visitors, that failure to flush a toilet is also a crime. Once again, I think this is a wonderful law, however it does open up one big problem. You know sometimes you leave a floater that just won’t go away? How does this leave you legally?

As I understand it, the ‘national health system’ works as follows:- everyone who is working is required to pay into a personal health fund, this is used up as and when treatment is required. Should the money run out, so does the treatment. A bit tough that one, but the security guard who was explaining it to me seemed unconcerned. He seemed to be of the opinion that it gets rid of the malingerers. I forgot to give him my e-mail address so he could keep me up to date with his opinion if he gets something nasty.

Although there is perfect harmony amongst the various peoples, we witnessed a bit of ethnic witch hunting in Little India. A band of police were trawling for illegals (or so it seemed) and were asking chaps with darker skin to produce their ID’s. Clearly we carried our right to be there genetically imprinted in our skin. We didn’t get the chance to ask anyone about this and so it is just our interpretation of what we saw, but it was all a bit suss.

And so we say farewell to Little Europe

We left via the causeway to Johor Bahru. I’d been through the straightforward formalities before as a foot passenger when I’d gone for the insurance but had seen huge queues of bikes waiting to get processed. I was a bit worried that the lumbering great foreigners would hold everyone up and cause a ruckus. Mercifully there was just a steady trickle of bikes and there was ample space for them to pass while we were faffing at the passport window. There was just the customs to pass through and we’d be on our way to Malaysia. I’d passed the customs checkpoint without knowing it and had to walk back to find a wallah to stamp the carnet. They were most disgruntled that I had not stopped by their office and one of their number had to grumpily leave the building to check the number plate. They were unimpressed with my pleas that there were no signs to tell ignorant foreigners where the customs office is. Whatever. They stamped me through and I realised that I’d wasted two days in Singapore acquiring paperwork that no-one other than those issuing it were in the least bit interested. There had been nowhere to check the credit on my Autopass card at the border. No one at the docks had been in the least bit interested whether I had a Circulation Permit or not. The only person who had checked any papers was the lass issuing me a pass to enter the docks who had only requested my international driving license only to forgive me when it turned out to be out of date. Perhaps the girl at the AAS had been right all along about just picking the bike up from the docks and pleading ignorance.

There is an upside to all the paperwork saga and that is that we are insured for once. Were it as easy (or even possible) and reasonable to buy insurance in all countries, I would feel an awful lot happier. I certainly hope that we can maintain insurance through these countries with mad motorists and random animals.