SEAS 2011: A Story of Remodeling Both Identity and Perspective

I returned to a different hometown, free of blaring horns, fermenting garbage heaps, and beggars grasping for my shirttail. With poverty swept into the corner, Durham is quieter and cleaner than New Delhi. But now that I have left India, I miss the hum of the traffic, the swerve-or-die rules of the road, the constant bickering of rickshaw drivers. For despite the noise, and behind the dirt and grime, lies a city bursting with potential. 

There is another side of New Delhi, one that makes side-by-side rickshaw conversations possible between traffic jams. One that brings the aroma of freshly cut marigolds right after the stench of rotting garbage. One that bonds me to a little boy as I press warm naan into his hungry hands. I miss the dichotomy of worlds New Delhi provides and the way the city forced me to confront the realities of hunger and poverty even as I enjoyed the wealth of beautiful music and the warmth of ceaseless hospitality.

I miss Singapore for the exact opposite reason. I miss the ease of hopping onto a metro with no stop more than thirty minutes away. I miss the street sweepers who brushed nothing but flower petals into their dustbins. I miss kiasu, which translates to “scared to fail” and was embodied in the harried metro travelers pushing their way onto a filled train.

I also miss the overt displays of modern architectural prowess: the towering Sands Hotel with rooftop Infinity Pool, the lotus-shaped museum, and the pineapple-esque Esplanade. “There are so many unique buildings, they loose their uniqueness,” one of my friends said as we stood on the Sands Hotel’s observation deck, overlooking the skyline. I understood his critique, yet I disagreed with his analysis. To me the superfluous number of unique buildings embodied the kiasu atmosphere which pervades the country and expresses the determination to be “the most cutting-edge.”

View of the Esplanade from the top of the Sands Hotel.

But I left Asia with more than a love for city streets and a sense of architectural comparison. Throughout the trip, the Southeast Asia program (SEAS) class struggled with the meaning of identity. Some people made self-discoveries, but my journey took a different route. As a Global Studies major, I particularly enjoyed exploring the significance of identities extending beyond that of self to that of ethnicity and nationality. At the National University of Singapore (NUS), our professor, Dr. Quek Ser Hwee, called the fledgling Singaporean identity a “work in progress.” 

I liked this description because it provided space for malleability and alteration. In a country bound by the Chinese-Malay-Indian-Other (CMIO) model, citizens are forced into boxes where they do not belong. Multi-racial children must choose their ethnicity, a policy which forces them to rank ethnic groups and pick the “best” one. Surely, the formation of Singaporean identity must be reshaped, for in a few years’ time the political incorrectness of such a model will be realized, and the entire foundation upon which it sits will be re-evaluated. 

But I like the idea of a “work in progress” national identity for another reason as well: for just as individuals change, so too do nations. By definition “identity” is never rigid but rather pliable, for as the experiences of a nation change, so, too, does the country itself. Even as we learned about the history of Singapore, beginning with independence from Malaysia in 1965, we discussed current events such as the creation of more Housing and Development Board (HDB) flats and the recent parliamentary elections which took place this past May. And as we discussed the social implications of political decisions, I learned to view current events from a historical perspective and realized how closely the two are connected.

From an academic standpoint, we discussed identity as it pertained to ethnicity and nationality, but my time abroad expanded my ideas of identity far beyond this initial intellectual understanding. As we interacted with locals, I came to understand how the shells of ethnic and national identities influenced the individuals themselves. So, during my home stay in Singapore, I asked my host, Natalina Pereira, who is half-Indian and half-Chinese, how she felt about the CMIO model. She said that while she checks the Indian box on governmental forms, she does not identify with either group because neither accepts her as one of them. While her light complexion and choice to learn Mandarin make her appear more Chinese than Indian, her identity is further confused by other people’s reactions to her. She said her mixed race also influences her dating opportunities as Chinese men are not interested in dating non-Chinese women. Speaking with someone who is personally affected by the model helped me understand the consequences of such a system on the everyday lives of Singaporeans.

Natalina, Jessica, and I posing down the street from Ah Chew Desserts. during our home stay.

Forty-six years removed from the split from Malaysia, the implications of independence still press on the minds of many Singaporeans, perhaps explaining the country’s kiasu atmosphere which affects everything from the rush of metro travels to the hyper-construction of modern architectural wonders. With recent history still playing such a significant role in the daily lives of Singaporeans and with current events quickly approaching the status of history, the events shaping the future direction of Singapore are anything but static, and the identity of its citizens is changing even as it is formed.

