Island hopping

Every weekend in Singapore can be a mini holiday. And as Singapore is more than just the main island, it actually consists of sixty-three islands all together, it is time to explore another one than the one we live on. 

We, our family of five and my visiting parents, take a bumboat out to Pulau Ubin. At the ferry terminal, where we are waiting for some more people to arrive to fill up a boat that seats twelve, Roel nudges me. Shouldn't we have bought our passports? No, I reassure him, Pulau Ubin might be out in the Strait of Johor, it is part of Singapore. Still, just after landing on the island, my mobile bleeps ‘welcome to Malaysia’, and that reflects just how we feel at Pulau Ubin: in a different country. Guidebooks will tell you that Pulau Ubin is where you can go if you want to see what Singapore used to be like years ago, before skyscrapers and shopping malls overtook kampongs and muddy hills.

Straight after alighting from the bumboat it is obvious what people come here to do: cycling. Rows and rows of shops try to let us their two-wheeled wares. The bicycle does seem the nicest and easiest way to navigate the islet, and we Dutch feel right at home. Even though Opa and his grandson watch them with hungry eyes, we decide not too. Apart from the grandparents we have a toddler in tow, and the temperature is soaring well into the thirties. Shall we, anyhow, do it? No. We really shouldn’t.

Oma asks how large this island is, and whether it is the same size as the Dutch wadden-island of Texel. I laugh. The whole of Singapore is not much larger than Texel, and Pulau Ubin measures little over ten kilometres square. After a short walk through a sensory garden we feel hot, flustered, and hungry enough for a Pepper Crab lunch and some cool drinks. In Singapore’s heat energy levels get drained fast, and proper walks, like bicycle tours, are best left for cloudy days. 

We decide to take one of the taxi’s waiting by the jetty to drive us to the Chek Jawa Nature Reserve. It is a mangrove reserve, which worries Oma, as she is not wearing the right shoes for mud tramping, but again, I can comfort her quickly. Pulau Ubin is still Singapore. Singaporeans do not trod mud. The whole reserve is laid out with wooden boardwalks, through both mud flats and sea, perfectly suited for toddlers in buggies, kids on scooters or their flip-flopped grandparents. Distances are short, and there are plenty of nice shelters on the way for rest and much needed hydration. 

There so much to see and admire. Weird mangrove trees with their roots sticking out through the mud, and their seeds, hanging like arrows pointing from branches. Mud skippers. Mud lobsters, or better said their mounds that look like muddy volcanoes. Fiddler crabs with humongous claws. Striped nose halfbeak pointy fish. Snails. Lizards. Birds. Wild boar snuffing up our buggy. A Mock Tudor house on a hill, with a view. And, as this is still Singapore, across the sea oilrigs, an LPG tanker, and plenty of aircraft in the sky. 

So. Singapore Island, Sentosa, and Pulau Ubin done. Only sixty to go.

In my car: U-weeeh!

Driving in Singapore can be a lot of fun. Getting in lane, on time. Zigzagging motorcycles. Zooming taxis. Traffic jams. ERP systems. The U-turn. Finding your way with satnav equipment that does not seem to know its way around any better than you do.

The fun starts when I leave my house. When I exit our little jungle cul-de-sac, I have to turn left onto the main road. Even if, like most of the time, my destination is to my right. Our main road is eight lanes wide, with a unpenetrable barrier down the middle. And no, it is not a motorway. At the first traffic lights that I encounter, I can only go straight, or turn a pointless left into yet another dead end lane.

When I continue down, skirting the large nature reserve that takes up most of central Singapore, if I am lucky and it is after nine thirty in the morning, half way down the road I can make a U-turn. I knew of U-turns before moving to Singapore, off course, but this city has taken the phenomenon to a new level. The U-turn is ubiquitous, even my kids love talking about U-y’s, (pronounced u-wee), where to do it, how to do it, and most importantly, when not to. Because, in Singapore, you can only do it when there is a square blue sign saying you can. Which, in the case of the gap in the barrier halfway down our main road, means you can only do it after nine thirty in the morning.

