The Journey. 19 - 22 Jan.

I checked in and all that jazz, bought a pack of nicotine gum, got on the plane, sat down. And sat, and sat. And sat. For 3 and a half hours. By now it was 1.30am. I hadn't eaten, I hadn't even been offered a drink and the plane was still exactly where it had been when I boarded. It was a brand-spanking-new Airbus A380 (biggest passenger plane ever built, state of the art technology, blah-dee-blah) and the emergency lighting system didn't work. I ate some fag-substitute gum to stop me chewing my own arm off with hunger and frustration. The 12-hour first leg of my journey would have taken me to Singapore. Once there, I would have 1 hour to transfer to a 10-hour flight to Christchurch. In Christchurch, I would have less than 2 hours to transfer to Blenheim (NZ), my final destination, arriving after another 45 mins flying. This delay at Heathrow had already put my entire itinerary out the window. However good looking the stewardesses on Singapore Airlines, I wasn't a happy customer.



2 hours before reaching Singapore, the captain finally announced that my flight connection was one that would not be made. When I disembarked I was tired, hungover and rather grouchy. Then I was told that I would have to wait for 23 hours, then would be packed off to Auckland, then on to Christchurch. I seethed. I told them through gritted teeth that I had a further flight booked from Christchurch and they looked a little worried. "Erm, you may lose that flight sir" Iwas told. "I think not [censored for readers of a sensitive disposition]" I replied. To cut a long story short, I spent an hour and a half to-ing and fro-ing around Singapore's Changi airport printing boarding passes, phoning my parents at 4am their time, queueing at transfer desks, smoking many cigarettes, in order to sort out my onward journey. I was given vouchers from the airline entitling me to a hotel room, meals, taxis. At this point, it dawned on me that I had an expenses-paid day in Singapore, even if without a change of pants or socks.


My taxi driver to the hotel was a legend. I couldn't understand more than a third of what he said but he didn't seem to mind; he was just happy to be able rant to himself. Kindred spirits, he and I. We struggled through a conversation about Chinese new year and why he thought "Year of cow is shit" (his words). As it turned out, he was born in the year of the tiger and disliked the 'cow' (us westerners know it as the year of the ox) because he never won at gambling in these years; the cow bringing him "velly bad ruck". [I know I know, very wrong of me to mock!] He told me about how being born at different times of day will, according to Chinese belief, alter the 'type' of animal you are. For example, he was born at night so is a 'bad tiger', prone to "plowring aroun' after pletty gir' tiger". Like I said, he was a legend.


An international business hotel tends to give a rather sterile and disjointed view of a place, especially given my midnight arrival, but I found the Singaporeans to be a warm and gracious people. The restaurant buffet had been kept open - part of the airline's appeasement programme - and at 1am I was afforded my first taste of soft-shell crabs, battered and deep fried. I loved them, and coupled with oatmeal-coated king prawns, cold beer and pleasant company from other misplaced travellers they made a perfect supper. I retired to my comfortable room, switched on the telly to watch Obama's live inauguration, and fell asleep to the drone of political pundits...


I awoke with my thoughts on breakfast. Western breakfasts in Eastern countries can be rather hit and miss and this was no exception but they had tried, bless 'em. I deftly sidestepped the last remaining frankfurter and the festering franken-beans. I avoided the porridgey gloops and noodley broths with no little shame, feeling as though I really should try a native's breakfast. I just couldn't though. Jet lag and a hangover took the decisions for me.





I had toasted light rye bread with scrambled eggs and ketchup, a tired croissant and a bowl of fruit salad. There were a couple of twists, however. Singapore-style scramble is a wonderful thing. Using a wok cooks it much quicker, leaving more moisture and a wonderful, wispy texture. The ketchup was also next-level, laced with sweet chilli sauce. I ate this fine feast with a view of the morning rush hour, observing flat-bed trucks whizzing past with their cargos of wiry scaffolders and lampost-sized bamboo poles for the scaffolding. I sloshed down a few glasses of orange juice and went out to explore the city.

One of the city's many Catholic churches

Building site, Singapore-style

A different class of slum

Arab Street

Mosque viewed from back street

Old vs. New

East vs. West

Typical food hall/market at lunchtime

Lunch was a somewhat less inspiring experience. My late arrival meant a reduced choice. Most dishes had been removed so I ate plain steamed rice with a chilli sambal with some breaded scallops which had been done no favours by the hot lamps. I also had some MSG-laden soup of seafood sticks and other oddities, which was pushed to one side after a couple of challenging mouthfuls. A glass of cold beer was the saving grace, cutting through the pastiness of my palette with customary ease.

I went back to my room to cool down and the next thing I knew I awoke to find it was an hour and a half before my flight was to depart. I wished I could have stayed longer in Singapore. Just goes to show; delays can be a good thing.

With uncustomary swiftness Igot to the airport in time for a lung snack in the fuggy smoking lounge. The flight passed in a haze of warm beer, forgettable films and several unsuccessful attempts to beat the in-flight computer at the 'Hard' setting of backgammon. A distant view of the summit of Mt. Cook peeping through the clouds signalled the approach of New Zealand and the Auckland vista was breathtaking, as airborne arrivals in unfamiliar places often are. Before long I was gratefully sipping chilled Speight's beer, looking forward to what was to come.