Currently, Singaporean identity is formed around a slew of catch-phrases which could be used to describe the country in a tour book: “multi-ethnic” and “multi-cultural” would be at the start of any list, quickly followed by “religiously tolerant.” For, just as the country is ethnically diverse, it also has a variety of religions which have been carried into the country by its immigrants. Thus, some Chinese follow Buddhist and Taoist traditions while the Malay are almost strictly Muslim, and Indians tend to follow Hinduism or Sikhism. Although these descriptions are fair, I would also add to the list of labels: “kiasu,” and, inspired by Dr. Quek’s words, an ellipses mark “…” to recognize future descriptions.

While India is home to a smaller range of ethnicities, its rich history and varied peoples also create a complicated national identity. When we arrived in India, we quickly realized that we could not blend with the locals. The color of our skin, no matter the shade, made us popular targets for family photographs, and we were asked to pose for pictures as often as we were persuaded to make bad bargains. While most of the people who live in India are Indians, the country is so large that regions create vast distinctions in culture, language, religion, and even skin color, although ethnicities are technically the same.

Posing for a picture with a young boy outside the Taj Mahal.

With well over one billion people, the largest democracy in the world is home to thirty-three different languages and 2,000 dialects. Such a wide variety of languages provides space for different values and modes of thought. The broadest distinction in cultures can be made between the northern and the southern regions of India. We spent most of our time in New Delhi, but we still came across people who had immigrated to the Punjab from other parts of India, such as our dark-skinned rickshaw driver who came from the South and likened his skin tone to one of the African-American students in our group. In New Delhi we enjoyed copious amounts of naan and chapati dipped in thick, savory curries, but if we’d traveled to the South, our wheat-based diets would have been replaced by one composed mainly of rice.

Religion is another area of distinction in India, and with the superfluous numbers of temples and shrines, the prominence and significance of religion in India cannot be overlooked. While the majority of Indians ascribe to Hinduism, the country hosts a variety of religions including Islam, Christianity, Sikhism, Jainism, and Buddhism. Religion divides the country just as it unites believers within the separate groups. While we learned that the Sikhs try to overcome social and religious boundaries by offering free community lagars (meals), the evidence of unanswered hunger right outside Sikh temple gates speaks of invisible barriers which cannot even be overcome by a welcome invitation.

Enjoying a community lagar in India, around 3 p.m.

With such vast distinctions, the formation of a single national identity is seemingly impossible. So, India and Singapore, apparent polar opposites, suffer from the same problem: an inability to unite under a common national identity. And I consider this similarity my greatest discovery, for drawing comparisons between countries provides valuable analysis, but finding commonalities between them has stitched my experiences together and has shrunk my world to a more handleable size. 

My time abroad afforded me the opportunity to explore more than the effects of identity on society; it also allowed me to interact with that society. Upon my return to America, I have not spoken so much about my academic studies or even my observations about the inter-workings of identity on the individual and social psyche. Rather, I have talked animatedly about the people I met and the places we went together: hiking to the top of a rainforest canopy and spending the night in a Long House in Brunei, pulling NUS to victory during the Dragon Boat Festival and watching the sun set over the skyline atop the Sands Hotel during our final night in Singapore, and bargaining in the markets and visiting the Taj Mahal in India. These experiences have helped reshape my global perspective, and I anticipate my outlook to continue to change as I share my stories and reassess my experiences abroad. For perspective, like identity, is ever-evolving.

The Taj Mahal

On our way to Agra we passed camels, monkeys, and horse-drawn carriages. Stopping for gas, we peaked out the window to see a snake charmer with a python curled around his neck. When he saw us reaching for our cameras, he slipped the snake in a sack and flashed his fingers with his picture price in rupees. 

We made quite a spectacle driving down dirt roads in an oversized charter bus with the words “Tourist Bus” splashed across the windshield, making us even more of a target than our light skin and wide eyes had already naturally made us. Vendors approached our bus waving peacock feather fans while men sipping sodas on work break grinned widely at the girls, a few even blowing kisses.

I tried a Thumbs Up (A.K.A. "Indian Coke," according to my professor) on our way to the Taj Mahal. It tasted like an interesting mix between Gatorade and Pepsi (although it was a Coke product). Glad I tried it. Not worth a repeat tasting.

