Singapore: Leave Your Wrigley’s and Kermit Suit At Home

A rhino stands chewing complacently, looking content as the moonlight glitters off his shiny gray back. He seems barely aware of the three-car tram that has slowed down and the unctuous, pleasant, kind female voice that is sweetly singing the praises of the great black rhinoceros with a blend of an English-Singlish accent. There’s an anachronistic dinosaur, perhaps a second cousin of the stegosaurus, out for a stroll among the luscious vegetation and murky ponds of modern day Singapore. There is a small ditch between the car and the rhino, but nothing that a determined rhino or small child could not jump over should he choose to.

He continues thoughtlessly chewing as the tram ambles on – perhaps grass, perhaps gum, although should any officials in Singapore discover gum in that habitat there would be a nasty five hundred Singaporean dollar penalty upon the poor beast. Singapore, at times, seems unreasonably strict in its laws. The overabundance of mugs, posters and t-shirts in the Nighttime Safari gift shop boasting their stringent rules either signifies their ability to poke fun at themselves, or simply embraces the glaring opportunity to enforce the rules once again, especially to uninformed tourists who might otherwise believe a simple stick of Juicy Fruit to be permitted. Five hundred dollar fine for chewing gum, five hundred dollar fine for skateboarding, three strokes of the cane for illegal entry into Singapore, at least twelve strokes for piracy, at least six strokes if you belong to gang-robbers, exactly eight strokes for pretending to be “Kermit the Frog,” (I’d be utterly indebted if someone could explain this one to me) an undetermined number of strokes for “outrage of modesty,” the list goes on and on.

The rhino is just one of a slew of animals wandering aimlessly around their verdant, leafy habitats late at night. Various kinds of deer, elk, hyenas, birds, hippos, flying squirrels and wolves and can be made out fairly visibly sulking around through the branches and brambles. They are, without a doubt, the most oblivious animals in the world. They look completely uninterested in any human life that comes near them and stay situated, oddly enough, right in the bits of light that are artificially beaconed down upon them perhaps so that the more forthright tourist will not be giving the Singapore Zoo an earful about how they paid twenty dollars to see absolutely nothing but grass, dirt and a whole lot of black.

A woman herds me towards the Live Animal Show, ensuring me that it’s worth seeing the animals perform little entertaining tricks. The animals seem restless that night – the owls swoop down, taunting their trainers and deliberately just missing the longing outstretched glove. A large boa constrictor magically appears below some unsuspecting vistors’ seats. But mostly, the head trainer spends a good portion of time discussing what Singapore likes best: The Rules. Flashes are strictly prohibited in the show, lest someone frighten a screeching falcon or attract a spotlight hungry hyena. This one pivotal rule is repeated every five seconds, as is probably necessary as some fool still persists in blinding both the animals and everyone else around him with his point and shoot Canon skills. In this day and age everyone should know how to disable their flash.

The Singapore airport greets me well after a six-hour flight despite the slightly disquieting sight of guards here and there, ever true to their Ready to Strike motto vigilantly watching passerbyers holding their disturbingly huge machine guns. Changi Airport gleams and Mr. Clean himself would be able to see his great bald head and glittering earring in the floors. The customs station itself is attractive, with sparkling silver rails and fresh, live greenery clambering lawlessly up gates. Fountains flow and the trickle of water aims to relax weary passengers. I sigh in contentment at the customs counter and then look down at my form one last time to ensure I have filled out all required fields. “DEATH TO DRUG TRAFFICKERS” it declares truculently in large bold letters on the left hand side. The customs officer is pleasant and offers me a candy as I wait.

As the hotel shuttle zooms around downtown Singapore towards the hotels I am allowed to take in the fashion and daily bustle. English dominates the street signs and menus, yet when catching a cell phone conversation here and there this is hardly the case. Mandarin, Malay, French and English flood my ears. Everyone seems fairly bilingual. East and west converge in Singapore. It is a European oasis in the middle of Asia, perched on the tip of Malaysia. People stride across the street with an air similar to Manhattanites their direction and purpose clear. Crisply dressed and presentable they are, despite the toasty ninety-degree weather.

We check into the hotel rather slowly which gives us ample time to admire the high ceilings, spread out lobby, shimmering grand piano and clear glass elevators which could be straight out of a certain Roald Dahl children’s book. The hotel staff is slightly less fashionable than the locals I see walking outside. Unaccustomed to the Singlish accent, I have difficulty understanding the woman’s English. I turn around consistently, unsure if she is speaking to me or the unseen man on my right. Her lazy eye constantly gazes off into the distance, and her normal eye dances around joyously, never once looking me in the face, giving me the impression that I am, in fact, speaking to a cartoon character that has just been brained over the head with an anvil. Eventually we collect the keys and, weary from the plane ride, retire up to the room unaccompanied by our luggage which has been absconded with by the bell hop longing for something to do. He appears several minutes later, dragging our luggage, which we could have well handled ourselves, and subtly demanding a tip in his white-gloved hand.

Hotel:

The kind that leaves you chocolates on your pillow.

The rather disturbing news that day: