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Published: October 23rd 2010
Asian Macarena
Hot and SweatyI lug two backpacks—a large one on my back packed to the fullest carry-on capacity and a second, smaller bag that I loop my arms into so it rests on my chest—looking like an unfashionably rotund, grimy backpacker. My third carry-on is a thick, 936-paged, paperback
Shantaram that came highly recommended by a friend; it’s the only positive thing I found and took away from my overnight stint living in Kuala Lumpur’s LCCT (low cost carrier terminal—low, that’s quite true), and the first page convinces me the extra weight will be worthwhile.
Streets of Singapore
I buy the EZ-line card to avoid buying a one-way pass each time I take the MRT or bus. The train silently transfers from one station to the next, and the windows give view to a city so still, silent, and spaciously abundant that it feels as if two-thirds of the population has vanished.
Kyoto had a similar quality where the streets would be empty of cars and pedestrians for blocks and blocks and a citizen would patiently wait at a red stop-signal for a crossing that would take all of two broad steps. It felt like there was an invisible, judgmental crowd I
couldn’t see, or perhaps someone would jump out and scream, “Ah! Gotcha!” (in Japanese, of course) if a person dared to bypass the red stop sign.
The intermingling diversity in Singapore feels unique in my limited travels, second only to Brazil and some parts of the States. Some Indian women wear beautiful saris, while other ethnically ambiguous adolescents sport punk hairstyles with gothic words printed on their clothes. Expressions are more serene and lack the stress I’ve come to expect from a metropolis. The streets and facilities are clean with minimal litter, and there’s no chewing gum to be found in convenience stores.
When I arrive at Rucksack Inn, the girls behind the counter give a heartwarming first-impression with their genuine welcome.
In my head, I’ve created a mantra:
food, mangosteens and sleep, and I head out to fulfill the first two. Various stalls display trinkets painted with cranes and other traditionally Asiatic symbols upon smooth porcelain and frosted glass. Others sell light summer clothes, fans, umbrellas, and postcards. I like how there’s little hassling from the sellers. Occasionally, they call out offering bargains, but for the most part they leave you alone. Some stores hang ripe
green pomelos from awnings. The large green fruit is set up in tall pyramids on the ground and atop tables.
There’s another store where a potato is sliced through a machine creating a fried potato swirl on a skewer. In front of this store, a small TV squeaks and cheers in animated Korean. It’s a Korean talk show where the hosts travel around the world trying various foods, and this potato stand was a hit. “K-pop” can be overheard on various Singaporean radio stations and stores. As I travel on, I learn that Korean media has quite an influence in even the most remote parts of Southeast Asia.
I’m distracted from the sights by a mouth-watering, smoky aroma that hooks me by the nose—
$2.50 Roasted Delight—a sweet roasted duck with fried noodles and wonton dumpling soup. The elderly grandfather who runs the stand grabs his young grandson (possibly son) and orders me to take a picture. The boy shies away as his grandfather gives a brilliant smile and peace sign. We all laugh, and I thank them again for the delicious meal.
Afterward, I take random steps to admire colorful residences and appreciate the calm countenances in
most directions. I find a fruit market and ask the vendor, “Sweet? Sour?” and go with sweet mangosteens and dukus. I end the night early finding comfort in small delights like sweet fruit, a good book, a clean shower and a comfortable couch.
Off the Beaten Track, Sort of: Pulau Ubin
When I wake up, I’m reenergized and determined to find Pulau Ubin, a distance from the usual tourist destinations in Singapore. On the way, I buy some vitamins, pop one in, only to realize I’m sucking on a sour effervescent tablet—fail(!).
I grab the #2 bus to Changi Village Bus Terminal from the Tanah Merah MRT station. The bumboats at Changi Point Ferry Terminal require a minimum number of 12 people, and I luck out as I’m the last person to arrive. As we slowly sway to Pulau Ubin, aka “Granite Island,” a Chinese melody with a male singer wails static bursts through the stereo.
On the shore, I nervously pick out a bicycle shop (that’s all there is minus a few restaurants). My friends know I’m an exception to the saying
you never forget how to ride a bike. I bought a bike a few
years ago to the ensuing hilarity of my friends as my elbows stuck out at awkward angles and the tires swerved in choppy jerks along sidewalks and roads. This time, with no support or encouragement, I’m determined to bicycle through the jungle. With all my anticipation, I rent a bicycle with a basket and forget to rent a helmet. Of course, this doesn’t dawn on me until I’m too far away to return.