We were only a few hours from Agra in distance, but in actuality the drive took much longer. Six hours after leaving our hotel, we finally arrived a few blocks from the Taj Mahal. We took the rest of the journey on foot, pushing past peddlers selling memorabilia: Taj Mahal snow globes, decorative elephants dangling from strings, blue-beaded necklaces, and postcard books featuring twelve different views of the Taj Mahal. Many of the peddlers were small children who struck up conversations and accompanied us to the ticket gates. When one student pretended to only speak Spanish, she was surprised when the boy responded, “Hola, amiga. ¿Que tal?” Then he proceeded to start bargaining in Spanish. Maybe the best salesman ever.

We were already soaked through with sweat by the time we reached the Taj Mahal, but once we arrived complaints about heat and dehydration seemed like trivial matters. For, passing through the entrance archway, we caught our first glimpse of white marble gleaming in the sunlight. An onion-shaped dome appeared first, then the doorway, and finally the four minarets surrounding the mausoleum. 

Does this photograph really need a caption?

Now, after a six-hour long exhausting bus ride, only a long stretch of walkway and a beautiful reflecting pool separated us from the Taj Mahal. We did not properly appreciate the beautiful hedges and emerald green grass. We did not even pay attention to the pool of water which under normal conditions would have appeared refreshing and enticing. No, after a quick group picture, we headed straight forward.

We removed our shoes, adding them to the long row already at the base, and then mounted the stairs to the mausoleum. The hot marble floor scorched my feet, but I moved slowly, unable to rush past such grandeur. Inlaid marble flora: green vines with beautiful red flowers arch up the sides of the Taj Mahal, growing to the onion dome. Intricately carved Herringbone spires pierce cotton clouds. Only the dome, majestic and curvaceous, made different shades of white by the age of time, reached higher. Spacious archways lead to the Great Gate in the center. Thuluth calligraphy graces its pillars, reading “O Soul, thou art at rest. Return to the Lord at peace with Him, and He at peace with you.” 

Looking over the reflecting pool, I was surrounded by the Taj Mahal before and behind me. Sunlight danced off gleaming marble and sparkled in water. We walked to each minaret, enjoying the different views each perspective afforded. 

Walking inside the mausoleum.

Inside the mausoleum presented a different kind of grandeur, one made more beautiful by the love story it tells. Before coming to the Taj Mahal, I’d imagined walking through palatial room after palatial room, admiring the grandeur of chandeliers, fine furniture, and visions of past court splendor. But the Taj Mahal was not a palace, it was a mausoleum, a place where the great Moghul emperor, Shah Jahan, lay his favorite wife and best friend, Mumtaz Mahal, to rest. Her tomb lies in the center of a small room in the mausoleum, surrounded by walls with delicate white marble flower carvings. 

Standing in a room surrounding the mausoleum.

Mumtaz Mahal (yes, the Taj Mahal derives its name from hers) died in childbirth to their fourteenth child. According to legend, after she died, Shah Jahan went into hiding for eight days, and when he returned his dark beard had turned snow-white. Later, he spent the anniversary of her death in the room, celebrating her life. Thus, the white marble walls with fine inlaid stones and elaborately carved screens speak of more than mere wealth and opulence, they manifest the story of a man’s heartbroken love.

Our visit to the Taj Mahal was continuously interrupted by people wanting to take our pictures. I posed with men, women, and children, and I was even asked to be in several family photographs. Strangely, one picture was never enough, and I got in the habit of reaching my arm out and waiting for the next family member in line to pose with me. As we’d only been allotted 45 minutes at the Taj Mahal, we eventually became concerned that we wouldn’t actually see everything if we kept taking pictures. At one point we even jested that we could cut down on photographs by taking a leaf from the book of our Spanish-speaking peddler friend and charging ten rupees per click. I would have grossed money if I’d actually put this plan into action.

We outstayed our 45 minutes, but I was still not ready to leave when we regrouped. I walked backwards out the gate to see the Taj Mahal getting smaller and smaller, until all I could see was the dome, willing my final view to last forever. 

Backwards glance.

Indian Chai

New Delhi is like a good cup of chai tea: humble in appearance but rich and flavorful upon further investigation. The contrasting combination of warm sweet milk and biting spice reminds me of the busy city streets: both beautiful, filled with the sweet aroma of fresh marigolds and frying jalibis, and ugly, caked with the grime of trash and traffic. 

