Sir Classic Tailor

Before leaving for Singapore, a family friend, Joe Brasier, had told me by way of my grandmother, about a fabulous tailor shop in Chinatown called Sir Classic Tailor. A few days before leaving for Brunei, I set out for the shop on my own by way of the MRT (subway station). 

I had a bit of difficulty finding the shop, wandering down street after street, waving aside invitations to buy everything from pink “I ♥ Singapore” t-shirts to large fans the size of bookcases. Eventually, I found a nice businessman in a dark suit who told me to go down Pagoda Street where most of the tailor shops can be found. “But why are you looking for a tailor?” he asked me, brow furrowed. “It’s quite expensive.”

“I’m just looking,” I assured him.

He shook his head. “They don’t like you to look. They like you to buy,” he said. With his warning still echoing in my head and his friendly wave upon my retreating back, I climbed the stairs, crossed a bridge, and headed toward Pagoda Street. Just when I was about to give up, I came across a beautiful shop with a bright green sign reading “Sir Classic Tailor.” Taking a deep breath, I walked inside. 

A salesman named Silva proved immediately attentive, recommending the best of the raw Italian silks. I told him I wanted a white silk suit like I’d admired in Singapore’s central business district. As we flipped through swatches and tagged different design samples, we discussed prices. After telling Silva that I’d been recommended to the shop by a family friend and was a non-working student, I managed to get a rather good price. “I think I remember Joe,” he said. 

Silva even walked me to the ATM where he stood at a distance so I could withdraw cash. I ordered a white raw Thai silky suit, and then the seamstress, Joan, took my measurements. As I paid, I noticed a bulletin board featuring the shop’s more famous clients, among them, Bill Clinton. Only in Chinatown in a country where the U.S. dollar still trumps the Singapore dollar could I afford to be in such company!

Standing outside Sir Classic Tailor after ordering my suit.

I returned for my first suit fitting this past Friday afternoon (July 1st) after coming back from Brunei. A man greeted me at the door and asked me to wait for Joan who was in the back room. She emerged a few moments later and immediately grabbed my short white jacket. “Two people saw it before you came in and requested the same design,” she told me, beaming.

I, too, was beaming when I put on the jacket. As I had to wait a few minutes for my skirt to be delivered, I sat at the counter, and Joan asked about my trip to Brunei and offered me a Coca-Cola which I accepted gratefully. Then we discussed shirt designs and I looked through a case of handmade raw silk ties. When the skirt arrived, I tried on the entire suit and couldn’t have been happier. (Actually, Joan disagreed, insisting that a handmade shirt under the jacket would be preferable to anything I could buy in other stores. She told me she’d give me a special discount if I returned, and I agreed to think about it.)

Posing with Joan after trying on my suit. (I think I understand what she means when she says I need to invest in a nice dress shirt. Somehow my green t-shirt detracts.)

I did return the very next day with my friend, Roxanne, who wanted to do some last-minute souvenire shopping for her brothers. Roxanne was blown away by my reception when I entered the shop. “Hello,” the man who’d greeted me the day before, said as I walked inside. “How do you like your suit?” I told him I loved it and had come back for the shirt.

“An excellent idea,” Joan beamed, gathering the books of swatches.

“How was Brunei, Emily?” Silva asked me as he pulled down bolts of cloth for another customer. “Can I get you a drink?”

Roxanne was wide-eyed as I sipped my Coke. She wandered off to some other shops while I admired a new assortment of silk ties and picked out my shirt material: pink and white striped Egyptian cotton. I return for my trial fitting Thursday. 

When Fourteen Means Forty: A Story of Tandem Bikes, Conquered Chili Crab & Messages in a Bottle

We left the dorms early one Saturday morning (June 18th) for Pulau Ubin, a tiny island filled with beautiful forests and seafront property. The island harkens back to 1960s Singapore with the  country’s last kampong village, a series of houses built on stilts surrounding the waterfront. (The rest have been torn down to make room for more Housing and Development Board flats.)

A hefty cab fare and a short ferry ride later, we finally arrived in Pulau Ubin for a day of island biking and hiking. The bumboats, which took us to the island, held exactly twelve people and the drivers wouldn’t leave until the boats were filled, so we had to wait at Changi until enough passengers arrived. Then we fished in our purses for the $S2.50 one-way fare.

View from the bumboat.

The boats were built sturdily and made gigantic waves as we sailed. The large, open spaces for windows provided a great view of Kampong Glam. The wind whipped my hair into a frenzy, blowing my ponytail like a ferris wheel and forming curly wisps around my forehead. 

