Back in Singapore

We found ourselves in the Lion City again, for the second time in as many years. I do love this place.

Last time we were here was just prior to Christmas 2023. This time the Christmas razzamatazz had been replaced with images representing the Chinese New Year. How exciting! Welcome to the Year of the Snake. The worst thing about visiting Singapore is the flight. To me, it is an endurance, all of thirteen hours and some. Our hotel, Hotel Fort Canning, is situated on Fort Canning Hill, a much-ignored urban park from the tourist point of view, pretty close to the centre of the city. It is the home of my favourite museum anywhere in the world, The Battlebox, and I for one, couldn’t wait to go back.

First thing we did, after showering that is, was to stroll around the grounds of the hotel and the park. It wasn’t really obvious where one ended and the other one begun. All gardens in the tropics are exotically sumptuous with a verdancy that can only be found in this climate.

First things first, stepping out of one of the hotel’s back doors we were faced with some steps down to the pool deck, and what is more, all the step treads had their noses highlighted in a contrasting shade to the treads and paths themselves. To a visually impaired person of very limited sight, you cannot believe how rewarding this is to make such a discovery. Not only were the step edges highlighted, the path edges, swimming pool perimeter and differences in boardwalk levels were painted in white. At least I thought it was white, Jane later informed me that they were yellow lines.

Nonetheless, the contrast made me feel exceptionally welcome and safe. Then, we turned a corner, and all the accessibility stuff ran out. I never understand why organisations do this. It can be so treacherous. As it happened it didn’t pose a challenge for me as I had my essential companion with me, but had I been on my own I could easily have taken a tumble. It is so annoying. I have to say, either do all of the edges or none at all, a halfway house is extra dangerous and lulls me into a false sense of security, which could easily end up with me falling in the water, not great having just showered.

It does make me wonder what goes through management’s heads. Do they just fulfil their responsibility to the bit that can be seen from the back door and then, when the inspector returns, they just take him or her to the said back door to show off the work. The inspector nods approvingly and doesn’t even bother to check the entire site, probably put off by one of the frequent waterfall like cataracts that occur on a nearly daily basis. If you haven’t experienced one, they invade the senses. Tropical deluges can be of such an intensity you need to keep your head ducked, quite often it is said that they fall from clouds with a coppery green tinge signifying a beastly contempt of any living creature, and when accompanied by an overwhelming electric storm, thunder like Thor’s hammer crashing down on an anvil and forks of lightning reaching out like Odin’s fingers wanting to drag his victims into Valhalla. Then, as sudden as its arrival, it is gone, and out comes the sun, leaving a steamy, sticky and sweaty humidity in what can often be in excess of 30°.

Whilst this park isn’t the official botanic garden it is, by the very fact that it is a garden, botanic. Although, technically, we were still on the same planet as the England we had left behind, deep in its winter, the flora and fauna make it feel as if you have travelled to a different world. As my old man used to say, it is a real shame it isn’t just a bike ride away. Perhaps not, though, it would probably mean that places like Singapore would be full to overflowing during our winter and England would be short on occupants.

It was a short jog from our hotel into the city and places like Clarke Quay, so on our first whole day we went exploring. The Battlebox was less than a toddler’s stone throw from the hotel’s front door. We popped in with the intention of booking a visit later in our stay, but to our surprise, and I have to say, my disappointment, it was nearly empty. We grasped the nettle and went for it, buying our tickets immediately. Last time we were here we downloaded an app which gave us a guided audio tour, but this time, with my trusty essential companion by my side, that is Jane of course, we took the plunge and followed our noses through the exhibition rooms, Jane reading from the display boards as we went.

I am not really sure that we learned of anything new this time around, but some bits of information took on a more significant role. This was because we have now journeyed to other locations in the region that were affected by the Second World War. One cannot get away from the fact that this museum is inextricably linked to the infamous Burma Death Railway.

