This article highlights my experiences as a five-year-old living in Singapore, though even before then, my life was far from mundane or uneventful...
I was born in the Princess Mary’s RAF Hospital at RAF Akrotiri in Cyprus, late in the evening of 8th September 1965, although a clerical error meant that the following day’s date was entered on all subsequent official documents. This error was even reproduced on my birth certificate. It was many months later that the mistake was noticed, but my parents didn’t make any effort to rectify the mistake. I guess it was down hill from there...
Aged two years old, I was badly scalded when I accidentally sat in a bucket of boiling water. Rushed to hospital, the doctors were concerned that I might not be able to father children. Luckily, I pulled through with no permanent damage. Then I became seriously ill with bronchitis and it was thought that I might not pull through. Shortly after recovering from that illness, I turned blue and was rushed back to the medical centre, where a suspected heart attack was diagnosed. On our return to the UK my medical condition was attributed to me having a Ventricular Septal Defect or hole in the heart. Thankfully over time my heart healed itself, though not before numerous visits to various hospitals and specialists.
I have often thought about those times, not that I can remember any of it, but I do wonder why? Why did I pull through and for what reason – to save humanity from disaster or to work in a factory on minimum wage? I acknowledge that I have done neither.
My dad was an airman who worked in communications. He was like many who served in the Royal Air Force – a small cog in a giant machine. He was neither an officer or aircrew. He was an airman who would rise to the rank of Corporal. Yet, I never thought him as being inferior to anyone. He was my dad. On 26th January 1968 we left Cyprus and moved to RAF Henlow, near Bedford. Accordingly, my first memory in life was of paratroopers jumping out of a Beverley (?) transport aircraft over the grass aerodrome in the late 1960s.
The new decade brought with it pastures new and on 25th May 1970 we found ourselves travelling to Singapore, where my dad had been posted. We lived on the island for over a year, in which we saw more than most. While other parents left their children behind, either with friends or a house keeper, both me and my sister explored the island with our parents. We saw, heard, tasted and smelled a concoction of Singaporean life.
RAF Tengah Infant and Primary School Sports Day
The first few days were spent in a hotel, while our parents looked for a house to rent. But eventually we move onto a modern estate. At the end of our street was a hill made from clay, which cracked and baked in the sun and gave off a wonderful earthy smell. I can’t remember seeing anything from this hill, but there were numerous trees.
Across from our house and down an embankment was a wooded area, in which was located a collection of wooden shacks, including I think a shop (?). Our street was part of an estate of identical streets and houses. Originally, too young to go to school, I played in the garden or we spent the day in the family services’ centre – beside the pool with my mum and sister. I remember a couple of scuba divers practising in the main pool and I was intrigued as to what they were doing. But alas, me and my sister were confined to the kids paddling pool. It would be 28 years (?) before I had a go at scuba diving myself.
enjoying the weather
When old enough to start education, we travelled to school in a white painted Bedford SB3 bus, which was fitted with additional rear doors. The interior whiffed of disinfectant as the vehicle doubled as an ambulance. Our school was located beside the runway of one of the RAF’s airbases on the island. Each morning break we were given half a pint of flavoured milk (either strawberry or chocolate), the taste of which has never been matched or sampled since. My dad was based at RAF Jurong, a ‘hush-hush’ communications base hidden away from preying eyes.
Being a six year old in a class of older children wasn’t a problem, though legend has it that on one occasion I went missing. I was found exploring the adjacent runway – just as a Canberra bomber was coming into land. Luckily someone in the control tower spotted me just in time, and the jet bomber aborted its landing. When not exploring the locale (a regular occurrence, in which my sister was usually dispatched to look for me) I pretended at being a giant crane in the middle of the busy classroom.
I'm the little chap standing next to the teacher!
Fact: all [RAF] firemen are vicious, evil bastards. Imagine the scene: You’re six years old and it’s your first ever school trip – alone and without your parents. After a short bus ride, you end up on an airfield, where you visit the fire section or fire station. Unsure of your surroundings, you become a bit weary. The bright red fire engines are interesting, but not the space monster, who suddenly bursts through a side door. Dressed in a silver fireproof suit, the wearer instils a sense of excitement among the older children, but not in you. Because you are only six and are slightly apprehensive (scared witless) you start to cry.
The firemen, ignoring this, decide to set fire to an up-turned oil drum. More excitement for the older kids and more terror for you. Now imagine a six foot fireman approaches you and hands you a fire extinguisher. He offers to let you put out the fire, while you just want to fill your trousers. Fortuitously, which is a very long word when your five years old, the fireman takes back the water filled extinguisher. He then demonstrates what happens when you try to put out a petroleum fire with water. WHOOSH and you end up bettering Niagara Falls, as the tears flow.