In case you didn't believe me about my hair.

Upon entering the island, we were bombarded with a stretch of salespeople offering us bikes for the day beginning at $S8. By the time we’d reached the end of the row, we could rent a bike for just $S4. As I needed to ride a tandem (bikes and I have had a rather unsteady relationship in the past), my friend, Marquis, and I split the cost of a $S12 two-seater. Our height discrepancy is such that his seat was boosted to its full height while mine sat far below, making us look all the more comical as we took sharp turns. 

Mandy, Marquis, Toyosi, Olivia, CeCe and I arrive in Pelau Ubin!

Before we started, Marquis informed me he’d never ridden a tandem, but he didn’t think it would be very different from a regular bike. I had flashbacks to my first few tandem rides with my dad, remembering our rather precarious endeavors and difficulty climbing hills. Uh oh, I thought, but I just smiled and tried to think, unsuccessfully, of something both encouraging and truthful to say. I settled on a non-committal noise meant to convey confident anticipation. In reality I was terrified. 

As soon as we took off, we knew we’d made a mistake and should’ve invested in the slightly more expensive tandems for $S16. Our first and second gears were nonexistent and our brakes squealed like a dying bird. We took off in a swervy zig-zag and pressed on the breaks, turning heads. The lady who sold us the bike shouted at our retreating backs, reminding us to take the downhills slowly and to watch out for jagged curves. I tried to ignore her worried tone and anxious expression, but as we screeched to a halt behind the rest of our group, I had a hard time shaking a deep sense of foreboding. 

Marquis, Mandy, Cece, Ashley, and I bike through Pelau Ubin.

Despite my concerns, we didn’t fall once. Sure, we had a few close calls, like when an entire school group appeared from no where as we practically flew downhill on one wheel. But we not only made it through completely in tact, we also spent an entire day touring a good portion of the island, stopping to admire seemingly endless vistas: row upon row of palms and coconut trees lining a wide dirt path, a small inlet of water surrounded my a patchwork of grass and mud which was chock full of antique glass bottles, an old well with overhanging ivy hidden within a spice garden, and a small shrine dedicated to a “German Girl” atop a steep hill. Along the way we came across discarded piles of fresh fruit like the ripe durians we spent a good twenty minutes trying to crack against the concrete with no success. 

We stopped for lunch at a wonderful seafood shack built right along the shore. The water lolled in gentle waves against the stilt support structure and crabs crawled around a large tank of water a few paces away from our table. 

As we’d broken into small groups for the bike ride, we were pleased to run into another group of SEAS people already seated at the restaurant. They told us the seafood was excellent and Jessica and Malhar suggested the Chili Crab, a Singaporean delicacy, which the waiter had told them was only $S14.00. Cece and I decided to split the dish which was served in a spicy dark sauce. As it was impossible to eat the crab with utensils, we pulled the meat from the shell with our fingers. The head and pinchers were especially good dipped in the thick sauce. As we were embarking on the rather meatless thighs, Jessica and Malhar got their bill.

The best "$S14" Chili Crab in Singapore!

“Hey, guys.” Malhar’s voice didn’t sound like someone who’d just paid $S14 for Chili Crab. “You know when the waiter told us $S14?”

We sucked air in affirmation.

“Well, we misunderstood,” Malhar said slowly. “Apparently, he said $S40.”

Cece and I looked at each other. “We’re not leaving one bite,” I told her.

“I’m going to ask for a spoon for the sauce,” she said, nodding assent. 

We conquered the Chili Crab, and then I had to conquer the bill when the waiter asked for $S45 instead of $S40. I was nice but firm; after a large smile and friendly reminder on my part, he left with the bill and returned a moment later with the changed price. We considered taking the shell as a trophy but decided against it.

After lunch, we biked to the seashore where we discovered old bottles poking out of white sand imported from Hawaii. We unearthed several and cleaned them in the water. Then we ripped pages from our journals and wrote notes (to be discovered 200 years from now). We were sure to date the letters for future historical legitimacy. We pushed them through the long neck of the cleanest bottle and prepared to send it off to sea. 

Message in a bottle.

But before we did so, we came across a fallen coconut. We split it open and after smelling the spoiled milk inside, poured it onto a nearby rock. Then, we shoved the bottle into the coconut (which served as a flotation device) and lowered it into the water with the receding tide. As we remounted our bikes and continued our tour of the island, we told ourselves that our letters wouldn’t be discovered for hundreds of years. In all probability, they were quickly retrieved and read by the slew of kids who’d just arrived on shore and had watched our progress with attentive eyes. But we pedaled fast, so we’ll never know for sure.

Off to sea!

“Quek” Like a Duck and Other Professors

My previous blogs have almost completely disregarded the fact that I’m studying while abroad. I’ll try to correct that misconception with a quick exposé on each of my professors from the National University of Singapore (NUS), each to be completed in different entries.

I have classes from 9 a.m. to noon Monday through Friday. Besides a South Asian literature and film course which we are taking under two UNC professors, we are also enrolled in “History of Singapore, Malaysia, and Thailand.” A different professor from NUS specializes in each country. During the first two weeks we focused on the formation of the Singaporean identity (or, rather, a failure to do so). As Singapore split from Malaysia in 1965, the next segment of our course focused on the history of Malaysia so we could draw parallels between the two countries’ social situations. We are currently studying Thai history, but our professor promises we will soon be discussing current politics which will be fascinating considering the upcoming (and potentially explosive) elections in July.

When Dr. Quek Ser Hwee, our professor for the Singapore segment, introduced herself, she told us about the confusion her name caused when she studied in the United States. While “Quek” comes at the front of her name, it is actually her surname. (The Chinese place their surnames ahead of their given names.) To add to the challenge, it is pronounced, “Quack, like the duck.” She repeated this several times, assuring us that we weren’t being disrespectful if we quacked in class. (Apparently, her professors in the United States hadn’t wanted to make duck references and so they’d insisted on using her given name, Ser, “which is pronounced, ‘sir,’” she told us. “So you can imagine the discomfort those stogy old men felt when they used their own title on me.”)

Professor Quek kept us laughing in class. Soaring to an incredible height of five feet, she commanded attention through humor. I could have filled an entire notebook with her one-liners. Using Powerpoint presentations only when convenient, each morning she leaned against her desk, sipping a Coke and just started talking. Her favorite rants included the many shortcomings of former Prime Minister Lee Kuan Yew (who, as an octagenerian Ministry Mentor, is still very much in the spotlight) and the many shortcomings of Singapore (all of which she can trace back to Lee Kuan Yew). “Many of my students say I act like I hate Singapore,” she said during one of our first classes. She brushed back her short dark hair, a gesture we came to recognize as her one-liner signal, and continued. “And I tell them, ‘You’re right. I do!’” 

But Professor Quek didn’t really seem to hate Singapore. In fact, her frustrations bespoke a deep love for her country and a desire to make it better for the people who live here. Our most interesting conversations (for “lectures” would defame her style) revolved around Singapore’s lack of a national identity. The root of this problem lies in the way the government denotes ethnicity. Citizens must identify themselves based on the Chinese-Malay-Indian-Other (CMIO) model which forces them into boxes where they don’t belong. The CMIO model exacerbates inter-ethnic tensions and causes people to identify themselves and others based first on race. Further, the CMIO model doesn’t allow children of mixed races to express a dual identity. They simply have to choose a race. (This is the new and improved version. Before 2010, a mixed-race child was simply assigned his father’s ethnicity.) I wrote my final paper for Professor Quek on this model, and since her class I’ve become really interested in national and sub-group identities. In fact, SEAS 2010 and 2011 students have the chance to apply to return to the program next year for an individual research project, and I would really like to study the formation of ethnic identities in depth next year.

Two Sundays ago (June 19th), Professor Quek took several of us to church at St. Andrew’s Cathedral, the Diocese of Singapore. We had to take two buses and the metro to get across town. When we finally arrived, the church was overflowing with worshippers, some leaving the 9:30 a.m. Mandarin service and some coming for the 11:15 English service. 

Inside St. Andrew's Cathedral.

Fourteen services are conducted each Sunday in a smattering of languages ranging from Cantonese to Bahasa Indonesian to Tagalong, a word I thought was reserved for a type of Girl Scout cookie. The styles varied as well, some were traditional, others contemporary, and still others offered options with and without communion.

In what is starting to seem like a trend, I was blown away by the cathedral’s architecture. Tall windows with intricate molding lit the church’s front, and long white spires pierced wispy clouds. The cross, atop the steeple, was almost lost to the sun’s blinding light. Inside, people were already kneeling in prayer. 

