Far East Files-8. Back On The Rim

I am homeward bound; first on a packed-full 747 from Singapore and then a sleek 777 from Hong Kong to LA.  Along the way we pass over that arbitrary, time-warper of a boundary, the International Date Line.  The IDL allows me to leave Asia at 2 pm and arrive the US at 2:35 pm the same day.  All I know is that splendid Cathay Pacific, an airline that US carriers should emulate, delivers me 12 hours later to La La Land.

I arrive, of course, jet lagged beyond belief and still spaced out from the two Bollywood movies that I indulged in while over the ocean. This is the far edge of the Pacific Rim, a mental frontier where the cultural Asian tide spills into North America stretching from Los Angeles to Vancouver. It signifies the termination of my Far East fling and what a ride it was.

To contemplate the journey and recharge the sleep cells, we head to Venice Beach for the night, a funky California enclave that I have visited sporadically over the decades.  Dinner at oceanside Larry’s offers Western fare and a choice of 20 draft beers.  I chomp down on arugula salad and a cheese burger.  The meal is a hefty wake up call from the delicate dim sum that I devoured a day ago during a Hong Kong lunch.  Duvel from Belgium and an IPA from the LA-based Smog City Brewery supply the elixirs for the trip’s review.  We’re a million miles away from ordering a Chang.

This adventure had some surprises for me.  I found Thailand underwhelming and its natural world either overrun by tourism or filthy from overuse and neglect.  Still, the people were generally friendly and the food was ooooo la la.  I ate at least one curry every day, sometimes three.  The city of Hong Kong and the island nation of Singapore, however, we’re pleasantly amazing.  Those places throttle the Asian verve into high gear.  They are modern, fashionable, prosperous & preposterous, metal & glass hot spots of the Far East.  I could sense their monetary moxie while wandering the busy streets.  I was also amazed at how efficiently these urban centers handle the millions of people that reside there.  It was an impressive display of two 21st. Century Asian societies shaping the global economy and the world’s destiny.  Images from nearly a month in the Far East now flood my mind…

With Larry’s complete, we weave back to the hotel through skateboarding hipsters, scantily clad beach babes and delirious homeless people. One street vender has his sleepy dog lay prone on a pillow, adorns the furry one with pink panties stuffed with dollar bills (hint, hint), and posts a small sign that says, ‘This ain’t no Disneyland’.  Ah, you gotta love dysfunctional Venice.

The sun is setting golden over the Pacific while I gaze west to ponder the East.  It has been a voyage of discovery, one of personal growth and awareness.  I laugh now at my childhood impressions of Asia as delivered to me by the film character, Charlie Chan.  He often quoted Confucius, that Tang Dynasty cheerleader and philosopher, at critical points in his detective movies.  So to end the Far East Files, I choose the eloquent Charlie to close for me.  “Confucius say… Old age, believe me, is a good and pleasant thing. It is true you are gently shouldered off the stage, but then you are given such a comfortable front stall as spectator.”

Far East Files-7. The Only Cowboy In Singapore

I always seek out Irish pubs when abroad.  Of course, it is pleasant to have a fresh pint of Guinness and pass away the day.  But more importantly, I enjoy seeing how these establishments are shaped by their surroundings, far from the influence of the Emerald Isle.  Such is the case with the Dubliner Pub in Singapore.  It is housed in an early 20th century colonial home, originally called the Oxley Mansion. This old Sino-Portuguese house has an interior of stone, brick, wood, copper and marble, materials of choice from an age gone by.  It is a pleasant refuge away from the new Singapore of soulless glass, concrete and metal.

We sit with our good friend Kashyap, who along with his wife Asha, has been so gracious as to open their Singapore home to us for a week.  We look out from the pub’s front porch toward the busy Penang Road.  Directly before us is a bus stop.  There is also a cowboy.

I ponder these strange circumstances.  I am in Singapore, in an Irish pub, looking at a cowboy.  Hmmm.  And this guy is a real cowboy, at least in garb—a big white cowboy hat, a belt with the mandatory oversized buckle, Tony Lama imitation ostrich boots, and a thick chain linking his pocketed wallet to tight fitting jeans.  Kashyap proposes that the wrangler could be from Malaysia, or perhaps the Philippines.  While we ponder his homeland, buses come and go.  The cowboy looks expectantly at each one as they arrive.  Big, red & purple SBS buses arrive.  Tourist buses also pull in and pause.  An Indian workers bus makes an appearance.  But the cowboy still remains.  “Maybe he is waiting for his horse,” quips Hettie.  We all bust up.

I should not be surprised by the appearance of a cowboy in this city.  Singapore is a place of tremendous human diversity.  It is Asia’s melting pot.  Just stroll through its neighborhoods and you will see Chinese, Indians, Malays, Filipinos, Australians, Brits, Indonesians and an ex-pat community representing a league of nations.  In one afternoon I get to watch a cricket practice, eat savory Chinese dumplings, dine on a tasty curry from Chennai, India, and pose in front of Prada in the posh dark of night.  This city is home to everything and everyone.

But back to the only cowboy in Singapore…  The clock hanging on the faded wall at the Dubliner clicks to a new hour.  By the time Bus # 2476 pulls up, our pints are dangerously low.  The cowboy anxiously reads the number and quickly mounts his ride.  In the waning moments of dusk, he finally rides off into the urban sunset.  It is time for another Guinness.  And time to find the next street drama.

Far East Files-6. The Lion City, Old & New

It was way back in the 1300’s when a Sumatran prince named Sang Nila Utama claimed that he saw a lion (singa in the Malay language).  He declared the spot where this vision took place should be called Singapura (pura meaning island) from that day on. Sang must have been ingesting some mind altering substance for there is no evidence that lions ever existed on the island.  There were, however, tigers.  The last one was killed in the 1930s.

Today, Singapore is recognized as an Asian economic tiger along with its go-go counterparts, Hong Kong and Shanghai.  This island/nation has 5 million people residing in an area three and a half times the size of Washington DC.  It ranks 11^th globally in The Economist Magazine’s Quality-of-Life Index.  Singapore’s open business environment has produced one of the highest per-capita gross domestic products (GDP) in the world.

That enormous wealth has transformed this place rapidly in the past 50 years.  That is most evident in the city’s architecture.  Modern monuments of which glass and steel abound.

But tucked away between the towers of concrete and moxie are resilient remnants of Singapore’s past. Shophouses are the best example.  These are two or three stories high buildings that traditionally had a shop on the ground floor for mercantile activity and a residence above.  These can be still seen in Chinatown and along the Singapore River.

The British controlled Singapore for more than a century and their colonial architecture also edures.

Plus, there are many Hindu and Buddhist temples throughout the city.

But I am a lifetime too late to see the Singapore of old, the one I see displayed brilliantly at the National Museum, which held my imagination hostage for a day.  I yearn to see the Singapore of yesteryear, the one of rickshaws, opium dens, and bum boats.  Gone are the days when pirates ruled the seas and wild tigers terrorized the island. The best I can do these days is to gaze at the intricate details of the Lion City’s historic architecture while the throaty roar of a passing Maserati echoes between the concrete canyons of light and chrome.  Perhaps I can blame famed Indian writer Rudyard Kipling for my malcontent.  Kipling, a frequent visitor to Singapore, probably summed up its paradoxical exoticness best when he wrote, I have always felt the menacing darkness of tropical eventides, as I have loved the voices of night-winds through palm or banana leaves, and the song of the tree-frogs.