Today will be a little different. No Ukraine, but plenty of other entirely unrelated countries. At least that’s what I thought. As I was writing this article, I met a man who spent several years of his life in close contact with some of this substack’s recurring characters.

So what is this about? If anything, today’s theme is confluence. The Malacca Straight. All paths lead to the Pacific, and all must pass through Singapore. Life and geopolitics.

When I was young, my favourite novel was Moby Dick. In particular, the first paragraph. A few weeks ago, I purchased a one way ticket abroad, somewhat in the spirit of that famous passage. The past 12 hours were spent reading a much shorter novel than Moby Dick, but one which covers much the same ground, or rather, water.

Today was spent in a rather haphazard manner. Lounging about, I realized that the disparate, random strands of the day all came together. Singapore, Fiji, Switzerland, and Australia. And even Ukraine and Russia. George Soros. America.

I’ve spent the day in Singapore, reading a novel called Imperium by the Swiss novelist Christian Kracht, published in 2012.

I thought that today’s 22 hour layover was going to be in Dubai or some other bland Gulf city. Instead, as I realized looking at my ticket yesterday, it was to be spent in Singapore. Until today, I always assumed there is little separating Singapore from Dubai, and I hence planned on spending the entire layover in the confines of the airport, writing, reading, and sleeping. I saw no use in wasting time.

Arriving at 3am, I spent a few hours writing up a new article, finishing it, and realizing I had little desire to read or sleep in an airport, or at least terminal, that is much smaller than I remember, or imagine it being. Having consumed a rather disappointing bihun goreng with bland dry chicken, I decided I might as well tour the city in search of something more appetizing.

Somewhat impaired by my sleep-deprived state, entering and exiting the same stop of a circular airport train twice, I finally found a bus exiting the city. Any bus. At a certain point, I was satisfied it was taking me in the general direction of what I understood to be the largest, cheapest food court.

Singapore has always scared and repelled me in equal measure. One of my earliest travel memories was fear in Changi airport. My mother had told me that Singapore is an extraordinarily law-abiding place, and I was terrified that I’d be apprehended by the starched-short-wearing police for some minor infraction, like chewing gum (which I didn’t have) or littering (which I wouldn’t do).

You see, I was actually born in Switzerland, the homeland of today’s novelist, Christian Kracht. The few years I spent in this country, one entirely alien to all branches of my family, thoroughly imbued me with a reverence for arbitrary rules. My understanding of broader laws has always been fuzzier, but in the first few years of my life, I knew that it was a punishable offense to flush the toilet after 10pm. Hence, I was gripped by intense paranoia passing through Changi airport as a young boy.

But exiting Changi airport today, I was both surprised and confirmed in my suspicions. Surprised, because my bags were neither checked by man nor machine as I left the airport. I assumed I would have to do some sort of explaining about the plastic bag of creatine in my backpack. I expected a thoroughly invasive strip search and prepared for it extensively in my head, but received nothing of the sort. Perhaps my Swiss self was even disappointed.

And once I entered a bus, I was also rather confused at the manner of payment. I pressed by credit card to the machine several times, which registered some sort of reaction, but no clear confirmation I had followed the rules, or what rules they were. Perhaps Singapore is such a law-abiding place that it needs no explaining. It all seemed too simple, too easy.

Upon entering the city after a long trip through clean white apartment blocks, my suspicions were confirmed. The city centre looks like an enlarged version of that uniquely soulless city of Brisbane, a city I have been trapped in for several months or weeks at various parts of my life. I always felt that Brisbane was a slightly smaller version of Singapore, despite having never visited the latter. Like Brisbane, Singapore’s immense glass buildings tower over streets largely bereft of people. The streets, of course, are of incomparable cleanliness, but what do I need to tell you that.

And indeed, there are reminders of various confounding rules across the city. It is illegal to vape, with warning of $2,000 fines for this offense festooning even the bathrooms. It seems to be forbidden to smoke anywhere other than backalleys. As I’m writing this, in a Chinatown beer garden, I can see a sign warning patrons to ‘be considerate, talk softly’, with the smaller subtitle ‘after 10pm’. Leaving plates or cups on a table is also a punishable offense, with fines of $200 or more.

Despite being sandwiched between one immense backpack and one smaller one in equatorial heat, I soon began to overcome my prejudices against the city-state. I found a much better nasi lemak, and enjoyed some beer in the stifling heat. Though I found myself lost in some immaculate and expensive ‘ex-pat’ areas, the Chinatown is thoroughly enjoyable. The people are friendly, and I enjoy the rotating cast of well-dressed Singaporean uncles, thoroughly enjoying a day of spirited discussions with their counterparts under large fans, in front of delicious meals.