When the service started, I quickly understood what Kerri Nicole, a SEAS Episcopalian who also came to church, meant when she referred to “pew aerobics.” We certainly did our fair share of rising and kneeling. In fact, a pattern emerged: Kneel. Pray. Stand. Sing. Sit. Repeat. I had the horrible urge to start counting repetitions.

Despite the workout, the service was wonderful. The church hosted a professor from a Singaporean theology school, who preached about finding God in the simple and everyday. He seamlessly incorporated Father’s Day into the lesson, talking about how a child tends to envision God as someone a lot like his father – quite a responsibility if you ask me!

I was overcome by the size of the sanctuary. We sat towards the back and had to strain to see the preacher’s face. I was thankful for the large screen televisions placed every two rows so I could watch the service, and I was even more thankful for the music lyrics and prayers posted on the same screens as we must have used twelve different books none of which I could find until the next song or prayer was being recited.

Although the church was huge and we sat hip-to-hip for row upon row, I was amazed at the speed of communion. Only baptized churchgoers could receive the host, so those who could not partake in communion were instructed to turn their hands over for a blessing. The priests dolled out the wine and wafers much like workers on an assembly line cap bottles: efficiently and impersonally. Had I not known the blessing said over the host, I certainly wouldn’t have understood the syllabic slur uttered in my direction. Accustomed to kneeling for prayer after communion, I was surprised when the priest blessed me on his second round around the communion railing. Apparently, my folded hands resembled the gesture unbaptized gesture, so I received a double blessing.

Although I didn’t particularly enjoy communion, everything else about the church was inclusive and open. One of the priests (there was a handful– all balding and all unusually merry) even asked members to stand, and although I was one of the first people to sit back down, the ushers still managed to slide me some welcoming materials down the pew.

After church, Professor Quek insisted on treating us to a Burmese lunch. “I don’t know if it’s authentic, but I know that it’s good,” she told us as we walked to the Burmese hawker center. “Because all the Burmese workers come here.” I repeat my professor’s sentiment entirely: I have no idea if it was authentic cuisine, but it certainly was good, and we certainly were the only non-Burmese in the restaurant. 

Professor Quek and Toyosi Oyelowo enjoying Burmese cuisine.

And on the other side of the table, Ceewin Louder, Kerri Nicole, and I doing exactly the same thing!

Professor Quek ordered us each a different fruit drink (I tried mango) and then we commenced hors’deauvres: fried fish patties and a mango and papaya salad with shrimp. We also enjoyed a seafood/ vegetable platter with shrimp, octopus, mushrooms, and broccoli. Our main courses were served last. I enjoyed seafood rice which came with shrimp, octopus, and prawns along with a mess of vegetables served in a thick clear sauce. 

In case you wanted a visual.

The food was savory, but the conversation was even better. We discussed everything from the sermon to trying to identify Singaporean identity to the problem with Singaporean men (mainly that they’re unromantic). In my opinion, it’s a universal problem and certainly not singular to Singapore, but I digress. (And to my offended guy friends: while I stand by my claim that the lack of romance is a universal male problem, I’m not charging 100% of males with the misdemeanor, just 99.9999999999999999%.)

The following day, Professor Quek organized a movie showing called “Singapore Dreaming.” She said she’s not proud of many Singaporean films, as most of the actors have “beautiful faces and zero acting skills,” but “Singaporean Dreaming” is exceptional as the actors have both good looks and talent. The movie revolves around the Five Cs (or the top five Singaporean ambitions): cash, car, credit card, Condominium, and Country club membership. “Singapore Dreaming” also refers to the lesser-known sixth C which trumps all others: Coffin. I definitely recommend watching it if you’re in the mood for a dark comedy with Singaporean flare. And when I say “Singaporean Flare,” I’m referring to the witticisms and humor which can only come from a woman exactly five feet tall with short cropped hair and a name befitting an entitled duck.

The Gurus of Hospitality

Before arriving in Singapore, I knew zilch about Sikhism. Four weeks later, I’ve toured the Central Sikh Temple in Singapore, enjoyed a 30-minute conversation with the board’s president about his religious values, and even attended a Sikh wedding.

Removing our shoes and adjusting our head scarves (both girls and guys must cover their heads) SEAS 2011 entered the gurdwara last week for the first in a long series of religious tours. Sitting alongside the Sikh caretakers and other community members, we enjoyed a simple but excellent lunch of rice, naan, vegetables, and chai tea. (Only vegetarian food is offered at the langars because of their belief that everyone should meet on equal footing.) 

SEAS 2011 outside the Central Sikh Temple in Little India.

