Heng Shi Lei.
–
As told by Lim Hong Cher[2]
0430AM
Lim Hong Cher lay awake on the hard wooden floor alongside six other sleeping (and snoring) men in a cramped and poorly ventilated cubicle of a dilapidated three-storey shop-house.[3] For the past four hours, tossing and turning in the miserable confined corner he was relegated to, Hong Cher had been desperately trying to execute the simple act of falling asleep – yet failing to.
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It had been six years since Hong Cher left his hometown in China for Singapore. The plans for a better life first begun with the job at the sago factory where he routinely washed, dried and fried sago. Then came the back-breaking nightmare of working as a coolie at Boat Quay where he carried bags of cement and rice from tongkangs and sampans to the banks of Singapore River – an experience which left his skin scorched, his limbs perpetually aching and his hands permanently calloused. It was also during this period when Hong Cher began to dabble in rickshaw pulling in the afternoons – for the coolie job usually ended at 2pm – as a means of supplementing his measly income. He recalled, with rare pride, how he mastered the skill of rickshaw pulling within a fortnight after consistently practicing with a rented battered rickshaw (which he would eventually christened as Ah Huat) under the guidance of a fellow rickshaw puller who taught him how to turn when pulling the rickshaw (slow down); how to maintain control going uphill (maintain a tighter grip); and how to go downhill (keep a secure footing).
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Today, Hong Cher expects that he will continue to ride his trusty rickshaw in the afternoon; his brief stint as a coolie however, had come to a timely end and in approximately two hours’ time, Hong Cher would be embarking on a new ‘morning’ job as a night-soil carrier, a career-switch driven by the prospects of greater stability and permanence (his previous pay as a coolie was largely unstable and depended on the number of sacks carried a day) coupled with the flexibility of its working hours which in turn, allowed Hong Cher to continue juggling a second job in order to make ends meet. However, while the job-switch made absolute financial sense, Hong Cher could not help but feel a nagging sense of unease, for he was highly aware of the stigma attached to the job – the common view was that the toti (nightsoil carrier) occupied the least ‘respectable’ position in the hierarchy of jobs available to a coolie – and this innate fear of losing ‘face’ was probably the underlying cause of Hong Cher’s insomnia tonight…
530AM
Hong Cher was awoken by a rough shrug by his roommate, indicating that it was time to wake up for work – he had slept (!), albeit for an hour. All around him, sleeping men were slowly starting to stir; loud exaggerated yawns coupled with mumbled curses filled the room. Those who were fortunate enough to be able to afford mattresses were rolling their beddings to be stored in a corner of the room while others silently drifted out of the room to prepare for yet another day of hard labour.
As per his usual routine, Hong Cher made a quick beeline for the jamban (toilet) – basically represented by an iron bucket housed within the smallest (and smelliest) cubicle at the top floor of the shop-house. Already there were several men waiting in line, some equipped with handkerchiefs, ointment or cigarettes in anticipation of facing the horrific stench generated by the night’s cumulated matter of the twenty individuals living in the shop-house. As Hong Cher went about doing his business, his half-awake brain stupidly rationalised that he should try lifting up the (almost full) bucket to ‘practice’ for his new job…and he clumsily spilled some of its wretched contents onto his feet in the process of doing so.
Cursing at his idiocy, Hong Cher rushed down the narrow stairway and out of the shop-house, where he then began brushing his feet against the cool concrete pavement in an attempt to rid the ghastly matter (and its accompanying stench) off him. As he stood there, frantically repeating what must have seemed like a bizarre action (this in turn, resulted in quite a few stares from curious onlookers), Hong Cher groggily took in the sights, sounds and smells of a gradually rousing Chinatown. Many other bleary-eyed coolies were emerging from the neighbouring shop-houses, slowly making their way to work. Rickshaws and trishaws, towed by men in their distinctive tight fitting ‘coolie blue’ shorts and a straw hat, rushed through the streets, some carrying passengers towards the town area, schools, and brothels while others hauled huge jars to the market, carting fish, fruits, vegetables and other goods. Itinerant hawkers and marketers, with their shoulder sticks (consisting of a box on one side and a basket on the other) and travelling food-carts congregated at the edges of the roads, peddling fresh produce as well as cooked food – and the aromas of congee, Chinese mee and beancurd soup filled the air.
