Singapore is amazing. In many ways, it reminds me of Santiago de Chile — a dump that’s pulled itself up by its bootstraps to become a shiny, prosperous and orderly model of progress in the midst of corruption and poverty. See, I have a theory that societal development moves along an upward parabolic curve through three main stages:
- Poor (low point.) Ideal goals: putting food on the table (or mud floor), not being eaten by a water buffalo
- Developed (high point.). Ideal goals: big shiny highrises, cars, factories, industrial products
- Prosperously mature (low point.) Ideal goals: a luxuriously simple lifestyle, sitting outside a Parisian café knocking back cappucinos
You know the the kind of thing I’m talking about. In societies that have comfortably evolved away from festering in a steaming malarial shithole, a lot of people want nothing less than to live in a (luxuriously clean) old farmhouse with all-natural furniture and yoghurts produced by happy peasants — look at the prevalence of organic foods and resort holidays at beautifully small, countryside spas without electricity offered in Switzerland, New York, whatnot. Between the two, you have a desire to go for the most visible signs of progress possibly attainable; an understandable and respectable ambition for people who may have grown up in aforementioned malarial shitholes.
Nonetheless, for those of us privileged enough to have been raised in reasonable comfort, it’s sometimes sad and difficult to understand how countries with a natural and cultural richness could do seemingly stupid shit like tearing down old buildings, bulldozing coral reefs to build luxury resort beaches (like next door to our hotel on Mauritius, what a damn shame) and sacrificing the richness of traditional food and other products for the sake of manufactured, processed, packaged artificial crap. Nestlé actually pushes powdered milk in Chile as being more hygienic than the natural alternative — I’m no Slow Food anthroposophic all-organic fanatic, but that just strikes me as somehow bizarre.
And yet, some countries evolve beyond this middle ground of “having made it”…and don’t stop developing. They become ever shinier, ever more modern, ever more artificial — q.v. Hong Kong, Santiago de Chile, Tokyo, and Singapore. Apparently there’s a rule here (please do feel free to debunk this) that apartment buildings are inevitably knocked down after 20 years and re-built…just out of principle. It’s Disneyland for grown-ups, a clinically antiseptic wasteland of malls and condominiums, immaculately trimmed lawns and (probably sexually repressed) hard-working, efficient and very obedient happy campers.
In Singapore, places like Little India (and to some degree, Chinatown) don’t fit in. They’re loud, (comparatively) dirty, chaotic and fun. To one of the local central planners moving their little centrally planned Lego bricks around their no doubt immaculately centrally planned planning desks, these areas must seem like objectionable stains on the artificial bling that defines this city. Add to that list the food court in the HDB (subsidized housing) block off Dover Road, beyond the end of Dover Rise. Especially Roti Prata, my friendly neighborhood Indian food joint.
I don’t even know the food court’s name; the Indian dude has one of several garishly lit holes in the wall clustered around a covered concrete patio with plastic deck chairs, cheaply faded Chinese New Year’s decorations on the walls and bizarre Malaysian sitcoms blaring from a badly tuned TV. Random people who barely speak English walk around selling canned drink, while grizzled old Chinese guys plow through buckets of large bottles of local beer. The web site of the “restaurant” doesn’t work. If the Singapore health standards weren’t (I assume) so high, you’d think this was an express ticket to hepatitisville.
The owner is a pockmarked Indian man who sits around smoking outside — it’s such a great pleasure when a proprietor knows you and comes to shake your hand, especially in such an alien place as this. The mutton murtabak (a meat-filled crepe that you dunk in greasy gravy-like sauce on a tin food tray straight out of an army mess) is filling and frankly one of the tastiest dishes I’ve had since arriving here. He also makes killer pratas — egg, butter, garlic, onion, banana, whatever, at SGD $2 a pop. I love it.
Maybe the Singaporeans haven’t yet figured out that this is the best stuff in life. It sure beats running around Clarke Quay, grinning at spoiled local children competing to see who can dump more hair glue into a super-emo style and look cool sitting in the wheelchairs-cum-seats of the hospital-themed (I kid you not) bar in the middle. Apparently there’s a law that says every citizen earning under a certain amount per year has a right to a free HDB apartment (simple but clean places, thanks to which I managed to not go completely bankrupt in Singapore’s completely madly overpriced housing market during my two months here) — and HDB courtyards spawn these kinds of food courts. Good for them. I just hope they figure out the allure of this sort of joint before someone decides this part of the city needs a more uniformly hypersanitized image.