Twice a day Sikhs worldwide host these langars, or free meals, to anyone who wants a hot plate. The langar tradition started in order to help deconstruct the caste system in India, and today strangers still eat together, no matter race, religion, or social status. When the prime minister of Singapore came to the temple, he ate alongside everyone else. 

As Sikhs don’t believe in waste of any kind, we were cautioned against leaving anything on our plates, and most people didn’t have any trouble until the sewadars, or servers, came to our tables with vats of rice. Seeing clean plates, they scooped large servings onto the plates of unsuspecting diners.

Inside the prayer room we were able to see the sacred text called the Shri Guru Granth Sahib, which was mounted on a large altar and covered in a thick red cloth until one of the caretakers folded it back to read some scripture. According to Sikh tradition, ten men served as gurus, or religious leaders. When the tenth guru died, he established the sacred text as the eleventh (and immortal) guru. 

The Shri Guru Granth Sahib, the eleventh and final Guru.

We sat cross-legged on the floor, careful to turn our feet away from the scripture as a sign of respect, as the caretaker spoke. He told us about the pillars of Sikhism and the five sacred symbols which traditional Sikhs carry with them everywhere. First he spoke about the “kesh” or unshaved head. Sikhs don’t believe in removing any facial hair, so they grow their hair long and men acquire rather impressive beards. (Our guide had a mustache which flared, giving him the appearance of a permanent smile.) The other symbols include the: “kacha” (boxer briefs), “kara” (metal bangle representing Sikhs’ never-ending connection with God), “kanga” (comb), and “kirpan” (small sword which is hidden in a pocket).

A caretaker reads from the Shri Guru Granth Sahib.

Then we circled around the sacred text, accidentally upsetting protocol when we turned our backs to the book as we left. Realizing our mistake, we walked backwards out the door. We were about to leave to attend a Hindu service, but the caretakers wouldn’t hear of us going until we’d agreed to have another cup of chai tea. As we returned to the dining hall for tea, they invited us to a Sikh wedding which I attended this Saturday. Apparently, just like the community meals, Sikh weddings don’t require invitations.

But before the wedding, I had to work on a paper assignment. This trip hasn’t been all fun and games. We’ve also had to work once and a while. (It is study abroad, after all.) As my research paper revolved around the Sikh diaspora in Singapore, I returned to the gurdwara the following Thursday with Toyosi to interview a caretaker. 

My paper traced how the changes in time and space reshaped Sikhism. The religion began in the Indian state of Punjab during the early 1500s, and the first Sikhs traveled to Singapore in the late 1800s. When Toyosi and I arrived at the temple we thought it was closed. Obscured by high scaffolding and protective coverings, the temple was plastered with “Under Construction” and “Danger Keep Out” signs which almost convinced us to leave without our interviews. But a caretaker hanging over the balcony waved us inside, directing us through a back entrance. When we told him we had questions, he asked us to wait and returned a moment later with the president of the board (who never admitted his position, saying, “I don’t believe in titles. Titles aren’t here to stay. You have it now, but you won’t have it later.”).

The undeclared president, Harbans Singh, then went on to talk about how he’d witnessed Sikhism change between his parents’ generation and his own. Complimentary of the typical Singaporean’s view of Sikhs, he said that he thought policies like Singapore’s two-year mandatory military conscription and integrated schools had facilitated good relations between Sikhs and non-Sikhs. He also talked about how some Sikhs have made concessions to mix better with the larger community. For instance, many parents don’t let their children carry the small sword at school until they’ve reached maturity. Mr. Singh was optimistic about the transformation of Sikhism in Singapore, however. “At some time you have to accept what society wants you to do and that becomes your new culture,” he said.

After our interview, he invited Toyosi and I to a women’s entrepreneurial workshop and said he looked forward to seeing us at the wedding. While we weren’t able to attend the workshop, several of us did make it to the wedding. I missed the ceremony (for a 9 k.m. hike from our dorms to Vivo City), but made it in time for the reception. All of the construction signs had been removed, and a black car wrapped in a gigantic bow sat beneath the stairs, awaiting the wedding party. The normally bare temple shone in the hues of colorful Indian outfits: fuchsia, gold, and green saris for the women and intricately embroidered kurtas for the men. The attendants wore bracelets of fragrant red and yellow flowers. But the bride, dressed in a scarlet sari, outshone everyone.

The wedding car.

At the wedding reception.