Last time I visited the Battlebox I had never heard of Eric Lomax (1919 – 2012), yet now, second time around, there were myriad references to this truly great man. He spent the last few days of the Battle for Singapore based here, not even coming up for fresh air, for three weeks. Even today I cannot conceive of doing this, I would have gone mad, and I think I have a high threshold for boredom and discomfort, except for camping, never understood the point. Think about this for a minute as you open your window to get a breath of fresh air, and put yourself ten metres or more below ground, encased in concrete, no natural light, diesel fumes from the in-house generator, spent tobacco odours, it was before we banned smoking indoors, sweaty unwashed bodies, and you get the picture. I wonder if, when the Japanese ended up overrunning the city, he thought that it would be the end of his purgatory. If he did, he could not have been further from the actuality.

After a brief period of being held as a prisoner of war when, even by his own admission in his autobiography, “The Railway Man,” life didn’t seem to be treating him so badly, although blood-chilling stories of Japanese atrocities started to reach their ears, such as the group of Australian nurses who were all massacred in the surf at Bangka Island. It wasn’t long before it all went Pete Tong for Eric and his comrades.

They were carted off to help build the Siam-Burma Railway, for younger readers, Siam is now Thailand and Burma is now Myanmar. Once again, to start with, Eric was afforded a certain amount of ease compared to the backbreaking work of clearing bush, grading the subbase, laying down the giant sleepers and affixing the almost impossible to touch steel rails. This was all carried out by hand in horrendous conditions, baking hot sun, unbearably high humidity, all through mosquito infested landscapes. In effect, they were slaves. Lomax references seeing palls of smoke in the distance, meaning that the construction of the railway could be measured in burned human bodies.

Do you know I have a confession to make here, and I know some people think me morbid, but I take great delight in listening to Radio Four’s obituary show, “Last Word,” each week. Whilst some famous stars of screen, music and the arts are given a good send-off, many of the people celebrated are the most ordinary who have all done extraordinary things. It amazes me how often, despite adversities I can’t even imagine, these truly incredible people have made it to very old age, maybe they were held in concentration camps, maybe they were interrogated by the Gestapo which, I am assured, wasn’t a chat over a cup of tea, or maybe they flew countless sorties over enemy territory in almost defenceless tin cans.

Eric Lomax was no exception, he endured torture, incarceration in an outdoor cage not much bigger than himself, among snakes, rats and insects, prolonged starvation and even had both arms broken as well as his spectacles smashed. By the end of his time, he was suffering from debilitating skin conditions which took months to heal. It is a cruelty I can’t begin to imagine from behind my small desk in my centrally heated office, and nor was it something I could really imagine whilst once walking a length of that railway line which now runs through, what looks like, serene, luxuriant and very productive farmland, with many tropical delights on show ripe for the picking.

After being evacuated from Singapore to Calcutta when it was all over, he had been in captivity for nigh on three-and-a-half years, he was sipping tea, with another railway veteran officer, on a veranda in a colonial mansion, when a woman whom he described as the Memsaab sort, I think we can picture what he means, take Hyacinth Bucket and times it by ten. She, with complete insensitivity and with no hint of irony, said, “I am sure, that as you have been prisoners of war for all this time you will be keen to get on with things and do your bit now.” Wow, can you believe it? I think we all know this type of woman, thinking themselves better than they are and quite willing to speak their mind. There is, a time and a place, and I think that this sort of attitude highlighted the forgotten army, as the army of the east became known, amidst the carnage and chaos that had been closer to home in the European theatre.

One event cut me to the quick more than most that Lomax had to put up with. On returning home to Southampton he found a letter waiting for him. It was from his father to let him know that his mother had died shortly after the surrender of Singapore. She died of a broken heart thinking that her only son was dead as he had been posted as missing. Is there anything more futile than war, there are far too many veterans who carry memories like that. Lest we forget!

When his captivity ended it is no surprise, to me at any rate, that he harboured a hatred in his heart for his guards and it never looked like revenge was far from the front of his mind, there is no doubt that he would have been diagnosed with PTSD, Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, in this day and age, and I am not sure that many would have been in a position to argue with such a finding.

