A Singapore story: this equatorial island nation offers an exotic change of pace in sightseeing, hotels, and food that is enchanting

USA Today (Society for the Advancement of Education), July, 1995 by Laurel F. Lehrer, Christine Hachiya

MY LOVE AFFAIR began on a hotel balcony overlooking sprawling Singapore. I was captivated by the metropolis--towering, sleek, clean, efficient modernity of today with park-like boulevards, as well as remarkable renovations of the structures of yesteryear, and the compatible multi-ethnicity and friendliness of its 2,800,000 people.

Located at the tip of the Malaysian peninsula, one degree north of the equator, the island of Singapore was originally a quiet fishing village. In 1819, Sir Stamford Raffles, lieutenant-governor of a British trading post, saw the strategic importance of this area. With Malaysia to the north and Indonesia to the south, Singapore was a link between Europe and Asia. Shrewdly, he negotiated for this settlement and signed a treaty with Malaysian leaders. Later, Singapore emerged as a British crown colony.

In February, 1942, the Japanese bombed and overran the approximately 250-square-mile island. The people suffered greatly, but by 1945, Supreme Commander Lord Louis Mountbatten returned with British and Allied forces to liberate the oppressed land.

The postwar years recorded different alliances of Singapore with neighboring Southeastern Asian nations. Finally, on Aug. 9, 1965, Singapore severed its last ties with Malaysia and, on Dec. 22, 1965, declared itself an independent, democratic republic.

If Sir Stamford Raffles could see modem Singapore, he would be overjoyed at how his earlier efforts paid off. Indeed, the ethnic districts which he established for the Chinese, Malaysian, and Indian populations still flourish. While Malay is the national language, English is widely spoken, as are Mandarin (Chinese) and Tamil (Indian).

As I walked past multi-storied buildings, I noticed laundry drying on horizontal poles extended from apartment windows. Below in the streets, a rickshaw peddled by a thin, hardworking driver transported two passengers.

On Serangoon Road in Little India, I was awestruck by the ornate tower of the Sri Veeramakaliamman temple, built in 1881 by Bengalese workers. Indian songs blared from stores across the street. Here and there in a shop window, a solitary mannequin, dressed in an elegant sari, was mechanically animated. Shops displayed clothing, radiant silks, and sparkling gold jewelry. Women wearing long tunics over pants or vibrant colored saris were purchasing rice, dried beans, spices, or sweet desserts. The fragrance of floral garlands blended with the aromas of foods cooking over portable stoves tended by sidewalk vendors.

I stopped to watch an elderly Indian fortune-teller, awaiting customers in an arcaded area. A poster of Hindu deities covered a wall. His low table held a row of fortune cards and a cage containing his trained green parrot. Upon release from the cage, the bird's beak picked up a card and carried it to his master for a customer to read. Inevitably, the card gave good tidings. To encourage the establishment of newer businesses, the fading facades of old shophouses were being repainted with fresh light pastels.

Unlike Western super-markets, my visit to a nearby wet market was a novel experience. Within a high-rise, a deep flight of steps led to a warm, damp underground world of varied produce. Space between stalls was wet. Cleansing water, thrown onto the floor, drained off into grated holes in the cement. Though lacking refrigeration, produce tables were covered with carefully piled layers of brown or white chicken eggs, large white goose eggs, and black duck eggs. Sometimes, merchants used hand scales to weigh quantities of beige ginger roots. clusters of white garlic knobs, thin foot-long string beans, green leafy vegetables, and loose dark brown chestnuts. Over pans of prawns and freshly cut fish, prices were reduced for quick sale as the day progressed. Unsuspecting customers, passing a tall receptacle, were spat at defensively by the resident gray fish. Aggressive tradespeople, dressed in T-shirts, shorts, and sandals, called out their wares, hoping to attract customers to their stalls. Stacks of cages were densely crowded with live frogs, chickens, turtles, and pigeons.

In Chinatown, the largest district, rows of narrow, attached shophouses displayed racks of silk scarfs, blouses, skirts, dresses, lounge robes, and souvenir T-shirts. While some stores featured costume and fine jewelry, others offered lacquered vases, bowls, and boxes richly decorated with mother-of-pearl. Others sold red masks and electronic goods. Song birds, awaiting sale, twittered in cages hung at awning level.

Peeking into a herbal pharmacy, I spied ingredients used in Chinese remedies: long ginseng roots, large dried mushrooms, cellophane-covered dried seahorses, and coiled snakes submerged in liquor-filled bottles. Fresh and dried meats, including chunks of pork and rows of ducks, were offered in meat shops. Vegetables and fruits were piled on pushcarts, watched over by wrinkled-faced elderly Chinese women. One undaunted soul spread her string beans alongside the top step of a front courtyard, awaiting prospective sales.