Home time meant playing in the garden or exploring the wooded area adjacent to our estate. It was in this wood that our house keeper lived in a small wooden shack with her children. There was no electricity – only paraffin lamps and a wood burning stove. In comparison our home was modern and painted white inside and out, or decked in millions of tiny ceramic tiles – indeed half of Singapore appeared to be adorned with terrazzo. The garden, though featureless, was to become an imaginary building site or battlefield for me and my toys. The simplicity of it all. Why do we always try (and always fail) to better what cannot be surpass as being the good life - both simple and perfect in every detail? Citizen Kane had Rose Bud. True, he became rich beyond reason, while his happiness burned along with his cherished toy. For me it was a matchbox lorry or two and my own childhood imagination that will never be equalled.
Me and my sister enjoying ourselves in Singapore!
A few years ago I temporarily lost my sense of smell. Despite many problems experience in recent times, this lost has had a devastating effect my state of happiness. Back in the early 1970s and Singapore was a collage of tastes and odours. The earthy, clay aroma of the muddy hill was incredible, while the smell of local cuisine being cooked was all but inscribable, as in time we began to explore the island.
There were late night trips into the capital and more sightseeing. There were the open air restaurants and religious festivals. There were visits to the toy shop in the old shanty town and for such a small island, surprisingly long (?) car rides, either by taxi or the second-hand car that dad bought. I remember the palm trees and birds and small lizards and frogs and…
…there was the harbour and new retail developments – some of the most modern in South East Asia. The sea around the harbour was filled with every kind of vessel, including cargo ships and even an aircraft carrier, moored in the distance. We usually stopped by a café and drank ice-cold orangeade from glass bottles through a paper straw. The taste of that orangeade was something I have never experienced since. Was it a local brand?
Then there was Tiger Balm Gardens. This can best be described as a large public garden filled with oriental gnomes – numerous model animals given human characteristics – that formed scenes from mythology (?) or maybe from more recent history (?). I was only five at the time, but what we saw was duly capture by Dad, with his Olympus half-frame SLR and Super 8 cine camera. The 400ft reel of film is now one of the family’s treasured possessions as are the numerous photographs, which are secreted somewhere within the family – some of which are reproduced here.
Another photograph of our classroom!
It was in Singapore that I attended my first ever air show – a [service] family affair – as I doubt the local population were invited. Ground displays included vehicles of the RAF Fire Service (I kept my distance) and anti-aircraft guns manned by the RAF Regiment. Overhead we were entertained by a yellow painted Whirlwind search and rescue helicopter, while another [static] example was painted in grey/green camouflage. Other aircraft included a couple of Gloster Meteor TT20 jets and a Shackleton maritime recognisance aircraft. The children were entertained by a ride on a steam train – a disguised aircraft tractor that towed a series of converted bomb trolleys.
From the aforementioned toy shop, my dad bought me my first Airfix model – an Fokker Triplane – moulded in red plastic. It was from the same shop that I had bought dozens of Matchbox toy vehicles packaged in little cardboard “matchboxes” and displayed in the shop in a revolving display case. Another favourite toy was a plastic army lorry and cannon. The cannon worked and a line of solders were affixed to the back of the lorry. I loved this toy so much that more than one was bought during our stay in Singapore. For over twenty years I have tried and failed to find out who made this plastic toy? Tonka Toys were another favourite (or rather the digger, bought for me during one night-time shopping spree). These were the real McCoy – made from pressed steel and not your modern plastic rubbish.
Back to this Airfix Model…
…now with it came a tube of glue. But how to open it? I squeezed and squeezed this little tube until splodge – the contents burst out over my arm. What a mess. I don’t remember anyone being around. Was I home alone? I remember waiting outside for my sister to return from School. Where was Mum or the house keeper? I do remember walking around and becoming lost. By now the glue started to sting and the fumes were unbearable. After an eternity, I found my way home. Not sure what happened to the model? Did it ever get built?
Strange, I can remember the shanty town and its open-air restaurants, but can’t actually remember eating out, though my mother said we often tasted the local cuisine. I do remember an old man on a bicycle who sold cashew nuts, served in a cone made from old newspaper. I also remember the ice cream van and those plastic footballs filled with chocolate ice cream. Once you devoured the contents you kicked the ball around the garden. We even had a baby banana tree in the back garden which bore fruit at least once, and visiting the shanty town in the woods opposite our house, we could buy flavoured iced. I remember as kids me and my sister explored on our own – in a foreign country – unimaginable today.
I can’t get the smell of the clay out of my mind. Sometimes, albeit for a fraction of a second, I can smell that earth again, but the effect is momentary and I’m soon back in the here and now. I remember Orang-utans , a cheap and abundant fruit. For years afterwards I would often enquire at fruit shops in the UK if they stocked them and no one knew what fruit I meant. Off course what I should have asked for is Rambutans. Somehow, as children, we had corrupted the name.
One final photograph of our classroom!