However the slight mishap earlier had rid Hong Cher of his appetite and upon confirming that his feet were indeed ‘unsoiled’, he turned towards the opposite direction to embark on a forty minutes’ walk towards his new workplace – the Albert Street Nightsoil Disposal Station.
0630AM
The Albert Street Nightsoil Disposal Station was an enormous outdoor complex that stood forlorn at the edge of the street. On one side of the complex lay a large open parking space where dozens of hand-carts and nightsoil vans were housed. On the other side however, stood a huge open concrete pit which was sub-divided into smaller working stations via strategically placed wooden planks. This was probably the place where nightsoil were deposited and disposed for it emulated an overwhelming pungent stench which hit Hong Cher in the gut (literally) as he entered the compound.
Nauseated and grateful for his decision to skip breakfast, Hong Cher quickly made his way towards the crowd forming at the edge of the complex which was (thankfully) located at the maximum distance away from the disposal station. At the centre of the crowd stood a stern bespectacled man of about fifty years old – whom Hong Cher rationalised, was probably the clerk as people were reciting their names to him while he in turn, made a marking on his paper – presumably taking their attendance – before gesturing the individual towards one of the various groups behind him. As Hong Cher stood waiting for his turn, a group of men caught his attention. They were visibly isolated from the rest, mulling sullenly at the edge of the car-park as they loaded empty iron buckets onto the nightsoil vehicles. They wore a different set of clothes compared to the majority – floppy hats (instead of straw-hats) matched with thick, mustard-coloured shirts and pants (rather than cotton singlets) as well as knee-length boots (most men in the compound were bare-footed). They did not look Chinese yet they seemed oddly familiar and a closer examination revealed, to Hong Cher’s utter revulsion, that these men were Japanese[4]!
As he pondered upon this shocking disclosure, Hong Cher had not realise that it was his turn to have his attendance marked and he was now being faced with a glowering clerk (as well as dozens of men waiting impatiently behind him). Gulping, Hong Cher stammered nervously, “Lim Hong Cher”. On a second thought, he added, “It’s my first day of work”.
“Outside or inside?” The clerk drawled wearily.
Hong Cher gulped, his ears reddening. He had no idea what the clerk meant by that statement.
The clerk sighed irritability and repeated the sentence, this time accompanied with exaggerated hand gestures. “Inside?” He gesticulated dramatically at the concrete pit. “Or Outside?” His thumb jerked towards the vehicles. Sniggers rose from the crowd.
“He asking if you want to wash sai here or go outside to collect sai.” The man behind Hong Cher offered helpfully.
More snickering.
Hong Cher’s entire face was flushed now, “Outside, I want outside.”
The clerk raised his eyebrows slightly and motioned Hong Cher towards the group of Chinese men standing directly behind him. Despite his humiliation, Hong Cher silently thanked the gods (and the clerk) that he wasn’t being directed to the Japanese – oh imagine the horrors if he was forced to work with those bastards!
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After attendance was marked and the division of manpower completed, the clerk then briefed each group on their assigned division for the day and Hong Cher’s final group of five nightsoil carriers was instructed to proceed to Market Street.
As Market Street was located some distance away from their current location, Hong Cher’s group opted to travel via a nightsoil van. As the group approached the vehicle however, Hong Cher was puzzled as to how the group of seven (which included the clerk and driver) would be able to fit onto the van. You see, the seating capacity of the van could only hold two people at the front; the back of the vehicle was made up of 32 compartments specially designed to hold the nightsoil buckets, rather than humans. As his colleagues piled onto the van, the answer to Hong Cher’s conundrum became clear: The clerk and the designated driver sat at the front while the rest would stand on a plank that was adjoined to the back of the van, with a thick fraying rope for them to hold on to. Hong Cher gulped at what seemed like an extremely dangerous mode of transport[5] (a far cry from his beloved trishaw Ah Huat!) and he spent the next ten minutes grabbing the rope for his dear life as the nightsoil van sped towards its destination.
0700AM
As their van approached Market Street – which at 7AM, was teeming with hordes of people going about their morning activities, Hong Cher experienced for the first time, the (almost immediate) repulsion people had towards the nightsoil van and its passengers. Hawkers swiftly moved their equipment away as the vehicle approached, shooting murderous glares towards the group (for disrupting their businesses perhaps?); Mothers instinctively hurried their children in the opposite direction who in turn, wrinkled their noses and pulled faces at the group. While Hong Cher himself might have been guilty of these actions on a few occasions, this was the first time he was on the other receiving end of these collective disdain and the experience left him dazed, for he had never felt so much revulsion directed towards him in his life.
