Why It Rains in Singapore

Dec. 22, 2013

Saturday we went to church, so Sunday we went to the forest.

The streets are damp, so it may have rained last night. I know it rains here, because there is a rainforest. Well, a little remaining bit of it, but it’s tall and dark.

It is kept in a nature reserve on Bukit Timah Hill. That’s a good five, maybe six, miles from the hotel, so we took a cab to get there.

It is a pretty steep hill and there are trails for mountain biking, hiking, and vertical jogging. I didn’t see any emergency medical stations, so I guess if something bad happens to you during strenuous exercise, they expect you to roll back down to the bottom of the hill.

The cab let us out at a parking lot. There is a paved road that looks deceptively climbable. Only authorized vehicles are permitted to drive on it. I assume they go up from time to time to pick up the dead.

The forest is beautiful, full of hanging vines, drooping palm leaves, trees with aerial roots, and signs that say don’t feed the monkeys. The birds, insects, and probably monkeys too make a racket. It’s almost like the 17-year locusts, but this is December so they must do this all the time, and they are good at it. I couldn’t hear my tinnitus.

Partway up, we left the main paved road to take the Southview Path, which is cut into the hillside. It has irregular steps built over tree roots and up steep inclines. Every once in a while, someone would pass by us, but for the most part, we had the trail to ourselves.

The only other times I’ve seen anything remotely like this it was a reconstruction inside a glass house in Atlanta or Washington.

According to a sign, only 1 to 5 percent of the sun’s light reaches the forest floor. This close to the Equator, that’s still a lot of light in my book, but it’s pretty shady. We were on a neat, man-made trail, and it was delightfully spooky.

It is also damp. You can smell the leaves decomposing on the forest floor. Some of the leaves don’t make it that far when they fall. There are small trees here that have adapted to catch falling leaves, which get caught in the branches, where they break down to feed the host.

The temperature, the manager of the hotel cafe said, is about 32 the year round in Singapore. That’s 32 Celsius, or about 90 Fahrenheit. I haven’t worn a tie since I checked into the hotel. On this climb, I took my jacket off and slung it over my shoulder to see if my shirt would dry.

No, not while I was climbing those dirt steps. Instead, the parts of the jacket touching my shoulders got wet.

There used to be tigers and leopards here, but they were killed off for sport by the 1930s. There are photos of them, and a specimen (or replica) of one in a diorama at the visitor center.

The climb up the paved road to the summit is 1.2 km.

We came out of the Southview Path and took a breather sitting on a fence rail.

Then we picked up and started to climb some more. What’s this? I see a pavilion ahead. As tired as I am and as sore as my feet are, that has to be the summit. Boy, am I glad we made it. Joanna’s doing fine, of course. It’s Harry who’s dragging ass, stumbling on the steps, leaning on a stick.

But we made it.

Hot damn.

No.

There is a sign by the shelter: Our starting point is 0.7 km downhill. What? not even a thousand meters? Well, we took a detour, which made me feel a little better.

The summit, though, is still about a half a klick up this 20 or 30 percent grade.

No thanks, I’ll put my sorry butt on this bench and dry off. It’s all downhill from here.

After a rest period, I picked up a stray plastic bag and put it into the monkey-proof trash bin to show that I am friend of Singapore. Then Joanna and I started downhill, gravity more or less on our side this time.

I say more or less, because although the force was with us, the grade was so steep that we had to walk flat-footed to keep gravity from pulling us down too energetically.

I saw people from time to time jogging downhill. Now, in my experience, running downhill is the fastest route to a fat lip. I’d fall flat on my face if I tried to do that. Of course, I have fallen down crossing a wet street on occasion, and I was sober at the time.

Anyhow, we made it down to the parking lot. Joanna flagged down a cab and we went to the hawker center on Maxwell Road, near the Buddha Tooth Relic Temple, and not far from the Orchid.

We had the local specialty, called chicken rice, which is just that, served with a savory sauce. The dish is supposed to have been created here by someone from Hainan Province in China.

Hawker centers are giant food courts. The government decided years ago that street vendors were unsightly and possibly hazardous to the public health, so they have been collected into pavilion-like structures that dot the city. You go in and order from here for there and take a table.

The chicken rice place was so popular that the line stretched around the corner. It was pretty good, but I’m not sure it was worth a half-hour wait.

We went to the hotel for a brief rest, where I amused myself by forgetting how to access my office e-mail. I emailed Jeff, who emailed the help desk for me. (I got into the system Monday morning Singapore time--but I am getting ahead of myself, as I often do after crossing too many time zones. I have traveled 13 hours into the future.)

Much later, we stepped out for dinner. We saw lots of Korean places open, but many restaurants were closed on Sunday night, including three French places. We decided to try an Italian place around the corner from the Orchid Hotel.

We had walked past the place a couple of times before, and this time made a note of it and went to the end of the street. OK, Italian it is, and we walked back.

The waiter, maybe the owner, welcomed us in. He said he had seen us in the afternoon walking up the street (on our way back from the hawker center), then again just now.

I may be the only man in Singapore wearing a pony tail. I reminded the guy of someone named Doctor Eno (or maybe Dino) who had been here a few years ago and owned a distinguished race horse. Apparently the Doctor had a pony tail too. Maybe to match his horse.

The Chianti was OK, a bit strong on the tannins, so it had an acidic edge. Joanna’s merlot was strong, but smoother. We had an arugula salad with pears, walnuts, and shavings of cheese, which is always a refreshing combination.

Pasta was those large round sleeves of macaroni, whose name I never remember. It was served in a cream sauce with sausage. We could taste the bits of fennel and rosemary. A little comfort food never hurt anybody.

Joanna got the photo of the day. I actually forgot to snap a shot of a “Do Not Feed the Monkeys” sign. The signs are all over the park. C’mon, how are you not going to give your blackened banana to a big-eared waif who looks like that?

It’s probably one of the cutest threats ever tossed in my direction, but it’s still a threat. The authorities must be serious about it. And if you don’t go along, they may hit you with a stick.  Love to all. But don't feed the monkeys.

Dec. 22

Glad you made it to a hawker center. If I'm not mistaken, the chicken rice at Maxwell Rd. is said to be one of the best. This is a constant debate among Singaporeans: Who makes the best chicken rice? The people there are obsessed with food, which is one reason I like Singapore.

Isn't it funny how people will line up at one stall, while at a nearby stall, serving the same dish, no one is waiting? The rule is to find the longest line as it's probably for the best food. There is little tolerance there for mediocre food.

Just so you know: the Indian food there is also great; many say the best anywhere outside India. If you don't have time during this visit, we'll get some when you return after Bali.

And yes, don't feed those little bastard monkeys. They seem so cute, but they're fucking monsters! I've seen them attack little children stupid enough to wave around cookies and such. And they will bite with little provocation.

I plan to visit the Bata Caves in Kuala Lumpur before I meet up with you. This is a Hindu temple, also loaded with little bastard monkey thieves.

I've encountered Islamic moneys in the Lower Atlas in Morocco and Buddhist monkeys here in Thailand. I expect the Hindu monkeys to be just as seemingly cute and ultimately obnoxious.

Larry