I love New Delhi for the contrast it provides. Over the course of our trip, we toured beautiful Hindu temples, the altars made of intricately carved silver behind which stood gods made of solid gold. The temples were several stories high, complete with shrines and reading rooms. Inside one such temple, the ceiling was painted pale pink and bright yellow, making me feel as if I were encased in a gigantic Faberge egg. A short walk away towered a gigantic statue of Hanuman, the assistant monkey god to Ram. Had I mounted the pedestal and stood beside him, I wouldn’t have reached his calves.

See what I mean when I say, "Faberge Egg"?

Standing with Toyosi in front of Hanuman.

Architectural ruins are scattered throughout New Delhi. At the Quwwatul-Islam Masjid, we had the chance to walk around the tallest building in the world prior to the construction of the Eiffel Tower. Looking up, I admired the beautiful strokes of Arabic writing scrawled along the the side of the intricately carved minaret. From the base, I could not even see its top. As we walked along the grounds, dusk approached and the sun set behind crumbling ruins, casting a pinkish glow over the landscape. In that moment, I was sure nothing could be more beautiful. 

The tallest building in the world ... Until the Eiffel Tower! (I guess I visited in the wrong century.)

The sun sets over Quwwatul-Islam Masjid.

For our last day of class, we visited the Red Fort where we sat by a fountain overlooking buildings with grandiose archways and walls of inlaid marble. Despite the years of decay, I could still see the splendor of those buildings.  

Class at the Red Fort.

But the grandeur ended as abruptly as it began. Beggars squatted outside the gates of the Red Fort. Some lay prostrate on the ground, their arms flopped uselessly to the side. A few women sat, skirts between their knees, grasping our ankles as we passed. Children walked up and put their fingers to their lips, miming their hunger. 

You can’t escape poverty in New Delhi. On our way to a religious service and community lagar (meal) at a Sikh gurdwara, we heard a man groaning by the side of the road. His gray and white entangled beard was matted with dirt, and flies coated his feet. He was beyond the help of money and even food. We passed him twice, once coming and once going. He was dying and no one stopped. 

We washed our feet in a communal bath before heading to the gurdwara for lunch.

Sikh volunteers serve free community meals every day.

The gurdwara quickly fills with people around lunch time and even hours later (this is around 3 p.m.).

One evening we sat cross-legged outside the Nizamnudin shrine and listened to Qawwali music for several hours, swaying to the beating of drums and the shrill notes of the harmonium. Women dressed in saris and men with thick beards sat alongside us. Some stood to make donations to the musicians, and a few made a great show of it. Men kissed the bills as they placed them by the musicians’ feet. Others handed them straight to the musicians, who, horrified by the personal attention, refused the bills and pushed them onto the communal pile. 

Enjoying Qawwali music at the Nizamnudin shrine.

One woman, dressed in a purple sari, put on more than a show. She gave us a Broadway Musical. Standing in the center of the circle, she removed ten rupee bills from the sash of her sari. She raised her arm high to one side, a gesture of offering, and then let each bill drop with a flourish. Her stash was never-ceasing, and her donation became a choreographed dance to the wailing music. 

Her gifts were lavish, the music rich and sweet. But outside the shrine lay beggars, so weak that many of them couldn’t even sit up and many just slept, crushed against stone walls, their faces covered (or not) with rags to keep the flies away. Others stretched their bony arms toward us, rubbing one and two piece rupees together. Children tugged at our clothing and pointed to our easy-to-reach purses. One man had lost both his legs and scooted around on a skateboard, pulling himself forward with fire-scarred hands. 

I most intimately connected to the poverty we’d witnessed after a wonderful dinner of butter chicken and naan at a restaurant with friends. On a whim, I took my leftovers in case anyone asked for food on our short walk back to the hotel. Sure enough, a little boy tugged on my shirt as soon as I descended the stairs. As I passed him, I placed the warm bread in his hands. Turning back, I watched him eat hungrily, and that sight was far more satisfying than the rest of my meal. Somehow, I felt fuller watching him eat.

Dinner at Nirula's with Olivia and Roxanne (and Ananda and Ashley Rivenbark not pictured).

Ten days after arriving in India, we are returning to America. I feel as if I’m leaving two countries at once, for there really are two Indias: one boasts the grandeur of lavish temples and magnificent architectural ruins while the other groans under the weight of poverty and the emptiness of hunger. Some Indians adorn themselves in bejeweled silk saris and fill their arms with intricate henna and stacks of gold bangles, while others are barely clothed by grimy rags, and, instead of jewels, their arms are covered with fleshy white scars and open soars. Some Indians eat lavishly, enjoying meals much like our goodbye banquet, featuring seven types of meat and copious amounts of bread and baked cheese (and those were just the appetizers), while others live off the meager leftovers of passersby. 

