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).

Ninth Best

I can now say that I’ve danced at the ninth best bar in the world. That’s right, Singapore is home to Zouk, one of the top ten bars worldwide. And I’ve not only been there, I’ve danced there, too.

At Zouk.

Every Wednesday night is Lady’s Night so girls get in free and guys pay through the nose. Of course, by the time you’ve paid taxi fare, the evening isn’t cheap, even for girls, but in comparison to the $30 cover charge the guys have to pay (and that’s before drinks), girls have it pretty good.

After all, Zouk is more than a bar, it’s an experience. I didn’t order any drinks, but I didn’t have to. The music was far too good to require any sort of substance to lower my dancing inhibitions. Lights, the shapes of open eyes, hung from the ceiling like modern chandeliers. The bar displayed an inlaid mother of pearl backsplash displaying dozens of liquors. The dance floor was a confusion of hips and sways, drinks and music. Umbrellas almost flew into people’s drinks, as they were prepared at lightning speed.

The interior of Zouk.

Bar tenders handed me a red masquerade mask and lay as I passed them, and I quickly added them to my costume. In the dim light which cast a whitish glow over much of our clothing (and some of our hair), the accessories almost accented my gray dress and blue-green beaded necklace. 

People ordered drinks: rum and cranberry juice, mint juleps, flavored spritzers, and a few of us even tried to order Shirley Temples (but the prices kept the Maraschino cherries safely behind the counter). Then we headed onto the dance floor. My favorite room played hip hop music. We got into the room early and danced until around 12:30 when the room got so congested you couldn’t move for traffic. Then we pushed our way into the mambo room where dancers took the stage to walk us through hand motions to older songs. Just as I was getting the hang of the waving arms and gesticulating elbows, my “dry” group decided to head back to the dorms. I was secretly relieved as I’d caught myself yawning in the middle of the YMCA. But I’m glad I went.

Now, I can say that my first bar ranked ninth in the world. I don’t plan to visit another bar unless it is ranked at least number eight. That means that the next time I’m at a bar, I’ll be in Manchester (#1), Berlin (#2), or, outside shot Lisbon (#3).

King Kong Trumps Fireworks Celebrating the 4th of July Outside of the USA

It was a different kind of 4th of July. No hot dogs or hamburgers. No singing of the National Anthem. No fireworks. I didn’t see one American flag waving or hear one mention of independence from the British. We didn’t receive any invitations for a cook out, and the only parties we were invited to, we later discovered had occurred a few days before the fourth. And so, the 4th of July came around and we discovered that we were Americans in a foreign country without plans to celebrate our independence. 

Still, in each of our own ways, we were determined to celebrate American style. We all mentioned going to McDonalds, and a few did to buy the apple pies we hadn’t had the foresight to bake ourselves. A few others went to Clark Key where they burned sparklers overlooking the waterfront. The rest of us embraced America’s international culture and treated ourselves to seafood prata at The Cheese Prata Shop. Afterwards, we wandered down the street to an Indian restaurant where we ordered Milo King Kongs, perhaps the best dessert I had while in Singapore as it was a large glass of chocolate milk chock full of milo (which is kin to Nesquick only MUCH better) and served with two scoops of chocolate and vanilla ice cream. Delicious!

At the Indian restaurant, enjoying my Milo King Kong.

Milo King Kongs Conquered!

We didn’t get our fireworks until that weekend when we took the metro to Marina Bay Sands to watch one of several rehearsals for Singapore’s 46th Independence Day celebration at the end of July. I’ve never seen more magnificent fireworks. White streamer-like fireworks shot from the tops of buildings and others exploded in star-like formations over the bay, casting red and purple hues over the Sands hotel. The finale ended with a cacophony of colorful explosions and several encores ensued even thirty minutes later. 

Fireworks over Marina Bay Sands during 4th of July Celebration Part 2.

Fireworks shooting off the tops of the buildings.

So, we celebrated the 4th of July Singapore-style (a.k.a. in multiple parts): first with our international rehearsal and then with our fireworks celebrating a different independence.

Bathing with Roosters and Speaking Without Words

When I say that we climbed a quarter mile uphill through a rainforest, I mean that the entire journey was straight up. No stairs. No railing. Just a few tethered ropes and a lot of mud. When we finally ascended the root-laden terrain, we mounted a tall scaffolding which provided a beautiful canopy view. I’d been to a rainforest before in Costa Rica, but this experience was completely different. Not only did it not rain once during our hike, but I also got much higher than I had before. I climbed to the top of the canopy with my friend Marquis. He spilled some water from one of the high bridges, and we watched as the stream separated into individual droplets, taking several seconds before they splattered noisily to the ground below.

Overlooking the rainforest canopy.

Afterwards, we took another boat ride (and when I say “boat” I should say rickety wooden canoe which bumped so hard against rocks so many times that the motor stalled every hundred yards or so) to the Iban Long House. The Iban tribe gave us as warm a welcome as our other Bruneian friends, only this reception included copious glasses of rice wine (while alcohol was prohibited in the rest of the Islamic country). Rice wine was handed to us at the door, served again at lunch and dinner, and given in large quantities at a fake wedding celebration later that evening. For those of us who didn’t drink, the evening involved lots of glass passing, and for those who did drink, it involved lots of glass downing. In the end, everyone was happy.

Boating to the Iban Long House.

After the first glass of wine, we were served a warm lunch of sweet rice cooked in bamboo stalks served with heavily salted chicken. We ate in the foyer of the Long House, which, living up to its name, consisted of a long hallway with fifteen doorways. Inside each doorway was an entire home (both upstairs and downstairs) where a family of nine or ten lived. The houses were not equal in status; some were rather modest, like our home which had no air conditioning and working fans in only some of the rooms, but others were rather posh, boasting televisions and running showers.

