She is a devoted lover. She keeps her promises, doesn’t give me a bumpy ride and seldom breaks down. When she says she’ll come and see me in five minutes, I see her coming five minutes later. She doesn’t leave me hanging, though we’re technically suspended eight metres from the ground most of the time.
She has this sexy, soothing voice that gives you that feeling everything’ll be all right, even when all hell is breaking loose. Here she is speaking, with the lovely, deep accent of an Englishwoman:
I am, of course, talking about Singapore’s MRT. It’s not a stretch to say she’s one of the most – if not the most – efficient and reliable transport systems in the world.
Here are some Googable and Wiki-findable facts about her:
* Opened in 1987, the MRT is the second-oldest metro system in southeast Asia, after our very own LRT system. (That’s why she’s just my No. 2.)
* Built at an initial cost of S$5 billion (around P150 billion), the MRT has 64 stations – either aboveground or underground, except for one, which is at ground level – and over 109.4 kilometres of lines. Her coaches carry some 1.5 million passengers each day.
* Most underground stations are deep and hardened enough to withstand conventional aerial bomb attacks, and they do serve as bomb shelters.
She’s not as sleek as Japan’s bullet train or as fast as Shanghai’s maglev, but she does what she’s supposed to. She does, however, have her moods, especially when she’s shabbily treated. In 1993, one train, unable to stop in time because of an oil spill on the track, rammed into another one waiting in one station, injuring 132 passengers.
And she can be, through no fault of hers, a femme fatale. I don’t know what it is that drives people to end their lives by jumping in front of a speeding train – maybe they think it’s romantic, sadistic or very public, as any death on TV or, in our age, YouTube is seldom in vain but is often a macabre form of entertainment – but at least 10 people have committed suicide over the past 20 years by jumping off a platform just when a train is approaching. And there had been loonies who had thrown someone else onto the tracks.
* * *
My home station is the Woodlands MRT station – home because it’s the closest one to my flat. It’s one of the busiest stations along the North-East line, as it is attached to a rather big mall and a bus interchange and because it is a waystation to Johor Bahru, a frontier land in Malaysia I’ve heard so much about that, for Pinoys like me who like scoring cheap cigarettes and alcohol, may as well be part of Singapore.
All stations have these LED and plasma monitors hanging from ceilings that announce just exactly when the next train will arrive, so you’ll know when you have to run like you were Seraph chasing the Trainman or whether you still have time to check your hair in the toilet.
I used to think that the numbers that appeared on those screens were just an approximation; like when it said “1 minute”, it actually meant “1 minute and 30 seconds”. Turns out, when you see “1 minute”, the train will really be at the platform in a minute – even less. The trains are never late. In Gandalf’s words: They are never late or too early; they arrive precisely when they mean to.
They are also very reliable. They will not leave you stuck for an hour in between stations. They carry you from one station to another at exactly the same amount of time they promise. You don’t have to worry about getting late, but don’t bet on reaching your destination ahead of schedule.
I see people normally meeting up this way: One is already on a train tapping in his cell phone where his train is, as the person he’s going to meet makes his way to a platform a few stations ahead. The train’s schedule is so predictable, that people actually set up their little rendezvous right inside the train itself.
The downside with all this predictability, of course, is that it magnifies the drudgery of a monotonous life akin to working in a post office that I think already afflicts and embraces nearly everyone stepping into the trains.
My mistress’ bosom may be warm, but her womb is sadly barren.
You can see it in the hundreds and thousands of souls going in and out of the trains everyday. It is unmistakable. The loneliness. The need to reach out and be touched. The maddening indifference. The need to escape. The insanity of a predictable life.
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