Singapore: Another Country

We’ve read that the best way to travel to Singapore is by train, for two reasons:  1) by the time you get to airport, wait to board, fly to Singapore, and then get into the city you’ve spent almost as much time as you would have on the train and 2) the train ride is scenic, winding through the jungle at the southern end of the peninsula.  

We chose the train, and board at KL Central, the same station where we catch our commuter train to Subang Jaya where we “live.”  

As the train slowly departs KL, a steward passes through the cars, handing out slices of cake wrapped in cellophane.  Anyone who knows me well knows that I call these “gas station cakes” because I often buy them at Pilot and Speedway.  

This is our only provision for the seven-hour trip.  Apparently, riding the train in Malaysia is a BYOF affair.  (I do learn later that there is a small concession stand in the last car where a few pastries and some sandwiches, including a tuna mixture thinly spread on bread, as well as Malaysian chicken and rice have been laid out, and have been sitting at room temperature for an unknown period of time.) Still sounds like BYOF to me.  

Well, cake will hold us until dinner time, when we’ll be in Singapore.  

We do pass through the jungle, which at times presses in so closely on both sides that we cannot focus on the oldest rainforest on earth (130 million years old, and virtually untouched; even the ice age did not have an effect here, directly on the equator).  

Here we see the traditional Malay houses, small farms, and on two occasions when the train slowed, Bernie saw a monkey and later a large monitor lizard.  

But what we also see are oil palm plantations, rows neatly set, stretching as far as we can see.  We saw some of these plantations from the air and we can only guess that there are hundreds and hundreds of thousands of palm oil palms in Malaysia.  What the ice age couldn’t destroy, man has, in a very short span of time. 

We arrive at Jahor, the last Malaysian town on the peninsula.  This is the train’s final destination.  We pass through Malaysian customs, then on to Singapore immigration, exiting at last to a taxi queue.

 

We have no Singapore currency, so before we can take a taxi, we are directed to a currency exchange “over there,” a vague instruction that we are doomed to in this part of the world, partly because pointing directly at something, apparently anything, is considered rude.  The alternative, is, of course, is to have foreigners wandering around in a post-travel stupor looking for something they’ve not had described and are not sure they will recognize even if they stumble on it.  

Our currency exchange happens to be inside a grocery store, and we and the Australian we found wandering around nearby step up to the counter while nearby two men chop a debatably scented fruit called durian into pieces.  Durian’s smell is so pungent it is often not allowed on the premises of hotels.  Folks either love it or hate it, with some describing it as tasting like vomit-flavored pudding. Despite its omnipresence in Malaysia and other Southeast Asian countries, Bernie and I have studiously avoided it.

Singapore dollars in hand, we return to the taxi queue.  Now, this is not a vaguely designated area with a sign indicating that’s where taxis will pick you up.  It is a little chrome and concrete maze for proper lining up of travelers.  I think it’s the British influence – we’ve always heard that they love to queue.  

There is only one woman in line ahead of us now, other travelers having long departed.  About twenty feet to our right, however, are two women, having a lively and rather loud discussion.  

A taxi approaches.  The woman ahead of us takes a step forward.  The two women on our right, however, see no reason to allow this young woman, who has waited patiently in line, to get the next available taxi.  Not when they can jump out in front of it and wave it down.  

These women are part of an internationally known group of tourists.  They are loud. 
They are rude.  They are pushy.  They think rules are for suckers.  And they are blatant in ignoring rules, common courtesy, and other human beings.  

Of course in any era there are rude people.  And Americans in the fifties and sixties, some of whom thought that having enough money to pay for any good or service entitled them to be rude and run roughshod over people in other countries, earned the title “Ugly Americans.”  The book by that title is still around, I’m sure.  

This new group of tourists tends to be a particular nationality, too.  I will not name them.  Their name came up repeatedly during our travels because many of them are travelling in this part of the world.  Our guide in Cambodia told us what the tour guides at Angkor Wat have named them:  VIP, for Very Impolite People.  The guides dread getting them, and they try to steer other groups away from the areas where these people will be gathering.

Soon the woman in front of us had a cab, and within a few minutes, so did we.  Our cab driver is an expert on foreign affairs, especially American foreign affairs.  He watches Fox News and could give us details (?) of the last presidential campaign that we couldn’t have imagined.  

We’ve loved our conversations with cab drivers in this part of the world.  Truly, some of them are extremely knowledgeable about world affairs.  More about this later.  

After Bernie conceded that yes, indeed, our driver obviously knew more about politics and current events in the U.S. than he did, we learned a little about the entwined history of Malaysia and Singapore:  how the British refused to let Singapore become independent when they relinquished control of colony, how later Singapore formed its own state, and how the citizens were given a choice as to which nation’s citizenship they wished to claim.  

