I Try to Find Singapore's Soul
I moved to Singapore from the Philippines a few months ago and have been happily settling in a wonderful neighborhood outside of what locals call “the city.”
I come from Manila – and I always say this as if it’s a self-explanatory point. I had to travel across four cities every friggin day to get from my house to my university in public friggin transport where you could get knifed, oh yes knifed, on any given Tuesday. But I digress. When you say “city” to me, for most of my growing up life, it meant scary, unsafe, and on-alert places all the time. Here in Singapore, when they say you’re not in the “city” it means buildings don’t get higher than 7 storeys and there are more trees.
Now Singapore is a country and a city. It’s tiny. I live on one end (the East) and my Capoiera place is on the other end (the West) and it takes me all of 30 mins to get from one end to another – no lie. It used to take me 45 mins to an hour to get to work everyday, each way. 30 mins does not a width of a country make.
Which is why I always thought, quite optimistically, that when I come here, it wouldn’t take me long to find the soul of the city. I was in for a little challenge.
Now I may be over-generalizing here but this country has been run like a corporation for the most part of its nearly half a century life. And because of that, some trade-offs have had to be made for the pursuit of prosperity -- income for spontaneity, competition for play, wealth for adventure, achievement for art. And altogether, being the awesomely successful and freakishly clean country it is today, that’s not too bad. But because of all these aggregate trade-offs, folks who come from other places – and apparently we comprise 25% of the population, find it strange and “soul-less.” A colleague of mine who used to live in Boston and London before that told me, having moved here just 4 months ahead of me, that he has yet to find the soul of Singapore. He’s gone to all the places you’re “supposed” to go to, Tanjong Beach Club, Kudeta, Pangaea, but he hasn’t found it yet.
I was intrigued. I too wanted to find it.
But to find it, I had to figure out what it was. I had just the thing. I remember traveling around the world – I haven’t been every where but I’ve been to a fair few places – and I always try to leave with a key visual or a specific feeling in my head to take with me as I go.
For Melbourne it was the taste of hot chocolate while watching uni students lounge on the lawn in front of the library soaking up the rays on a sunny day that will soon turn into a freezing fall afternoon. For San Francisco it was the smell of coffee while I walked around Mission taking photo after photo of the graffiti cats and gryphons and llamas colorfully parading down the narrow sunlit alleyway. For Hong Kong it was the perpetual smell of food that was vaguely dimsum and somewhat duck that hung in the air everywhere and people rushing to, I like to think, find a place to eat.
For Singapore, what was it? What was the scene, the smell, the taste?
When I made up my mind to pay attention, I knew I had to put away my iPhone. It was a distraction. I realized, everyone was on his or her smartphone, like ALL THE TIME. Nope, it wasn’t here, not on the train. I walk around the commercial districts and folks are strolling around rushing from store to store, just like they would in the high-end shopping districts in Manila. Nope, it wasn’t here, not on Orchard. Then, while walking towards the wonderful smell of popcorn (it may be in Garrett’s, hey, I’m open), I catch a few strains of music.
A blind man is busking in the tunnel in between two malls. He sounds sad, he looks sad – but he’s straining to be heard. Straining, hey, that may be it. I look around more, and I see more bits and pieces of chaos straining to be seen past the very very ordered stoicism of Singapore.
A young couple cupping each others’ butts on the train ever so discreetly yet obvious to anyone who realizes that, sweetie, that barrier is CLEAR PLASTIC. There. The edges of tattoos peeking out of shirtsleeves and pants. I realize that Singapore probably has the most number of tattooed folks I’d ever seen in any city I’d spent an extended amount of time in – more than NY, more than LA. There. I see an old man, maybe 60, sporting White Beats by Dr. Dre earphones/headphones on the train. Two days later, I see another oldie sporting Red ones. There. My colleague at work who comes in every couple of months to make videos for us changes hair color every time I see her. First time it was blonde dashed with fuchsia, last February it was platinum white with chunks of teal and purple. She said the platinum hurt like hell to get, but it was all worth it. There. Even in the most corporate of companies, the soul of Singapore strains through.
It’s there, I know. I see it sometimes shyly toe-ing its way into the mainstream. It won’t get there yet, not in this generation. But for anyone who’s willing to look, it’s there. In the kid with the sketchbook instead of an smartphone on the train. In the boy with a huge cello case instead of PSP. In the grampa with Beats instead of the Straits Times. It’s there. I found it. I don’t wanna yell it though, I might get caned. (photo from Flickr)