A slew of my friends got henna before our goodbye banquet.

Both Indias are important to my experience of the country, and I’m not sure which version I’m more hesitant to leave. I know I will miss the beautiful views and the grand temples, and I know I won’t miss the extreme poverty grabbing our ankles and tugging our shirttails. Yet, I fear that by leaving such an intimate venue, by no longer seeing the starving lying prostrate outside, I might forget what it means to be without. India is rich not because of its breathtaking vistas and lavish architecture but because of of its everlasting reminder of both the triumphs and failings of humanity. And much like the contrasting flavors of a good cup of chai, neither can stand alone.

Rules of the Road

In New Delhi, the streets have a life of their own. Walk with purpose or don’t walk at all. Traffic lines are suggestions rarely taken and pedestrian cross-walks exist only for decoration. Cars go down roads any way they please, and the same goes for rickshaws and bicycles. Pedestrians just add to the traffic. Yielding only applies to those smaller vehicles on the bottom of the transportation hierarchy. Thus, buses never stop and pedestrians must literally dodge everything from three-wheeled rickshaws to bicycles to horse-and-buggy carriages. 

A view of the streets taken from the backseat of a rickshaw. The yellow and green three-wheeled cars are rickshaws.

People drive with their horns. Honking is the sole form of communication on the road. Drivers honk to tell others to move, where to go, or to announce their presence. When our rickshaw drivers aren’t honking, I’m worried.

On the second day of our trip, we piled four to a rickshaw, three of us squeezing into the backseat and the fourth person (which our professors stipulated had to be a guy) sat in the front, one arm clasped around the driver to keep from falling out. As I sat in between two others in the backseat, I didn’t fear for my life as the periphery people did: moving an inch meant limbs out the window, and outside limbs weren’t guaranteed to survive the duration of the ride.

Madison, Ceewin, and I packed into the backseat of a rickshaw.

The rickshaw afforded us the chance to have a wind-blown view of the streets. Or rather, I should say it allowed us to experience the streets: every pothole, every double speed bump (yes, just as we rattled over one another followed), and every exasperated driver honking behind, in front, and to either side of us. But despite the rickety ride, the views were beautiful: on our way, we passed women dressed in beautiful saris riding bicycle carriages, fruit vendors selling ripe mangos bursting with juice, Mother Dairy ice cream stalls with pop-sickles for seven rupees apiece. We held our noses passing a garbage heap and then breathed in the sweet aroma of marigolds wafting from a row of nearby flower stands.

Roxanne and I enjoy Mother Dairy ice cream in the 130 degree heat.

I also enjoy seeing the other people on the road. Once, our professor had a full-fledged conversation between stops with a driver in another car from the back of his rickshaw. For those of us who aren’t fluent in seven different Indian languages, we prefer watching the other motorists. I especially enjoy the fashion shows which blow past us as women in saris sit side-saddle on the backs of motorcycles. Once, we even saw a bride sitting delicately atop a fuming motorcycle, dressed in the traditional red sari with a beautiful crystal tikka dangling from her forehead.

A bride rides side saddle on the back of a motorcycle.

Late one night we got a different view of the streets, this time in the back of a bicycle carriage. If we thought we’d experienced the streets before, we realized just how wrong we had been. Our driver cycled between cars and swerved around potholes. Without the use of a horn, he warned others of our whereabouts through word of mouth. I was surprised by the durability of his voice. Had I done that much screaming, I’d have been hoarse before we were half-way to our destination.

The streets take on a different feel at night. The shop stands and restaurants become alive in the waning light. Young boys working inside tea shops make roadside deliveries, carrying small cups of chai to and from the shop, running back and forth, wiping the sweat from their brows with old rags. In darkness, smells intensify: frying bread, vegetables cooked in thick curries, meat roasting over an open-flame. Each one overwhelms the previous, each one is the most incredible aroma you’ve ever smelled. 

The rich smells of curries and frying vegetables waft into the streets.

At night, shopping, too, intensifies. As the men return home, the women, who have just put the children to bed, finally come out. Shopping dynamics change. Bangles which glittered in the daylight now hold a mystical glow in the dim light of the shops. Pashmina scarves flutter in the thick evening breeze. Hand-embroidered shoes practically walk out to meet you. Aromatics shop keepers must mop their floors with perfume because the fresh scent of jasmine wafts far into the streets and practically drags you inside. 