Some time was wasted trying to operate my gopro. My phone has a chronically broken camera, and I generally dislike the practice of taking photographs, especially on trips. I got a gopro with the idea that its simplicity would take up less of my time, but unfortunately the opposite is true.

The day truly got going once I started reading Kracht’s Imperium. This began while waiting for the supposedly Michelin-awarded nasi lemak stall to return from its break.

I’ve wanted to read this novel for several weeks or months now. I came across it after reading the book Dreamer of the Day, regarding the life, friends, and adventures of the American fascist philosopher, activist, and international man of mystery Francis Yockey.

Yockey’s masterwork, which I am told is not worth reading, is called Imperium. It is apparently most influential among contemporary neo-nazis, particularly those of the misanthropic, accelerationist strain. The (probable British intelligence asset) who came up with the nazi satanist ideology of the Order of the Nine Angles was very obviously drawing on Yockey’s Imperium.

Anyway, while reading the wikipedia page about Yockey’s 1948 tome ‘Imperium: The Philosophy of History and Politics’, I saw a curious note:

In his 2011 book of correspondences with American conductor David Woodard, Swiss writer Christian Kracht recommended Yockey’s Imperium.^[34] The following year, Kracht published his bestselling novel Imperium.

My interest was piqued. When I found out that Imperium was set in a region of the world that has so influenced my life, I knew I had to read it. Not eastern europe, but the south pacific.

But enough of me, back to Kracht. This novelist seems to be feted as a highly significant contemporary writer, even an epochal one. The critical reception of his novels has occasionally tried to simulate fury at his political leanings, which lent the novel more interest in my eyes. I find the overlap between postmodern play and radical politics quite entertaining, as with the literature of the Russian Aleksandr Prokhanov, or the Ukrainian Dmytro Korchinsky.

I was also interested in Imperium because of its subject matter. In short, it follows a deeply idealistic German at the dawn of the 20^th century who inadvertently sets up an island commune around the worship and consumption of the coconut in German New Guinea. Originally dedicated to vegetarianism, he becomes a fanatical ‘cocovore’. Later on, this belief system evolves into a most interesting direction and attracts a number of followers. As you might imagine, it isn’t very good for his health.

This protagonist, August Engelhardt, really did live such a strange life on the German colonial island of Kapakon. He is pictured below (1911):

This is a topic quite close to my soul, since I too moved to the south pacific from central Europe at the age of 7. It was then that I moved with my parents from Geneva to Fiji. Like the hero of Imperium, I was fanatically obsessed with nature, in my case, reptiles. I also harboured dreams of setting up a Crusoe-like commune in the jungles.

Just as Imperium’s protagonist was, I felt misunderstood in the cold concrete of Europe. And like said hero, I brought my beloved books with me across the Indian and Pacific oceans.

My best childhood memories come from Fiji. Searching for snakes and lizards with Fijians wary of these satanic beasts filled me with great joy. Some of my few purely positive experiences with my Russo-Ukrainian (however you want to call things) father involved driving around the mist-covered highland jungles with Louis Armstrong playing. Like the hero of Imperium, we even found an island at one point, whose name resembled our own, leading us to talk of founding a Russian colony there (back then, Ukraine had not reappeared in my father’s life, let alone had it appeared in mine).

Within several years, my mother became ill and my father absconded to Eurasia. We went west, to Australia. But I would continue wistfully recalling the dense greenery, the thick air, the pressing smells, the mould-ridden walls.

So, onto the novel. To begin with, I read about 50 pages of Imperium in a beer garden. Then I went for a cigarette, had the idea to write an article about it, and wandered about until I found another beer garden. I began writing, all the way until the start of this paragraph. Then my laptop ran out of battery.

In the spirit of stream of consciousness, especially insofar as it fits with today’s general theme of geographical coincidences, I’ll take a pause on Imperium and explain what happened next. An older couple, one Asian and one white, wandered around looking for a seat. My table was free, so I offered they sit down.

A welcome interruption

At first, I continued reading, but it soon became clear that at least one of my new companions was American, and that extended conversation would be unavoidable.

In fact, it was delightful. The woman, who I’ll call Jane, ordered more beer and some soft, marinated, succulent peanuts. The man, who I’ll call John, leaned in and began telling me about all sorts of negotiations he’d participated in.

It turned out that John was once a lawyer from California. Now retired, he’d spent the 2000s and early 2010s clinching deals for the likes of George Soros and Exxon. One of the latter two, I’ll note, once took each of my parents to dinner every other week, separately…. Anyway, John’s dealings took place, of course, nowhere other than in Russia and Ukraine.

At this point, I had not revealed anything about my own life, other than my usual earnest non-answer to the question of where I am from and a mention of a Russo-Ukrainian father. After all, when questioning a subject, it is best not to bias their answers.

