Daily (w)rite

Writing about where you stay often becomes your favorite pastime if you are an expatriate. For me, I lived in Malaysia (Kuala lumpur to be precise) for almost two years, then moved to Singapore for an year and a half, and am now back in Kuala lumpur (KL) again. I cannot claim to know either country in depth, but when has that stopped me (or anyone else) from forming opinions and perceptions?

We like to think we know a place and its people if we stay there for a while, because if we admit we don’t, we feel a little disadvantaged…and er…let’s say disoriented. Maybe “dislocated” is the word I am looking for.

Anyhow. Malaysia and Singapore. Singapore and Malaysia. How do they compare? (I know this will end up as a comparison between KL and Singapore, because I have seen the rest of Malaysia only as a tourist would, through predictable weekends at Penang, Ipoh, Cameron, Cherating, Langkawi, and so on.)

Singapore is often compared with other countries, and most often with Malaysia, because Singapore was earlier a part of Malaysia—-we all know about that sort of feeling don’t we?

Well, here goes, Singapore and Malaysia from the eyes of an expat:

• Singapore is fast and efficient. It took me all of three hours to get connections for broadband, television, cell phone and land-line. It took me more than three weeks in KL for all the same things, and I am not sure I am happy with my broadband speed even now.
• Singapore is easy even if you do not own a car. There are trains and buses and taxis going any possible place you might want to go, at any time of night or day. Ok, only the taxis run at night, but you can hail or call them anytime. In KL, if you do not own a car, you are handicapped. The cabs are few. You could chat with a cab driver in Singapore but a cab driver in KL would keep asking “Sini?” (”Here?” in Malay) at every turn, eager to drop you off. I am not sure how many Malaysians take buses and trains to work. Can’t be that many.
• Singapore has an antiseptic sense of cleanliness. The malls are cleaner than some hospitals I have seen. The roads are cleaner than corridors and toilets of some of the world’s hospitals. The toilets? Well, Singaporean toilets are cleaner than some of the world’s living rooms. Malaysians are a little less maniacal about cleanliness, but they can learn a thing or two from Singapore about toilet hygiene. I hope.
• Malaysia is a place of smiles: the girls collecting toll smile, the security personnel smile, the immigration officers smile, it comes naturally to them. Singaporeans smile too, but their smiles look like they have been reading instruction manuals meant for air-hostesses.
• Singaporeans do everything the way their government instructs them, and the government instructs frequently (even on chewing gums). I have seen neat placards near playgrounds saying: Children Must Play Quietly. Malaysians let their children loose anywhere they go, malls, hospitals, churches. Malaysian parents seem to think screaming in public places is every child’s birthright.
• In Malaysia, people drive like the road belongs to them. In Singapore, they mostly drive like the road belongs to everyone else.
• In Singapore, queues are sacred. You will see queues everywhere, at donut shops in shopping malls, at shops distributing freebies, at taxi stands, cemeteries. Everywhere, in short. In Malaysia, queues are not taken seriously. Period.
• Malaysians love their food, and they don’t care where they get it. You can have some of the most delicious food at roadside hawker stalls. You will find BMWs and Ferraris parked beside humble Proton Wiras outside a stall that is famous for Char kway teow or Asam Laksa. In Singapore, the rich go to fancy restaurants, and the rest go to lesser restaurants and food-courts. People meet over food in Malaysia, in Singapore they meet over shopping.
• When you meet people in Malaysia for the first time (naturally at a place where the food is scrumptious), you are likely to be asked, “What would you like to drink?”. In Singapore, the question would be,”What do you do (for a living)?”
• In Malaysia, expatriates (and their spouses) are not given work permits or permanent resident status despite merit. In money-driven Singapore on the other hand, these things are issued based on ability to contribute to the country, not on race or religion. Sigh, poor me, an expat’s wife. The tough-as-nails Singapore government welcomed me to work and stay with open arms, but in Malaysia, alas, the hospitality and friendliness remains a quality only of its people, not its government.
• In Singapore, my husband did not care if I took a cab at 3 am alone. In Malaysia, he worries if I take one alone at 6 pm. There are rapes, murders and robberies in Malaysia, much like in a lot of other countries. In Singapore, the crime news consists of accounts of shoplifters being caned mercilessly. (Ok, I exaggerated on that one, but you get the picture.)
• The most important thing to remember about both countries: Most Malaysians hate Singaporeans and think they are stuck up and kiasu. All Singaporeans hate Malaysians and think they are lazy.

If I really, really ask myself, I like the relentless efficiency of Singapore, but there is nothing really to love or hate, there is great liking and but mostly, there is indifference.

I love Malaysia’s people, its natural beauty, its food. I hate the slowness, and of course, the corruption.

I am not so sure if I should believe that the “opposite of love is not hate, it is indifference”.

But there you go: I have a love-hate thing going on for Malaysia, but for Singapore, it is indifference.