Dilli Haat bazaar at night.

But on this particular night we are riding back to the subway station in the bicycle carriage, wishing for a rickshaw but thankful to no longer be navigating the streets on foot. For at night traffic, too, comes alive, and pedestrians surely have the worst luck. Without even the benefits of a bike bell or commanding voice, pedestrians are overlooked by everyone. Clipped ankles and knees are accepted as a certain component of New Delhi night travel. Traffic jams which usually include an assortment of vehicles ranging from rickshaws to cars to motorcycles to pedestrians, lose distinction in the jumble. Once, as we pushed through a particularly dense clot, I fell over the handlebars of a motorcycle. A kind woman in a sari let out a cry and pulled me to my feet before the motorcyclist had realized what had happened. 

Walking the streets of New Delhi, we are constantly reminded of the day we spent in Singapore teaching pedestrian safety to kindergartners. Every time one of us crosses into incoming traffic, clips a bike turning onto a sidewalk, or narrowly misses a more serious collision with a fast-approaching bus, we remember telling the little children to stop at the crosswalk (or “zebra crossing”) and to wait for the Green Man to flash because “Green Means Go and Red Means No.” 

Malhar, Saffa, Ashley Rivenbark, Marquis, Madison, and I teach pedestrian safety at a local kindergarten in Singapore.

But, alas, there are no crosswalks or zebra crossings in India, and if you waited for the Green Man, you’d be hit from the front by presumptuous drivers or from behind by your fellow impatient pedestrians. Anyway, it’s not as if we were the safest pedestrians in Singapore, either, even though the country is practically teaming with superfluous crosswalks and road signs. No, as we left the kindergarten, we illegally crossed the street without the help of a crosswalk or Green Man, right into incoming traffic. I guess we were physically preparing ourselves for the rules of the road in India where there are no rules (perhaps the biggest difference between Singapore and India).

Our professors had told us that when we returned to America, we’d be surprised by the quiet of the streets. They were right. Even traffic jams seem tame at home, and I’m continually disappointed that motorists won’t just drive down the middle of the yellow line to pass through congestion. Think of the time that could be saved! Crossing roads on foot, I’ve often forgotten to look both ways. After all, I’ve survived rickshaw rides and New Delhi traffic jams atop motorcycle handle bars. What’s a little Triangle traffic?

So Long Singapore

After six weeks in a country, how do you say good bye? I’d been asking myself this question all week as I revisited some of my favorite places for one last time. But I decided that for my final night in Singapore, I wanted to do something I hadn’t done before, something I’d always wanted to do. 

And so, I decided to go to the top of the Marina Bay Sands Hotel, a place I’d coveted since the start of my trip, and watch the sun set. This posh hotel charges $20 for such a luxury, but I didn’t mind, and neither did Gautam, a friend of mine from the program who accompanied me. We both brought our cameras and joked about bringing our bathing suits for a dip in the Sands’s rooftop infinity pool, but our $20 tickets didn’t include pool access, so ultimately we left them behind. And so we rode the elevator up 56 floors, our ears popping along the way, our smiles bursting with excitement. 

Looking over Marina Bay Sands.

“Oh, yeah, this view is worth $20,” Gautam said as soon as we stepped onto the rooftop.

He was right. We arrived some thirty minutes before sunset, giving us just enough time to admire the skyline in the last few moments of daylight. A gentle breeze blew over the observation deck. Even the harsh humidity didn’t seem so bad up there. I guess high prices can keep even humidity at bay.

And then the sun dipped below the horizon, casting a brilliant pink and purple glow over the city. Watching the sun set over the Singapore skyline provided the perfect venue for me to reminisce over the past six weeks. For as I looked over the railing, I saw all the places I’d traveled: the merlion fountain where we’d met a young boy who traded foreign currencies with us on our first day in Singapore, both of the five star hotels where we toured posh restroom facilities, the Asian Civilizations Museum where we’d admired ancient artwork, the honeycomb-shaped Esplanade theater where we’d watched a dance performance, the Singapore Flyer which we’d walked twelve blocks to only to discover that the price for the largest ferris wheel in the world was rather out of our budget, Glutons Bay where we’d eaten a lavish hawker center meal after the Marina Bay light show, and Bedok Reservoir where we’d cheered the National University of Singapore to victory at the Dragon Boat Festival.  

The Singapore Flyer lights up the night sky.