So he told me about his greatest negotiations. In one case, the recalcitrant counterparts didn’t wish to agree to his client’s demands, so he played silent for two weeks. After that, they agreed.

Naturally, things turned to politics. He declared to me that Ukraine had been screwed over by the Americans.

Somewhat surprised at this answer given his seemingly profitable employment by George Soros, I asked why. He gave the answer that ‘the Russian leader, Boris Yeltsin I think, went over to negotiate with the pro-Russian president the Ukrainians elected, but someone called Nuland, Victoria Nuland, she ruined it all’. I envy someone whose livelihood no longer depends on knowing the details of east European politics.

In any case, the essence is correct. The war is unnecessary and unwinnable, encouraged without rhyme, reason, or consistency by the Democrats. And anyway, ‘what would we do if Mexico pulled a Ukraine on us?’

John proclaimed that he had great respect for Trump’s attempts to seal a deal with the Russians. He said that he too had negotiated with a certain Russian businessman who owned Yukos, because his American client was trying to buy him out… Khodorkovsky? I inquired… After all, this is another key figure of my substack, as well as someone that my own family tree has not been uninvolved with.

‘Yes yes, Korodorovsky he told me that we Americans had to understand this about Putin and Russia…’ I confess, at this point, my beer-addled memory blanks on what exactly was said. No doubt it was very important. Perhaps it was part of another story that John told me, that he had been invited to a post-negotiations party at Putin’s after successful talks with Medvedev around 2010, but he declined the offer.

Then Jane began talking at length about China, Trump, and inquiring about my thoughts on Greenland. I don’t really have many thoughts on the topic, other than my knowledge of Ron Lauder’s escapades in Ukraine. In general, I said, I don’t think that my life will become much worse or better if Trump annexes Greenland. Were I in the White House, I would probably have other priorities, but if it makes at least someone happy…

Jane, who grew up in China and whose wealthy parents were expropriated during the cultural revolution, waxed at length about how her originally Chinese nationalist sentiments had left her, and that she was now proud to call herself an American. She also lamented the fact that her father decided to sell his property once it was returned to him in the late 70s, out of paranoia that another round of expropriations would begin. She and John live half the year in Singapore, as far as I understand for tax purposes.

She seemed quite preoccupied with her newfound American patriotism, and told me that when I grew older, I too would understand the need to take over Greenland. Security, after all. I told her that I understood where she was coming from, but that a focus on security above all tends to become a self-fulfilling prophecy of insecurity.

We parted at just the right time for all of us. Such highly saturated, one-off meetings are what I enjoy most about travelling.

For it was a delightful conversation. The beer was delicious and free, as were the remarkably juicy peanuts. I went off to find a train to the airport, enjoying a cigarette in the humid, soft air.

Over the course of the next hour, I found myself in a state of continuous shock at the immense rationality of Singapore’s metro system. I have visited many countries, rich and poor, and none have anything approaching a logical, understandable, and cheap way to get to the airport. Singapore, for whatever reason, does. I didn’t know such a thing was possible.

I began my day in Singapore confident that I had no sympathy for the glittering lights of Singapore’s malls. By the end of the day, I marvelled alongside other travellers at the grand fountain and rainforest of the Changi airport’s ‘Jewell’ complex. Checking back into the airport was bizarrely easy.

In my adult life, I’ve always seen Singapore as a sort of capitalist mirage. Perhaps it is. But it is an immensely pleasant mirage, at least if one sticks to Chinatown.

As my jaunt around Singapore came to a close, so did Imperium. Starting it while waiting for the nasi lemak stall to open 11 hours ago, I finished it as soon as I sat down at the airport. In the meantime, I’d consumed two cigarettes, several beers, and a handful of distended peanuts.

I won’t go into the broader plot of the book. Just as my reader should visit Singapore if they have a layover of more than 5 hours, you should also give yourself over to Imperium for a day or two.

So I’ll talk about a few broader themes that resonated with me.

Imperium

At its core, of course, the book is about empire. The strange misfits that colonize its outer reaches. The occult messianism neighbouring with the bureaucratic rationality of any colonial enterprise. The striving for utopia, and the need for killing. The author makes no effort to conceal the historical parallels between Imperium’s hero, a naïve, bitter, failed artist, and his political counterpart from Austria.

The modern adapation of Yockey’s Imperium, the ideology of the Order of the Nine Angles, also proposes the creation of a messianic, galactic empire, both utopian and pointedly genocidal. The novel Imperium does the same in the outer reaches of Melanesia, but in a much more amusing, tragic manner. Sun-worshipping, vitalism, a sort of Nietzscheanism in the south pacific.

What I’m trying to say is that I think there is something very dark in the heart of every Burning Man festival.

Krauts and Brits