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The van parked at the edge of the neighbourhood, away from the hustle and bustle on the main street. And this, the clerk announced – though mainly for Hong Cher’s benefit, would represent the collection point. As the group disembarked from the vehicle, the clerk handed them a bamboo pole each. Each toti then swiftly seized two empty iron buckets from one of the thirty-two compartments of the van, attached them to the end of their bamboo poles before setting off for their respective destinations.
Hong Cher stood by the side as all the action unfolded, unsure of what he was supposed to do. Noticing his uncertainty, the clerk motioned Hong Cher to follow one of the senior toti who was already making his way towards the back-lanes of the nearest shop-house. Hong Cher jogged to catch up with his colleague who was by then, already halfway up the spiral stairs[6] leading to the backdoor of the shop-house’s jamban.
Introducing himself as Ah Loy, the senior toti’s first words to Hong Cher was to mentally prepare himself as “the buckets in this area have not been collected and replaced for more than a week because of the strikes.[7]”
Ah, the Municipal Strikes that just ended two weeks ago. Hong Cher recalled a distant memory centring on the animated discussions of a group of men living in the same shop-house as him who were employed in the Municipal service. Their excitement in the initial days – derived from the promises of increased pay and improved working conditions – were contagious. However, as the strikes dragged on – eventually lasting for a month, their enthusiasm gradually dwindled into a dull frustration; they milled around the neighbourhood, searching for odd-jobs in hopes of earning some income while waiting impatiently for the strikes to end.
Before Hong Cher could respond to Ah Loy’s warnings however, a dull clank (Ah Loy had lifted the metal port that served as the opening to the jamban), followed by a whiff of the most revolting and overwhelming stench that Hong Cher had ever encountered enveloped his nostrils, causing him to retch – even Ah Loy wrinkled his nose in disgust.
The sight that the two nightsoil carriers encountered was perhaps, even more ghastly than the smell: inside the latrine cubicle laid a concrete slab with a hole in the centre, where an oval iron bucket was positioned. However Hong Cher could hardly recognise that the thing was the same bucket that he regularly used in his living quarters – for this bucket was now buried beneath a mountain made up from a week’s worth of human excrement. In addition, tiny white maggots had already developed on the decomposing matter – alongside flies and cockroaches, all buzzing and milling around the bucket. It was a truly repulsive scene that seemed to have liquefied Hong Cher’s insides and he instinctively turned towards the opposite direction, hoping to escape the truly horrifying stench – but it enveloped him from all directions, attacking his nostrils, poisoning his lungs with its toxicity.
“Don’t turn the other direction!” Ah Loy croaked, “Look and learn!”
Hong Cher reluctantly turned back towards the gruesome scene and watched in fascination (and horror) as Ah Loy first attached a lid over the bucket (while swatting the insects away) and with considerable strength and skill, heaved it out of the concrete hole and onto his bamboo pole – a loud screech ensued – while positioning a clean bucket in its place. Some of its wretched, over-spilled contents inevitably splattered onto his clothes but Ah Loy seemed nonplussed – it was probably a regular occurrence.
Ah Loy, panting with effort, handed the now heavier pole to Hong Cher and with a wicked glint in his eyes, he muttered mischievously, “Now your turn.”
——————————————————————————-
Five minutes later, Hong Cher opened the rusty metal port and the same horrid stench engulfed his nostrils. Wincing, he turned his head away as he stuck his hand into the latrine cubicle to grab hold of the iron bucket. On hindsight, this was probably an extremely stupid decision on Hong Cher’s part – for before he could successfully locate the handles, a loud grunt – followed by a soft plop of warm mass landed directly into Hong Cher’s hand.
Hong Cher screeched in disgust as another horrified scream too, echoed from within the latrine cubicle. This was followed by a tirade of angry mumblings as the guilty party hastily exited from the cubicle, “Stupid toti! One week never come and the one time you come, come when I pang sai!”
Dumbfounded, Hong Cher turned towards Ah Loy for help, and found him doubled over in hysterics, hanging onto the railing for support. In between gasps of uncontrollable laughter, he gestured Hong Cher to empty the contents on his hand into the empty bucket before heaving the filled bucket from the latrine cubicle and positioning the now not-so-empty bucket in its place. Attaching the filled bucket to the other end of Hong Cher’s bamboo pole (Hong Cher’s body now visibly sagged under its combined weight of 100 katis), Ah Loy chuckled, “In my last ten years, I see many people pang sai when I collect their sai, but today is my first time seeing a toti being pang sai on!”