View of the Bay in Singapore

Houses in Singapore

Concrete and Greenery in Singapore

Singapore is a garden city, not much to see. It is a shopping haven, no more, no less.

But on mornings like this when I can see the sun kiss the ships on the bay, then shine on them bright and glaring, when the bay seems to have been painted by a meticulous artist who has captured the water stroke upon stroke with an untrammeled hand, when a white yacht makes it way across, leaving a streak of milk-white behind it on all that gleaming blue, it is bewitching to look at Singapore in all its glorious hues from my window.

Not through the open window, mind, or I can hear all the cars rushing to and fro on the highway to the airport. Closed, sound-proof, enormous windows are my favorite for a reason.

If I look up at the bright, bright sky, I can see airplanes coming in to land, they glint in the sun, bringing people into Singapore on another new day.

I love also the abundance of greenery, the park on the East coast, where I often go for walks.

But Singapore is not the country of my love.

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When it comes to poetry, I admit I am a little cynical. I write poems, but they are not really things I’d rather put up on a blog.

Rick Mobbs, who is an artist by profession, but a painter and poet at heart has asked me more than once to share with him the fiction I have been writing. Uh, I thought, why not poetry? Maybe go the whole hog and make a complete fool of myself?

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I was at a shopping mall in Singapore yesterday, waiting for my friend at lunch. The open restaurant is by the pool, with a nice smattering of what is called “Western food” here……..everything from Bangers and mash, Caesar salad to Tagliatelle.

As I sat watching people walking into and out of the restaurant without walls, I took to making notes of them. Here is what I wrote:

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As I lean back on my seat, I cannot see much across the maze of legs. But there it is: a peeping toe, looking pale and polished out of a lady’s dirty-pink sandals in soft calf leather. Cannot see much of the feet though, and not much else at all.

I am tired, we had had a long day exploring, looking around, walking. This is a country where we all walk, like so many ants, we walk and walk our way to trains, to buses, to cabs, and even though most of the way we are carried from one place to the other, it sure feels like a lot of walking. But the toe looks like it is not used to the open road, it looks cozy and homey in there and I wonder about the wearer of the shoe.

In Singapore it is very difficult to guess a person’s age, especially if it is a woman you are talking about: some of them look like schoolgirls, but actually have college-going kids, no kidding. And this is the guess you make when you can see the entire person. What if all you can see is a toe across a crowded train?

Must be in her thirties, I guess. Can’t be returning from her office, very few offices in Singapore allow such shoes, in my two weeks here, I have learned to pick out the office goers from the motley crowd of students, housewives, tourists and shoppers. She does not have Caucasian skin, nor an Indian or black mahogany, so maybe a Chinese or Malay Singaporean, not sure.

On the other side, on the corner seat across, there is a young couple asleep in each other’s arms. The girl in huge red sunglasses is leaning into the guy’s chest, sitting on his lap, clutching the hem of his t-shirt. He is in small, really dark blue glasses and since he is facing me directly, I can’t help feeling watched. He has a protective arm around the sleeping girl. But there is something strained about both their postures, which gives me the feeling they are putting on a show, a tableaux of youthful, innocent love.

My eyes slide away from their charade, and quickly check on that toe. Of course, I need to see if more of the owner is visible.

Fingernails are pampered by the women here, and most have tiny, detailed drawings or patterns painstakingly applied in nail salons, where petite girls with beautifully manicured fingers, blond-streaked hair and ever-smiling expressions pore cross-eyed over a foot or a palm.

Men are equally conscious about grooming, and there are many exclusive pedicure spas for men. I have passed by many of them but never quite picked up the courage to step into one. They’d only laugh at my over-trimmed nails.

I know they wouldn’t throw me out just because they don’t like the way my feet look, they like their money. But Singaporeans can convey more disapproval by the barely perceptible rise of one brow than any other race, except perhaps the French or the British, can manage in an entire tirade. Women in particular.

This painted toenail, however, is the sort that would win praises from the girls at the nail salon. It is not old, I don’t think, because I see no ridges. No tell-tale cracks in the paint either or maybe I am making it up, I can’t see the toe well enough to figure out any blemishes.

But that is not for want of trying.

I peer, as discreetly as I possibly can, while I nod away at my partner, whose words I barely catch. Intent on the toe alone, I keep watching. I love women with French pedicures, the neat strips of creamy white on their nails, and that wonderful illusion of a naturally perfect nail created by paint alone.

At the next station new people walk in, some go out. But the toe stays put, its owner still out of sight.

So I look around at the new bunch of people. One of them catches my eye, a tall European, probably a German, given his size and air of formal self-importance, in a striped shirt, formal trousers, and square-toed office shoes. And out of nowhere, I think of him first in casuals, and finally without any clothes at all. This man would act the same, I am so sure, whether in his office trousers, in his shorts on the beach or in bed with his wife: polite, very straight, no slouches, and always full-of-himself: definitely Mr. Stuffy!

