I wrote this story as an application letter for a job at National Geographic. They chose 8 of 650 applicants and I wasn't one of them, but I don't feel bad - those odds are insane! But no one else has had a chance to read it since August. I'm sharing with the world...enjoy...
By Laura Remson
As the bus jolts to a stop, there is a quiet excitement in the air. We had finally arrived at the Holland Road Wet Market. Everyone is busy finding lists or making them. Wet markets are permanent, open-air markets found all over the island and this is the best; large, clean and modern, with more stalls than most.
As the bus jolts to a stop, there is a quiet excitement in the air. We had finally arrived at the Holland Road Wet Market. Everyone is busy finding lists or making them. Wet markets are permanent, open-air markets found all over the island and this is the best; large, clean and modern, with more stalls than most.
In Singapore there are three national sports; eating, shopping and jay-walking. I had no doubt I would cover the first two, if not all three, before the day was up. Considering the sports, it’s clear Singapore has its own way of doing things. Even its own language, aptly called, “Singlish,” a blend of English, Chinese, Malay and “lah” – the most frequently used word. In writing, “lah” is like a period, lah.
“Can we have chicken for dinner?” A small boy asks his mother.
“No lah. Fish,” she answers back, exasperated.
“I don’t like fish!” he cries.
“Quiet lah! Come.” She grabs his hand as they disappear into the crowded market.
When I walk in, there is chaos everywhere. A hundred stands selling the ripest fruits, freshest meats and most aromatic spices. All stands sell the same thing, but it doesn’t matter; they fight for each customer’s attention. The ground is soaking wet, but it isn’t called a wet market for nothing. Flower stalls boast green stocks topped with bright flowers of all shapes and sizes, from fragrant lilies to delicate orchids, the national flower of Singapore. Then, tall, curly stems of lucky bamboo, decorated with small bits of red paper painted with golden Chinese letters. The blistering heat makes it almost unbearable to be outside. Humidity hangs in the air, making it difficult to move, and yet, people wander around, immune to the lethargic effects of the heat.
The fruit stands have staples like bananas and grapes, but also dragon fruit, a white kiwi which looks like a green and pink fanged grenade, and durian, an Asian delicacy and the “king of fruits.” This pale green fruit is the size of a basketball and covered with spikes. Inside, the meat of the fruit look like lumpy, boiled chicken breasts. “Tastes like heaven, smells like hell,” is the favorite quote for anyone who’s ever had the, “pleasure” of enjoying its unmistakable aroma. I’ve never been brave enough to try it, but I’ve heard both good and bad.
My favorite is pineapple, tangy and sweet. I go to a stall and choose my fruit, then watch as it is cut. The stall attendant is as skilled as a sculptor. With the fruit in one hand and a razor-sharp cleaver in the other, he cuts the fruit. Drops of the precious juice drip down his trained fingers and in a minute, all pieces of the skin fall to the ground.
The scent of spices pulls me towards another stall. There are large sacks on the ground full of dried fruits and nuts and small packets of spices. The colors here are as varied as the fresh fruit but richer in their tones. These are the colors of royalty. The same royalty, who at one time had their clothes dyed with these natural pigments. As I pick up one pack and close my eyes, I breathe in deeply, almost forgetting where I am. I can picture a different time and place where people use prized saffron and rock salt, carried over mountains of sand, in place of gold.
Then, a loud noise. I realize it’s another shopper bargaining over dried apricots next to me. I listen as they name their prices.
“No lah, I can’t do that.”
“But the man down there said a kilo for $15,” when most likely, there was not a, cheaper offer. The dollar is pronounced doh-lah, not dollar. They get ‘lah’ in here too. Bargaining here is a friendly exchange that is expected and appreciated. It’s like asking how someone’s day is going. At the same time, there is a sport-like competition to it, one person getting the upper hand in the end.