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The duo made their way back to the collection point (Ah Loy was still giggling), where they slotted the filled nightsoil buckets into the van’s compartments while retrieving clean buckets to be attached to the bamboo pole before setting off to the next shop-house. This process was repeated another six times before the district was completed and the nightsoil van filled with overflowing buckets. By that time, Hong Cher’s white cotton singlet had been dyed a dark, murky brown at various places – a result of the multiple mishaps where he accidentally spilled nightsoil onto himself (he stopped caring after the second time) while manoeuvring the filled bucket vis-à-vis the clean one – it would take him two weeks before he successfully mastered this skill, which in turn, enabled him to confidently wear his white cotton singlet to work again.
The group piled onto the nightsoil van again as they returned back to the disposal station. There, Hong Cher and his group enjoyed a twenty minutes break as they waited for the buckets to be washed. They took the opportunity to grab breakfast at a nearby tau huay stall where they were met with disapproving stares from the hawker, who eyed their browned clothes with suspicion.
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Their next assigned division was Kempas Road, a piece of news met with palpable glee from Hong Cher’s colleagues, a reaction that initially puzzled Hong Cher but soon after reaching their destination, he understood why. From the outset, one could tell that Kempas Road was a wealthy neighbourhood. Unlike the dilapidated shop-houses that crammed the streets of Chinatown, large beautifully-maintained terraces were spaciously positioned along Kempas Road, with motor cars, private trishaws and the occasional rickshaws parked neatly by the road-side.
Ah Loy cackled joyfully and motioned Hong Cher to follow him as they approached one of the terraces. However to Hong Cher’s surprise, Ah Loy did not direct Hong Cher towards the jambans but instead, boldly sauntered to the front door – where a frowning Ang Mor lady was waiting.
“Hi M’am, do you require nightsoil services today?” Ah Loy made an exaggerated gesture to his bamboo pole.
That was a weird, if not redundant question to ask, Hong Cher mulled.
As if the Ang Mor could read his mind, she answered angrily “Of course I do! You ingrates have not come to my house for the past week! I did not pay $1.20 to the Municipal for such service!”
Ah Loy grinned, revealing his yellowing teeth (the Ang Mor visibly recoiled in horror) before responding, “Ah M’am, I never receive the $1.20. That one the Municipal take, I very poor. But if you give me 30 cents now, I will remove your nightsoil immediately!”
Ah Loy was blackmailing the Ang Mor! It finally dawned on Hong Cher – as the Ang Mor furiously threw the 30 cents into Ah Loy’s hands – as to why the others seemed so joyful upon being assigned this division.
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Ten minutes later, Hong Cher was shaking nervously as he knocked on the front door of the adjoining house. After Ah Loy’s ‘demonstration’, it was Hong Cher’s turn to practice what had become a fundamental skill of being a nightsoil carrier in 1947 – blackmailing.
A large, beefy Ang Mor man (with hardly any neck) answered the door and glared at the two totis with palpable disdain, “WHAT DO YOU WANT COOLIE?”
Ah Loy nudged the terrified Hong Cher to reply. “Erm, Sir.” He squeaked, “Do you need us to remove your nightsoil today?”
“OF COURSE I DO. WHAT STUPID QUESTION IS THIS COOLIE?” the Ang Mor thundered, his plump face turning into a deep shade of red.
Ah Loy stepped to help a now-frozen (and mute) Hong Cher reply, “Sir.” He replied sweetly, “We need just a small fee for us to remove your nightsoil. For 30 cents, we will -”
“OVER MY DEAD BODY COOLIE. I WILL NOT BE BLACKMAILED BY IDIOTS LIKE YOU!” The An Mor roared and he then spit on the duo’s faces before slammed the door behind him.
The two men stood in silence for a good minute before Ah Loy, calmly wiped the spit off his face as he whispered to a shell-shocked Hock Cher, “It’s ok Hong Cher. We will get back at him for disrespecting us.”
——————————————————————————-
The revenge plan concocted by Ah Loy – master prankster – materialised just after the group finished collecting dozens of nightsoil pails from the district. However, instead of depositing the nightsoil pails into the compartments in the van, Ah Loy directed his fellow comrades to dump the contents of the pails at the front door of the Ang Mor man before they made a hasty exit from the district.