We’d chosen our hotel, the Conrad, because it’s a Hilton.  Hotels in Singapore are not cheap, and rather than try to save $50, we decided to earn the Honors points.  This one is a business traveler’s hotel, basically, not a quaint place on a leafy street.  

Our political expert delivered us to the door and we crossed the wide lobby and approached the registration desk, where we were informed that we would register not there, but “upstairs.” 

Now, we have that dull-wittedness that comes with too many hours of any kind of travel.  We nod and do what we’re told. 

Upstairs turns out to be the Honors lounge, where, as in some other cities we’ve visited, the hotel provides drinks and a buffet of finger food.  We’re tired, dirty, hot, and glad to be in a cool room with somosas on our plate and a glass of wine for Bernie.  

At a table by the window, an American businessman from Long Island, explains to us that the view is unusually obscured today, because palm oil plantation farmers on Sumatra and Java have started fires to clear more land to plant palm oil palms.  The winds have carried all the smog to Singapore and the Malaysian peninsula.  Only happens once a year; had to be the day we chose to visit.

A pretty, smiling young woman approaches with a clipboard, ready to register us.  We give her our information and she tells us that we will have the Presidential Suite.  

Under normal circumstances, we’d have protested that she was wrong, that we had not reserved it; we’d take that regular room we had reserved – sorry, but they’d made a mistake.

But what’s normal about our circumstances right now?  Thousands and thousands of miles from home, arriving in one strange country having just left another strange country, our only contact a young Chinese woman we’re never actually met.  

So we just say, “Alright.”  That’s all.  Privately I’m thinking she really did not mean the Presidential Suite.  This must be just a term that they use for a certain group of rooms, or rooms with a king bed, or whatever.

After trying as many things as I could from the appetizer buffet, including tiny chocolate mousse cups for dessert, we take the elevator down one floor to our room. 

A mirrored hallway leads into a large living room and TV room area.   

To the left, a shorter hall leads to a small kitchen on one side and a powder room on the other, with a full-size dining room at the end.

  Back through the living area, we find the bedroom and bathroom.  The rooms are beautifully appointed, with windows all around giving a view of the harbor.  

Holy cow! They weren’t kidding!  This is the Presidential Suite. 

Singapore is supposed to be a really impressive place, but frankly, I don’t care if I remain in this suite the whole time I’m there.

But Bernie’s already connecting phones to chargers and calling Lin Liu, a good friend of Yiwen’s, who is studying in Singapore. 

Soon the desk calls to tell us she’s in the lobby, and we bring her up to show off our digs.  After introductions and some photos, we leave to see some of Singapore’s night life.

We’re so glad to meet Yiwen’s friend.  She has been a very loyal friend to her, and she’s communicated with us, as well.  She’s a quiet young lady, studying hard and hoping to get into a graduate school in Canada.  We hope she will visit us if she does.

You  may have heard about Singapore’s shiny modernity, its cleanliness, and its strict laws (chewing gum is forbidden by law and carries a stiff fine; it is illegal not to flush a public toilet after using it; possession of drugs in specified amounts carries the death penalty).

Singapore is indeed clean.  We feel very much at home in the area of restaurants and bars circling a huge covered fountain that kept us cool at the equator.  Yes, I know that western countries, including the U.S., have some nasty spots, more than we’d like.  But this is like being in a newly developed upscale area in Atlanta or Chicago.  

Lots of people out.  Young people in the bars; families strolling or eating in the outdoor cafés studding the foot-traffic only square.  They are obviously enjoying themselves, but their behavior is well within acceptable lines.  We enjoy it; we feel safe.

Back at the hotel, we see Lin into a cab and enter our luxurious retreat.  Oh, how I’d love to have time to use these rooms.

That’s not to be, however.  Our train leaves at one the next day, and we see all too little of Singapore before we rush to the station.  As we pass through the city, we see the smog has settled in, dulling the sun, obscuring the view, and leaving an acrid taste of smoke in our mouths.

Central Market

 

My friend, Sharon Hayes, mentioned in a Facebook post that she had a layover in KL a few years ago on the way home from Africa, and had stopped at the Central Market, where she found handcrafted Malaysian goods.

Without her tip, we might have missed this Malaysian gem.  Haggling for a better price has pretty much gone by the wayside here, although you can often get some discount if you ask, or, if you plan to buy more than one of an item, ask “what’s the price for two?” and you’ll get a little price break.

Chinatown was an out-of-control circus.  Central Market is an exciting variety show of batik and lacquer, mother-of-pearl and cinnamon wood, basket work and leather goods, pottery and jewelry.`

Textiles prevail, though:  skirts, sarongs, dresses, scarves, wall hangings – all in a variety of weaves, colors and fabrics.

Beautifully woven rattan handbags catch my eye again and again, but the prices keep me from buying.  Perhaps I should reconsider – next time.

