Singapore

Some say Singapore is boring, sterile, over-regulated place but coming from Saigon, it’s always a pleasure to stroll the clean streets of the Lion City.

There may be a few too many signs telling you what not to do, and your penalty for doing it anyway. There may be a few too many never-ending shopping centres that seem to be designed to disorient. But then there is the food, sold in open air food courts with literally hundreds of stalls, offering Chinese, Malay, Indian, Singaporean dishes and so packed at meal times that you may end up wandering with your tray piled with food, despairing of ever actually getting to eat it. (That wouldn’t have been me, of course).

As exemplified by the food, Singapore truly is a multicultural place, which those people who dismiss it as boring seem to ignore or not see. Maybe they didn’t go to Little India, or Chinatown or Arab Street.

Staying in Chinatown was a good way to see the old and the new Singapore. There were the old men playing checkers in the square on Sunday afternoon, surrounded by spectators. There were the heady smells of traditional medicine shops, of roast pork and soup broth. But you also couldn’t ignore the tourist shops and stalls, and the old Chinese shop houses now renovated to become boutiques, cafes, beauty spas and hotels.

Of course it’s a shame to lose the character of the shop houses as the traditional businesses are pushed out. But at least this kind of gentrification retains the old structures. They are safe from being bull dozed into another dull high-rise, as I see happening everywhere in Saigon.

I also wouldn’t complain about this area because within it there was the most enchanting book shop. (Again, a comparison thing, the dearth of English books in Saigon made finding this place feel like stumbling upon a rare treasure). During my weekend in Singapore I was expecting to spend an afternoon in Borders to get my book fix, but instead I made three visits to this little place, which was about the size of Borders’ discount tables. As you entered there was a staircase lined with old school typewriters. Vintage cameras were arranged above the bookshelves, and every book looked like it had been lovingly put in its right place.

By way of comparison, what resonated the most during my stay was an exhibition documenting Singapore’s now extinct street artisans and peddlers. As I looked at black and white images of scenes from 50 to 100 years ago – the streets cluttered with baskets, bicycles and food, people selling, people eating, people just sitting or standing around, a story everywhere you look – I couldn’t help but be reminded of all the little things I see as soon as I step out of my door.

I may complain a lot about Saigon’s careless development, but it still has a long way to go before it loses its traditional flavour.

Takeaway chicken

The boy walking towards the camera in the middle of the photo is eager for our custom. Understandably so, there are about a dozen other places we could go on this small street in Chinatown to buy a roast chook. Apparently, Andrew tells me, the patriarch of the business was perched behind us on the other side of the street, orchestrating the touting and generally controlling his workers by clapping and pointing to what needed to be done. An interesting management style.

We did come here to buy a takeaway chicken. The potato salad was already made at home and waiting for its accompaniment. I had read that this was the street to get a succulent blown skin roast chicken, by a guy who writes about food in expat magazines here. I wasn’t sure if I should trust a man whose writing oozes with his passion for Saigonese food, yet still chooses to wear a turtle neck sweater in his profile photo, but it was a good excuse for a trip to Chinatown.

 Once we’d located the street, we took a wander around the area before committing ourselves to a particular vendor. We kept following the street past the chicken joints, and across a main street, where the bustling food stalls and restaurants petered out into a dusty stretch of single storied corrugated iron roofed houses. People looked at us like they didn’t see our kind in these parts so often. Old folks sat here and there, contemplating the street. Not much was going on, except for a card game that had drawn a dozen or so onlookers. A little girl caught up with us, obviously because she wanted to check us out. We said hello and she walked with us for a while.

We came to an intersection and were intrigued by an uncommonly tree-lined street leading off to our left, again it seemed worth the detour before buying our chook and heading home. This street was more prosperous. The houses were small and mostly two storied. As often happens in Vietnam, the houses opened right onto the street, so you couldn’t help but peeking in. The interiors had tiled floors in soft pinks or other pastel colours, red and gold Chinese ornaments, a retro feel. It was a happy little street, and definitely gave you the impression of being somewhere else.

 At the next intersection, it was only slightly surprising to see more of the glass and metal cases, but this time the carcasses filling them were darker in skin and longer in shape. I stood close to one and noticed how the fat had dripped and congealed, hanging suspended from their rear ends. Yes, we had walked from chicken street to duck street.

It was starting to feel like dinner time so headed back, where we were beckoned in by this boy. I was surprised to find that our chicken had to be taken from the glass case and deep fried, before being chopped, and put in a bag with some salad and sauces. So it wasn’t really a roast chicken after all. No doubt our taxi driver’s mouth was watering as we drove back down Nguyen Trai street to District One, as our dinner steamed up his cab with the smell of deep fried succulence.

And the verdict on the chicken? Honestly, it was good but not great. But it really didn’t matter. This was one of those experiences where the journey was the reward.

Contrasts

The above photo was taken on the way to the airport to go to Hoi An, where the weather is quite different from Saigon at this time of year. The blue skies up there looked like they'd been painted on, so clear, not like anything I'd seen for a long time. However with this sky brilliance comes hot, hot, hot, from very early until late in the afternoon. I was slipping in and out of my clothes for my fittings at the tailors.