By Kamal Mamat
I came back to Singapore recently for my end-of-year break and decided to pay former colleagues a visit.
That morning, I woke up and reached for The Straits Times, as always. The front page featured the increased cost of living in Singapore and blamed it on the car and housing prices. Everything else was steady, it asserted. A politician opined that as long as we are not buying a house or a car, we would not be affected much by the increases. Another article provided a summary of the different sex scandals which happened in 2012. With all these carnal pleasures, I wondered why our fertility rates remain stubbornly low.
I got ready and headed to the bus stop. In the lift I heard Korean spoken between a mother and her son. I imagined them dancing to Gangnam Style at my void deck. Reached the bus stop and I waited for bus 132 to bring me to town. 18 minutes past and the bus finally appeared. Another 132 swiftly appeared behind and I decided to hop onto it instead. The driver, all of 25 I guessed, greeted me with a pleasant “ni hao” – “how do you do?” in Chinese. I proffered a hello in return.
The bus journey was uneventful except for the massive traffic jam along the PIE exiting to Stevens Road. I checked my Facebook newsfeed to kill time. On his status update, a friend doubted he could ever afford a brand new car in Singapore. Another friend commented with a LOL abbreviation followed by the Hokkien phrase ‘tan ku ku’. I replied with a sign.
There was a robust debate on the PSLE. Some people said that it should be scrapped. A few others defended it. A bureaucrat friend suggested that it should be constantly assessed for relevance and in the next breath reiterating its usefulness.
I was suddenly reminded of this moment of claustrophobia and hopelessness I felt one afternoon in United Square, standing amidst a sea of uniformed kids coming in and out of the enrichment centres concentrated there. The bus journey took longer than it should. I stifled a yawn.
I reached my office and stopped to have a small chat with the cleaner. He heard from the radio that there was a plan to increase the pay of those earning less than a thousand dollars and looked forward to the extra $50 to augment his $800 salary. He smiled. I offered a weak that-is-good-for-you and walked away with a tinge of shame and guilt.
I met my former colleagues and wasted no time in our updates. A friend wanted to buy a house near her mother’s but could not afford the Cash on Valuation (COV). She decided to buy one in a new development in Punggol instead. That was far from ideal but beggars could not afford to be choosers, we laughed. Executive condominiums could only be a distant dream.
We decided to walk down to the nearby nasi padang stall for lunch. I had fried chicken, braised squid, some vegetables and potato cutlet with my plain rice. The lady at the counter told me that the meal cost $8. I let go an instinctive Wah! and the lady informed me “nowadays everything so expensive, abang”. That same meal would cost me less than $6 a year ago, I made a mental comparison.
In the afternoon, my former colleagues suggested that I followed them to the Marina Bay City Gallery for a recce trip. I accepted the invitation, knowing that I was free for the day. Reaching the Gallery, I was amazed at the vision the Government has for the Marina Bay area. Standing proudly is the Marina Bay Sands (MBS) complex, the new tourist icon.
I know this is because all the new Singapore postcards at Changi Airport feature it prominently. Also, my colleagues back in Jakarta would always make it a point to have a picture taken against the MBS skyline whenever they are here for meetings. How apt, I thought, considering the Singapore Story has always been about economic growth and money. The PM and other politicians always reminded us about this.
At night, we decided to have Thai food in Ngee Ann City. For a Thai restaurant, the service staff was almost entirely Filipino. We laughed at the fact that service would be almost non-existent if the staff was made up of Singaporeans. Food and service were indeed good and we left contented. I made my way home.
Upon reaching my block, I cleared the mailbox. Many junk mails there were, including flyers for 600 square-feet apartments going for $700 000. Another flyer was on an upcoming New Year Party which was organised for the residents. It would be attended by the Grassroots Advisor, who happens to be my MP as well. Last year, he was only an MP, but this year the powers-that-be decided a differentiation was needed. I went up to my flat.
After a quick shower, I went to my 9 year-old’s room. He was fast asleep. I looked at him contemplatively, and gave him a peck on his forehead. I wondered what it would be like for him ten, twenty years down the road in this country I call home. I wondered if I have to make a choice.
Kamal Mamat works at a regional organisation based in Jakarta, Indonesia.