On Suspicious Kinds

No, my James-Squires-quaffing colleague, not an incorrect reference to the Presley tune that was well-covered by the Fine Young Cannibals, in that era of music that we share … of course, I’m far more partial to the Dwight Yoakim version which came out not long afterward.

The appearance and enforcement of Safety in Singapore is such a given that it came as quite a surprise to hear the two-toned wail of a siren while sitting in the Syphilis on the Expressway. To be fair, it is not unusual for the expressways (loosely used term) to slow to crawl. However, it is usually because the punkawallahs in the CDC suits that are trimming the bushes on the side of the road let the cross-eyed one lay the cones down. With little resemblance to straight lines, the safety cones variously take up 1 to 3 lanes – for no apparent reason - and with little regard for the room left for vehicular passage.

Slow traffic has never been too annoying for me. This time I was amusing myself by subjecting the Maid and Tatertots to 11 disks of Dwight Yoakim (and one Ramones CD) as we inched along the PIE.

After 40 minutes of inching (and 14 tracks involving at least one of the following: guitar, Cadillac, Honky Tonk bar, neon light, heartache, or a pick-up truck), we came across the source of the delay. From the clues gathered as we crawled past, I can only surmise that a motorbike driver decided to have a BBQ while in transit, and things must have quickly got out of hand.

Safety is key in Singapore.

And on the MRT (think train meets monorail – monorail pretty well wins that smackdown), most of the messages on the instructional side: “don’t eat here”, “stay behind that yeller line”, “we’re about to cross on to the middle track so grab on to a pole, hand grip – or your neighbor”, “fetch”, “lie down”, “play dead”, etc).

In fact playing dead is something the locals are darn good at on the train. I’ve just about finished my book: 1,000 ways to sleep on a train. You can sleep standing up. You can sleep in a chair. You can sleep by repeatedly falling on your neighbor. You can sleep listening to an iPod. You can sleep watching a movie on a PSP. You can sleep on a pole. You can sleep reading a paper. You can absorb words from a book with your forehead … as you sleep on your open book. You can sleep in your socks, with a fox, in a box. You can sleep anywhere. Except on Crusty.

So there are all these messages about safety. And one has had me on edge since I have arrived. Perhaps least in part because when the silver 1970’s aviators and old softy hat are adorned, I may well have a striking resemblance to Ivan Milat. So when the message “If you see any suspicious person or articles, please inform our staff, or press the emergency communication button located at the side of the train doors.” comes over the PA system, I start to get a little worried that a conscientious civil servant is going to head for the red button and have me nabbed by the officers of the Ministry of Truth.

Truth be known, I have little to fear. The red button lies well-hidden under the greasy quiff of the Indian feller that has fallen asleep on it.