We broke into pairs for rooming assignments. Toyosi and I were assigned House 14. Our family had nine children ranging in ages from five to 22. The youngest was celebrating her birthday the day we arrived. The oldest had previously worked as the sultan’s personal cook and spoke of baking him chicken pie. (I had hoped to awake the next morning to a twelve course breakfast, but my lack of royal blood reduced me to an excellent breakfast of brown sugar rice and fried spring rolls instead.)

We talked with our family for hours on end. We were lucky as many of our contemporaries were assigned families who couldn’t speak any English. We came across this problem only with the mother and the young boys (the latter of which probably could speak English but were too busy boasting that they enjoyed “smokes” at the young ages of eight and ten). We met some of the younger girl’s friends who listened to us read from their Malay chapter books and laughed at our misguided pronunciations.

Toyosi and I with our housemother and two youngest "siblings," Suraya and Sita.

Later in the afternoon we went for a quick swim in the lake and then we returned for showers before cooking lessons. Bathing proved difficult as the shower consisted of a bucket and hose. I showered twice, first with a bath rag, and then, by spooning yellow water over my head and each limb; both times I showered to the clucking of roosters in the back yard. I left the shower feeling dirtier than I’d come.

Washed and dried, I wandered inside another Iban house for cooking lessons. I sat on the ground with an elderly woman and stuffed greens into hollow bamboo stalks with a silver spoon, pounding the stalks every few spoonfuls to make room for more vegetables. I watched as the packed stalks were set over a roaring flame and engulfed in smoke. To the side, vats filled with boiling rice and stewing chicken bubbled and hissed.

Stuffing greens into hollow bamboo stalks.

Then, I joined a circle of classmates to shell hard-boiled eggs. I was unlucky enough to de-shell my first egg only to discover that the hardened yoke had burst through the white. “It’s ugly, you have to eat it,” one of my friends told me, explaining that they’d been told aesthetics mattered for the dish but waste wasn’t tolerated. Luckily, I was sitting by Malhar who loved hard boiled eggs and agreed to eat mine. He also agreed to eat every other girl’s ruined eggs and soon felt quite ill. From then on, I was careful about which eggs I selected.

Saffa and Ceewin shelling hard boiled eggs.

Finally, we made our way to the dessert table where we were handed a long rod with a coconut shell with holes tied to the end. We filled the coconut shell with a thick batter and then poured it into a frying pan sizzling with hot oil. Running through the small holes, the batter made a netting-like formation. As it began to harden, we folded it in half with a spatula and then in half again, careful not to flatten the air from its edges. Upon sampling, it tasted like sweet cinnamon, reminding me of the fried tortilla dessert you can order at many typical Mexican restaurants. 

Hui Qian, our Program Assistant, tries her hand at the "netting" dessert.

After a quick dinner enjoyed cross-legged on the floor (dinner preparation was the more social aspect of dinner; the actual eating took very little time), we joined the elderly ladies for bamboo weaving lessons. I spent the next few hours entwining bamboo leaves into place mats and table settings. I became fast friends with one lady in particular who couldn’t speak any English. I learned by watching her patterns and then following her directions of head shakes (meaning, “no”) and humming (meaning, “yes”). Then, once I’d caught hold of the pattern, I taught my friends. When Roxanne and I left, we’d grossed four place mats and two place settings combined. I felt like my fingernails would fall off when I finally stood up to return my goods to my room.

Weaving place mats with our feet and fingers.

Roxanne, our "grandmother," and I (several hours later) with our finished products!

Then we joined the rest of our classmates for a fake wedding party, joining Madison and Ian (two of the students on the trip) in matrimony. Basically an Iban wedding is just an excuse to drink massive amounts of rice wine. Rice wine was drunk before, during, and after the ceremony. It was especially important during the three loops around the hall which the married couple must make to seal their vows. After each circle, everyone in the wedding party (including guests) had to down a glass of wine. At the end of the ceremony, we were told that the tradition had been westernized for us tourists and that in actuality the wedding party would drink a glass of wine at each doorway. With fifteen doors passed three times each, that adds up to 45 glasses of wine, not taking into account the other glasses consumed at either end of the ceremony. What baffled me most was that the wedding couple is not allowed to sleep during their first night of marriage and must instead keep awake all night playing board games. I can’t imagine the level of concentration required to play Mancala after 50+ drinks. Counting marbles can prove difficult even sober and well-rested.

The happy couple, Ian and Madison.

The wedding ceremony was also filled with dancing. The traditional lady’s dance involved soft arm movements and careful twirls, but I preferred the male’s dance which consisted of a series of sharp stomps. I’d never heard such a loud sound as the dancer made with his bare heel. It was genuinely impressive and sent me jumping every time. The girls had the chance to try the lady’s dance and the guys had the chance to follow the male dancer. When it came to the stomping, the male lead broke into fits of laughter at our classmates’ harried attempts.

I'm not sure that I should call this dancing. Maybe just "The Attempt."

Leaving the Iban village foreshadowed the tearful farewells we’d make to our other Bruneian friends first at the University and then again at the airport. The Iban villagers lined up along the vast hallway, each touching their hearts and then their lips as they wished us farewell. My weaver friend, which I’d come to accept as a surrogate grandmother of sorts, had tears in her eyes as she pulled me close. 

Saying, "goodbye," to a few of our many friends from the University of Brunei.

We had not been able to speak with many of the villagers, yet we’d found a more meaningful style of communication: one through the heart and eyes. But with the help of language and time, we’d grown even closer to the students and professors at the University of Brunei, and so leaving them was doubly hard. I don’t know if I’ll ever have the chance to return to Brunei, but I do know that whether I visit in person or not, a small part of my heart will always remain with the people who live there.