Bernie sips coffee and I make the rounds.  I have to see everything, and I must be the world’s worst tightwad when it comes to buying something for myself.  I’m also wracked by indecision when choosing gifts for others.  I’m probably no fun to shop with.

I don’t buy anything, but I’ll let my impressions settle, and I’ll be back.

While many of the items inside the market are native Malaysian handicrafts, the stalls outside along one side feature more designer fakes.

As we enter the stall area, we pass a restaurant that touts its “world famous fish-head soup.”   A fine delicacy appreciated by many, but not for me, I fear.

Sellers here are gentler and only become aggressive if we pause to look at their wares, unlike the stall men in Chinatown who called out “Madame” incessantly as soon as we were within earshot.

KL, First Time Around

 The KL Tower, World's Sixth Largest

Exotic and cosmopolitan, Old World and New Asia, colonial charm and skyscrapers –this is Kuala Lumpur.  

Islam is the state religion in Malaysia and all ethnic Malays are considered Muslim at birth by the constitution, but Kuala Lumpur’s pluralistic society is one of the main draws for nearly nine million tourists each year.  The city prides itself on religious tolerance.

 The National Mosque, Kuala Lumpur

 

The Methodist Boy’s School, founded in 1897 by missionary Dr. William T. Kensett, is one of the oldest schools in Malaysia.  Its library is said to be the oldest in Malaysia.

Indians have lived in the area at least since the eleventh century.  Malays are native to Malaysia and Malay chiefs hired Chinese workers for tin mines here in the early days of settlement, the 1850’s.

We see all of these, and more, on the train into KL.  Women in the Muslim head scarf are everywhere, but they are just half of the women we see.  We see Indian women, wearing not saris, but the Salwar Kameez, a dress and pants combination.  For the most part we see western clothing (women often wear long skinny pants and a long-sleeved top with a head scarf).  Jeans are less common than at home.

The blond in short shorts and a tank top with the young man in shorts seems to be Australian; possibly they’re on their honeymoon – KL seems to be a favorite vacations spot for Australians.

Hop On, Hop Off Tour

To get a feel for the city, we’ve opted for the Hop-On, Hop-Off Bus, which we pick up just outside the train station at KL Sentral.  

But we want to stop first at the Bird Park, in a beautiful green park that also houses an Orchid Park and a Butterfly Park.  The Bird Park is said to be the largest free-flight, walk-in aviary in the world.  

 A  Soft Gray Parrot

Inside, the birds get very close to visitors.   They seem to have little fear of humans and we get very close to take photos.  There’s a price to pay, however, if you happen to be carrying food.  While one family was taking a photo of the birds, one of the peacocks walked up to their stroller, seized a plastic bag filled with snacks in its beak, and refused to give it back. 

 

Peacocks seem to be everywhere:  on the pathway, in the bushes, on a wall, hiding off to my right. 

 They're Everywhere!

 He Likes It!

We stop at the snack bar, where we decide to try a coconut.  Fresh coconuts are cut open at the top, and you’re provided with a spoon and a straw.  There’s plenty of liquid to drink off before scooping out the coconut meat.  Bernie drinks a fair amount of it; me, just one sip.  It’s not a taste I care for.  I’ll stick with the pineapple juice I ordered.  

Are You Sure You Want All That Coconut?

All the while we’re sitting at the table, we have company.  White birds perch on the table, eager for a treat.  A family sits near us with food and they are dive-bombed by the birds.  They give up and leave.

 Lake and Waterfall

Storks, pelicans, flamingoes, and other water birds crowd the water’s edge in the lake below us.  

We depart this delightful oasis and board the bus again, this time stopping in Chinatown.  

  Name a Designer, We've Got a Bag For You

Chinatowns are very similar the world over.  Here, it’s hot and crowded, with hawkers coming at you from all sides.  Even if I wanted one of the thousands of fake Coach, Prada, Gucci, or Dolce and Gabanna bags (and I don’t), I wouldn’t dare stop to look at one.  These men, and they are mostly men, have Ph. D’s in fast-talking tourists.  I look straight ahead; if they talk directly to me, I smile and shake my head, again and again, and keep moving.

We’re hungry.  Easy – we’re in Chinatown, right?  Not quite.  We’ve been weaving in and out of stalls for about an hour.  The temperature is about 96.  Food has been sitting out in the food stalls for quite some time.  And I can’t identify it.  

Sooo, we find a regular restaurant and go inside, where it’s cool.  Regular Chinese fare, then.  Ha! Not on this menu! Margareta pizza and fish and chips.  They’re both frozen, it turns out (at least we know it was cooked while we waited).  And actually, the food is not bad. 

Still, my friend with the Middletown Health Department wouldn’t have been overly pleased.  When I asked if they had a place where I could wash my hands, they let me wash them in the same sink where they wash dishes.

a)       I saw their dish sponges

b)      I have a cold

I am five.  How old are you?

