A Japanese Interlude

The bar exuded the same kind of low slung, laid back charm that characterized the thousands of tiny drinking holes across Tokyo. A smattering of salaried men in suits chugged back draft beer with the determination of those desperately wanting to forget the work day. Several of Tokyo’s trendy youth chatted with the bartender in a shroud of cigarette smoke, the colorful splash of their apparel in stark contrast to the drab grey interior. And of course, since the place had an English menu, there was us and a Caucasian man sitting in the corner – fellow gaijins in a Japanese Bar. It was not any sense of outsider solidarity that eventually drew us into conversation, since most of the Japanese patrons and bartenders knew some degree of English. Rather, it was because the man sitting in the corner was wearing something any Singaporean male would readily recognize – a jacket with proudly sported the Basic Military Training Camp crest.

“Singapore is a brilliant place!” John (not his real name) declares proudly. Thanks to my shock at seeing that BMTC jacket, we had gone off into conversation about the little island that I couldn’t seem to stand, and that he seemed to be madly in love with. John, as it turned out had spent 6 months at NUS law school, and a further pupilage program at a local law firm – both experiences that he hated. The “law crowd” according to him had an alarming amount of anally retentive people who can only get along with others of their kind. And law firms were a whole new arena of asinine competition, this time dancing with office politics in a terrible duo that made university life almost inviting.

John, in addition to generally hating the office culture and competition of Singapore, was gay and fabulous, and hence naturally finds the government (or “garment” as he gleefully corrects me) objectionable. The surprise wasn’t so much that he was gay, but rather that how could someone belonging to such a prejudiced minority still declare that he loved Singapore? In fact John loved Singapore so much that he rued the fact that he was Japan – the very country that I had some romanticized thoughts about living in. Was this guy crazy or just drunk?

After all while it is standard fair to see foreigners praising what a great place Singapore is, these rich, hopelessly isolated people in their Bukit Timah mansions. Sure they talk candidly to the press about how safe Singapore is, how clean the streets are, and the efficient transport system (ironic, since they usually drive around in their BMs). Being courted and wooed hand on foot by the government and local companies as foreign talent, they live in a version of Singapore only accessible by deep pockets and (let’s be honest here) fair skin and blue eyes. But John, relaxing in this smoky pub, spent his Singapore stay hating the work, loving a man in secret thanks to the 377a provisions, hating the service – and yet he still turns around to say that Singapore is a brilliant place.

I do what any Singaporean would do – I try to dissuade him and prove that Singapore really is a terrible place. My usual tirade about the terrible service, the elitism, the government, taxi drivers and singlish all seem unconvincing. In fact he found singlish cute, especially when the Ah Bengs spoke it. Hw even happily waving his long wallet at me as a show of solidarity. So I had to pull out the big guns – particularly referring to how dreadfully boring our little island was; how it lacked vibrancy. “Tanjong Pagar! China Town” John practically squeals, going on into how the place exudes character. He then launches into a slightly disturbingly detailed exposition about all the obscure gay bars around that area. I was amazed and astounded with this man, although just mildly disturbed – his touchy ways were making even my most liberal sensitivities wish to conclude the drinking session as soon as possible.

Later on, walking back to my hostel, I briefly wondered if John was going to stalk me back to my room. But what bore more heavily on my mind was his sincere appreciation for a country that he didn’t belong to, while at the same time, me being a citizen, couldn’t wait to get out of. John, despite being gay and having many of the same gripes any other Singaporeans might have, still managed somehow to enjoy Singapore as a vibrant place

Are we, the residents of the island too myopic to see the little splashes of culture around us? Of course I don’t refer to the valiant attempts by the National Arts Council to “inject” culture into society – that is the kind of crude belief that only a bureaucratic politician could stomach. Instead, places that John recommended Chinatown, Tanjon Pagar and the like all come to mind – are they not in many ways the Singaporean equivalent of places like Harajuku, Shinjuku or Shibuya? They might not be as large or busy, but the essence is the same, each area encapsulates a slice of culture, be it of the gay community or the local arts scene.

These little havens of course will not make Singapore perfect. 377a is still around, office culture is still terrible, living costs are still astronomic. But these are things that are inherent globally in human society – no one country is ever going to stamp out ignorance, stupidity and discrimination. Ultimately John didn’t quite convince me that Singapore was a brilliant place that night, but he did impart an important thing of note. Judge your country fairly – give it a try, over turn some pebbles, and do not simply declare it a failure at the get-go. It may not be perfect, but then again, it is pure wishful thinking that some other country is.