Stepping into Singapore was not a plunge into wilderness. The city moved to a familiar rhythm. Small trucks shimmied through Little India’s quarters. Pedestrians stuck to sidewalks and obeyed red lights. Men in dress pants and sandals chatted intensely on their phones. Bodies in tucked in shirts were loose with relief over the concluded workday. Construction workers shook over drills. Grocery bags swung on curled fingers. This was a pulsing city, and I was a city boy. Subconsciously, I’d been trained to participate in this metropolitan dance.
But, for now, I didn’t want to. Not in Singapore. Not anywhere. I preferred being the outsider. And as sunlight drained out of Little India, I stayed on brand, exhibiting atypical municipal behavior: standing on a busy curb with 11 fellow foreigners and 11 kick scooters.
We were all staring at our leader, Tony. He worked at the hostel, but, by his outfit, you would’ve thought he was a parkour professional or a home workout video star. He was a compact collection of lean muscle dressed in tank top and long khaki shorts. His calf muscles bulged over his functional Nikes. His long black hair was in a camouflage headscarf.
“This is the kick scooter tour of Singapore. I’m Tony. Tonight, we’ll be stopping at a hawker court, a water show, and the Gardens by the Bay. We’ll be traveling by very advanced modes of transportation: kick scooters. These are not simple machines. They need to be taken seriously. I’ve had people break legs, arms, and wrists. I’ve had people loose teeth. If you injure yourself, I will not wait for you. If you are tired, I will not wait for you. If you are late, I will not wait for you. Do whatever I say. If I stop, you stop. If I go, you go, and you should be going as fast as me. We will be riding our scooters for four hours. You will burn around 900 calories. If you do not think this tour is for you, please put back your scooter and return to the hostel. Anybody?”
I grinned. Another dude in a Manchester City jersey grinned, too. Others were confused and/or anxious but no one left.
A strong right foot push and Tony was off. We passed pretty architecture and unfamiliar advertisements and trees and lots of Singaporeans. Next to me were potential friends, but no one was chatting. Everyone was trying to remember how to kick scooter. Everyone was scanning for concrete height changes and weaving around walkers and checking for oncoming traffic. Everyone was trying to keep up with Tony’s calves. And every time I got comfortable and started to speed up, I reminded myself that I had already lost some tooth to cashews. I didn’t want a Singaporean curb to steal the rest of my grill.
Our first stop was the Hawker Centre in Chinatown. We dropped our scooters by the front steps then dispersed towards the 260 food stalls, dissolving into the steam and smell. The court was sectioned into congee, seafood, noodles, dumplings, etc. Underneath idealized images, vendors gestured us to their products, yelling out prices, but not for long—there was always another customer in tow. When I got tired and overwhelmed, I submitted to a beef ball soup.
I slurped it on a metal table alongside other members of the scooter gang. Initially, I thought this culinary chaos would bring us together, but it didn’t. Singapore, I figured, was a glossy interlude for South East Asian backpackers. Some of us were ending trips. Some were in the middle. Some were in the end. Mentally, we weren’t in the same place, so the conversation was flat. It centered around people listing visited countries. Responses ranged from “cool” to “yeah, it’s nice”. No ideas evolved from these statements. I talked about Korean culture, and, when I found no one really cared, I stared off at pigeons swooping down on styrofoam, picking at leftover Chinese. Do birds think noodles are dead worms?
Next we headed to the water show. Riding in, mature looking folks eyed us with curiosity from amphitheater-like stone stairs. They were in the designated viewing zone. We went in front of them, dropped our scooters on the dock, and then sat with our back on the front row barrier. Someone beside me remarked that we had the best seats.
A robotic female voice announced the start of the show. Classic music commenced. Water shot in the air. Light refracted through droplets, manifesting a swirl of alternating colors. Because we were in front of the front row, we got soaked. We giggled as cold mist covered our faces and clothes. In between looking at the show and the skyline, I looked at the people to my sides and smiled with squinted eyes. Jessy, a Swiss girl, imitated me every time I said, “Woah…Crazy…” to the inter-dimensional-like aqua projections.
When I got bored of the show, I looked for Tony. At first, I thought he was dead. He was lying on his back in the middle of the dock next to our scooter pile, which looked like a scrap heap. He was not watching the show, but he was alive: staring at the stars, getting more drenched than us. I understood our mysterious leader as a bird that had embraced its cage. He was a wild spirit that didn’t belong in a city. However, he’d managed to find adventure in the cracks of the concrete jungle. I found this both noble and tragic.
Tony got up as soon as the show ended. He’d surely led this tour thousands of times; he knew the city’s beat. We gathered our right angles on rubber wheels and coasted past the departing crowds. We didn’t stop until The Gardens by the Bay entrance. Bonded by wet hair and energized by the cold, our gang finally had something to talk about. Outside the washrooms, Tony stared ahead, obviously annoyed, waiting for us to stop chatting, as if he were the teacher and we were noisy students. Only when there was silence did Tony inform us that we couldn’t ride our scooters in this area. We had to walk. If we were caught riding, we would be fined. This warning ended our flash of bonding.
