I Only Came For The Music: 33 - Beaches – Part Two
...A large, white sulphur-crested cockatoo flew into the flat and perched on the back of the settee and looked around, very self-possessed and sure of itself. Then, having made up its mind, it flew over to where Hugh was sitting and took possession of his big toe...
Betty McKay tells of the day a bird with attitude flew into her life when she and her husband Hugh were living in Singapore.
One Sunday morning in Singapore, as we were getting ready to go down to the beach, we had an uninvited visitor. A large, white sulphur-crested cockatoo flew into the flat and perched on the back of the settee and looked around, very self-possessed and sure of itself. Then, having made up its mind, it flew over to where Hugh was sitting and took possession of his big toe.
This, we soon discovered, was a bird with attitude. I don't know where Polly came from but wherever that was I'm pretty sure they were happy to see the back of it.
Initially, we were all excited and happy to see our exotic visitor. The children especially wanted it to stay; they loved it. Unfortunately pretty Polly loved Hugh and hated the rest of us and wouldn't let us near. That bird adored my husband so much, it would have pecked the rest of us and the furniture to pieces.
After a few days of unsuccessful attempts at bird taming, we enlisted the services of a kindly vet. He separated Polly from her beloved and took her squawking, off into the night.
One weekend we drove over the causeway up along the east coast of Malaysia to Jason's Bay. It was heavenly - mile after mile of white glistening sand stretching as far as the eye could see. We collected some of the prettiest seashells I've ever seen.
Arriving home, I washed and scrubbed them and laid them carefully to dry out on the balcony. On Sunday morning we opened up the shutters, alas, no shells remained - not one. I realised then that they weren't empty.
I'd carried home hermit crabs, and they had vanished into the night. Down the walls of the flats they had scrambled and marched far away to the sea. Brave little moluscs, for it is a long road that has no turning - even longer if you are a crab and walk sideways!
Off the coast of Singapore lies Blakamati Island. To get there we had to hire one of the little rowing boats at Raffles Quay, just below the famous hotel. It was necessary to haggle the price of a return journey with the boatmen. These characters looked really villainous, but they didn't let us down and we were never left marooned.
On the island was a kampong with a few atap huts, a well and herds of small, pretty goats, all a soft tan colour. The beach itself was pale gold, but further along it became dank mangrove swamps, which supported land crabs amongst the wild life. When the tide was out they made a great clatter in the dark roots of the mangrove trees.
We always left the island well before dark because, as the shadows became longer, the place took on quite a sinister aspect. Walking down to the little quayside we bought huge slices of watermelon, which we ate as we waited for our boatman to take us back to the mainland.
When Richard, our son, back-packed around the world, he re-visited Singapore, spending three days there. On his return he told us that Blakamati Island has another name and is now transformed into a Disney-like theme park. Chinatown is gone, and with land claimed from the sea Singapore is larger; the city's buildings seeming to touch the sky.
Singapore Island has one of the most thriving economies in the world. "You would hate it now," he said, and I suppose we would. No more boatmen looking like pirates, no more Chinatown with its unique sights, sounds and smells. Ah well! That's progress for you!
I remember, with most affection, the Singaporean and Malaysian beaches because at that time very few people visited them. Changi beach and Port Dixon were lovely.
They were 'civilized', I suppose, more like the ones we found later in Europe and America -with amenities, changing rooms, restaurants, comfort stations and people - hordes of people. The beaches smelt not of seaweed but sun tan oil, and the aroma of ethnic foods. We liked them, but they were not as exciting as the deserted beaches we found for ourselves.
A lonely beach, whether it is in Cornwall or Cape Cod, gives me a sense of rebirth. It is the slightly rank, primeval smell, the damp sticky touch of salt on my skin and the surging sound of wind and sea that invites me back. That tantalizing feeling of expectation that in the next little bay, round an escarpment of rocks, I might discover anything from a message in a bottle to a beached galleon.
The intense light you find nowhere else is magical, and the thrill of looking out at a horizon that goes on forever makes beaches for me idyllic and enchanted places.