He needed a form of treatment that could not be imagined by the medics so, with a British stiff upper lip, it was grin and bear it, a pull yourself together sort of a thing. I have recently heard of a bloke who was diagnosed with PTSD after his boss swore at him. Grow a pair comes to mind, doesn’t it. That sort of thing makes me so angry. My old geography teacher was a former POW who was on the death railway, and he was a nervous wreck.

Then, out of the blue one day, he heard from one of his tormentors, through an intermediary, a retired army chaplain living in Oxford, that he had been corresponding with a former Japanese interpreter. This was the man through whom Eric had concentrated all his thoughts of revenge. Now he had the chance. It didn’t turn out like that and, eventually, he met Takashi Nagase, and the rest, as they say, is history. First came Lomax’s memoir, which I am, sure afforded him a cathartic journey, from hate to reconciliation, denied to many, and, eventually, the film of “The Railway Man.” I am yet to watch, or in my case listen, to the movie starring Colin Firth and Nicole Kidman, I don’t want it to spoil the book.

If you have been with us since the start of my “Travelling Blind” blogs you will, no doubt, recognise that I have told this tale before. I make no apology for repeating it, I revisit the audio book at least three times a year. It should form part of our required reading in schools and should be compulsory for every politician who even has a thought of war. And, finally, I thoroughly recommend it to you. It will make you cry and laugh in equal measure but, most of all, it will make you remember the forgotten army. How one man can demonstrate such forgiveness is beyond my thinking.

Afterwards, we took the short stroll to Gardens by the Bay, probably most famous for the hideous looking Marina Bay Sands Hotel, sorry, beauty is not in the eye of this beholder. There is, however, plenty more to offer besides. Although a tribute more to the present and the future, I am willing to, now and again, make concessions and leave history behind me, although not my natural landscape, I did actually enjoy wandering along the 128 metre OCBC (Oversea-Chinese Banking Corporation) Skyway through the Super Tree tops, suspended 22 metres above the ground, not botanic of course, but constructed of steel and each one sporting solar powered lights.

There was a nod to the natural world, after all it is meant to be a garden, in that there was bougainvillea trailing from the suspension cables. It really is worth taking the ride up to the walkway, or so I am told anyway, as it affords some terrific views across the gardens and through to the city. I enjoyed the ambience with distant conversations just about carrying on the slight breeze. We did, however, still encounter tourists stopping along the way to take pictures of the infernal Marina Bay Sands. I have to confess, and I need to man up a bit here, I am told that the Garden Rhapsody lightshow is beyond spectacular, not very good at going out in the dark you see. Apparently, the trees move in time with the light and music show. I do actually think that I would like this if I can get there without tripping over. Must do it next time, third time lucky!

Find Out More
Battlebox: www.battlebox.sg
OCBC Skyway: www.gardensbythebay.com.sg

White Cane Ratings
Battlebox: very good - 🦯 🦯 🦯 🦯 (4)
OCBC Skyway: excellent; very accessible - 🦯 🦯 🦯 🦯 🦯 (5)

Wisbech Parkrun

I don’t think we have ever ventured into Cambridgeshire for a parkrun thus far, so this was a first.

I know, strictly speaking, it is still autumn but, although the temperature was mild, conditions were fairly miserable, so it felt a lot like winter to me. Doesn’t it make you start dreaming of sun-kissed Caribbean islands, bright azure seas and brilliantly white beaches, cabanas a plenty with a rum punch or two to hand.

Pull yourself together, man, it was a wet and windy Wisbech. I must confess, I am a bit of a wimp when it comes to bad weather parkruns, having dropped out of a few in the past, so without fear of contradiction, these were the worst conditions I have experienced to date.

First things first, there is plentiful kerbside parking roundabout, and we found ourselves a very short stroll from the start. As we got out of the car, we were met by a drizzle which, slowly, intensified as we made our way to the mustering point.