0200pm
By the time 2pm arrived – signalling the end of the working day of a nightsoil coolie, Hong Cher was utterly and completely exhausted. His group had visited two more divisions after what would be known as the Ang Mor fiasco, and successfully extorted an astounding $6 in blackmail money, which was divided equally among them. “The bonuses of the day” Ah Loy cackled happily as he handed Hong Cher his share.
As Hong Cher got ready to leave the complex with his fellow totis, the clerk tapped Hong Cher on his back, “Will you be coming back for work tomorrow?”
“Yes, of course.” Hong Cher answered, puzzled at what seemed like a rhetorical question.
The clerk looked momentarily taken aback before breaking into a rare smile, “That’s great.” He patted Hong Cher’s back, “You were the only one out of the seven new recruits we had today who stayed on.”
Glancing at Hong Cher’s shocked expression, the clerk explained “One see bucket full of sai cannot tahan and quit. Another try to carry but cannot move. This job not everybody can tahan one.”
He then patted Hong Cher on the back, “Glad you able to tahan even though you kana pangsai on. (“And pui on!” Ah Loy added mischievously) See you tomorrow Hong Cher.”
And with that, Hong Cher had successfully ended his first day of work as a toti.
0300pm
The work day for Hong Cher had unfortunately not ended yet. After a quick lunch at a roadside stall followed by a much-needed bath back at his lodging house – where Hong Cher changed into his ‘uniform’ – ‘coolie blue’ shorts and a straw hat, he peddled Ah Huat to Raffles Place to begin his second job as a rickshaw coolie.
Raffles Place at this hour was teeming with upper-class Ang Mor women making their social rounds or having shopping sprees and this place at this timing, Hong Cher had discovered, provided a lucrative demand for rickshaw services. Sure enough, within five minutes of mulling outside a shop –
“COOLIE, BRING ME TO KEMPAS STREET AS FAST AS POSSIBLE!”
Kempas Street. The familiar deep thunderous voice. “Coolie”.
Instinctively, Hong Cher turned around (a stupid mistake, on hindsight) and came face-to-face with the same Ang Mor that spat on his face just a few hours ago – now squashed into Ah Huat which was visibly sagging under his immense weight.
Within seconds, Hong Cher’s face was drained of colour. He gulped, hoping that the Ang Mor would not recognise him…
For a moment, it seemed as though the Ang Mor failed to discern that standing in front of him was the same toti who helped dumped nightsoil on his doorstep. Then his expression changed from ambivalence to puzzlement and then, pure, seething anger.
“YOU!”
Hong Cher was half-contemplating of abandoning his rickshaw and his seething customer and making a run for it. However, he knew he could not abandon the years of savings being spent on acquiring Ah Huat. Instead, he chose the next best possible strategy – feigning ignorance.
“Kempas Road Sir?”
The Ang Mor’s face – now twisted into an ugly smirk – revealed that he had different plans (or punishments) for Hong Cher. He purposely rested his full weight on poor Ah Huat, which was now groaning under his load, guffawed evilly, “No coolie. There’re a few places that I need to go now.”
0400pm
An hour later, Hong Cher was wheezing and panting heavily, his clothes were soaked in his perspiration, his muscles ached excruciatingly and he felt as though he was on the brink of collapsing right there in Kempas Street.
For the past hour, the Ang Mor had exacted his revenge on Hong Cher by dictating Hong Cher to embark on what had become an almost hour-long journey under merciless heat of the afternoon. This was exacerbated by his demands of Hong Cher to climb every hill and slope in sight – a task that was made more strenuous by his colossal mass. Upon reaching the final destination of Kempas Street (Hong Cher never thought he would made it alive there), the Ang Mor absent-mindedly lumbered off the rickshaw, spat on a now doubled-over Hong Cher (again) and tottered back into his house – without paying Hong Cher a single cent.
0500pm
Hong Cher used whatever was left of his strength to drag himself and Ah Huat away from Kempas Road –he never ever wanted to step foot at that place again – and back to his lodging house at New Bridge Road.