Guests flowed into the dining hall where they served a meal similar to what we enjoyed at the langar, along with roast and yoghurt. Before getting in line, I ran into Mr. Singh who greeted me like an old friend and promised to find me to talk later. 

Madison Scott and I at the reception.

Toyosi Oyelowo, Ashley Rivenbark, and Marquis Peacock enjoying the wedding feast.

As people polished off their trays, the children danced around the entrance hall. Little girls twirled their skirts and young boys fiddled with their head scarves. They ran around us, chattering like we were long-time friends. Recognizing us from our earlier tour, caretakers approached us to say they were happy we’d returned and to make sure we’d eaten. I’ve been to a lot of temples in the last few weeks, but of all the people we’ve met on the tours, the Sikhs have been the most welcoming. They truly are the Gurus of Hospitality.

A Feast of Religions

Over the course of two days, I visited a Sikh gurdwara, mosque, and three Hindu temples. If I’d left feeling anything less than sanctified, I’d have been disappointed. I can’t pretend to be an expert on the intricacies of Islam, Sikhism, or Hinduism, but I certainly gained an appreciation for the hospitality of the caretakers, imams, and priests. As I’ve returned to the gurdwara several times since our first tour, please see my separate entry about the gurdwara (“The Gurus of Hospitality”). Thus, I’ll recount my religious tour half-way in, beginning with the Hindu temples.

I especially enjoyed the music which floated wistfully through the open-air temples and mixed with the smokey perfume of burning incense. Leaning against a tall pillar, the flutist blew soft notes that flowed over the steady pounding of wooden drums. Behind me, drummers sat cross-legged on the floor, eyes glued to the front as the priests drew back curtains to reveal each of the gods in turn. 

Musicians at Hindu temple.

I shudder at my own use of the term “gods” as Hindus are not (as opposed to common belief) polytheistic. Instead, these statues represent varied concepts of the same god. We don’t all see god as a man wielding a pitchfork and protected by a serpent (Vishnu, known as the Supreme God). Nor do we all see god as a four-armed woman sitting atop a lotus flower (Lakshmi, goddess of wealth, light, and fertility). These are only two of the many forms of god acknowledged by Hinduism. Different temples focus on different deities, so worshippers can attend a service honoring their personal concept of god.

The priests draw back the curtains to reveal the gods.

Our Hindu tour guide cleared up another misconception about Hinduism before the service. Just as Hindus don’t believe in more than one god, they also don’t equate the statues with god. Instead, the statues, intricately carved, lavishly painted, and all depicted with large staring eyes, are vessels which god enters during the prayers. And those huge, unblinking eyes? They serve as a window to god, a way to see and be seen.

My favorite part of the temples are the beautiful roofs encrusted with stories of the gods.

We ended our whirlwind tour at the Masjid Abdul Gafoor, a beautiful yellow- and green-painted mosque which is more than 100 years old. Above the entry way, a huge sun dial emits 25 rays which denote the chosen Prophets in Arabic calligraphy. Standing on the front steps I have to crane my neck to see the Corinthian columns capped by green crescent moons which jut into the clouds. 

The sundial and crescent moon spires.

We arrived just as the Madrassah, a Muslim school which teaches Arabic and fundamental Islamic values, let out. The children threw their books into their bags and raced into the entryway. Some climbed the stairs and wandered inside the prayer room. Their teacher, a young woman with red glasses, pulled us aside and led us into a lower room. Inside, we were welcomed by an imam dressed in a flowy white jalibiya who opened the floor to questions about Islam. He spoke with a soft Indian accent, hands clasped in front of him, proud of his religion while personally humble. Eventually, he excused himself to lead the 5:00 service, and we returned to the entrance way.

Shoes pile up outside the mosque before the service begins.

Removing their shoes, men passed us on the stairs and walked into the prayer room. We were invited to attend the service, so the guys stood at the back of the room while the girls were led into a separate prayer room. Men and women attend segregated services, but the Madrassah teacher said that few women attend the services at Masjid Abdul Gafoor. In fact, she was the only attendant that day. She covered her head with a long white sheet and followed the service voiced over an intercom, standing, kneeling, and bowing in turn. 

After a day spent in temples and mosques, we dragged ourselves through mainstream Little India and ended up at The Banana Leaf Apolo. We were served never-ending mountains of white rice, potatoes, and cabbage on … you guessed it: banana leaves. Much later, they served our main courses (split among two people). Toyosi and I enjoyed Fish Kadhai, a white fish drenched in a spicy brown sauce and served with tomatoes and squash. We all ordered dessert, and what seemed like an hour later, we finally received them. Most were a sweet cream-based soup over gelatin and diced fruit. (No, this doesn’t sound good for a reason. I’ve found that Indian dessert is rather disappointing.) 

