Monday 27 July 2015

A Necessary Merlion

It was 10am on a winter morning when we stopped by the cable company to drop off our cable box, the last errand we ran on the way to the airport. We were leaving Chicago. The taxi waited outside the building spewing plumes of frosty air from it's exhaust pipe. An hour later I had eaten my last Cosi sandwich and been shuffled, air frisked and scanned by airport security. I was still sore about having to abandon my brand-new, 2 litre can of Turpenoid by the garbage shoot. The movers had refused to pack it. Inflammable, they said, got to leave it here. Varnish, spray on fixative and gesso had all joined the Turpenoid in its dark, smelly spot behind the door that said 'Refuse'. I secretly hoped that they would be rescued by some art sensitive soul. It broke my heart to leave them, but I had to. We were moving to Singapore.  
It was New Year's eve when we got here, in addition to the usual disorientation of an over-seas flight, I had to contend with a country I had never seen before, jet lag, and a dramatic weather shift. I knew nobody in Singapore, save an aunt that I hadn't met in years.
I am not really sure how we got over those first few days, but I do know a trip to Mustafa Shopping Centre (apparently it is the ground zero of shopping), was involved; after all, we had to stock our tiny one bedroom service apartment with food and necessities. We realised that the buses, although well connected and comfortable- much better than any other buses we had previously known- would not stop for us unless we expressly 'hailed' them down. We missed many buses this way in the early days. In the first three months I became very good at lip reading, but not so good at ordering over the phone. I was frustrated by the slow pace of walking on the streets. And then I understood why. I was the only sweat drenched, crazy-eyed, red faced, power-walker out there in the mid-day sun, while petite, fresh faced women, clad in various shades of pastel colours, would walk by me in their tick-tocking heels, not one long straight hair out of place. 
I cried when my cupcake batter, already made and poured into moulds did not fit into my tiny oven. I cried harder when the same oven tripped repeatedly rendering my second cake mix useless in the same day. Ounces, grams, litres, quarts, fahrenheit and celsius!!!! I wanted to tear my hair out. I never wanted to cook again. And when my freshly bought apple tart grew fungus over-night, I made a vow to store everything in the fridge forever. That was about the same time I seriously considered the possibility that Singapore as a nation, might benefit from central air conditioning- like the entire nation, united under a common dome, for a common cooling- it was time to save all apple pies, everywhere.
Somewhere along the Ice-Kachangs and Mango Sago, Kopi-C and red bean paste buns, I was schooled by some 'uncles' and 'aunties'- I developed a liking for condensed milk and put on weight. I became vegetarian, drank soy milk and ate bean curd pudding. I read a local rendering of The 3 Little Pigs and their 'makkan' time. I saw a Mosque, a Hindu Temple and a Buddhist Temple on the same street, and across them, a Church. It warmed my heart. While nobody held doors open for me, many taxi uncles helped me load and unload my groceries and art work. Like old grandfathers, they gave me advice and waited in their cabs till I got through the front door of my condo. They returned my phone when I dropped it in the back seat of their taxi, and my daughter's stroller, which we happily forgot in their boot one day.    
I decided that I love Singlish! I 'die die must try' to talk it as often as I can. Phrases like 'stupid sotong' crack me up. What lah, can lah, can lay, no lor, aaanh, whaaa, must lay, so how; this list of punctuation and expression is endless! 
I remember my 10 years in America vividly, however my 8 years in Singapore are slowly catching up. It has been like floating on a lazy (man-made)river, on a sunny day, eyes half closed, occationally bumping into the bends and curves of the banks, barely noticing the ride as it comes full circle time and again, year after year. And now you celebrate 50 years of independence, Singapore! I am glad I spent the last 8 years trying to understand you in whatever way I could- Majulah Singapura, Island nation, little red dot, home. 

Thursday 23 July 2015

Tonight, in my head I'm walking down the hill from the monastery to the city below. There are grape vines on my right, and cherry trees to my left. As tempting as they are ruby red I colour, they are equally tart in the mouth- I eat them, but it's like they have the last laugh after all. 
The little vein that leads me down has found the outskirts of the city. Old lace hangs in silent windows, with dried flowers in recycled glass bottles. I take pictures; memories of memories forgotten behind the lace. Even more fragile is the sun's unrelenting gaze that is momentarily vanquished by passing clouds in an arrhythmic flow . 
I count seven little roads but I can only walk down one. So I pick one and walk down it...
In my head.


*photo copywrite of Maya Bhalla 2015.