In the end, Reader, it required a visit.
The voices of nature-lovers had been raised at the Mr. T. T. tables. The
Supertrees were more than light-poles, it was bruited. Cutting-edge technology
from the little red dot was deployed upon them. The towering concrete and steel
champagne flutes were in fact trellises carrying greenery four and five storeys
high that were the hope of natural insulation for housing towers. A skin of
green of such and such thickness, trained over the surface of a housing block,
could keep out this unforgiving, ever-stinging tropical sun and lower the
internal temp by so many degrees. A green skin. It would look the part too.
(Roof-top gardens, both for cooling from the top down and also water catchment,
used for the loos etc., seem to be claimed by the little red dot of Singapore as a
special advance of their very own laboratories.) It did in all honesty need to
be investigated properly. One could not abide the charge of running at the mouth
critically without even a look. Grisly old defenders of the Republic had a
point. Summary judgments served no one's interest. Down with summary judgments.
The planets were luckily all in alignment on the morrow, a blessedly mild and
cloudy day in this hottest month of the year.
The good part of it was, Reader, with the compressed size of this small island, one was in and out, back on more tolerable, almost home turf, within what was little more than an hour and a half. That was foot-slogging from the library, a decent turn of the place, and jumping a bus Russian roulette style on the return. (In the event that the point to date has failed adequately to be made: an excellent public transport system in Singapore. Take your coat and hat — a friendly tip. The aircon can cut the unsuspecting down at the knees.)
Resisting the tourist map once more, the infernal glory-robbing Google, stumbling and bumbling was the preferred mode. The MBS signpost was more than adequate. Head toward the beached light-ship. Ahoy there! The only question was which side of the river or bay? (Artificial from memory the latter.) Never fear. There would be escalators somewhere in the vicinity. Too true in the event.
Bumbling by the Queen Liz Bridge at one point commemorating her coronation was rather fitting at this time of the London Olympics and the Diamond Jubliee. (All those prayers for safe-keeping from primary school not going unheard.) The big church, might be St. Andrews. More accurately, big lawn. The church, like all places of worship the world over, reduced to postage stamp size by the towers.
— "... one of the most beautiful in Singapore... " , the American voice of a guide from the double-decker going by.
At first it looked like a polo field on the opposite side, the ring of impressive Victorian buildings facing suggestive. Perhaps the English played croquette there. The monument to Our Glorious Dead was another odd reminder of the Great War. (Someone said Afghanis herded from here to the Anatolian beaches to fight their co-religionists rebelled and had to be gunned down by the officers. Though that could not have been them buried there.) The Mandarin Oriental must have been five star, one could tell from the motor-entry. From behind on this pass, the Durian building close-up. On the opposite side of the water the Lotus Flower. (These are local monikers.) The latter pair are twinned opposite each other across the water: grotesquerie, or iconic architecture, as you please. An entirely dark-skinned work-gang laying hot bitumen was another reminder of history only a few generations past. But, ahem! this isn't getting us along the road to the south section of the Gardens By The Bay, opened just a few days ago in Singapore and splashed across numerous world newspapers. Well, it's getting us there, slow-coach carriage.
A writer isn't worth his salt unless he walks his talk. So said the senior writer at the Mr. T. T. tables the night previous. Well, this may not be the highlands of Kalimantan, Mr. Nameless So-and-so, but never-you-mind about that. Due diligence was duly done.
Not much to say about the gardens that wasn't said previously. Ordered. Tidy. Patterned. Perhaps too much of a Hollywood make-over one may have said had one wanted to carp. Commissioned factory art-work in the water-ways, in the rock gardens, along the pathways — no doubt hidden educatively within the greenery for treasure hunters with a stronger constitution. Spots of colour everywhere in signage, advertising, notices, prompts that might have out-shone the less evocative powers of dowdy old mother Nat.
The green, ecological spin-offs? The specialists will judge better. Might it have replaced what percentage of natural forest and jungle could one hazard? Does it bear thinking about?
