I’m beginning to think I’m the harbinger of catastrophe. Here in Singapore, accidents of all measure occur in my vicinity while I’m off in one direction or another.
During my November, 2006 stay in Singapore I witnessed several traffic accidents, the most thrilling of which occurred in Chinatown at the corner of Mosque and Hill St. An avid motorcyclist began turning into Mosque St at a high speed; however, Mosque St happens to be a one-way road. The biker, seeing a silver Mercedes roll toward his direction into a lazy halt at the junction, too realized this. Quickly and as laid back as can be, the biker corrected his error and began to continue down Hill St. It turns out he overcorrected: the bike and its driver slid on their sides across the width of Mosque St’s outlet, and into a trash can (Singapore: Litter Free!). Onlookers screamed, motorists honked their horns, I cheered in approval—a better show I had not yet seen. But with much luck the biker and his bike recovered to their former upright positions and went off on their merry way, all in the span of perhaps 15 seconds.
The funniest traffic-related mishap occurred just outside Labrador Park. At the easternmost bus stop exists, I think, a bus-only lane. Further down the course is limited space for vehicles to park, but the mouth of the lane is restricted. This is because the bus requires a lot of room at its disposal to turn around. Now of course this doesn’t stop Singaporeans from driving through and even parking their vehicles along the entire length of the lane, and one such sod had the misfortune of coming in behind the bus as the bus driver attempted to turn around. It turns out that this eager parker had just occupied the very last bit of real estate required by the bus driver to perform his turnaround—and the bus driver let him know it. I do not speak Hokkien, but even so I felt like I learned every Hokkien curse word in the book. The driver’s verbal onslaught would’ve made a sailor blush. The subject of the tirade stood there like a red-headed stepchild, mouth agape. His hand was in the cookie jar, and the owner of that cookie jar was perhaps the foulest-mouthed scallywag to ever drive a bus. Finally, the cowed motorist snapped into action. But so quickly did he do so that, upon opening his car door in a mad rush, he slammed it directly into the black Mazda next to him, initiating an obnoxious car alarm and caving in a more than noticeable portion of his neighbor’s passenger door. (I wish I could describe the characteristic of the bus driver’s laugh in response, but words fail me. Know this: it haunts me still.)
A scarier incident happened only recently at the Dhoby Ghaut interchange. I approached the final descending escalator leading to the Northeast line. No more than two meters ahead of me was an elderly lady holding four plastic bags and seeming to have a rather tough time of it. As she granted her feet purchase upon the flat escalator procession, she staggered upright. It was a frightening sight. I honestly thought she’d experienced a brief, minor seizure, but she caught herself, gripping the rubber railing with her right hand. However, a second later—totally out of the blue—she tumbled backwards as the escalator formed into descending steps. She banged herself up pretty good, dropping her bags—two oranges tumbled to the very bottom of the escalator steps—and managing to scare the ever-loving shit out of me. I helped her up and grabbed her bags, but she was too dazed to notice. And then, upon reaching the bottom, she snapped right out of her funk, thanked me, retrieved her bags—though not grabbing the two battered oranges—and hopped aboard the Punggol-way MRT car. (And by the way, though there were people nearer by than I, not a soul did a thing but stare on in a kind of pacified astonishment. Not cool.)
Even more recently, and by far the most frightening yet, was the all-too-close opportunity to witness my first traffic fatality. A bicyclist proceeded south along Sengkang Ctrl where Compassvale Bow meets. He gave little credence to the no-walking light just as a motorist driving a pale-blue Kia hatchback and poised to make a right turn into Compassvale Bow nearly gave no credence to the jay-walker—or jay-rider, as is the case. My perspective from Compassvale Bow did not provide me an accurate assessment of just how near the collision these two fellows were, but take my word for it—it was close. The bicyclist had to dodge the incoming car by veering his bicycle sharply to the left. This last, split-second maneuver probably saved his life, as the motorist had only then applied his brakes. The sharp turn to the left did however ensure the bicyclist rammed straight into the 6-inch high median, which stopped his bike right in its tracks. The bicyclist was not so lucky, as the abrupt stop sent him flying, feet-over-head, over his handlebars and into Compassvale Bow’s opposite lane. Amazingly, the bicyclist immediately returned to his feet, raising an apologetic hand in the air toward the driver who, at this point, could do little but inhale short bursts of charged air into his lungs and seemingly not lift his hand from his horn.
All of these incidents fortunately involved no serious injuries, as far as I know. Nevertheless, it’s getting to the point where I’m afraid to even walk by The Quartz condominium project, lest I see some dazed worker plummet from the 15th floor to his death as I’m taking a leisurely stroll to Buangkok MRT station. I could count the number of accidents I’ve witnessed back home in all my life on one hand, but I come to Singapore and it’s as if I’m a magnet for disaster. If you see some ang moh wandering around your neighborhood, you’d best steer clear—but be sure to look in all directions before doing so, or it might be your last decision.
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