And there is a reason for this. If I continue on, down the road, and I make my U-turn under the viaduct, I will get stuck in a jam. This jam, which I will have been able to observe with increasing trepidation while I was driving all those miles up the road, I have no means of avoiding. If I am not too unlucky, ten to fifteen minutes later I will find myself again passing my own street, but now in the correct lane. Appointments between eight and nine in the morning? Not a good idea.

The way back home requires no U-turn, but presents its own challenges. Our little drive is a left off the main road, just after you cross the motorway. And when I say just, I mean just. When you arrive, eager to turn left, you need to cut across traffic exiting the motorway. You have about ten meters to do so. And can you really blame motorists for not noticing the give way sign or the dotted lines at the exit? I often find myself stopping, honking, angrily shoving myself through, eyes closed, fingers crossed, hoping for the best. If you don’t make the turn? You will face the aforementioned drive to the U-turn, with a drive all the way back to the next crossing to make yet another U-turn which will allow you to try again in maybe fifteen minutes time. That is, if it is not before nine thirty in the morning…

Chickenwhatsya?

The tropics are full of nasty diseases. Our old condo was in a ‘red alert’ danger zone for dengue, a tropical virus that gives you high fever, rashes, and more worryingly, can drop the platelet count in your blood. It is a dangerous disease, and several people die of it each year in Singapore. This year has been extremely bad, and the government has started a crusade against the tiger mosquito that is responsible. There are campaigns, posters, and in danger zones regular checks whether people don’t leave any puddles or buckets of water unattended. Linde’s four-year-old friend next door had it, in our old place. Off course, it had us worried. Linde, sweet smelling, pink Linde, is a mosquito magnet, her legs spotted so we get frequently asked whether she has chicken pox. We soon decided that the citronella Singaporean parents use on their children wasn’t strong enough, and we slathered DEET, liberally, on her and Jasmijn. Tijm, I boasted, had inherited my genes, and had never had a mosquito bit since we moved to Singapore. 

Life, like mosquitos, attacks in unexpected places. Our new jungly neighbourhood is full of big, stripy tiger mosquitos, but not as full of people, so the risk should, in theory, be low. Then, one day, two weeks ago, we visited a neighbour who was unwell. Although she had all the symptoms, she tested negative for dengue, but we sprayed the girls liberally with DEET anyhow, as, well, you never know.

Now, you don’t know, and later that week Tijm was the one who fell ill. He had a temperature, pain in his legs, and not much later developed a blotchy rash. He could not walk. I hurried him to the hospital, where, Tijm in his sister’s buggy, we ran into the same neighbour. They had just done more blood tests. The doctor told me the same he told her. There are a dozen viruses that can produce symptoms like the one she and Tijm were experiencing, dengue only one of them. Luckily, Tijm tested negative. We were then told all the other viruses were not as dangerous, would not kill Tijm, and as they were viruses had one thing in common: there was no cure. Bed rest, plenty of fluids, and he would be ok in about a week. Based on the symptoms he suspected the chikungunya virus, a virus one whose main symptoms are severe joint pains, and itchy rashes, similar to those of dengue, but much less dangerous.

Two weeks and positive blood tests later, I am not too proud to state that I can now pronounce the name of this disease without breaking my tongue. I can tell you that that weird name means ‘that which bends up’ in Makonde language, and I can also guess why they would name it that. And, I can spell it too, chikungunya, without faltering. After Tijm bounced up from five days of tv and unlimited Ipad, daddy has been stricken, and now I, myself have too. I worry for my girls, my mosquito magnet girls. But Linde scratches her numerous bites indifferently, till they bleed, and, so far, is standing strong.

On the way

After yoga this morning I felt I ought to take a taxi home, as after a week with a child out of school, struck by a disease with an unpronounceable name, I am very much behind with my work. Walking the mile to the bus stop, the subsequent waiting, followed by yet another walk, would take up precious time. Taxi’s in Singapore are cheap and quick, that is, if it doesn’t rain, and you can actually get one. 

It did not rain. 

But I did not get the taxi. 