 After a while, Gautam and I walked over to the infinity pool. As luck would have it, the security guards didn’t ask to see our room keys (as they did with some of our other classmates later that evening), so we continued past and dipped our feet in the water, cursing our decision to leave our swim suits behind. We even walked across a platform in the center of the pool, approaching the edge where the water ran off, seemingly to the depths below. (In actuality, the pool was fenced in, and a swimmer would literally have to fling himself off the pool and then off another barrier before falling to his death.) I desperately wanted to lower myself into the water and look over the edge at the buildings which seemed to float atop the pool. Still, I contented myself with my standing view and felt lucky that no one questioned us about our strange choice of pool attire.

Standing in the Infinity Pool.

Looking out over the skyline.

At 8 p.m. we enjoyed a second viewing of the Marina Bay Sands light show, but this time from 56 stories above. “This is a Story About Water and Light.” The words flashed in a puff of smoke above the bay. The narrative went on to tell us that the entire show was composed of nothing but water and light. It was truly spectacular, complete with Las Vegas-style waterworks which spurted in streams of lavender and golden orange. The only thing missing was the classical composition, “Claire de Lune,” and you’d have had a replica of the final scene in Ocean’s Eleven when the thieves celebrate their accomplishments overlooking a shooting fountain. 

And then came Louis Armstrong (or his musical workings at least) and another couple of puffs of smoke later, sprouting flowers, crawling babies, and other cycle of life imagery flashed across the night sky. The show had been better from below where each of these scenes were more visible, but Louis’s voice was just as soft and soothing from above, and I enjoyed the new perspective height afforded me.

Enjoying the Marina Bay Sands light show from above.

We finally left around 8:30. Just as we were exiting the hotel, we noticed one of our professors walking through the door. We said, “hello,” and he invited us back inside. One of our professors’ Indian friends had invited our entire class to the top of the hotel for food and drinks. As Gautam’s flip-flops were against dress code, he took a taxi back to the dorms for a quick wardrobe change while I (who had worn a dress and sandals), returned from wince I’d come.

Enjoying the rooftop bar.

When I approached the bar, I dropped the name I’d been given and was escorted inside with VIP status. I was the first student to arrive, so I joined my other professor who was already enjoying a cocktail in the outdoors bar. Students slowly trickled in for the rooftop view. For the next few hours, we sipped cranberry juice and looked out over the observation deck at the glowing traffic crawling up the highway, inching past the Singapore Flyer turning in slow motion and flashing a thousand colors a second, and towards the bay basking in city lights. When the evening ended, our host presented us each with beautiful pink and red flowers and talked about the inspiration he was sure we’d find in India. He provided the transitional link between the two countries.

Carolina SEAS 2011 atop the Sands Hotel.

Only the ride home remained, and we had exactly thirty minutes before the metro shut down. When the clock struck twelve, the carriage would turn into a pumpkin, we’d lose our glass slippers, and we’d be walking home. It surely had been a magical evening and so a Cinderella ending couldn’t have been more appropriate. 

Before the carriage turns into a pumpkin.

Our fairy godmother must have been with us because as Toyosi, Mandy, and I (the brave three who risked a long walk to avoid cab fare) ran barefoot down the street to the metro station, we made perfect timing, boarding one of the last trains of the evening. When we left the metro station and boarded a late-running bus, they announced the very last train. Turns out we left our carriage before it turned into a pumpkin. And I made it home with both glass sandals.

Living Out the Five Cs

Cash. Car. Credit Card. Condominium. Country Club. These are the Five Cs, or the Five Things All Singaporeans Want (More or Less). Upon leaving Singapore, I can say that I certainly spent Cash, but that was as close to any of the Five Cs as I came until one of our final nights in the country when we enjoyed a farewell dinner at PeraMakan, a restaurant within a posh Country Club. To keep undeserving diners out, the country club was built away from bus lines so we had to walk from the closest bus stop to dinner, an inconvenience which only our Singaporean friend, Hui Qian, minded as she detests physical exertion of any sort unless it involves shopping (i.e. Cash, Credit Card, and an extraordinary pair of heels).

Enjoying dinner at PeraMakan with Ashley Dean, Ashley Rivenbark, and Nicole Welsh.

For dinner we enjoyed fish and vegetables doused with red sauce, prawns cooked in a thick sweet glaze, succulent duck soup, and countless other meats which I can hardly recount. For dessert we had a Singaporean delicacy called chendol, an icy mocha dish served with green worm-like gelatin and red beans. It was tasty until the beans. But a goodbye dinner is more about reflection than food, and so we reminisced about our favorite experiences in Singapore, even as we anticipated our upcoming trip to India which still seemed far too distant to be real. 