Back and forth, one price too high, one too low. Finally, they agree and the fruit is bagged in record time. Content, I wander over to the meat stalls. Whole slabs of meat cut exactly to one’s wishes and another ready-when-you-want-it staple; pick your own chicken – live. Choose your chicken, then come back in ten minutes and it’s ready to go.
It’s the fish stalls that jump into my sight. They always have some critter making noises. With the fish, are frogs, for their legs, crabs, to be steamed and covered in sauces of red chili or black pepper, and turtles, whether protected by law or not. They live in cages, but desperately try to get away. When I look into a bucket, I find, to my squirming pleasure, a writhing knot of eels, ready to be taken home. The mass sends chills up my spine, and yet I can’t pull my eyes away from the scene.
Satisfied with the market, I head to the other half of the market. I was about to experience the second Singapore sport; eating. As the melting pot of Asia, one can get any sort of food they want. Thai, Indian, Malay and beyond. The hawker stalls of Singapore are in a word; incredible. Each stall has a sign that displays a rating. These range from A to D, but I’ve only seen a C twice, and only heard of the D. The ratings are based on cleanliness, making it easy to figure out where to eat. People line up three deep at some stalls, where others remain conspicuously empty, the owners sitting at tables nearby, snacking in lazy protest.
Today I was in the mood for a uniquely Southeast Asian dish, roti prata. These flat, doughy treats are made with ghee, or Indian clarified butter. It’s like Indian Crisco. Where normal bread preparation would use flour to stop food from sticking, the cooks slather on ghee. This makes me smile at the miles I’m going to run later. To make these, the dough is stretched and pulled like pizza dough and laid out round and flat. Then, they are folded with corners inward, into a pocket of deliciousness. I can’t help but stare as the pouches are then thrown effortlessly on the shield-like grill. Watching these masters of the prata takes me back to the awe of the taffy pull machine. Prata are best with piping hot and fiery curry and as they crisp up, I watch the stall attendant scoop a bowl to accompany the prata. Turmeric and cumin, with hints of cardamom and chili. The turmeric also gives the curry its intense golden color, with flecks of crimson that indicate its spice. All the food is served on faded burn orange plates and pea soup colored bowls.
I top it off with a glass of iced coffee, made the Asian way; with a dollop sweetened condensed milk. When the coffee is made, it is poured back and fourth to mix it, like an elaborate cocktail, but more innocent. It comes in a Tiger beer mug, or in a small plastic bag, with a bright plastic string woven through top to hold it. You can’t set it down but you drink it so fast, it hardly matters. The bags can even be seen hanging in trees for a quick coffee break.
At last, time to eat! The prata are golden and flaky around the outside, and chewy on the inside. The curry delicately burns as it goes own and the creamy coffee cools my stinging taste buds. The chicken is infused with the spices of the curry. It stands triumphantly out of the liquid; like a small, proud symbol of what food means to Singapore and its people. I slowly dig the last bits of meat off of the bones with happy satisfaction.
While eating, a gentle rain begins to fall. I hardly notice it as I attempt to coax the last drops of my iced coffee into my straw. This is Singapore; rain is nothing new. Then again, this is Singapore, and as I pick up my fruit, the rain begins to fall harder. Moments later I am in the road, trying to flag down a taxi.
HONK! HONK!
Perhaps a little too far into the road.
“Taxi!” I reach my arm out in the hopes that one of the blue or yellow cars might be vacant and willing to help me out of the rain. With each wave of rain, the drops are growing larger and coming down more rapidly.
“TAXI!”
Then finally, relief. A sky blue taxi pulls in front of me, heaven sent. As I jump in, the light in the sign on top goes dark from its glowing red. Inside of the cab is cool, and more importantly, dry.
As we pull away from the warmth and chaos of the wet market and into the dark mists of the road I told the driver, “81 Lim Tai See,” and lay back into the soft, worn leather of the seat. I could feel the edges of a contented sleep pulling at my eyelids as the cold numbed my skin. And when I reached to my street, I knew I would be jay-walking to get home.
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