If I had taken the taxi… 

I would have missed a lovely walk across the Botanic Gardens

 

I would not have passed Adam Food court, and would not have enjoyed the cheeky iced Teh Halia (ginger tea) and yummy Rojak (Chinese spicy salad) I treated myself to

I would not have had the chat with the old lady at the bus stop

I would have missed the friendly hello of the cheerful bus driver

I would not have gotten to observe the Filipina girl playing and joking with her blonde charge in the bus 

I would not have seen the two bright yellow, black masked Oriole’s darting around the trees on the green (a prize if you can spot them in the picture!)

I would not have had a cuddle with Louis, the neighbour’s cat, as the car’s noise would have scared him away from our steps  

Yes, I would have written a thousand more words towards my new book. But hey, if you don’t live, what is there to write about?

Learn through play

The neighbour’s boy hovers around the patio.
‘Can Tijm come out to play?’
‘Sure,’ I nod, and call inside, ‘Tijm, come out, your friend is here to play.’
Tijm pokes his head around the door.
‘No,’ he shakes. ‘I am doing my homework.’
‘I think you have done enough homework,’ I reply, ‘come out, it has stopped raining for a minute.’
‘No, I want to do more homework,’ he yells back.
I walk over, and, after a heated struggle, have to forcibly remove him from behind the computer.

For me, being Dutch, a five year old doing homework at all is freaky enough. Five year olds in the Netherlands learn through play. At least, that is what I think; I have not actually set foot in a Dutch primary since the late eighties. It does not surprise me though, that it is the English department of the Dutch international school issuing homework first. At age five, Tijm loves it. With this kind of homework, what’s not to like? 

The program has to be American. Together we log in, and start reading. Every time Tijm listens to a book, he earns stars. Every time he reads a book himself, he earns more stars. If he records his reading for the teacher, bonus stars. All the questions right on the quiz? Extra super bonus stars. As the stars accumulate, Tijm’s rank climbs. From private to lieutenant-commander, he is now a captain. With stars earned he can buy prizes. To do that, he has to take his rocket, and fly to one of his planets. For thousands of stars he can purchase new planets, in fancy colours. That is, if he saves them, and stops spending. On his first planet Tijm has a room where he can store his star purchases. So far he bought: a cactus that grows cupcakes, a pirate-gorilla-robot, a red desk chair, a furry orange creature, a floating squarish robot, a telescope, and a funny plant with eyes on sockets.

As soon as Tijm gets up, or gets home from school, he rushes to the computer to earn more stars. He reads, reads, and reads. One book a week, the teacher suggested. The first day, together, we polish off level aa, around fifteen books. The next day, when I am not watching, he clears most of level A. Together we record some of his level A reading for the teacher, and I must admit, I am impressed by my five year old, smoothly reading the words in this language that is not his first. When I am away in the afternoon he finishes level B. The next day, together, we try level C, and he struggles. Past tenses, played instead of play, ate instead of eat. I start to explain tenses, past, present, future, and wonder how far ahead we are getting? In his Dutch class they are learning to spell ‘I am’.

At the suggested rate of one book a week, he would have reached C in about a year. But there is no stopping Tijm. And I find myself pondering a question I never thought I would: How can I dissuade my son from doing so much homework?

The tree, the sequel

As mentioned before the biggest problems in our jungle home have not been of the animal kind. Falling branches, spiky leaves, and, most annoyingly, the tiniest of all: funguses. 

After I send home the landlord’s last attempt to free us from our roof-threatening mango tree, it took only two months of gentle reminders, annoyed emails and angry phone calls for them to send reinforcements. Not one, not two, but four Indian blokes turned up this time, professional-looking in their matching green T-shirts and yellow helmets. Having not seen much tree cutting before, I got myself comfortable for the viewing.

The first thing to do with any job, is extensive observation. The four guys stood and stared at our tree for a good ten minutes, taking pictures on their phones from all angles. Then, a heated debate followed. In Tamil, and I assumed it was about the right way to attack the tree, whilst making sure it would not fall on our recently repaired roof. It seemed there was a problem. The manager had to be called. As their English was not much better than my Tamil, it took a while to sort out the muddle. Finally, we cleared it up. They had been told to deal with a fallen tree. Our tree stood tall and lofty. After this was established there was not a problem at all. Tools were brought in. 

