yes, but is it authentic?

Part of what makes Singapore so strange is that everything seems to be about, on average, ten years old. In that this applies to the only exceptions to this rule, the oft-touted ‘ethnic enclaves,’ you get the impression that such neighborhoods exist largely for you, the tourist, to visit.

Everything in Singapore bears the fingerprints of centralization, from public transportation to the litany of prohibited behaviors. Singapore functions as a highly paternal society where the state is responsible for the decisions (and the molding of behaviors) on everything from urban planning to urinal flushing. Truly, there is nothing like some good old fashioned Asian totalitarianism to keep the machines of society purring. In terms of the ‘Little India’ and the like, when you consider the large tracts of all previous existing neighborhoods that were undoubtedly bulldozed to clear space for skyscraper after skyscraper (or mall after mall), it feels as if the mere existence of these narrow quarters of color—building of colonial vintage, cramped streets, hawking food vendors—are all part of the plan.

Therein, a trip to ‘Chinatown’ felt more like a trip to the Epcot iteration, complete with a large permanent dome tent over the entire food street (one notable thing that we missed out on was the so-advertised ‘last sausage shop before the equator!’—as apparently a German has also set up shop). Shop after shop sold the highly authentic Chinese goods of faux silk tissue box koozies, bottles with your name and an oriental theme painted on the inside, and the plastic golden cat with the perpetually waving arm that graces many Chinese restaurants.

By far the most telling moment of the foray was our arrival, by cab, at a Hindu temple on the edge of this neighborhood. It was a Sunday and a busy day at the temple and anyhow there always seems to be a bit of a scrum in front of temples due to the requirement of removing one’s shoes. In addition to members of the congregation coming and going, a group of white people on the sidewalk attempted to navigate the mechanical mysteries of the coin operated shoe lockers (because, after all, the temple shoe thieves are particularly hardened at picking out the tourist’s shoes: no doubt they just look for the biggest ones). To be fair, the overly painted Australian wives raking through their purses were dealing with a foreign exchange transaction, but I had ceased to pay attention as the taxi cab driver, an unfortunately loquacious (this is a common trend for cabbies in Singapore, at one point we had a driver who upon telling us we were driving on a street where the F1 race was held, began slamming the wheel while screaming 'this F2! this F2!') man of Malaysian extraction had leaned to me (in the passenger seat) to helpfully point out, ‘Yes! Temple. See? All your friends are here.’