Helmet-less, I struggle nervously through the first part of the trail heading West. Then I run into some small school children being led by their teacher. I’m inspired by their fearlessness to stop riding my bike like an imbecile.
The sun beats the sweat out of me as I cycle past a young monitor lizard. The trails are empty, but the jungle is deafening. The cicadae, birds, frogs and clamor of god-knows-what generate a loud buzz in my ear drums. I shift gears and stand up on my pedals, rolling over dirt, grass, and rockier paths.
There are splits in the roads marked by random signs. I choose impulsively. I ride through diverse landscapes with towering trees (and occasional large coconuts on the ground—helmet
recommended), expansive grassy meadows, and concealed lakes spotted with white cranes.
About two hours pass and I circle my bike to turn around and explore the Eastern side when a bird’s alluring cry turns my head. By accident, I see the tip of an interesting rocky slab and realize there’s a path in that direction. I roll up and down the hill and hold my breath as a magnificent gorge surrounding emerald-green water is unveiled. It’s one of the remnant quarries from Singapore’s history when stones were excavated from this island.
I take a break and enjoy the view I almost missed. A bird that looks like an exotic cousin to the magpie cries musical notes much more beautiful than its appearance. Soon, the heat becomes unbearable and time is running out before I need to return to the ferry, so I quickly cycle back. When I reach the path that splits off to the other side of the island, I cry out in defeat looking at the uphill pavement.
Determined, I pick up speed and go up and up, and an old man with a toothy grin waves hello as he breezily rolls down, and I’m
beat. I dismount and try walking only to acknowledge I’m wiped out for the day. I will return.
If I could return to this place every weekend, I would be happy. And to imagine that such a natural jungle island sits between Singapore and Malaysia. I’m amazed that more people don’t know of it.
Super Cooler
When I return to the mainland, I cross the street to the 89.7 Restaurant. They have an overwhelming list of drinks, so I ask for the most refreshing one.
“Super Cooler,” my server confidently says.
“Super Cooler. Nice. What’s in it?” I ask.
“Wheatgrass and coconut. Try this one. You’ll like it,” he says.
Not the biggest fan of wheatgrass but I’m swayed by his insistence. This drink is more refreshing than any glass of water you’d drink after a marathlon. No kidding. It doesn’t have the grassy cow-munching redundancy of typical wheatgrass, and the abundant slices of coconut on top are the perfect balance in the sweet drink.
The clouds expand and gather in the sky as I wait for the bus. My skin sheds like a lizard’s or thinly sliced Japanese squid flakes. It's so
Super Cooler
Wheatgrass & Coconut gross I wonder if I’ll be fined for littering when I peel patches off.
Besides Pulau Ubin, my favorite part of Singapore is the food. I’ve died and gone to food heaven. The quality and diversity of food here is boggling. Not to mention the tastier food is actually the cheap stuff.
Touristy Exploration and Marina Bay
As I explore around the small city, my appetite is insatiable, and I swear the tantalizing smells will make me bite somebody’s hand off when I get lost trying to find my way to the Marina Bay Resort. The Formula One begins in another day or two and the roads are tangled with detours, closed sidewalks guarded by all-too-serious men, and random dead-ends.
On my journey, a bird narrowly misses my head with a partially-eaten apple too big for its beak. I walk past cafes and restaurants with verandas on the posh side of town. Each place plays different music. Do you ever find that your gait adjusts to different musical beats? The switch makes you aware of your own natural rhythm.
I think Singapore would be the perfect place for jazz. Not the heart-wrenching, soulful jazz that belongs
Marina Bay Sky Park
Couple in the Infinite Pool to New Orleans or various parts of Japan and New York, but the mellow, lighthearted kind that makes you think of a big smile and sunglasses.
I’m skeptical about the aesthetic quality of the resort. What resembles a long cruise ship atop skyscrapers looks awkwardly phallic as if somebody briefly placed a metal hotdog on top of the Waldorf-Astoria Hotel in New York. That just doesn’t sound appealing.
When I reach Marina Bay after being beaten by tumultuous rain, posh dials up to extravagance. Inside, the mall is empty, and most people make a bee-line for the casino. I feel rude brushing off my wet jacket on the shiny marble floors, but everybody’s dripping wet and doing the same. I take a look at the indoor canal they’ve built on the ground-floor including gondolas. I make it to the hotel and try to find the Skypark in this monolithic structure that’s all too big for my taste or wallet.
