The flight from the island of Phuket was bloody hot. The rule of thumb is the temperature drops three degrees F for every thousand feet. So at 7,000 it is 21 degrees cooler than at sea level. But if you start at 110 and 90 percent humidity the 21 degrees still leaves you sweating like a pig. The first part of the hop was along the narrowing of the Malay Peninsula. Then, I flew right down the middle of the peninsula, and it was bloody hot. On the way, I could see the capital of Malaysia off to the right, Kuala Lumpur. The only thing I know about it is Ali fought there, and it was an amazing fight. Luckily, the flight was only two hours in the air. Still, by the time I made it to Singapore, I was soaked with sweat.
Singapore is an island at the end of the Malay Peninsula that the British grabbed and set up as a naval base. Because it sits right on the best travel routes to and from Asia, it quickly became strategically important both militarily and for trade. As such, it grew into a major trading port. After the British Empire collapsed, Singapore became independent, and rich. 50,000 ships a year go by Singapore and through the straits of Malacca, one quarter of the world’s oil. Culturally, it is a mix of Indians, Malays, Indonesians and a motley crew of others. Oh, and Chinese, of course, if there is money to be made, you’ll find Chinese. This weird mix of cultures and religions gives Singapore a taste all its own. And I wanted to sample it.
I took a cab downtown after seeing to the Corsair. Getting out of the cab was another culture shock, not like Bombay, but because of the diversity of people, all against a very modern backdrop. I was standing there, looking lost I’m sure, when a fellow in a business suit, talking on his cell phone, stopped and asked, “Do you need help?” in accented but understandable English.
“Yes, I just arrived and I was looking for the Amoy Street Food Market.”
“Follow me,” he said, set off at a brisk walk, and resumed his conversation. I followed dodging the masses of people, not really any worse than New York I suppose. He turned a corner and said, “Here it is. What are you having?”
“I read that the char kway teow is good,” I told him.
“Yes, try the nasi lemak or the soup tulang. They are both excellent.” He nodded and went on his way. What other metropolis would a complete stranger stop to help a stupid tourist like that?
As I wandered among the food stalls, several people offered to help and expressed opinions on what is the ‘best’ dish, all different of course. I had run into the Singaporeans passion for food, talking about it and eating it.
Soup tulang turns out to be not a soup, but mutton bones long simmered. They are served with a disposable glove and a straw. You gnaw the meat off the bones, then use the straw to suck the marrow from the bones. And despite your reaction, it really is good. Nasi Lemak is rice cooked in coconut milk topped with cucumber, fried anchovies, fried egg, chicken, peanuts and a fiery chili paste, very much a Thai recipe. I drank two bottles of beer to cut the burn from that bowl. The char kway teow which I had specifically come to try, was rice noodles, fried with scrambled eggs, fish cake and cockles topped with lime juice to cut the oil.
I know that those sound like impossible combinations, but they all worked. I was stuffed by the time I finished lunch, having eaten way more than I should I wondered if I was going to be overweight for the flight the next day.
I was too fat and happy to do much walking so I hailed a cab and had him takes me to the Raffles Hotel, icon of Singapore. Images of British lords sipping gin tonics as the natives toil to make them rich, fans desultorily spinning to keep away the bugs, all flashed through my mind. The other image was of allied pilots strafing the hotel which the Japanese used as their headquarters. There’s a story that the pilot John Magee Jr., who wrote High Flight strafed the Raffles, though it is doubtful since he apparently served as a pilot in Britain, but maybe… Talk to a pilot about this poem and he’ll get this look, how did he know exactly what I feel when I fly? And every pilot has that same look.
You know High Flight:
Oh! I have slipped the surly bonds of Earth
And danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings,
Sunward I've climbed, and joined the tumbling mirth
Of sun-split clouds - and done a hundred things
You have not dreamed of - wheeled and soared and swung
High in the sunlit silence. Hov'ring there,
I've chased the shouting wind along, and flung
My eager craft through footless halls of air.
Up, up the long, delirious burning blue
I've topped the wind-swept heights with easy grace
Where never lark, or even eagle flew.
And, while silent, lifting mind I've trod
The high untrespassed sanctity of space,
Put out my hand, and touched the face of God.
The Raffles is also the birthplace of the Singapore Sling. Twenty bucks later, one drink, I realized I didn’t like a Singapore Sling and switched to Gin and Tonics.
That was about that for Singapore. Combine too much food, alcohol, heat, and humidity and I was done in by two in the afternoon. A cab took me back to the airport hotel. I climbed in the bath to wash away the grit and sweat and fell asleep.
I woke at four in the morning completely awake and hungry. 'How could I be hungry after yesterday?' I wondered. No point in waiting so I dressed and took a cab over to the airport. I grabbed breakfast in the snack bar for pilots and was off at daybreak, before the day became too bleeding hot. As I ascended the sun rose over the horizon until I was bathed in the golden light of morning. It was magical moment, the kind that Magee was writing about, that only fliers will ever know.
I turned dead southeast and flew down the Strait of Karimata to Bali. One interesting thing happened while on this hop. I saw the GPS turn from indicating N to S. The numbers gradually began getting larger as I flew away from zero.
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Copyright Rod O'Steele © 2008, 2012