Singapore

Sunday, February 24

The Quest for the Chinese Backscratcher

When I left home, I promised a good friend I’d get her a Chinese backscratcher.  I’ve had one for years, and it is a utensil made in heaven that I  couldn’t live without.
My friend said she’d been hunting in flea markets for decades and couldn’t find one, and I replied confidently, “No problem.  I’m going to Southeast Asia.  I can pick one up for you in a minute.”
Right?   Wrong.
In Hong Kong, I heard more than a few snickers behind my back in variety stores  and elegant boutiques when I inquired about a Chinese backscratcher.   And when I stopped at  junk-filled street-side stalls, they just looked puzzled  and clearly had never heard of them--even when I demonstrated by scratching my back to explain. 
No luck.
Finally, I began to realize that it was futile to search for this elusive pot at the end of the rainbow. I didn’t give up-- but Singapore beckoned. Surely, in Singapore, that great metropolis of Southeast Asia that promises visitors an anything from traditional ethnic handicrafts to the latest electronic gizmos,  one could find a simple bamboo backscratcher. 
Right.
In this city that boasts a population 76% Chinese, (along with large multiethnic groups of Malays, Indians and even some remaining British), I was bound to succeed in my simple treasure hunt.   So, the first morning there, in my search for the perfect, or any Chinese backscratcher, I headed straight for Chinatown, ignoring such enticing attractions as Little India, the Arab District, and even Orchard Road where the shopping was said to be fabulous. (Luckily, I had been in Singapore the year before on my trip around the world, so I had the luxury of choosing my excursion site.)
Once there on Chinatown’s Sago Street, in the midst of the miles of tiny shops and colorful stalls one can find everything from dried food, turtles for soup, sea cucumbers, sharks fins, and birds nests to ground rhinoceros horns or dried snakes and lizards or the more rarified powdered antelope horns for curing headaches.
But not a single backscratcher was to be found.
I determined, however, that my day would  not be wasted in this mindless search.
I wisely chose to ignore the bird-singing café and a quick tour through the so-called opium den/ brothel where in other times Chinese immigrants gambled, smoked opium and found other worldly pleasures.  Since I had explored Singapore’s Sentosa Island, a mecca for all tourists, the previous year, I decided rather to take the drive down to Clark Quay on the Singapore River. There I could board a “bum boat” for a ride down the “historic waterway.”  These colorful wooden boats float you down the Singapore River and around the harbor while you view a kaleidoscope of historic buildings, colorful old “godown” warehouses of the old waterfront, and pass under the 12 bridges of Singapore.  The bum boats, adorned with an eye on the prow to protect you from danger, ply jade green harbor water that is so clean you can swim in it as you pass along busy river walks,  a melange of eateries and nightclubs, the  huge Merlion statue-- Singapore’s mascot--and historic buildings, commercial halls and massive hotels. All these appear against a backdrop of a skyline pierced by towering buildings that stretch high into the sky in every direction.  It’s an incredible sight!
As you sit comfortably in the brilliant sunshine and enjoy a gentle sea breeze, the bum boat guide steps you quickly through the history of this island shaped like a flattened diamond and that is only 26 miles wide by 14 miles long.  Sir Thomas Stamford Raffles, the founder of Singapore, is omnipresent.  He was the person with the vision to change what was originally a swampy, crocodile infested swamp to the beginnings of what  today vies with Hong Kong as the world's busiest seaport.
The leisurely bum boat ride gave us a superb seagoing bird’s eye view of the entire harbor.  It was over all too soon.
Next on the agenda was a visit to the legendary Raffles Hotel named after the city’s founder.
But that would be only after bumping through one of the most harrowing heart-stopping rides I have ever endured.  I had chosen the option of taking a trishaw ride to get from Clark Quay to the Raffles Hotel.  My trishaw, a aging two-wheeled bicycle rickshaw with profuse and colorful decorations befitting a queen, was awaiting me outside the quay.  Grinning and nodding at me in the hot Singapore 92 degree, 90 percent humidity was a wizened elderly driver who weighed no more than 90 pounds, had little observable  muscles and no teeth to speak of.  When I dropped nimbly but heavily into the trishaw, it rocked like a seesaw suddenly vacated by kids.  I thought, he can’t possibly maneuver this thing (with me in it) through the mad melange of motor bikes, busses, scooters and cars that filled the streets of Singapore at rush hour. But off we went.
My heart was in my mouth for the entire excursion.  Down the left hand side of the street, darting in and out of standing, beeping, honking taxis, cars, busses and motor scooters, neverminding  red lights, busses pulling to a sudden halt, narrow alleys between cars, on he pedalled.  His obvious goal was to reach the Raffles Hotel before his friend, the other 90- year-old who raced us for first place and clanged his bell loudly at every corner.
I screamed.  I shouted.  I prayed for forgiveness. But all in vain. On he went.
Mercilessly.  With no thought for life or safety.
The trip seemed bound for disaster.   But finally we arrived, and graciously he hauled my now-exhausted self out of the trishaw.  
I tipped him and said I loved every minute.
Then I  made a beeline for the infamous Long Bar in the Raffles where a frosty Singapore Sling awaited me.  Down it went without effort.    
I thought, thank god I’m alive, and I’ll never take another ride like that again.
But I was wrong. 
P.S.  On the more serious side, I had made friends with Sherrill, a very beautiful and fun-loving young woman from Texas. She was part of the mad scramble of trishaws in our group.  She was not so lucky as I.  Crossing against a red light, a motor scooter hit her trishaw and it tipped over badly.  She had contusions, entire face bruised, black eye, cut on her forehead that required plastic surgery and bruised ribs.  She’s still with us though (and today rode another trishaw.)  But that’s another story.  As is the search for the Chinese backscratcher.