That first downpour. The thunder and lightning, and then the torrent of warm, pounding rain. I’m lying on my bed in Hull as I type this. It’s just gone 4am and being a 50 year old who appears to have failed abysmally in life and everything it had to offer, I feel so empty and lost.
As Spike Milligan once wrote, “Oh yesterday, leave me alone”.
Sadly the good times were coming to an end and in late 1971 we reluctantly returned to the UK. The sun was setting on another part of the British Empire and accordingly, it was time for the Royal Air Force to leave Singapore. The final official duty of every RAF serviceman and woman on the island was to cleanse every service drinking hole of alcohol. Therefore our parents assisted by frequenting some forgotten officer or sergeant’s mess. They returned worse for wear by taxi late at night after drinking all day.
I still remember those last few, hectic days. Our pets were handed over to the local animal rescue centre, which I guess was upsetting, while we packed as many of our belongings as we could – most of which ended up being shipped back to the UK (though one or two large wooden crates disappeared on route). Alas, it was time to leave and the familiar white bus arrived to collect us and our belongings.
Sadly, I was forced to leave most of my prized toys in a suitcase or box, which was left in one of the now empty rooms. This was it. We arrived at the airport and before long we flew out of Singapore. I didn’t care much for the flight and remember I cried on take off. My last vivid memory, apart from being given a boiled sweet, was a stop-over at RAF Akrotiri in Cyprus to refuel. Due to a high state of alert on the island the aircraft was closely guarded. It was raining heavily and the ground crew were busy preparing the aircraft for take off. I remember a tractor towing what I now know to be an air-conditioning unit. The driver was having problems trying to keep the huge hose deposited on the trolley as he towed it away – it kept falling off and dragged along the apron. Amazing how it’s the smallest details that are often recalled.
In 1971 we returned to a slightly altered Britain. Gone the days of pounds, shillings and pence. After spending a few months living with our grandparents in Rainham, Kent (more happy memories), we ended up being posted to RAF Benson in Oxfordshire.
Most people have to wait an eternity before their own “once in a life time” experience. For me, that year in Singapore was probably the best year of my life and I was only six year’s old. A year later, while living at RAF Benson, our exploits attracted the attention of the RAF Police. When asked what we could remember of Singapore (this during a lesson at school), there was no stopping us. Apparently, the RAF Police wanted to know why we knew so much? The answer was simple: our parents took us everywhere…
Singapore has changed a lot since the early 1970s. I think (at least I hope) we left Singapore in a better political and social position than other parts of the former British Empire. And I also hope that Singaporeans have forgiven us for not fighting to the last when Japan invaded the island during the war, not that we deserve to be forgiven, in my opinion.
Today and Singapore has developed into a major Asian super power – incredible when you consider its size. Yet, despite continued modernisation, Tiger Balm Gardens remain and so do parts of the old shanty town – preserved for locals and tourists alike. Would I go back? I don’t honestly know. The family are no longer together – my parents separated in 1986 and I live on my own. In 2013 my mum suddenly died, so would I go back? I know it won’t be the same. My sense of smell has gone and in all honesty I’m concerned that cherished childhood memories might be altered by modern Singapore. Maybe if I had a family, then maybe I would go back. I just hope I would be as brave as our parents were in allowing us to see and sample everything that was on offer.
I don’t reminisce about Singapore much. Not because it’s painful - my childhood, partially spent in Singapore is hard to beat, even forty-six years on. Rather life is too frantic to stop and look back.
Since beginning to write the above, I found out a little more about our stay in Singapore from my sister Diana – this over lunch in Pizza Hut.
Apparently, we had two banana trees in the garden (not just the one) and we did indeed like to explore on our own – for hours on end – something unheard of in present times. She also reminded me that one of our pastimes was to pick up squashed frogs on the road and explore the two (not one) shanty villages – one high up and one at the bottom of the hill on which our estate had been built, which was called Hill View Estate. One of our cats was called Tiddles, who once gave birth to kittens. Diana was almost bitten by a poisonous snake and we liked to explore the storm drains and tunnels that were in the locale. Oh, and we liked to wear flip-flops, which apparently are good for your feet.
My sister once decided to help out with the cleaning and ended up flooding the house. Oh, and she also reminded me that at Christmas the both of us got up really early and opened up all the presents – every last one – irrespective of who it was for. Apparently our parents weren’t that pleased. Oh, well…
At school there was a coke machine and yes I was very much renowned for disappearing.
Oh, and the wonderful monsoon showers I reminisced about…? Well, apparently I ended up with some tropical disease – monsoon fever (?) which resulted in being covered in blisters. Accordingly, I ended up being mummified in bandages. Oh, and one of my fingernails dropped off. My sister also confirmed that we did eat a lot of the local cuisine, which is something I’m glad we did, even though I don’t remember.
Phillip Rhodes
KINGSTON upon HULL
East Riding of Yorkshire
6th August 2017