Saturday November 6th, 2004
The enormous brown and yellow patchy feathered eagles swept down towards the water and plucked fish from the surface. Gripped in the talons, impaled, writhing helplessly, carried higher, only to be mashed into a tree branch and slowly picked apart. It was quite a lovely site actually. The soft rock pop music blaring from the speakers meshed with the din of the engine as we traced our way along the Singapore Malaysia border on our way to a morning wakeboarding session. The boat driver smoked his marlboro lights and his spiky black hair cut lines into the onrushing wind. The water was murky. William informs me that they dump sewage into the sea a few miles away. "Just don't drink any," he says as I slip off the side of the boat, an empty gas canister bobbing in the waves nearby.
After water sports we settled into the Serangoon Gardens food court for satay, a flour-egg-rice meal dish called "carrot cake," roast duck, pig intestines, fish cake, bean curd, and noodle soup; tempered by splashes of ice cold lime juice.
We went to a club called the Devils Bar where it is rumored women dance on the bars. Apparently this rumor is prevalent enough to populate the bar with a high percentage of men who invariably, we discovered, get drunk enough to hop onto the bars themselves in a last ditch attempt to satisfy a small part of the elusive, and now inverted, fantasy.
Expensive drinks, menthol cigarettes, blond streaks, navels, laser lights, cold wet handshakes, dance music crushing out of invisible speakers, stiletto heels, hair gel, trendy glasses, empty glasses in pools of condensation slowly making mirrors out of table tops, head nods, head shakes, head bobs, jaded regulars, underage smokers, the girl dancing on the subwoofer under the lights who draws looks and unsubtle gestures from half the club, cool quotient, blue potions, incredibly drunk men seeping through the club in slow motion, repulsed women, glowing thumbs backlit by cellphone screens, tube tops, white socks, the air outside laced with trails of smoke, curfews expiring one after another, cab drivers lilting against their doors enticing those who have had enough...
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Wednesday, November 3, 2004
They say familiarity breeds contempt. In this case it breeds humble respect and patience. The only contempt I harbor today is for the feeble minded propagation of the political status quo at home. Singapore is warm and wet. I have been settling in to my digs at the Science Centre and getting my bearings despite a winding, wicked case of jet lag. Access badge and keys in hand, tomorrow I start in head first.
Harith took me to Geylang Serai, a series of blocks devoted to the evening fast breaking of Malay Muslims during Ramadan. Rows and rows of food stands hazy with pungent smoke and dappled with the bright eyes of children, women, shouting hawkers, and an occasional bird who stayed awake to scavenge from the vendors who are too busy to notice. Randomly programmed christmas lights pulsing, trying to outdo the glinting smiles and succulent colors of fabrics strewn from the rafters. This outdoor tent market smells of perfume, deng deng (sweet spicy grilled beef), fried bananas and thick city night air - kept warm and musty by the hundreds of people circumnavigating the stalls looking for food, for fabric, for each other. Just a block away it is 8 degrees cooler and the breeze travels along unimpeded.
I board the MRT and part with Harith who heads home. He commutes across the entire country each day, about an hour one way on the train. The time difference from San Francisco draws my heavy head toward the floor and all I see are feet in varying states of dress. When I do look up, startled by the possibility of missing my stop, I catch the eye of a young Indian boy. He wears a muted green colour which glows bright near his sun touched skin. The transition from his dusty brown cheeks to the deep brown of his upper lip is impossibly razor sharp. His restless eyes are set wide. They flitter around the train illuminating people, faces, objects near and distant, like tiny police spotlights promising joy not blame. My eyes sink to the floor again.
I return to my apartment on an apartment block across from the Science Centre. 16 floors up the breeze is mild and the humid air seems to stretch for miles cloaking the refineries softly smoking near the coast. Their orange flames lap at the sky, brightening the cloud bottoms and threatening to catch them afire.
I am filled with hope and uncertainty, certainty and devotion, restlessness and conviction, shyness and patience, desire and apathy. I will begin tomorrow and begin, and begin, and begin. I will keep beginning until I am, and things are. I will keep beginning until I lose consciousness, lose awareness of the action, lose intention. I'm thinking too much and am too tired to have it make sense. Resting and beginning. Let's see if I can put those together and get life - life free of internal negotiation and full of fried bananas and light.