When I ask for directions, the first thing I’m asked is, “Are you a guest here?” I reply no and am kindly directed to the end of the building. I pay the entrance fee and ride the elevator
up.
From the rooftop, you see the whole of Singapore City. I walk around to the Infinity Pool, and it’s well-worth the arduous trek and empty stomach. Perhaps this is because it’s the only infinity pool I’ve ever seen, but the water cascading down into the backdrop of Singapore’s skyline is an impressive illusion.
What cracks me up is when a worker below the edge of the pool walks by with the tip of his ladder wobbling thus interrupting the illusion.
I’m starved at this point and grab a taxi. I’m not sure about taxi rates, so I ask the driver, “How much does it cost to get to the Tekka Market in Little India?”
He responds, “You no bug me about that. All Singapore taxis meter.” I feel insulted by his brusque tone but take a moment to think his response over. Obviously, he thought I was trying to bargain. He’s probably had that happen before which is why his tone was so defensive. I didn’t deserve the condescension, but, at the same time, I realize that the encounter can take a few different turns, and this is a prime example of language, cultural, and
assumption barriers that are unavoidable not only in travel but in life.
Instead of making a big deal about it, I take my usual route of trying to win the person over. I chat him up and ask his opinions on Little India. I explain that it’s my first time taking a taxi and I’m a bit ignorant about standard rates. By the time we reach the Tekka Market, he’s chattier and recommending various places to visit and goes out of his way to open the door. My mood’s uplifted, and I crack a smile at the Eminem & Rihanna song that was playing in his car making me realize I’m so out of the mainstream loop and disconnected from the reality I knew only two years ago.
As I walk to the restaurants, I make eye contact with an Indian dwarf who beams a bright, proud smile that makes my day. I situate myself between all the vendors and order a Strawberry Lassi and Mutton Briyani, and read a little more of
Shantaram. It would be so fascinating to read this book in its Bombay setting.
A Night with Rucksackers: Chinese Lantern Festival
When I return
to Rucksack Inn, I’m invited to a Monopoly card game. The deck is full of street signs and places found in Singapore and the rounds last under an hour unlike board Monopoly. We laugh and curse as Ayu wins round after round, building up motels and hotels and dominating the 2-dimensional Singapore.
The time nears the Chinese Lantern Fesival, so the girls at Rucksack Inn: Ayu, Chul, Jacqueline (sorry if I’ve missed anyone or misspelled any names), guests (Emmanuel, Elaine, Fernando, so forth), and friends prepare with tiny, disposable lanterns on tiny sticks. I’m told these are mostly used by children, but considering their combustible nature, I’m not sure it’s such a good idea. But, they’re definitely fun.
A warmly lit line of rucksackers proceeds toward Chinatown with various lanterns going up in flames while other candles simply die. We make stops to relight and redistribute the colorful paper lanterns. The streets are bustling and the restaurants are packed. The aromas are devastating to my fragile olfactory sense, and I try to restrain myself from stealing food from the numerous tables covered to the max with large and small dishes. The lanterns glow in various shapes and colors
decorating the sky above our heads.
It’s not a massive parade like the Lantern Festival I witnessed in Korea earlier this year. We sat still and arched our backs to capture the magnitude of the Korean lanterns while, in Singapore, we walk beneath the pastel lights to appreciate the handicraft amidst the bustling crowds. I’m surprised by the amount of people that deluge what I previously experienced as the empty streets of Singapore.
We grab food and drinks at a restaurant, sharing our diverse travels/vacations/homes, and proceed to walk by temples, witness the hypnotic and disturbing dance of youthful, elderly folk sweating away to some Macarena-like song, and wind through an ethnic hodgepodge of faces and costumes while striking fast improvised poses.
Another traveler, Elaine, convinces me to buy some of freshly made jerky. I choose the extra spicy flavor and am in heaven, while she comes close to tears at the red-hot intensity after a small bite. I feel consumed with guilt for her suffering, so take it upon myself to ravish the remaining jerky to prevent anyone else from spicy doom.
The night ends with roti prata dipped in curry while we listen to
the girls share Jacqueline’s fascinating experience on the TV show
Can You Serve? We ask her countless questions on her experience, and you can’t help but realize how much of a family they are at Rucksack Inn. The convivial atmosphere is catching and homey. I fall to sleep with flickering images of jungles, Chinese lanterns, Monopoly cards, food, and TV shows.
