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.