From those unpleasant images I skip back to the toe, and my heart skips a beat. No toe! But then I relax, the foot had merely shifted, and is back now. And I can see a bit of the leg. Is she wearing one of those short trousers or a skirt? Again, not sure. Well, I just have to keep an eye and I will know soon enough.

Mr.Stuffy, meanwhile, stands a little apart, and holds the rod for support with a faint air of distaste as if thinking of how vigorously he would have to wash his hands and then scrub in the shower to cleanse himself of the proximity of so many people.

I snort, and my partner looks at me, puzzled. He was trying to tell me something about our new quarters, how it should be airy with a lot of natural light, something I agree with. But in my trance the snort at Mr. Stuffy becomes a snort at my partner, who falls quiet. Instead of speaking up, I let him be, and quickly peek at The Toe. Ah, still there, good.

One station down the way, the couple sleeping in each others arms comes awake. They have missed their stop. Maybe they did actually fall asleep in the end after all!

Of course a lot of hushed conversation in singlish follows, every one turns around to stare at them, and the couple gets off at the next stop. Mr. Stuffy sits down on one of the corner seats they had vacated and pointedly keeps his briefcase on the other, as if daring anyone to sit beside him.

Everyone is listless once more, and I go back to my scrutiny of the toe. My friend is dozing off. The toe is till there, and I almost get up to peek at the owner. Then I hold myself back.  If she doesn’t move before we get off the train, I will get over there and have a look.  I have never liked any part of a woman, but this woman’s feet are driving me nuts for some reason. I am quite burning with curiosity now, and try to turn my head away to hide my eagerness.

Immediately, I fervently wish I hadn’t. Hadn’t turned, that is. Because seated beside Mr. Stuffy, who now looks almost apoplectic, a faint purple tinge on his reddish neck, is the most unnerving sight I have ever seen. Straight from B-grade horror movies or meat-fueled nightmares is a woman, one of her eyes shut permanently close due to a humongous wart.

Each visible square inch of her skin is covered with boils; shiny, squishy, big, pink-beige boils that looked on the verge of bursting at the touch of a feather. Warts between her thinning hair, warts into her sleeve, warts down her aging neck, warts up her wrinkled feet: I pinch myself to check I haven’t dozed off. I find I have not. She is real, not a nightmare. She is nodding off, almost bending towards the Mr. Stuffy. I can almost hear him above the hum-and-swoosh, furiously thinking of a way to get up without brushing against his neighbor.

He does not have to, because at the next stop the lady with the warts gets down, and in that small pause that a metro train allows on each station, I see an astonishingly handsome young man step up to greet her, and even extend his arm for her to lean on. Mr. Stuffy seems relaxed, now that he is quite safely isolated again. But when I turn back, I do not see the toe anymore.

Relax, I tell myself, no one except the lady with the warts got down at the last stop. The toe must have just shifted, and will come back soon enough. It was still quite crowded on the train, and more people were boarding it than were stepping out.

But scan as I might, I do not see the toe again.

Oh, well, it is there, and I will see it soon enough, I tell myself. But I become a little frantic as the next stop approaches. What if she gets down without me ever seeing her?

I get up in order to post myself close to the nearest door. My partner wakes up, startled. “We already there?” he mumbles. “Nope, I am just standing up to stretch my legs. I’ll call you when we get to our stop.” I say, walking off. A girl quickly takes my seat.

I step near the door, keeping my eyes peeled for those dirty-pink sandals, and that toe which has made me curious for no reason. I feel absolutely ridiculous: I am no foot-fetishist. At least I don’t think I am.

But the train comes to a stop, and though I keep a keen eye on every foot that gets down, I see no pink sandals. The compartment is a little emptier now, so I decide to walk along the length of it.  But after a few steps I realize I am attracting a few questioning stares, and go back to leaning against the panel near the door.

The train whooshes on, and I see Mr. Stuffy get down at the next stop and make his way to the escalator. Funny how he shrank at human contact, but had to sit for the length of a few whole minutes next to a woman even the most people-loving person would have a hard time taking to. More remarkable still, the lady with the warts had someone so gorgeous waiting for her. That young man sure cared for her.

Lost in my rambles, I had forgotten about the toe for a while. With a start I now realized that the next stop was ours, and my friend was looking at me, nodding. I nodded back, and tried to locate that toe for one last time.

And that was not a wasted effort. Just as the train halted with a small jerk, I saw the toe.

There was the toe, part of a dainty foot, lovingly cased in those soft pink sandals. And for the first time, I saw the entire person. She was leaning back, the sudden curves on the otherwise hard body relaxed in sleep.

It was not a lady, as I had imagined, but a drag-queen. She could be easily be mistaken for a woman, but was not.

I had heard that Thai drag-queens are respected and accepted, and here was a perfectly groomed, short- skirted example. As I got down, I felt a shudder run through me, a shudder that I told myself was because the station was warmer than the air-conditioned chill inside the train.

But I knew it was not.

As I walked down the station hand-in-hand with my partner, I wondered if he would paint his toenails pink, just to please me.