First, a rope needed to be attached to the tree. After several throws with a weighted rope, almost breaking the aforementioned recently repaired roof, one of the guys took of his boots, and with an impressive speed he climbed up the trunk, as smoothly as our macaques. The rope fastened, I saw why four people were needed for this job. One busied him with a chainsaw; the others pulled the rope, coaxing the tree in the right direction. Just before the tree came down with a thundering crackle, a crimson sunbird settled in the crown of the tree. In the green leafy mayhem that followed I lost the flash of bright red. The roaring sound of the tree’s trunk was followed seconds later with a loud thunder in the sky. 

So now they are dragging out the remains of the tree in the pouring rain, while I sit typing away under my dry, undamaged roof. But I have work to do too. First, make the wet guys some hot, warming coffee. Then, I have to get a soapy cloth and fight my next battle. The hardest one, against the smallest enemy: the mould. Especially in this supposed dry season, that has proved wetter than any monsoon should be. The de-humidifiers I bought made a great difference, our house no longer smells like a bowl of mushrooms. But we need to stay vigilant. The terrorist black spots keep crouching up, and in, from every corner. I dream up an equally efficient crew to battle those, small as ants, dressed up in matching green T-shirts and yellow helmets, snapping pictures on miniature mobile phones, and calling tiny managers, before bringing out brushes that can sweep up mould from the tiniest of nooks and crannies. Sigh. Well, a girl can dream, right?

Cock-a-jungle-doo

After the first night in our new house, the cock-a-doodle-doo of a distant cockerel woke me. Sleepily, I thought, cool, the neighbours 
have chicken. We should get some too. 

Later, I realised the neighbours had a large dog, an impressive ridgeback, that easily chased monkeys from their modest banana plantation. He would never allow poultry on his turf. I must have dreamt the cockerel. But I heard it again and again, until I realised where it was coming from: the jungle.

A quick google-search told me we were dealing with the Red Junglefowl. Gallus gallus. For the less scientific: wild chicken. Not just runaways, but the real deal. These chickens are the ancestors of our domestic chicken. My stomach growled. Finally, free range chicken! Hormone free as well. We should catch some, so we could not only sleep longer, but enjoy a decent meal in the bargain. The eggs, I mean, off course. Reading on, I saw we could not. Red Junglefowl is on the ‘endangered list’ in Singapore. We would not want to threaten an already struggling chook. 

It was not long before we got to see the fowl in all its glory. First a mother hen, with a trawling family of small, dark chicks. She was not much to look at. A dark, wild brown, white speckled on the breast. The black chicks cheeped behind our fence. They fled into the green when I approached, camera in hand, aiming to at least capture them on film. 

The next day daddy made his appearance, under the trampoline. A gorgeous, large cock, flaunting a tail of long black feathers, a red copper breast and a long neck, crowned with a firm red crest. Haughtily he strutted through the garden, picking around in the dirt. When I approached him he flew flapping over the hedge. Junglefowl are shy birds. They do seem to be getting their strength, and numbers, up. We already spotted some at the school, and at a friend’s house in a suburban neighbourhood. Like their progeny they seem well adapted to life around humans.

He got me inspired though. I started dreaming of owning chicken, and a daily supply of fresh, free-range eggs. The friends I asked about it shook their heads. Surely, that was not allowed in Singapore. Singaporeans like their chicken cleaned, chilled and wrapped in cling-film. Or, better even, on a plate with rice.

The government website told me keeping poultry is actually allowed, as long as you keep them in an enclosed run, so they cannot breed with their wild cousins. Out of fear for bird flu.

My hopes up, I googled on, hoping to find a forum of likeminded, full of tips and places to go to get a run build, get feed, and most importantly, live birds. No such luck. My search finally yielded someone who, four years back, supplied some live chicken. Fifty dollars each. No wonder he went out of business. Then I came across quail. Fifteen dollars each. The guy selling them had no idea where to get a run, but would be happy to show me how to care for them and feed them.

So now I dream, not of cockerels, but of quail. And I lay sleepless, thinking about how to get a run sorted, protecting them from monkeys, snakes, and toddlers. 

(As I could not catch our chooks on film, photo courtesy of Singapore NParks)