The OCBC (a local bank) Skywalk seemed less than enticing, especially since one knew well-heeled swimmers were getting ten times as big a treat in the neighbouring Skypool of the Marina Bay Sands Integrated Resort. Had the chaps up there wanted they could easily have pissed on the poor unfortunates forlornly hanging on the rails of the lower deck of the Supertree Skywalk. (Someone, a chap from a neighbouring country, or at least one in the region, in town to learn about the spectacular success of Singaporean urban planning and design, a mayor of Taipei, or a former mayor it might have been, made the point that the casino only composed 3% or 5% of the MBS. The remainder was art, culture and less fraught entertainment. The signs showed the way to theatres, conference halls, galleries and the hotel itself of course. Perhaps no need to fret about the perils of gaming given the countervailing. Money is money after all. Why allow the Chinese cabal in Singapore to get away with it unchallenged?)
What else? The heat. A downpour three hours previous didn't matter a rat's. Totally drenched by the end of it. (A cab would have fixed that, granted. There must have been a helipad on the river for the rollers too.) En route a porky chap on a motor-cycle stopped at lights, a postie, was asked for the best access point. Flyovers went one way and another. Under-roads. Water obstacles. Chap had never heard of the Gardens. Stands to reason on what he earns. The plum-purple light poles afixed to a Supertree could be made out across the lanes of traffic. Poor postie pitied the foot-slogger with the seven or eight hundred metres in front of him. (Might have been a full kilometre given the up and down.) Coming from the city side nature-lovers were funnelled across a bridge that passed through the casino. On a casual viewing moving at a fair clip, it was not possible to see the roulette wheels. Canny planners, you had to hand it to them, tying in nature and games of chance. Darwin’s Wheel of Fortune. A drink downstairs after the nature-duty in the heat seemed a fair lure. A good number of unhappy chappies trailed wives with cameras in the Gardens. One of the latter was heard berating the former, poor man fetching into his mid seventies: — I'll come alone next time! Little battery operated hand-held fans in yellows and greens were totted along the curly paths by a number of folk. There may have been a stall within the greenery that was missed.
The fridges housing the exotica of climes north and south where humans had clustered in times past — one was named Cloud Forest and the other Cuckoo Cavern from memory, something like that: an authorial confession: there was a marked line drawn right there faithful and honoured Reader. They wanted $20 or $25 for that privilege. (The Skywalk was $5. Opposite the MBS Skypool was either $20 or $25 — that is a definite. This for a walk around the perimeter fence watching the lucky swimmers and snorkelers and the bikini babes. To dip your toes in the wet started at $525 for a single-bed suite facing away from the water. Something like that. It might have been $450 off-season. Though of course it’s always summer in S’pore, so that might not be right. Anyhow. The thousand year olive that featured in the promotion certainly appealed to a fellow with the Mediterranean in his blood. Even better to have seen them crane it in a few weeks ago before they lowered the fridge roof — too late for that now. In either Cuckoo Land or the Cloud there was a spectacular 60 foot waterfall that looked great in the pictures. That was the one the Straits Times reported as the jaw-dropper, causing the VIP crowd to go — all together — WOW!... Now with YouTube in the offing probably as we speak, for nicks, you need to weight it up. There were enough cameramen even in the hour yours truly traipsed through. The fridges are always there waiting for a change of heart. Sighting the casino, if not the roulette wheel itself, has certainly set the heart racing for a flutter of some kind before one is done here on the equator in Singapore. (The most Liveable and at the same time Economically Advanced/Secure Country on the globe, by a recent measure devised by one of the think-tanks/tourist agencies here that were unhappy with the criteria of other skewed assessments.)
Were there no consequences for the human species, for civilization, it would not be so bad. As mentioned, currently there are dozens, upon dozens, upon scores of civic luminaries from a hundred countries in town learning from the Singapore success story. Getting bright ideas. Family men and women planning for a cut of the action for their own home-towns. A pic in the paper showed Helen Clarke, former N.Z. PM — wasn't there a whisper she actually had some brains? — photographed smiling clutching what looked like a toy koala in front of the iconic MBS, God help us.