Toyosi and I enjoy Fish Kadhai at The Banana Leaf Apolo.

Thus concluded our first tour of Little India: a feast of religion and food. And now that you’ve read this incredibly long post, you’re probably as exhausted as we were when we finally returned to the dorms. But at least you don’t have 120 pages of dry reading due the next morning!

Tom Hanks: a “True” Singaporean Experience

Typically, Singapore is criticized for being a part of “Fasia” or “Fake Asia.” Certainly, the  neck-breaking high rises, malls crowded with people in business suits, and sidewalks so clean the street sweepers brush flower petals into their dustbins, can’t belong to the same continent characterized by the ram-shack houses clustered on tilled fields, starving children bent over bowls of rice, and streets choked with people packed like livestock in crumbling public transit. And, yet, here is Singapore, an island measuring about 26 miles wide and 14 miles long (or about 3.5 times the size of Washington D.C.), lying below Malaysia and a short sea trip away from neighboring Indonesia and Brunei. Geographically, Singapore is definitely a part of Asia, it just doesn’t fit into the stereotypical framework.

So before we traveled to Singapore, our program assured us that, despite the posh modernity of Singapore, our experience abroad would be truly Asian. Still, many in our group worried that until we met actual Singaporeans we wouldn’t have a “true” Singaporean experience. Our concerns were arrested last weekend when students (many from the National University of Singapore) spent the weekend with us. By the end of the weekend, we had all become fast-friends and our friendships were solidified and made “official” on Facebook.

Jessica Smith and I posing with our home stay friends Prasanthi Ram and Natalina Pereira.

Prashanti “Shanti” Ram and Natalina Pereira took us (Jessica Smith, a girl in my program, and I) around the city. We spent the majority of both days doing Singaporean’s two favorite past-times (and I must say, two of my favorite past-times): shopping and eating. Saturday began with an Indian feast of plain and garlic naan which we dipped in the red sauce drenched over our butter chicken. Then we bused over to a posh mall where we looked (me unsuccessfully) for party dresses. Passing by a Korean Barbeque stall, we asked for samples. The vendor hacked off a slice of braised pork from a large hunk and speared toothpicks through bite-sized pieces for each of us. 

As we walked out of the mall to go to a few outside shops, I noticed a red carpet rolled along the sidewalk. Earlier I’d noticed a sign by the movie theater welcoming Tom Hanks to the premier of Larry Crowne, his new movie. Surely this didn’t mean … But I had to ask. So I turned to a woman with her hair pulled into a tight bun who was practically jogging down the red carpet, speaking hurriedly into a Bluetooth. “Yes,” she told me, “He’ll arrive in about an hour.”

“Let’s queue,” I suggested, borrowing the elegant Singaporean term used instead of “line up.” So we got in line. After endless commentary from a crazy-eyed host named Bobby and after countless Singaporean and Chinese actors had long since strutted (most forgettably) down the red carpet, we still hadn’t seen an inkling of Tom. But three hours later, he finally arrived. Same disarming smile. Same witty humor. Same firm handshake. That’s right, I shook his hand. He was pleased to find out we’re from the United States, and I even had time to snap a picture before he was rushed toward more adoring international fans. 

Hanks Humor: Tom is just as funny in person as he is on the screen.

And he has a firm handshake, too!

I use the term “international” intentionally, for, as we queued (another typical Singaporean experience) Bobby approached us. His unblinking eyes reached us first and his microphone followed. Luckily, he thrust it in Jessica’s direction and asked her why she was excited to see Tom Hanks. I don’t remember her response because we were too amused by his reaction. “It’s so nice to have international fans,” he told us. International fans!? How could two Americans be mistaken for international fans of an American actor? Ah, perceptions! (Several days later Natalina found an amusing magazine while she was waiting at the hairdresser. Bobby stared from the front cover. Beneath his picture ran a headline: “How to Tame a Player.” I always knew he was a classy guy.)

I joked that Shanti and Natalina wouldn’t be able to top Saturday when we met the next afternoon, but we weren’t disappointed. We began at The Soup Spoon where we all enjoyed creamy bowls of mushroom soup. Then we walked through Bugis Street for some inexpensive shopping: watches starting at $2 and clothes and shoes for low prices. Beyond the shops were food stalls where we ordered a bag of miniature green tapioca pancakes (three for $2) to share and then went up the escalators for several more storeys (yes, that’s how they spell this word in Singapore) worth of shops filled with dresses and handbags.

