Of Mangoes And Thunderbolts

I don't really count myself as superstitious although I have been known to have the lucky number of 8 about my person when trying to better the odds.

Nor do I believe in most of the old Cantonese tales associated with food, particularly those that decry the consumption of raw fruit and vegetables in the fear that they may produce 'wind'.

If I recall correctly from boarding school days it was the consumption of cooked cabbage that produced this intestinal malfunction.

The sorry sight of the old mango tree beside the Queenstown MRT therefore had no bearing upon my mood.  One of its boughs, which had once sported eight ripening fruit,  had broken under the weight of the heavy crop and was blocking the drain that it had overhung.

It belongs to the TrueWay Presbyterian church which is on the site but they never seem to crop it.

I was making my final Sunday pilgrimage to the Queenstown Public Library where I have spent many happy hours in the reference section on the second floor.

Quite by chance I happened across Bill Bryson's memoir The Life and Times of the Thunderbolt Kid (click on cover image right).

This is one of the funniest pieces of writing I have read for some time and I had to stifle my sobs of inner laughter to maintain the quite sanctity of the building. Even then the leather sofa on which I sat shook with my mirth.

I know Bryson from his travel writing but his description of his childhood in the 1950's was extemely enjoyable and a pointed commentary of the consumer society of the time.

It somehow seemed fitting that I should end my final library visit  in such a jovial mood, even though I am not one to believe in omens.

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Decrepit Piles and Virgin Soldiers

This morning we awoke to heavy rain; a welcome respite from the irritating and oppressive heat of yesterday which had signalled its coming.

It is day two of a short Xmas holiday break and I have been catching up on some local history in the Queenstown library.

There is very little that is memorable about local Singaporean television. One significant, and possibly the only exception, was a series called Site and Sound, written and narrated by Singaporean Dr Julian Davison. The series traced the history of early Singapore through its architecture - the small bits that remain that is, for this is a country of constant urban renewal.

In the library I discovered two sender volumes by Julian Davison; One for the Road and its sequel An Eastern Port. Being contrary, I chose the latter and thoroughly recommend it.

Dr Julian Davison is the son of an architect and grew up in Singapore and Malaysia. At the age of nine he was sent to school in England, though his family home continued to be in Kuala Lumpur until his father retired in 1979. He completed a doctorate in 1988 based on a study of the headhunting rituals and associated oral literature of the Iban of Sarawak.

It is a book punctuated with anecdotes including snippets about the writer and former seafarer, Joseph Conrad's association with Singapore through his maritime adventures.

The chapter about the former Mitre Hotel and its seediness (it was a decrepit pile by the time we arrived in Singapore in 2006) in its later years is amusing, as is the revelation later in the book that a copy of The Virgin Soldiers by Leslie Thomas is hidden in the archive of the National Library but not made available to the general public.

Thomas's book describes the bawdiness of army life in Singapore at the time of the Malayan Emergency. The communist insurgency in Malaya was anything but funny and posed a serious threat to regional stability, although it did ultimately pave the way for the eventual withdrawal of the British from this part of the world and the independence of Malaysia and Singapore.

Many of the old British army bungalows are still in use and rented out to British and other expatriates who are undertaking 'tours of duty' in the Republic. They are airy buildings with echoes of a lifestyle that is long gone. One can almost imagine the punkah wallah sitting on the outside verandah.

No need for a punkah today; the weather is several degrees cooler with the rains.

A Queenstown Evening

The woman with no teeth was vigorously gumming a bread roll as she walked towards us past the Kings Icecream cart.

At this time of the early evening the baker at the Queenstown MRT discounts his baking, in an attempt to clear the shelves before nightfall.

Early evening is a pleasant time for a stroll, as the fierceness of the tropical sun has largely dissipated and local residents take the cooling air, emerging from the nearby HDB estates.

There are the Indians in their ruby red saris with ornate gold trimming, Malay women walking in groups; their head covered in deference to their religion and bow -egged Chinese bachelors heading to the food hawker stalls for a meal or to wile away the hours talking over a cup of the local three-in-one coffee.

And there was us, making our way back from a quick jaunt to the Queenstown Public Library. We are well served in this regard and the library is well patronised, staying open as it does until nine in the evening.

The air is freshened by a gentle breeze and the smell of fried fish and spices tempts the nostrils. Not even the sound of the passing MRT trains at regular interval intrudes upon the contemplation of another day passing.