The good part of it was, Reader, with the compressed size of this small island, one was in and out, back on more tolerable, almost home turf, within what was little more than an hour and a half. That was foot-slogging from the library, a decent turn of the place, and jumping a bus Russian roulette style on the return. (In the event that the point to date has failed adequately to be made: an excellent public transport system in Singapore. Take your coat and hat — a friendly tip. The aircon can cut the unsuspecting down at the knees.)
Resisting the tourist map once more, the infernal glory-robbing Google, stumbling and bumbling was the preferred mode. The MBS signpost was more than adequate. Head toward the beached light-ship. Ahoy there! The only question was which side of the river or bay? (Artificial from memory the latter.) Never fear. There would be escalators somewhere in the vicinity. Too true in the event.
Bumbling by the Queen Liz Bridge at one point commemorating her coronation was rather fitting at this time of the London Olympics and the Diamond Jubliee. (All those prayers for safe-keeping from primary school not going unheard.) The big church, might be St. Andrews. More accurately, big lawn. The church, like all places of worship the world over, reduced to postage stamp size by the towers.
— "... one of the most beautiful in Singapore... " , the American voice of a guide from the double-decker going by.
At first it looked like a polo field on the opposite side, the ring of impressive Victorian buildings facing suggestive. Perhaps the English played croquette there. The monument to Our Glorious Dead was another odd reminder of the Great War. (Someone said Afghanis herded from here to the Anatolian beaches to fight their co-religionists rebelled and had to be gunned down by the officers. Though that could not have been them buried there.) The Mandarin Oriental must have been five star, one could tell from the motor-entry. From behind on this pass, the Durian building close-up. On the opposite side of the water the Lotus Flower. (These are local monikers.) The latter pair are twinned opposite each other across the water: grotesquerie, or iconic architecture, as you please. An entirely dark-skinned work-gang laying hot bitumen was another reminder of history only a few generations past. But, ahem! this isn't getting us along the road to the south section of the Gardens By The Bay, opened just a few days ago in Singapore and splashed across numerous world newspapers. Well, it's getting us there, slow-coach carriage.
A writer isn't worth his salt unless he walks his talk. So said the senior writer at the Mr. T. T. tables the night previous. Well, this may not be the highlands of Kalimantan, Mr. Nameless So-and-so, but never-you-mind about that. Due diligence was duly done.
Not much to say about the gardens that wasn't said previously. Ordered. Tidy. Patterned. Perhaps too much of a Hollywood make-over one may have said had one wanted to carp. Commissioned factory art-work in the water-ways, in the rock gardens, along the pathways — no doubt hidden educatively within the greenery for treasure hunters with a stronger constitution. Spots of colour everywhere in signage, advertising, notices, prompts that might have out-shone the less evocative powers of dowdy old mother Nat.
The green, ecological spin-offs? The specialists will judge better. Might it have replaced what percentage of natural forest and jungle could one hazard? Does it bear thinking about?
The OCBC (a local bank) Skywalk seemed less than enticing, especially since one knew well-heeled swimmers were getting ten times as big a treat in the neighbouring Skypool of the Marina Bay Sands Integrated Resort. Had the chaps up there wanted they could easily have pissed on the poor unfortunates forlornly hanging on the rails of the lower deck of the Supertree Skywalk. (Someone, a chap from a neighbouring country, or at least one in the region, in town to learn about the spectacular success of Singaporean urban planning and design, a mayor of Taipei, or a former mayor it might have been, made the point that the casino only composed 3% or 5% of the MBS. The remainder was art, culture and less fraught entertainment. The signs showed the way to theatres, conference halls, galleries and the hotel itself of course. Perhaps no need to fret about the perils of gaming given the countervailing. Money is money after all. Why allow the Chinese cabal in Singapore to get away with it unchallenged?)