As Hong Cher lay on the same spot where he had slept twelve hours before, he drowsily reflected on the events of the day. Interestingly, his final thoughts of the day as he drifted off into a much-anticipated and much-needed slumber lay not with the now extended ang mor fiasco (for today has gone) but rather, the lessons that he had learnt today as on his first day of being a toti – for these were the lessons that he would carry with him tomorrow as he embark on his second day of work as well as for the rest of what he hoped, would be a long-lasting career as a nightsoil carrier.
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Lessons on Becoming A Good Toti – Day 1
- Best not to have breakfast before starting work, especially if one is visiting a district that had not been cleaned for days.
- Always, ALWAYS check if anybody pang-sai-ing in the jamban before sticking hand in to collect the bucket.
- It is lucrative (as per rickshaw-pulling) to blackmail Ang Mor especially Ang Mor ladies.
- Avoid Kempas Street Number 51 (and Kempas Street in general) at all costs.
-The End-
(Word count: 4378)
Bibliography
Oral history interviews
Arumugam Govindasamy (1991) Transcripts of interview conducted by the Oral History Department, National Archives of Singapore, 22 June, Acc#1284.
Chan, Kin Fai (2005) Transcripts of interview conducted by the Oral History Department, National Archives of Singapore, 23 April, Acc#2935
Tan Swee Teck (2000) Transcripts of interview conducted by the Oral History Department, National Archives of Singapore, 26 March, Acc# 2276
Lim, Hong Cher (1986) Transcripts of interview conducted by the Oral History Department, National Archives of Singapore, 27 December, Acc#745
Lee Tian Kit (1984) Transcripts of interview conducted by the Oral History Department, National Archives of Singapore, 4 December, Acc# 499
Photographs
National Archives of Singapore
Blogs
Sarikei. “History: Sarikei Night Soil Man – The boogeyman.” Accessed October 11, 2014, http://sarikei-time-capsule.blogspot.sg/2012/11/history-sarikei-night-soil-man-boogeyman.html
Chun See Lum. “Tribute to a Humble Profession.” Accessed November 11, 2014, http://goodmorningyesterday.blogspot.sg/2006/09/tribute-to-humble-profession.html
THIMBUKTU. “Memories of Smell – Sewerage.” Accessed November 11, 2014, http://www.blogtoexpress.blogspot.sg/2012/02/memories-of-smell-sewerage.html
Ghetto Singapore. “Bucket Swap of the Spiral Staircases.” Accessed November 11, 2014, http://www.ghettosingapore.com/bucket-swap-of-the-spiral-staircases/
Newspapers
The Straits Times
The Singapore Free Press
Memoirs
Yeo, Hong Eng. The Little Red Cliff. Singapore: Partridge Singapore, 2013.
Books
Warren, James Francis. Rickshaw coolie : a people’s history of Singapore (1880-1940). Singapore : Oxford University Press, 1986.
Liu, Gretchen. Singapore : a pictorial history 1819-2000. Singapore : Archipelago Press published in association with the National Heritage Board, 1999.
[1] Context: The essay is set one week after the end of the Municipal Strikes.
[2] This essay is loosely based on the oral history account of Lim Hong Cher 林鸿慈 who was a nightsoil carrier cum rickshaw puller in the 1950s and 1960s but for the purpose of this paper, it seeks to re-imagine Hong Cher’s life in 1947 as he embarked on his first day of work as a nightsoil carrier.
[3] Lim Hong Cher was one of the 135,000 people cramped into the grid of two to three-storey shophouses of just over a square mile in the Chinatown area, stretching from New Bridge Road (where Hong Cher was staying at) down to the sea.
[4] There were some 2,000 Japanese prisoners of war (POWs) who held the position of a “Nightsoil Carrier” in 1947. The forced recruitment of Japanese POWs into this vocation was probably done as an act of revenge by the British who themselves, experienced a similar fate during their time as prisoners of war during the Japanese Occupation
[5] He would discover five days later, that conditions would become even more perilous on rainy days where they were was expected to maintain balance on a now slippery plank without shelter (He could understand why carrying an umbrella was useless almost immediately into the journey – the vehicle was travelling on the road, puddles of water would inevitably drenched him anyway).
[6] The spiral staircase allowed the night-soil carrier to enter from the backlane to different storeys without having to pass through the main body of the shop-house.
[7] The Municipal Strike, involving seven Municipal Unions (including the Nightsoil Labourers Union) was a month-long strike lasting from 21st-January to 21st February 1947, in which 10,000 labourers employed on essential services who stopped turning up for work.
1947: Singapore Imagined 