Little Little Giulin
The next morning, my main destination is Little Guilin, which no locals seem to recognize. I chose it based on a brief description I found on the internet and have vague directions to lead me. I decide to check out the Japanese and Chinese Gardens along the way. The sky is gray with scattered rainfall as I walk through the Chinese Garden. To be honest, I don’t like it much. The statues of great historical figures such as Confucius, Mulan, and Yue Fei are very Disney-like, not a compliment. The artificial quality is unappealing, so I don’t even bother with the Japanese Garden.
The rain drills against the fogged window panes. People look a little miserable in the city fashion I’m more accustomed to over the serenity of past days. I guess everyone’s under
the weather. At one point, thunder forcefully rips the sky causing passengers to take fearful glances out the windows, which they can’t see out.
When I exit Bukit Gombak Station, I follow the directions but they don’t make sense. I ask a pedestrian if he knows of Little Guilin, and he says, “I’ve never heard of that name. There is a park over there if you pass the baseball stadium. It has a nice view. Are you sure you want to go in this rain?”
“Well, it’s my last day to explore Singapore,” I explain. He nods, unconvinced of my sensibility.
I turn the opposite direction and walk, not too far from the station, taking a small hill up and past a huge baseball stadium. The rain mutes to a drizzle, and I walk down wide, pebbled stairs to see hints of water through leafy tree branches.
My skin’s cool in the grey breeze. And, I look out onto a beautiful lake of water with a imposing craggy wall on the other side. It’s a solitary moment of peaceful bliss.
There are times when a park is just a park; cars and people populate the
space and hyper children turn the setting into a family getaway for a weekend. And there are other times when said park might transform into one person’s secret little hideaway from the rest of the world.
This is why I travel, work, breathe, or bother to take another curious step. I crouch and smile to myself.
I meditate on the fact that anybody else might visit this spot and find it average, whereas, I feel a jolt of electricity that quickens my pulse. When the downpour resumes, it’s time to leave. I have little time to head to a mall and look for some scuba gear.
The train attendant directs me on the map to a shopping area that has mall after mall. He says, “If you can’t find what you’re looking for there, then you won’t find it anywhere.”
I try to stay awake but nod off between each stop. I’m not the only one. The guy next to me tries to hold his independent head from rolling off. A few times, he hits my shoulder. I can handle claustrophobic subways and being packed like a sardine from living in Korea, but I’m picky about who
I lend my shoulder to, for example, old ladies are okay. As a seat opens on the other side, I snag the space.
Orchard Road, Shops Galore
It takes approximately an hour-and-a-half to walk through the recommended mall and realize that none of the sports stores have any scuba gear. Fortunately, the girl working at customer service is extra nice and looks up scuba specific shops online. I end up walking down Orchard Road next to eye-opening sculptures.
The rain stops and store fronts light up. After a day of rain and gray skies, the life in the streets and color in the lights are a nice sight to behold.
Though I look for a specific scuba store in Lucky Plaza, I settle for what I can find in the labyrinthine mess of stores. I settle for World Sports where Sunny Chow helps me pick out a good pair of fins and well-fitting mask and snorkel. I’m travelling light, and determined to add on the additional scuba gear.
Sunny’s a very helpful and cool guy who's also an instructor. He meets 20 students every year for deep deep dives at a discounted group cost at Sipadan
Resorts. He gives me the contact info so I can try to get a permit for the limited Sipadan diving (120 permits/day) if my travel takes me in that direction. At this point, I’m thinking the Togean Islands will be my next diving destination and perhaps I will try Sipadan at a later juncture.
In the morning, I’m off to Sumatra (Lake Toba:
L is for Lake, Language, Laughter, Love, Loss, Long . . .).
Random tangent: McDonald's delivers in Singapore. Now, if Coffee Bean or Starbucks begin delivering, I'll be doomed. I think it'll be the end of the world through overcaffeination. Can you imagine if all fast food joints delivered in the States--Fat Nation? *shudder*
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Glenn Duer
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Dave Gruisin
I loved your picture and description of the park that you found while looking for Little Guilin. Maybe the best time to go sight-seeing is during a torrential downpour. I didn't know that you liked jazz. Have you ever heard "Laguna Cove" by Dave Gruisin. I recomend it. Its perfect for a tropical setting.