What else? The heat. A downpour three hours previous didn't matter a rat's. Totally drenched by the end of it. (A cab would have fixed that, granted. There must have been a helipad on the river for the rollers too.) En route a porky chap on a motor-cycle stopped at lights, a postie, was asked for the best access point. Flyovers went one way and another. Under-roads. Water obstacles. Chap had never heard of the Gardens. Stands to reason on what he earns. The plum-purple light poles afixed to a Supertree could be made out across the lanes of traffic. Poor postie pitied the foot-slogger with the seven or eight hundred metres in front of him. (Might have been a full kilometre given the up and down.) Coming from the city side nature-lovers were funnelled across a bridge that passed through the casino. On a casual viewing moving at a fair clip, it was not possible to see the roulette wheels. Canny planners, you had to hand it to them, tying in nature and games of chance. Darwin’s Wheel of Fortune. A drink downstairs after the nature-duty in the heat seemed a fair lure. A good number of unhappy chappies trailed wives with cameras in the Gardens. One of the latter was heard berating the former, poor man fetching into his mid seventies: — I'll come alone next time! Little battery operated hand-held fans in yellows and greens were totted along the curly paths by a number of folk. There may have been a stall within the greenery that was missed.
The fridges housing the exotica of climes north and south where humans had clustered in times past — one was named Cloud Forest and the other Cuckoo Cavern from memory, something like that: an authorial confession: there was a marked line drawn right there faithful and honoured Reader. They wanted $20 or $25 for that privilege. (The Skywalk was $5. Opposite the MBS Skypool was either $20 or $25 — that is a definite. This for a walk around the perimeter fence watching the lucky swimmers and snorkelers and the bikini babes. To dip your toes in the wet started at $525 for a single-bed suite facing away from the water. Something like that. It might have been $450 off-season. Though of course it’s always summer in S’pore, so that might not be right. Anyhow. The thousand year olive that featured in the promotion certainly appealed to a fellow with the Mediterranean in his blood. Even better to have seen them crane it in a few weeks ago before they lowered the fridge roof — too late for that now. In either Cuckoo Land or the Cloud there was a spectacular 60 foot waterfall that looked great in the pictures. That was the one the Straits Times reported as the jaw-dropper, causing the VIP crowd to go — all together — WOW!... Now with YouTube in the offing probably as we speak, for nicks, you need to weight it up. There were enough cameramen even in the hour yours truly traipsed through. The fridges are always there waiting for a change of heart. Sighting the casino, if not the roulette wheel itself, has certainly set the heart racing for a flutter of some kind before one is done here on the equator in Singapore. (The most Liveable and at the same time Economically Advanced/Secure Country on the globe, by a recent measure devised by one of the think-tanks/tourist agencies here that were unhappy with the criteria of other skewed assessments.)
Were there no consequences for the human species, for civilization, it would not be so bad. As mentioned, currently there are dozens, upon dozens, upon scores of civic luminaries from a hundred countries in town learning from the Singapore success story. Getting bright ideas. Family men and women planning for a cut of the action for their own home-towns. A pic in the paper showed Helen Clarke, former N.Z. PM — wasn't there a whisper she actually had some brains? — photographed smiling clutching what looked like a toy koala in front of the iconic MBS, God help us.
.
At last. Our Joo Chiat based (should that be biased?) blogger has taken some advice. He was walked the talk. Now his task is to ask.
ReplyDeleteIIs it all that hard to let the dear reader (all ten?) know more precisely how much it costs to stay in the hotels he disdains. Newsflash: google can help.
Our blogger is adept at the art of painting with a brush that would make Huck Finn proud: surmising, assuming, leaving the detail up to those actually white washing the fence.
take an example. Might the British (as suggested) have played croquette on the lawns near the dwarfed church? I doubt there were many boulangers baking for Mr. S. Raffles and co.
I'd like to add etc. etc. but a good friend suggested I read George Orwell's 1946 essay on Politics and the English Language (he - the friend - actually called it langage in his email which supports Orwell's point.) So, I shall - unlike our blogger - refrain from acknowledging that there are many things in the red dot and indeed the world that one will never understand, even if one walks across Kalimantan.