How would life have turned out? 01 (England / Singapore)

A student of mine (in her early 80s) from Lancashire told me that her mother had worked in a textile mill, and expected her to follow suit.

    Just as well she didn't go along with that, for she then went on to lead a very interesting life, publishing articles about her experiences too: teaching English in (alphabetical order) China, France, Singapore, Spain and Switzerland; editing an educational magazine in N.E. China near the Korean border; and is now learning Russian as well.  (She already knows French, Spanish and Mandarin.)

    I used to visit some relatives on my father's side who lived on Singapore's biggest offshore island, Pulau Ubin, where granite quarrying was done.    

    I was then told, aged 9, that when I arrived, a fourth girl, my mother had wanted to give me away to this family, who only had a son at the time.  It was a common Chinese practice to give away children, e.g., to let the child have a better life, to give the childless family a child, or a son-less family a son -- in my case, a daughter-less family a daughter.

    It got me thinking how different my life would've turned out, growing up on that outback of an island off the north-east coast of Singapore, with a family who ran a ferry service between Singapore and Pulau Ubin, as well as a grocery shop.  An environment that was very rural and quite different from my suburban upbringing (English stream Catholic convent school education).

(England / Singapore)

Lost Singapore childhood: 03 (Catching razor clams) (Singapore)

 

Grandma’s coconut plantation in Tampines, being close to the estuary in the north east of Singapore (facing Pulau Ubin in the Johor Strait), had a mangrove swamp on its edge.

    At low tide, one could go and catch razor clams in the drained mangrove swamp.

    Equipment:

• your own hand(s) if you’re not a suburban wuss like me — my cousins (who lived on the plantation) had fingers of steel for digging into the mud and yanking out the razor clam that had burrowed into the mud as the water receded;
• OR:  a blade for the above.  The ones my cousins had were homemade: a strip of bamboo, 1”– 1.5” wide, 6” long at least to hold at one end and to dig deep enough into the mud as the razor clams are ever so quick at diving deeper and deeper when they sense the intrusive (and life-threatening) human presence;
• a wicker basket or similar kind of container (e.g., a bucket) to put the clams in.

The process:

• walk along the muddy bed of the drained mangrove swamp, looking carefully at the surface of the mud for signs of the location of the razor clams;
• when the razor clam dives into the mud as the water recedes, it will leave behind a hole in the mud that’s its cross-sectional shape — takes a bit of practice at first to tell which holes are razor clam holes, and which ones are just holes, i.e., not the right shape.  My cousins were experienced enough to even reject clam holes that were too small for their trouble, so the size of the holes also mattered to them — whereas I was such a townie and a greenhorn that I was just happy to find any razor clams at all at all;
• the main skill is not so much identifying the holes, but the speed of plunging the fingers (or bamboo strip) in, to beat the razor clam in its escape.  I would often find the right holes and dive in with my bamboo strip, only to see the top end of the razor clam sinking down as it burrowed deeper, away from me, and lose it.

    In hindsight, it’s frightening now to think how dangerous it could’ve been:  walking in the mud in bare feet without knowing what lay beneath — might’ve been broken glass.  Children are so fearless — or the ignorance of youth and lack of life experience.

    It was muddy work, which children have no qualms about — most kids, in fact, love mucking about.  It was cool respite from the tropical humidity and heat, having your legs immersed in mud up to the knees.  Above all, it was really satisfying to have a dish of razor clams stir-fried in chopped-up garlic and fresh red chilli served up at the dinner table that evening.  Freshly caught by yourself!

    The hurdle to anticipate was how to explain the appearance of the clams, as we were not allowed to go and run around, but expected to stay at home and do our homework and revision.  We often had to say our cousins had caught them and given us a share — a white lie that was, luckily, never challenged.  

    The trickier bit was not to arrive home, all muddy, at the same time as my uncle whose day trip into town was the window that gave us the opportunity to leave our studies and go into the mangrove swamps.  We had to make sure we were all hosed down before he got back.  So, arriving home was a precarious undertaking, sidling round the side and back of the house where the well and bathroom were, to wash off the mud, making sure not to run into my uncle should he already have got back, but it was worth it every single time.  

    Especially now, some 60 years later, looking back, with nowhere in Singapore like it to go to.  

    I’d love to hear from any Singapore readers who might be able to tell me I’m wrong.

(Singapore, 1960s)

*wuss: (MBP dictionary) a weak or ineffectual person (often used as a general term of abuse)