We walked next to our prepubescent steeds through the gardens. The spread of plants was illuminated to nightwalkers by small lights. Upon first gaze, I found them beautiful. Floral fireworks. The sense of plant proportion, vegetation variety, and petal puffs was perfect. Awed by the gardens, I kept banging my shin on the scooter deck.
But the longer the rows of perfected flora continued, the more I thought about them, the less beautiful they became. The gardens were obviously curated, and curation is a human endeavor. Nature implies the absence of human influence. Part of a tree or flower’s beauty is that people had nothing to do with its existence. Humans had too much to do with the plants in the Garden by the Bay.
The main attractions of the gardens were the “supertrees”. They were tree-shaped steel structures, ranging from 25-50 metres, covered in ferns and lights. Capri wearing crowds sat on the concrete edges surrounding plants; we sat on the ground. I used my fanny pack as a pillow and lay down. The “Garden Rhaposdy” started. There was more classical music. The “supertrees” changed colours. Unlike the gardens, these massive structures were honest. They found a balance between technology and nature.
When the show was finished, we left the gardens, got back on our scooters, and were once again at the bay front. Passing crowds turned their heads to our rattle. Meeting their eyes, our group reached apex outsider status.
It was like we’d mistakenly wandered into a Nike Run commercial. I’d never seen so many joggers. Apparently Singapore’s entire population was jogging. And they weren’t jogging in old t-shirts and shorts. They were in full-on jogging outfits: matching and breathable, flaunting cleanliness and “high performance”, hiding sweat stains. We were not. We were in color clashes of wrinkled attire. All us guys had sweat creases on our backs and scruff crawling down our necks. Multiple arms and legs were covered in bandages, Band-Aids, scabs, and scratches. Amidst these poster athletes, we stuck out like a bruised, dirty, red thumb.
These joggers formed a dynamic portrait of maturity. Jogging is the most mature exercise. Jogging is responsible running. Unlike weight lifting or yoga, the chance for embarrassment is low. The jogger is never far from walking and recovering control of their heart rate and muscles. The jogger does not seek physical dominance. The jogger harmlessly pursues longevity in front of the whole city. The jogger is a living PSA for cardio vascular health. The jogger is proof that metropolis’s won’t kill you.
Our scooter group didn’t exhibit maturity. We were absurd. On one end, we were backpackers, free-spirited travelers, symbols for courage and independence. On the other end, we were on scooters, the lamest vehicle known to mankind. It would’ve made sense if we were on skateboards, quad-wheeled platforms that represent counter-culture. Skateboarders bravely balance on rectangular planks, busting tricks, risking their bodies for glory, throwing themselves into the unknown. This would have fit the traveler ethos. Instead, we were wobbling on scooters. When the inventor of the scooter stuck a pole with handles into the skateboard-like platform, he skewered all its courageous essence. Scooters were juvenile toys and we were adults. Singapore was smart and efficient and we were travelling on dumb and inefficient “L”s. We moved through the city on one-leg instead of the word-class transportation infrastructure. We made no sense. We were a rolling clutter of contradiction.
The tour ended at a convenient store. This is where we could buy “cheap” beers. I pitched in on a deal: four small Heineken cans for 15 US dollars. I asked Tony why beer was so expensive. He said, “It’s Singapore, man!” I asked, “But why is it expensive in Singapore?” He just walked away. The tour was done so Tony was off the clock.
We assembled in front of the store. It was 9 PM, the seesaw hour. It was late enough to sleep; it was early enough to go out.
Post-tour drinking is amongst my favorite travel moments. It’s a celebration. It’s deserved relaxation, as you’ve just been on high alert for hours, absorbing new sights and moving your legs. In the middle of a foreign country, the group settles at a plastic table or the side of a street or a beach and creates a comfortable space. Tongues get loose, stories are exchanged, and laughter increases. In these moments, I often think, “Ah! This is being on vacation!”
The crack of our beer tabs echoed through Little India. Diners sitting around tablecloths, looked up. Owners tempted us to eat curry. Bored waiters stared at us. Mothers grabbed their kids’ hands, avoided our eyes, and walked faster. Usually, in places like Thailand, the Philippines, or Cambodia, a group of travellers enjoying a post-tour beer makes zero ripples. You drink unnoticed. You drink freely. But, in Singapore, it seemed as if every pair of eyes were a sensor, alerting the motherboard of this poorly dressed, cheap-boozing glitch in the system.
Our scooter gang was in a circle, but Singapore poked and prodded and successfully prevented us from bonding together. It convinced us that we were not a part of anything. So after one beer, we returned our scooters then went to our beds without saying goodnight.