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KITUNDU - SINGAPORE TRAVELOGUES
EXCERPTS MARCH 26-30, 2004____________
FRIDAY March 26, 2004
Singapore got real today. Yesterday it was my solo short walk and slow discoveries... today I met Jason, Harith, Nana, Roger, Clarence, Joy, Jane, William and Singapore became real beautiful people, stories, places to eat, country clubs, political discussions, temples, musical instrument shops, sound checks, street rats, Britney spears, and the dreaded traveler's capital D which had me heading home early just to be safe.
The streets of little India were still pulsing even at 10 pm... the smell of sweet spices and the sun deepened skin of little Indian girls in radiant attire and perfect sandaled feet. Other men with sunken eyes shuffle past through the narrow corridors that slice through the storefronts housing guavas quietly blossoming in their pungent way, staining those same men with sweet vapours.
A plate of masala dosai, a potato and spice filled crispy bread rimmed with three pools of sauce, red coconut masala, olive colored curry slurry, and white speckled coconut spice. It was all complimented by the astounding masala tea that assured me heaven can exist in a small metal cup steaming in a small upstairs veggie house in a small section of a small island nation, and we never know until life offers us a taste. Then sends us to the restroom to show that even the best things in life can have their price. I can safely say that it was worth it.
It rained again today. It may not rain much... but it is the heaviest rain there is. Straight down, brimming with lightning, soaking the saturated air, subsiding, and making it feel impossibly muggy. Thick, wet, air. All this is countered by powerful, unrelenting, shattering air conditioning. I need to stay in or out because the flipping back and forth drives me nuts. At this point I prefer the warmth but I¼ve experienced a grand total of 2 days versus the lifetimes of my colleagues... I'll defer to them.
So lunch was chicken rice which is a bowl of rice and a plate of cooked chicken and some sau-sauses (that's right, sau-sauces, you would know if you tasted them). The meal started when Clarence ordered me a young coconut, freshly decapitated and overflowing with clear divinity. You know how smell makes you remember things vividly, well the first sip almost paralyzed me by transporting me back 23 years to some unknown, uncatalogued memory from Tanzania. Everyone noticed I was shocked into silent remembrance, head tilted to the side and on the verge of trembling under the weight of unrecoverable memories. It was my tongue and the icy trickle glinting down my neck which unwrapped the feelings that had been dormant since that last coconut drink. The 86-degree outdoor setting didn¼t complicate matters by setting the mood so aptly.
Now I'm back at the hotel... tomorrow I start the lecture demos for the public in that impossibly big auditorium. I have a Janet Jackson headset like the one in "Control" and I¼m doing my best to play it off. The flier is hilarious... I will bring some home to share - the heading is "The Culture of Phonoharp" Hear Mr. Kitundu perform amazing sounds... etc... looking forward to the train ride tomorrow. Thought a drunk man was setting a bomb in place outside an Indian temple today... turns out he was just drunk and dragging a trash can into the middle of the street because he needed to leave it there in his stupor. What an amazing place. A mother jumped of a building with her 2 and 3 year old girls tied to her wrists with red ribbon. Singapore has the 2nd highest rate of suicide after Japan in the world. Clarence says the pressure to succeed here is pervasive. Failure is not accepted... at all. Only success will do. None of the audiences to my shows are expected to stand, ask questions, or participate. The culture promotes a lack of personal expression in public settings. It should be a challenge... I'll let you know.
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Sat March 27
My goodness, where to start....
It is 4 am and I've just returned from clubbing at Elevation, a rooftop party on a parking garage in Downtown Singapore, and Zouk, a three dance floor club extraordinaire with throngs of scantily clad people gyrating in various states of illumination, from pitch black to black lit, to bathed in ruby, emerald, indigo shifting veils of light. Men wear white because they know they will pop out like bright bumps in the night... little glowing horny fire flies trying to lure disinterested/interested women all aspiring to look like they stepped out of vogue... or cosmogirl magazine.
The club had green glowing buckminster fulleresque balls, expanding and contracting from the ceiling like self regulating testes, ice cold blasts of fog that melted the music away until they subsided, rows of staircases lined with beautiful man/women - really hard to tell... those boys were quite pretty, and smoke, dancing, make-out sessions, and SMS text messages skirting through virtual space keeping everyone abreast. All in all, a spectacular night out in Singapore.
The rooftop party had a live band playing techno/house, trembling cement floors resonating under the weight of partygoers, mist filled skies, barely shrouding the skyline sprouting all around us.