Back on the bus, we are joined by a family from Beijing, who’ve been to Phuket, Thailand. The mom and their little girl are sitting in the seat in front of us.  The little girl looks at her mom and says, “I am five.  How old are you?”  This is delivered in perfect, non-accented American English.  She also sings “I’m a Little Tea Pot.”  

It’s getting close to rush hour and we stay on the bus until we’re back at KL Sentral.  We’re thrilled with the ride through the city.  We pass through little India, through the crowded older business district and then past the gleaming Petronas Towers and the KL Tower.  

Near the old train station, with its minarets and Moorish architecture, is Merdeka (Independence) Square, formerly the cricket green for the exclusive Royal Selangor Club (founded in 1884).  Here, on August 31, 1957, Britain formally relinquished its claim to Malaysia and the Malaysian flag was raised for the first time.

The Royal Selangor Club not only still stands; it remains an exclusive, members-only club housing “sporting facilities” with food and beverage outlets.

We’re glad to see KL Central Station (or KL Sentral Stesion, in Malay).  Back to Subang Jaya on the crowded train.

The Basics

 The Landing, Bathroom #2, Our Bedroom, 3rd Bedroom

Housekeeping

One of the reasons I needed to stay alert the first day here was to familiarize myself with the house and the routine since our hosts were leaving early the next morning.

Though we’ve cared for this family’s cat before, that was another country, another house, and another cat.  

A cardinal rule with us is to care for the family’s home and pets exactly as they asked us to do.  Here, for instance, the trash goes out to the can in the little concrete enclosure built into the wall by the gate every day so we don’t get roaches or ants and it is picked up every couple of days. Zhou-Zhou will show her thoughts about a too-dirty litter box by using another spot for her needs.  Easy-peasy.

Zhou-Zhou getting friendly

Safety and Security

 Our back door/gate.  Quadruple locks.

Our back door is a big steel door with two slide-bolts combined with an inner iron gate with a lock and a padlock.  Our front gate to the courtyard is padlocked and the landlord has told us we should keep it locked even in the daytime, because “not everyone has the same standards.”  

A glimpse of our neighborhood over the courtyard wall

And we live in an “upscale gated community” with a security post at the entrance.  But maybe he's cautious because there are so many workmen around rehabbing some of the apartments into not just nice, but luxurious, living quarters.

Frankly, though, we have seen no evidence that there’s any reason to be concerned about our safety and security here.  I walked the neighborhood at night two nights ago.  Folks were out in their courtyards, and some were also taking walks.  

 On a tree a several houses away

My biggest fear is that one of the monitor lizards is going to jump out in front of me as I walk by some shrubbery and scare the daylights out of me.  

Why, Yes, You Will, Eat American Fast Food Here

McDonald's and I loved every bite

One of the great pleasures of Malaysia, we are told (and we believe), is the food. 

 

Trouble is, we don’t know enough about it to order it.

 

That didn’t bother us much before we got here, because everyone knows that there are Chinese restaurants everywhere, right?  Lots of vegetables, seafood, rice.  And there are – there’s a huge ethnic Chinese population here.  But what if that dish that looks and smells so good has chicken feet as one of its main ingredients?

I did my research and I’ve made a list of some of the top recommended dishes with ingredients we both should like and we’re now carrying that around with us.  We do have a plan to begin eating in nice restaurants where we can try some of the dishes at their best. Then, when we know what we like, a whole new world of food awaits us.

But at dinner time we are often in train stations where only fast food is available (both Malaysian and American) is available.  And when you’re tired and hungry (or you just don’t want to go home and cook), KFC, McDonald’s, and Subway look more than alright.  Oh, and Domino’s is great here.

By the way, a Big Mac in Malaysia tastes just like a Big Mac back home, and it tasted the same in China, too.  And KFC does a much better job with chicken here than they do most often at home – cooked just right.  

 Food Stall in Chinatown

Much tasty food in almost endless variety is available from hawker’s stalls.  Every guide book says it’s safe, and good, and get over your squeamishness.  However, I trust my gut on this (pun intended), and in the first few days that we were here, observed that food was cooked and set out in open stalls in the hot sun for who knew how long?  We weren’t ready for that.

Then we picked up a newspaper with the front page ablaze with “Must We Stomach This?” The main article detailed how Malaysians are all too casual about food contamination, and that, even if they saw rats or cockroaches at the stalls, they tended to continue to patronize the places because the food was tasty and cheap (actually most food here is cheap).  

But the deciding blow came when we read about a student at one of the universities here who died the week before, after eating food from a stall where rat urine had contaminated the food.  The disease is called Rat Urine Fever.  That sealed it for us.

Ok, we might eat something from one of the stalls in the Central Market, where we can watch every step of the preparation, but it’s going to take a while for us to work up to even that.