We were greeted by an amazingly enthusiastic team of volunteers who made you think the conditions were sunny and warm. We spoke to one lady as we walked who had very nearly decided not to come, I was in agreement, but Jane told me to man up and grow a pair! As the lady pointed out, it would have been a dreadful betrayal of all the volunteers who had forced themselves out of bed on this grisly morning to ensure our needs were met. Okay, I get that, it still wasn’t very nice, though! Blue skies, happy sunny chatter and cricket on the beach; can’t help it, sorry!

A lovely young lady, a different one to the first one, popped over for a chat. Hayley told me of her father, Trevor who, whilst undergoing a heart procedure suffered a stroke on the operating table, or is it a bed, not sure. A terrible side effect of this, not that a stroke isn’t bad enough on its own, was that he found his eyesight beginning to deteriorate. I cannot imagine what this would do for anyone and their family, as I always say I have been preparing for blindness since birth, so it was never going to be a shock to me, and in the main, apart from a brief period in my early forties, it has never got me down.

Only occasionally do I think of my grandchildren growing up without me watching them. I tell myself to get over it and pull myself together. I cannot ever imagine swapping with people like Trevor, it would fill me full of fear and dread. As a result of this or not, I’m not sure, the Wisbech event have signed up for a number of them to do the VI Guides’ course; bravo, well done.

I look forward to visiting again next year and having a choice of these incredible people to take me round. Good luck to you all and thank you very much from the bottom of our hearts, you will never be told enough how much it means to us.

Now, let’s get the maudlin out of the way and take a look at the event. After the briefest of first timers’ briefings, that’s the way I like it, we were ready for the start. Three, two, one, and away. We set off from a point outside the park café, can someone have a word, please, and tell them to stop preparing cooked breakfasts until after we have got going, it should be against the law!

We wended our way from the interior to the perimeter trail, where we took an anticlockwise route, which we would repeat a further three times after the first circuit. The course is probably as level as they come although it has to be pointed out that there are a number of wicked little corners on show. I was tethered to Jane, my wife, taking on the role of a de-facto VI Guide, to be fair, something she does every other day of the year, wouldn’t know where I was without her, who was terrific at talking me through the changes in direction, surface and weather conditions from the start.

She has never found parkrun to be a walk in the park, see what I did there, even though it, by default, turns into the same such, but she gives it her best shot and she has made big strides bringing her PB from mid-forties down to below the forty minute mark during this past year.

After a little while, though, I noticed the oral instructions dry up, to be replaced by violent jerks on my lead, giving me a sense of how dogs feel sometimes. Nonetheless, we got there in the end, Jeffing our way to the finish. There was only one section of the course that discombobulated me slightly, and that was where we ran alongside a main road on the edge of the park, the tyres managing to kick up such a racket thanks to the lying water that I felt disorientated with the sensory overload.

We must offer our sincerest apologies to the good people of Wisbech in that we didn’t stop for a post-run coffee and cake, obligatory at parkrun, as we were soaked through and a hot shower was beckoning. Isn’t that a funny one? You get yourself soaking wet and the best cure is to get yourself wet all over again, albeit with a temperature difference of close to 40°.

It was a lovely morning spent with similarly like-minded mad folk and, I for one, can’t wait to go back next year. Take away the atrocious weather, and I don’t suppose that is the organisers’ fault is it, it is up there with one of the easiest courses in the country. See you again, if you don’t mind.

White Cane Ratings*
Car Park: good; on road - 🦯 🦯 🦯 (3)
Welcome and Briefing: very good; friendly and enthusiastic - 🦯 🦯 🦯 🦯 (4)
Atmosphere: good - 🦯 🦯 🦯 (3)
Course: very good; hard surface – 🦯 🦯 🦯 🦯 (4)
Marshalling: good; - 🦯 🦯 🦯 (3)
*These ratings are how the event suits a blind person, and are my opinion only; they are not scientific. Whatever happens no-one must be put off by me. The best way to learn about something is try it for yourself.