Roger was my tour guide, Ollie's wife danced in the back of a van distracting cabbies on their appointed rounds, the city kept on humming.
Continuing backwards in time, our pre-party preparations took place at Ollie's apartment, 10th floor, beautiful thick blue night sky views perforated by city lights, exquisite taste in furniture, music, cars, Ollie, a displaced Parisian and his Singaporean fiancee hosted 12 of us before we set out on the town. Beautiful people, funny, open, bright, kind, and generous... and hilarious.
The performances earlier this afternoon and evening were scary... whew, Singaporeans are not a group that likes to ask questions or do anything individual and out of the ordinary in a group setting... They can't be made to either, which is fine... it's just that the cultural difference is undermining the basis of the workshops I planned to do. It's up to me to adapt and revise my process so that I can engage audiences that are publicly shy but personally engaged. Maybe I should do the workshops in the clubs. The nightlife crowd is rather adept at shedding their inhibitions. The shows were a huge learning experience.
Standing there with a headset mike and all those museum staffers waiting to see me inspire a 300 strong group of museum goers was petrifying and exhilarating. I want to be reaching these folks by tomorrow night. We'll see how it goes.
WK
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Monday March 29, 2004
It's been a wonderful day, but I wasn't sure how things would go when I woke up wracked with nerves, an uneasy stomach, and no time to really eat breakfast before launching into the taxi to the Science Centre. I had a 10 o'clock workshop with forty or so primary school kids and my apprehension was due to the cool reception the stoic 150+ crowds had given me the day before. Incredibly polite and reserved throughout the performance and talk, with no questions... at all.
So nervous - yes - I really couldn't sense what these kids might be like. Then they stormed in and I knew I was among my peoples... 10 year olds, freaking out with curiosity and too young to be "cool." Which actually makes them really cool.
The morning session was so much fun. Little smiles and infectious laughter filled the room and both boys and girls joined in, volunteered, and explored sound. The happiest kid was the one with the red corduroy pants and the headset mic pretending to be running things. I invited them down to see the instruments close up and they went berserk. Smashing and scratching everything in sight... it was great. I almost fell over when they formed an autograph line and sweetly had me sign their school notebooks.
Then Nana and Harith and I went instrument shopping near City hall. We settled for lunch at a local "coffeeshop," a streetside restaurant with packed outdoor seating right on the curb. This one was actually a small strip of food shops and we chose the corner one, ordered and chatted away the noon hour in the 90 degree heat with cabs whizzing by and the smells of 5 different shops mingling and shifting on the wind. East Singapore is a bit breezier than the rest of the island which often hangs suspended in still seething air.
The food was great. Clarence says it's what ties all Singaporeans together, Indian, Malay, and Chinese. The government enacts quotas on housing developments to ensure there are equal distributions of people from different cultures on the island. The last race riot they had here was in 1965. Since then folks just seem to get along. Cops are super friendly and courteous and very young. Every young man has to serve his country for at least 2 years in the army, ambulance crew, or police force. My friend Harith saw things during his tenure as a cop that I can't imagine. His maturity at such a young age is subtle evidence of the personal growth he must have undergone during those formative years.
The afternoon session was with about 160 kids from 3 different schools. Butterflies yet again because these kids were highschoolers and I expected the cold "cool" shoulder. Thankfully I was entirely wrong. They were tougher than the youngsters because their focus was constantly shifting. But Harith and I kept them laughing and luckily engaged. He is proving invaluable as a warm up act because he knows exactly how to disarm the kids.
I almost passed out when 60 beautiful brown girls wrapped in white headscarves slid past me and settled quietly into their seats, their brilliant eyes darting back and forth, cheeks curling into shy smiles. I was stunned by an equal mix of fear and exhilaration and sheer wonderment... I was transfixed. So many things here have left me breathless and honored to be around to experience them. Sometimes I have a hard time discerning why I've been blessed with these opportunities, but I'm trying not to question it and just drink everything in.
On to Little India with Harith and Roger. The sky filled gradually with tall yellow grey clouds and the sun gained strength as we parked the car. Piano tuners eyed us quietly as I played harpsichord in a music shop. Silk and cotton shirts swayed on their hangers and wound up tucked in a small, earthy, mustard coloured paper bag under my arm. We entered a Hindu temple which sat glowing in the high sunshine. The exterior was writhing with brilliant color and painstakingly crafted figures. The detail was extraordinary. Brown tile floors baked the soles of our feet after the sun dipped behind clouds. The plain blue dusty sky lazing above stood in gentle contrast to the fierce, serene, bloody, multi-headed, arrow pierced, gold leaf tinged, figures draped across the top of the building. I can't adequately relay the experience...
