I didn’t take as many photos and videos of Singapore as I would’ve liked. Oh well, as promised…
CHANGI AIRPORT — Getting through customs at the Singapore airport was laughably easy. You plug your info into one of the dozen iPads sitting near a garden of tamed jungle foliage, you scan your passport, and you proceed through a series of automatic gates, all while a really helpful man helps you help yourself.
Leaving the airport, our Uber driver was – like all of our subsequent drivers – an older man who sped into every stoplight like his life depended on it. We peered out of the windows onto what was a bit of an eerie scene after being in Hanoi and New Delhi: hushed streets, uniform, spotless buildings, tidily dressed people speed-walking with headphones. It felt like an architectural rendering of a year-2200 utopia – or dystopia.
Everywhere, perfect botanical arrangements, perfect sound systems and amenities, beautiful signage all the way down to a slick custom multilingual typeface. By the mosque in the Muslim neighborhood, we ate roti and listened to the perfect, soulful voice of the imam as rain poured over the city. The awnings, much larger than any I’ve seen, extended far and low enough to shield us from the monsoon, and deep gutters dealt with the deluge.
It’s funny that in such an objectively beautiful city – with epic, biomorphic skyscrapers covered in tropical plants, elegantly curved and perfectly tiled walkways – I felt uneasy. In a design museum we stumbled across, there was a mural that said something to the effect of: “Got a problem? Don’t worry, we’ll design our way out!” This attitude was everywhere, and it made me feel… restless for chaos.
We met up with some born-and-bred Singaporeans who had a lot of answers to my questions about their system, and a lot of questions about our system that I couldn’t answer. (They were fascinated by the political turmoil in the U.S. – they’d heard about the polarization over topics like police brutality, vaccines, immigration. In contrast, they said, young Singaporeans don’t really debate the government’s decisions. When COVID hit, sure, they were less than satisfied, but ultimately they trusted the government to do what was best.)
They didn’t have much to say about their actual lives. “You shop, you eat, you talk to friends,” one of them said. Maybe that’s most of what there is to life. Maybe not.
TEKKA CENTRE, LITTLE INDIA — Coming off of the escalator into the hawker stall, it’s hard to say whether you’re walking into or out of a dream. Suddenly, you’re surrounded by a metallic, brutalist scene like an oversized industrial kitchen, clashing smells from dozens of cuisines. A mustachioed shop owner emerges from the loud ambient chatter… he approaches me and escorts me to his stall, showing off braised mutton ribs, deep red and golden yellow curries. I politely – then not so politely – move on… Everywhere, lit up images of novel food – which I can’t stop to examine for long, because if an owner sees me he’ll aggressively beckon me to sit, sit – others are busy counting cash or messily prepping trays of goods. A group of diners bus their dishes from the metal slab of a table and leave to wash their hands in the open-air sinks, while a new group immediately replaces them, starts passing around Nasi Lemak and fish stew and fried chicken, leaving bones and splatter on the table.
Business later – for now, food and drink, laughter, stories.
✤
^ Sound on
That's why people like authoritative utopia. No thought required.
What a difference between these two places. I found it interesting that one place felt too perfect. It may be the same with people.