We continued on to Arab Street, one of my favorite places in Singapore (and therefore already described in detail in a previous post: “Down Arab Street”). Across the way from the palatial Sultan Mosque we enjoyed dessert-before-dinner, buying ice cream from a vendor for $1. Shanti and Natalina said they used to order this after school when they were younger. I got raspberry swirl between two thin wafers and Jessica really got adventurous, asking for hers between a slab of sweet pink and green bread. She is one of the few Americans who can say she’s enjoyed a true ice cream sandwich. 

Jessica and I enjoying actual ice cream sandwiches.

Our last stop was another mall where we continued shopping and then got dinner. I tried Thai barbeque stingray drenched in a spicy yellow sauce. It was impossible to eat politely (and as napkins are not even available in most restaurants, I struggled valiantly, if not messily). Over all, I’d say we had the true Singaporean experience: lots of shopping, even more food, and, of course, Tom Hanks.

Arts from the Ancient to the Modern

The Asian Civilizations Museum was filled with ancient statues of Buddhas (of different ethnicities: the Thai Buddha had a long face). Each Buddha could be identified by common signifiers like the Wheel of Life imprinted on the palm of his foot and his long dangly earlobes which were stretched by the heavy jewelry he wore as a Brahmin before opting for a simpler lifestyle. Interestingly, we didn’t see any emaciated (or incredibly fat) Buddhas. The Buddhas were normal-sized but had three rolls of fat around the neck to remind people they don’t have to starve in order to achieve inner-peace. 

When we left the museum, we were treated to a wonderful sit-down Vietnamese lunch. For the first course, we were served mango and papaya salad with shrimp. The entree followed; we had a choice of lemon-glazed chicken or shellfish curry (both with rice). I ordered the shellfish which came with more shrimp, squid, and several other unidentifiable shelled creatures. For dessert we had hot tea and a small diamond-shaped piece of a sticky white cake served alongside watermelon, honeydew, and more papaya. Throughout the meal the waiters kept our glasses filled with copious amounts of a red fruit drink which seemed extravagantly wonderful until Malhar Patel, a student on the trip who sat beside me, commented that it tasted like Kool-Aid. Suddenly not so wonderful.

Mango and papaya salad with shrimp.

Our tour guide, Mary Ledbetter, joined us for lunch. Her father was the former president of UNC and so she treated us to tickets to see Singapore Dance Theater’s “Masterpiece in Motion” at the Esplanade. Upon talking with her I discovered that she has lived abroad for many years, mostly in Europe, but that she and her husband moved to Singapore a few years ago. She said that she doesn’t know where she will be in a few years and that she and her husband have realized that they can never plan that far in advance. She still maintains her UNC ties, however, and she has a house just a short walk from campus.

The performance at the Esplanade Theatre was as wonderful as I’d imagined. A gigantic stainless steel sphere overlooking the bay, the building is a piece of artwork in and of itself. Singapore Dance Theatre presented three pieces, each followed by a twenty minute intermission. The first, Maninyas, was characterized by a set of pas de deux and pas de trios. The dancers slipped between blue and green translucent sheets hanging from the back of the stage. A couple spun together, veils covering their eyes, and an unspeakable tension keeping them from ever fully embracing. As the music ebbed to a close, the sheets fell from the ceiling and they were finally “unveiled,” seeing each other for the first time.

We were in for a treat with the second performance: the world premier of Edwaard Liang’s The Winds of Zephyrus, a contemporary piece with the dancers embodying the different forms of the wind. First, a soft gentle breeze swept onto the stage, followed by faster gusts which eventually yellowed into a sick, quiet hush before the sweeping wrath of a hurricane. 

Fearful Symmetries, the final piece, experimented with different shades of color. Dancers flitted between black-, white-, and primary colored-boxes. Honestly, the choreographer’s resume was more enticing than the performance. Nils Christe has choreographed 77 ballets for 65 dance companies with performances in 25 different countries. 

Unfortunately, hardly anyone was in attendance to enjoy the performance. We sat in the balcony, and I could count the people seated below. Singapore has recently acknowledged its arts deficit and is trying to create an artistic sphere. From the performance I saw, I’d say that Singapore doesn’t suffer from a lack of arts, simply a lack of art connoisseurs. Perhaps the growing arts industry will be able to change that!