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I began to weave through the labyrinth of sun-shaded alleyways lined with mounds of red-orange dust; the air was thick with the throat-sticking smells of rich spices and the floating wisps of incense sticks. Exploring the spice markets of Little India always led to a welcome assault on the senses; the air stung my eyes, tickled my nose and set off a rumbling in my stomach. I would often go to Little India to seek refuge. I found calm in the shadows of the covered stalls and the hum of prayer and Punjabi radio. It was a hidden gem exploding with colour from the heart of Singapore’s hypermodern and sterile centre.
On this particular occasion I had been sent to pick up some spices for the curried fish that Noli, our Filipino helper, would be cooking that night. So I approached a stall with a small sinewy man stood behind it. He was perched on the doorstep of one of the old colonial style terraced houses and sipping from a glass bottle of Coca-Cola through a straw as it sweated into the palm of his gripping hand. It was a particularly hot and humid day, but his dark skin did not give away the blush of a westerner’s warmth like mine did. As he scooped the spices into a bag for me, I could not help thinking about the pittance he must make from his stall and the tiny HDB flat he and his family must go back to at the end of every day. I handed over a five dollar bill and watched his frail hand fumble through his change, but I shook my head. I didn't need it.
Making my way homeward, I squeezed through a small group of American tourists who were snapping away with their iphones, suckers of the instagram world. Some were complaining of the sticky equatorial air and the layer of dust building up around their ankles. Then I noticed what it was that they had spotted. At the edge of the district, where soothing India meets seething Singapore, there was a mountain of dirty rubbish with a minute rheumy-eyed Chinese lady standing at its peak. She was sifting through the cans, bottles and cardboard boxes, collecting the recyclable items in the black bin bag that was slung over her hunched shoulders; each plastic bottle a step closer to tomorrow’s food money. She peered up and gave a toothy smile. Behind her head the shiny mirror silhouette of down-town’s exclusive condos reflected the midday sun creating an eerie halo.
Singapore I love you; the island of disparity.