Chendol.

Everyone has different favorite moments, but one of my favorite memories is from our visit to Sentosa where I spent the day walking along the three beaches with my friend, Ananda. We walked to the southernmost point of continental Asia and looked out over the tossing waves, letting the wind blow sea salt into our hair. As dusk approached, we climbed onto some jagged rocks and watched the sun set behind dark rolling clouds. Then, we walked back, past blaring music, last-minute sunbathers, and little children jumping in the waves. The palm trees were lit with twinkle lights, and they almost looked magical in the sun’s dying rays.

Standing at the southernmost tip of continental Asia.

Sun setting over the beach.

Hiking through MacRitchie was another surreal experience because anytime you come across a dozen monkeys dancing in the treetops, you can definitely label the experience surreal. Okay, so maybe they weren’t dancing, but they were doing just about everything else: jumping, fighting, picking each other’s fleas. A few seemed prepared for more intimate gatherings. One jumped onto the boardwalk and pranced between our feet. When a runner jogged past, the monkey didn’t even blink. Still, we were careful as we walked past. hikers have been known to be attacked by the sweet-turned-hostile creatures.

Notice the monkey in the background!

The vistas of MacRitchie were phenomenal as well. We hiked uphill through dense forests with breathtaking paths which could have inspired Robert Frost’s poem if he’d ever had the foresight to travel to Singapore. (I guess he took a different road which was probably more traveled.) We climbed over rickety bridges and up to an observation deck where one girl met a dashing young Frenchman and disappeared for a long conversation while we clicked pictures of monkeys.

Looking out over MacRitchie.

To say, “Goodbye,” to Singapore, I spent my last week revisiting some of my favorite places. I spent Tuesday afternoon on Arab Street with Liz and Burt, lunching at Zam Zam’s which boasts the best murtabak and ginger tea in the country (in our humble opinions). I’m not a fan of ginger tea, but I really can’t imagine a more savory experience than ripping apart hot murtabak, bursting with mutton and cheese, and dipping it in a spicy red sauce. Then we went to a sweet-smelling perfume shop, admired the colored glass and crystal bottle collection, haggled prices, and left empty handed. Finally, we rested our eyes once more on the beautiful Sultan Mosque, listening to the adhāt before walking to a Wall’s ice cream stand for dessert.

Enjoying mutton murtabak with Burt and Liz at Zam Zam's.

I also returned to Chinatown several times to pick up my shirt from the tailor and to walk down the streets, enjoying the persistence of shopkeepers and the thrill of driving down a price. On one such occasion I found my way to a cheap restaurant serving chicken rice (perhaps the most typical Singaporean meal and very simple: chicken and rice cooked in chicken broth) for $S1.80. I walked down the streets once more before leaving, admiring the way the red lanterns danced in the breeze and listening to the quiet rumble of laughter coming from late diners sipping Tiger Beer across from another restaurant advertising the Best Chili Crab in Singapore.

This is why I love Chinatown.

Afterwards, I met some friends for the Dragon Boat Festival at Bedok Reservoir where we cheered the National University of Singapore (NUS) paddlers, both men and women, to victory. The Dragon boat races were one of the first things I’d heard about when I started researching activities to do in Singapore, and on our first Saturday in the country we overheard a rumor that the races were that weekend. We thought we’d missed the festival and were thoroughly disappointed until we discovered that we had not missed them at all and the races were actually to be held at the end of our visit. 

We took a thirty minute metro ride and then caught a bus for a fifteen-stop ride to the reservoir. As soon as we arrived, the sky darkened. People meandered through the park, watching the clouds tentatively, afraid of impending storms and subsequent cancellations. 

The dragon boat races begin!

But the festival continued (after a short delay), and soon we forgot about the rain and focused on the race. Each boat was decorated to look like a dragon, complete with purple and green scales and fierce white teeth. The crowd split into sections along the shore according to team allegiance. Our section was dressed in orange and white (NUS colors) and used blow-up clappers to make noise during NUS’s races. Before the championship round, several groups all dressed in pink loaded into dragon boats and helped race for a cure against breast cancer. Everyone cheered them on. Spending time with fellow NUS students was a perfect bookend to an excellent six weeks in Singapore.

I also returned to Marina Bay Sands, but that is another story and shall be told another time (i.e. please see my next blog post).