This is such a beautiful place. It is made more so by the exceedingly generous people who have taken the time to shepherd me around the city into the places where life is unfolding day to day instead of dollar by dollar. The experience is made so much richer because of them.
There is so much color here it makes the US seem bland.... I was talking about actual colors, but I suppose the sentiment could be applied equally to cultural color. Most white people hear are 20 feet tall, airbrushed with plunged necklines and glistening lips shining at you from billboards. Many others sit grouchy-faced in ex-pat cafes seeking solace in coffee and European company. Still others grasp shopping bags, maps, backpacks, cameras, while the rest stroll comfortably along the streets acting like people... just people... not white people... which gives me a bit of faith. You can watch tourists hunting, seeking to pluck their memories from moments in other peoples lives. Snatching photos of people crossing the street because they have on "costumes," (read... their clothes). I guess we all do what we can to secure our memories... and this is definitely a compelling place.
My beef isn't with "whiteness" particularly, as much as it is with cultural predation. But I guess that can be perpetrated by anyone regardless of complexion.
Now I'm off to a good night's sleep. Hope you are all well. Much love from here.
WK
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Tuesday March 30 - 2004
It's 10:30 pm. I'm sitting alone in Brix, a dark, burnt sienna hued R&B club tucked under the Grand Hyatt Hotel just off Orchard Road. The band is resigned... It is clear they would like to be somewhere else as they slog through their top 40 covers from the last two decades. They get points for cooing "sweetest taboo" by Sade then almost win me completely over when they start into "outside your door," by Meshell N¼degeocello. But, they fall hard from my good graces when it turns out they are actually playing a whiny version of "do I ever cross your mind" the Brian McKnight song, sung by the guitar player who is a shoe in for Ruben from American Idol, askew Kangol and all.
The chalky brick walls glow a muted red in the yellow darkness. The main sources of light are the glinting bottles of liquor in the center of the bar stand, which is an island of dashed and rebuilt hopes. Gentlemen gulp their beers hoping to secure the glances of lilting headed, black haired, cigarette flicking women while ignoring the best efforts of the droning R&B sextet. I paid two times too much for my gin and tonic only to be rewarded with another because happy hour had yet to elapse, and the 2 for one rule was still in effect.
Outside the cabs kept whisking business travelers to and fro from the Hyatt.
Outside young Singaporeans, cellulars slung around their wrists, dipped in and out among the tourists, cabbies and hotel doormen.
Outside the sky, a porous deep and deepening blue, capped the light escaping from the city by deflecting it off soft creeping clouds backlit by a haloed half moon.
Somewhere in Singapore, a commuter sits quietly on the MRT, face contorted in the gloss blue reflective surface of the train benches.
Somewhere in Singapore, sweat is collecting on the collarbones of a bare bellied dancing girl who has had one too many but is nonetheless compelled by the buzzing mobile decoding a text message from her girlfriends in the club down the street.
Somewhere in Singapore, a four foot tall, elderly woman takes the last eleven steps to her doorway, bent into a constant bow by the passing years which also stream down her face as deep wrinkles under her silver black hair. If she could straighten up she would gain a foot in height but she seems destined to keep descending.
Somewhere in Singapore, a cabbie sits humming to himself because his fare is too proud to talk to "the help," so he takes the long way round, half moon glinting off his car¼s registration stickers.
Somewhere in Singapore, four stray cats are splayed across a white-topped driveway, bellies up, trying to keep cool under the swaying gaze of towering apartment blocks.
Somewhere in Singapore, a man sweeps the steps of a temple with a grass broom, silencing the evidence of a days worth of curious trammelling and devotional supplication.
Somewhere in Singapore, a weary but inspired sound artist scratches away on the back of his business cards... memories of another day gone by.
I'm settling in now and it will be hard to leave. I¼ve even learned some slang which acts like a weird key, unlocking stories, jokes, and history lessons from the minds of taxi drivers and store clerks. Condensation has clouded and slid from my gin and tonic into an oblong bubble of water on the table. It looks like Australia. In Little India yesterday a parrot picked my fortune from a stack of cards for $3 Sing. All the news was good. I think the little emerald feathered bird has a crush on me.
WK
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