Pulau Ubin . . .

. . . AKA: The Mosquito Coast. Or so I’d been led to believe. So ferocious are the mosquitoes of Pulau Ubin, so insatiable is their thirst for human blood, that local custom demands that an ang moh devour a fried carrot cake before the clock strikes eight in the morn, thus ensuring the bumboat captains and all their passengers safe passage to their respective destinations. It turns out I was the man for the job. So after ducking into the seaside food court and doing my part to prevent unnecessary calamity (and having fully digested the delicious carrot cake and accompanying sides) the three of us hopped aboard an able captain’s bumboat and chugged across the watery gap to the island of abandoned rock quarries, Pulau Ubin.

The trip shore to shore takes but five to seven minutes tops, but the mosquitoes were particularly feisty. Reports poured in through the newswire warning of a frenzied mosquito swarm capsizing seafaring boats. We were sitting ducks. Yang’s shoulders were but temporary placeholders for his chin, his head swiveling rapidly side to side. Panic was in the air.

“These bastards mean business,” I said, my voice breaking. Yang didn’t respond; he was in full-on sentry mode.

With great fortune we and nine accompanying lucky souls arrived at Pulau Ubin. Other bumboats and crew, we were informed, were not so lucky. But in the spirit of adventure we sought to make good on their sacrifice, to explore where those ill-fated could not. But first, Yang and Ling sprayed and liberally rubbed each other down with insect repellant. Having indulged in the fried carrot cake only a half-hour prior, I declined such measures, believing fully in the prophecy.

Within minutes we found ourselves riding merrily atop our rented bicycles, darting with careful consideration and much precision through the morning traffic consisting of fellow bikers, near-sighted truck drivers, and oblivious tourists traipsing by without a care in the world. Yang, already on edge from the mosquito scare, began exhibiting signs of road rage.

“Careful,” I said, trailing behind as we ducked through the horde, “it’s been practically forever since I’ve ridden a bike.”

“Oh *&%@!,” he shouted back, “once you learn you never forget!”

Judging by his reply, it was too late to reason with him—he’d become unhinged, though not without his logic faculties. Yang alternated between colorful swearing and brief, corrective lectures as he bulldozed his way through the ignorant masses. Moments later the crowd parted in half to make way for the irate bicyclist and his cavalcade. As we passed by the cowed and quivering onlookers, I was only too proud to be among his party.

From that point onward it was nothing but smooth riding—if not for those blasted hills. Worse yet, Yang and I were quickly running low on soul coal though Ling showed no signs of slowing. “Where does she get that kind of energy?” asked Yang, squinting ahead as his bride breezed over the horizon.

“She’s trying to outrun the smell of that insect repellant,” I said between desperate gasps for air. “Hurry, or we’re going to lose her!”

With loving mercy Ling accepted our pleas and allowed us the occasional breather disguised as photo-op. Before long we barely attempted to cover up our lack of stamina.

“Look,” I’d say, “a rock I haven’t seen yet.”

“Oh,” joined Yang, parking his bike, “that’s no ordinary rock.”

“Oh?”

“It is very rare indeed. I’ve only read about ones like this in books.”

“Should we get a picture, you know, to document our find?”

“Definitely.”

Snap. Snap. Snap.

Meanwhile the ever patient Ling rode in circles up and through the hillside, popping wheelies and soaring over potholes.

And speaking of potholes, as expected, there were plenty. A short while into our trek our bums were quite tender, and the jostling from the bumpy off-roads was nothing compared to meeting an unexpected crater in the paved roads. With every nerve-wracking, brain-numbing

During one particular stretch of road, something strange occurred to me. Sensing the unusual, I quickly turned around to head in the opposite direction. “What are you doing?” Ling asked as Yang took the opportunity to gasp for air.

“I’m heading back,” I shouted. “I think I missed a pothole on our way down this hill.” Sure enough I had, but this was easily remedied.

Wrack!

Perfection attained, it was time for a break.

We committed ourselves, feet to the ground, to a stroll along the beach-sprawling, wetland-dissecting boardwalk where we took in lots of sun and the infrequent wildlife sighting. Eventually we arrived at an observation tower, the top of which promised an imposing view upon the island. To reach such lofty heights, however, one must proceed to the giddy little top of said tower by way of the old reliable staircase.

“Where’s the lift?” asked Yang, his voice a study in mock incredulity.

Ling could only sigh. “Dear!”

But to the top we ventured, thinning oxygen and quaking legs be damned. The view was quite good, though nothing spectacular. There’s something about spying down onto the very tops of trees that feels wrong, like peering directly down at a balding man’s head. One should, above all else, retain dignity and duly allow others do the same. Still, we were in no hurry to descend those mother-loving stairs. It was about then that I spotted the cautionary sign which informed us that the maximum load was twenty people. We were a good ten to fifteen over the limit already, with more gaining every minute.

“Great” Yang said, “maybe I won’t have to use the stairs after all.”

Soon after we collected our bikes and decided to call it a day. We careened over the hills and through the ever increasing crowds, returned the bikes, boarded and survived the return bumboat back to the mainland, and, upon returning to the air-conditioned comforts of home, breathed a sigh of relief. Not one of us had experienced a single mosquito bite, much less succumbed to malaria, and we persevered where others, sadly, had failed.

If there’s one thing I learned from my day in Pulau Ubin, it is this: for the repelling of mosquitoes, choose fried carrot cake over insect spray—not only does it taste good, but it smells better, too!