Revisiting Singapore's Shangri-La
The Telegraph 14 Jan 08;
At the weekend, Singaporeans used to flock to Sentosa Island, a grimly Disney-like resort that could have been in Florida. But there is a greener, more beguiling alternative now at Pulau Ubin, a largely undeveloped island off the north-east coast that has been turned into a conservation area.
After more than 30 years, Max Davidson returns to Singapore's Shangri-La hotel to find paradise transformed.
'Has Tony Blair ever stayed here?" I ask, gawping at the presidential suite and its views across Singapore. "No," says my minder. "But his American friend has." She gives a sly wink. "American friend? You don't mean George?" "Uh-huh." Another wink. "And the Beckhams." In fact, the presidential suite in the Valley Wing of the Shangri-La Hotel is so enormous that it could accommodate the Bushes, the Beckhams, plus hangers-on, all at once.
When I first visited the Shangri-La with my parents in 1972, it had only just opened and, compared with the colonial splendours of Raffles, seemed brash and unsophisticated. Now, particularly in the new Valley Wing, it offers the kind of sumptuousness one associates with the Oriental in Bangkok or the Peninsula in Hong Kong.
From the moment you are greeted by the doorman - a character straight out of Gilbert and Sullivan, with an extravagant moustache and even more extravagant hat - you are in a fairytale world. Even the harpist in the lounge, in a red ballgown, looks like a supermodel.
The food is excellent - I have never been so spoiled for choice at breakfast. Omelette or waffles? Mangos or curried prawns? Danish pastries or Japanese noodles? My mind flies back 30 years, eating bog-standard Chinese food at the Shangri-La with my parents, struggling with the chopsticks.
But then Singapore is that sort of place. There never was a nanny state that took its nannying quite so seriously. It is the Mary Poppins of the Orient. Earnest little signs urge you to use sunblock and to queue to the left of the notice and to be careful when you get off the escalator and to use your brakes when you cycle downhill. But behind the control freakery lies dynamism. The cynics sneer, only to be wrong-footed by the pace of progress.
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In the five years since I last visited, Singapore has not just spawned more banks, skyscrapers and malls, but let its hair down in all kinds of unexpected ways. You see everything from novelty condom shops to hospital-themed bars where the punters sit in wheelchairs, drinking beer from intravenous bags.
Boat Quay, which used to have the liveliest night life in Singapore, has been overtaken by Clarke Quay, a raucous enclave of louche bars, strange restaurants and noisy nightclubs. Shut your eyes and you could be in Amsterdam or Barcelona. There is cosmopolitan excitement in the air, the drumbeat of a thriving, modern city. Singaporeans always knew how to shop: now they know how to party. There is a revolution taking place, quiet but remorseless, and it is thrilling to witness.
And what of that older, gentler Singapore; that world of pink gins at sundown, girls playing tennis in long skirts and bougainvillea running riot on the veranda? You can still catch glimpses of it; indeed Singapore, having once made a mantra of economic progress, is starting to lay greater emphasis on its heritage. The National Museum has just had a refit and contains vivid reminders of the cosy colonial world - balls, tea parties, cinemas showing silent movies - that was so brutally interrupted by the Second World War.
Some of the best restaurants in the city are housed in some of the oldest buildings. I had a memorable meal in Graze at Rochester Park - where the black-and-white bungalows used to belong to British officers - and an equally memorable one at Au Jardin, in the heart of the old Botanic Gardens.
At the weekend, Singaporeans used to flock to Sentosa Island, a grimly Disney-like resort that could have been in Florida. But there is a greener, more beguiling alternative now at Pulau Ubin, a largely undeveloped island off the north-east coast that has been turned into a conservation area.
You cross the straits on a bumboat, then walk or cycle through the rainforest, in an environment that could hardly be more different from the forest of skyscrapers across the water. Exotically coloured spoonbills swoop through the trees, wings flapping. Wild pigs bustle through the undergrowth. There is the odd tumbledown house, with rotting veranda and leaky roof.
It is like a community frozen in time, a reminder of pre-independence Singapore, before the good times rolled. Returning by taxi to the Shangri-La - for cocktails under the stars, followed by yet another sumptuous meal - takes less than half an hour. But, at another level, it feels like leapfrogging from the 19th century to the 21st in one exhilarating bound.
