Little India.

Little India, a section in the northern part of the city, is like a village from another world that somehow got lost in the modern Singapore that surrounds it. Streets are wide enough for a row of tightly parked cars and trucks, leaving enough space for one way traffic to flow at ridiculous speeds, somehow avoiding the criss-crossing pedestrians. Sidewalks exist somewhere under the restaurants and stores that spill out of their front doors. Flowers and pottery and bangels and little statues of a fat buddha sitting next to multi-limbed hindu goddesses and fruit and scarves, all for sale at special new-year prices. How much does this cost?, "Ah, that is 120, but I will give you a good price, let's talk. You like it?"

Past the market, down the street, an old mosque, more beautiful than any I have seen in Europe. Leaving shoes at the door, I ask for a robe to cover my bare arms but am told my a smiling lady that I am dressed "ok". There is no one around and the room decorated in intricate green and gold carvings and arches is peaceful and cool. I feel the urge to pray but not knowing how well that would go over from another god's temple, choose instead to wander quietly and take pictures, hoping Allah won't mind my irreverance too much. A few blocks down, a tall, simple, inspiring Methodist church. Then a colourful, aging building once belonging to a mission, now a women's centre. A man smiles at me from his truck where he sits in the heat, waiting for something or someone. Men here are friendly and polite, not yet once making me uncomfortable with their attention.
Later I find a hindu temple, covered in stories told by minature statues. Flower garlands drape the necks of gods and goddesses, men and women bow and cry and murmur in front of them, blessing, thanking, begging for good things to come. An old woman sits in front of an eight-armed goddess, moaning and wailing, eyes wide, crossed and wandering, her arms shaking as she makes a motion of pulling water over herself. A hindu priest in a long white cloth wrapped around his waist, his dark hair in a tight bun on top of his head, a red dot on his forhead, his bare chest spotted with white and red paint, accepts gifts from devotees and drapes them around the neck of the goddess of fertility. The temple is beautiful and sad, I leave with a strange feeling of dissatisfaction, the smell of inscense following me for another block.
The sun is higher and hotter now, my feet start to hurt as I approach a buddhist temple. Next door is another, and across the street yet another. I briefly think of Sioux Center and smile at the similarity. This temple is tall, to fit the cartoonish 15m version of a cross-legged, sitting Buddha dressed in bright yellow. At his feet, rows of candy, creams, milk, flowers and other gifts. A stern looking woman sits behind a sort of desk, playing with a cellphone and not-so-subtlely watching my every move. Next door, "the temple of a thousands lights", a room full of statues and flourescent bulbs of all sizes. No pictures allowed. Across the street, another temple, this one speaking of centuries of use, built out of dark wood covered in carvings and gold symbols. Gold buddhas in different forms sit under glass cases, oil lamps burn on stands in front of them From the ceiling hang chinese lanterns, to the side a large wooden buddha, fat and happy with big droopy earlobes. The roof is covered with hundreds of clay dragons.

My feet hurt and the skin on my arms starts to itch, indicating a deep burn from hours of walking in the sun. I head back to our apartment where smiling workers dressed in smart suits greet me. The pool beckons, where I soak in more sunshine, this time with sunscreen on my nose, and stare at the tall buildings surrounding the pool deck on every side, my blue pool towel the only bright color to be seen.