Another Taste of Brussels

By Elizabeth Johnstone

Buoyed up by the success of my solo trip to Brussels in May – for a concert by a Finnish Mensan friend and her musical partner – I organised a similar trip with my husband in October.

We booked a Cresta Holidays package through our local Co-op Travel.  The return on Eurostar was uneventful.  We stayed at the Atlas Hotel whose interior was not quite as splendid as its exterior suggested, but was clean and cosy with friendly staff and free WiFi.  The breakfast was fine as long as you stuck to the delicious fresh baked goods, cheese and charcuterie.  I will draw a veil over the coffee and the self-service machine from which it emerged.  The hotel’s location was excellent, a few minutes’ stroll from the old fish market in the Ste Cathérine district with its many seafood restaurants.  We ate there all four evenings.

I didn’t do much sightseeing in May so we invested in “Brussels Cards” - 72 hours for €40 – covering all public transport and most major museums, with some discounts and special offers.  A challenge to my inner Scot! These things only work if you want to visit the attractions in the first place, but we got our money’s worth over the weekend.

On the first afternoon, we wandered around the Grand Place and the narrow streets nearby.  In May, the square was partially obscured by a sound stage for the Jazz Festival.  This time, it was clear until the Marathon which finished around Sunday lunchtime.

We walked down to the Manneken Pis statue, past the lace shop where bystanders were sternly admonished not to eat their waffles in front of its windows.  En route to our hotel we had already passed the statue of a dog relieving itself, the Zinneke Pis.  I wasn’t entirely disappointed to miss the sister statue of Jeanneke Pis.

Next day, we headed to the Belgian Comic Strip Center (sic).  Comic strips are held in high regard in Belgium and referred to as the “Ninth art”. The Museum is housed in the former Waucquez Warehouse, an Art Nouveau gem.  Glasgow has Charles Rennie Mackintosh, Brussels has Victor Horta.  I enjoyed the museum, but all the signage was exclusively in French and Dutch.  I can imagine Belgian visitors sighing nostalgically at the wealth of comic strips and their creators.  We only really knew Kuifje - “little quiff”- Belgium’s most famous son, aka Tintin.  A pleasant morning in light, airy surroundings rounded off with coffee in the Horta Brasserie. With hindsight, I may regret being photographed sitting in a comic strip time machine.  Oh well, personal dignity is over-rated.

We walked on to the Cathedral, via the museum of the National Bank of Belgium, where inflation was explained in typically Belgian fashion – in bilingual comic strips.

After lunch, we headed to the Musical Instruments Museum, in the splendidly renovated Old England Building.  I bet every child in Brussels comes here with a worksheet and clipboard. I loved it. Hundreds of musical instruments from every period of history and every continent, spread over three extensive floors of a renovated Art Nouveau warehouse building.  Stand in front of any display and your headset plays the appropriate music.  No language barrier.

The next day’s sightseeing began with a trip out to another of Brussels’ iconic tourist destinations – the Atomium.  Built originally for the 1958 World Exposition, it was restored in 2006. Unfortunately, we had brought British weather with us.  My photos from inside and out show artistic rain-spattered effects.  We got off the Underground at Heysel, a name synonymous for us with the stadium disaster of 1985.

We returned to the city centre and called in at the brewery museum in the Grand Place, enjoying our pre-lunch dégustation of the beer of the week.  My husband very decently accompanied me round the Museum of Costume and Lace, although we both sped up when a horde of little 8-year old girls arrived shrieking and giggling.

We braced ourselves for a dose of high culture on Sunday.  However, as we exited the Parc underground station, we found ourselves on the Marathon/Half Marathon route and paused to admire the stamina (or otherwise) of the runners.  Most impressive to see the army cadets running in team formation, brandishing banners and uttering bloodcurdling chants. 

We had arranged to meet a Belgian Mensan friend at the Museum of Ancient Art.  I have a particular fondness for Flemish Primitives after my appetite was whetted by the Memlings in Bruges and there was a fine selection. I also enjoyed the details - some scurrilous, all colourful – in the works of Bruegel père et fils.

At last we succumbed to cultural overload and gratefully sought out a café for a sandwich and beer.  The Magritte Museum would have to wait for another day, not to mention the other magnificent museums in and around the Place Royale.

Fortunately, a respite from the rain allowed us to wander around the park, admiring the wacky exhibits in the Brusselicious project, before a final coffee in a trendy café on the Mont des Arts, admiring the aptly named “Le Square”. Why does English have such kudos?

Our friend gave a scholarly disquisition on the historical, social and linguistic complexities of his native land, which led me to ask in bafflement “Is Belgium actually a real place?”  All too soon, it was time to part ways, and my husband and I strolled back across the city, tut-tutting at the discarded water bottles and other post-Marathon trash in the Grand Place.

That evening, as every other evening, we had exactly one speciality beer at the bar “Au Vieux Port” before selecting our seafood restaurant at the Quai aux Briques.  Somewhere there is a photo of me in a lobster bib which will never see the light of day.

Our train departed at lunchtime the next day, so there was time for a last supermarket shop.  No doubt shares in Delhaize rose sharply on the stock market after my foray into the cheeses, baked goods, groceries etc. 

Our return was straightforward, although this nervous traveller was somewhat cross to spend longer in the Tunnel because of French security personnel getting off at Calais-Fréthun.

We had a great weekend, but there was more to see – the other museums in the Place Royale, the Parc Cinquantaire with its museums, the EU district, colourful outlying suburbs, not to mention day trips to Ghent, Antwerp or Bruges.  And with a travel time of two hours ten minutes from London, Brussels could well be on the agenda again!

First published in VISA 106 (December 2012)

Land of the Waffle

By Elizabeth Johnstone

We had a successful trip to Bruges in March 2012.  One of the best aspects of the trip was Eurostar.  I am a nervous traveller: I love being overseas, but I hate getting there.  Eurostar is, by far, the least bad option for me.  Travelling by train – rightly or wrongly - does not worry me, and the Channel Tunnel section only lasts twenty minutes or so.  And London to Brussels takes only a fraction over two hours!

So when a Finnish Mensan friend and her musical partner announced that they were playing a concert in Brussels on a Sunday afternoon in May, it seemed too good an opportunity to waste. 

Travelling on my own, I played safe and went for the ultra-standard option of the Ibis hotel chain.  The Ibis “Grand-Place” must have been named by the same people who name budget airline airports.  I booked a Cresta Holidays package through my local Co-op Travel and The Rough Guide to Belgium was my vade mecum. The ticket to Brussels South includes a transfer to other major Brussels stations so, after an uneventful journey (time underground obsessively noted by me as 18 minutes), I exited Brussels Central Station through a shopping centre and found my hotel within a couple of minutes’ walk.

The hotel was perfectly acceptable – clean, cosy and quiet, despite looking out onto the busy Marché aux Herbes.  Breakfast is always a treat on these trips, and I enjoyed hearty ham and cheese on wholegrain bread followed by French-style croissants and pains au chocolat.  The self-service juice and coffee from a machine was a slight negative.

On the Saturday evening, I met up with my friends and we enjoyed a bowl of noodles at one of the city’s many ethnic restaurants.  I returned to my hotel via an ice cream kiosk in the pedestrianised area and this French teacher was startled to be charged “un euro nonante”. I caught the second half of the Eurovision Song Contest.  Poor old Engelbert.  He never stood a chance against that bloc voting.  I expect the Greek Finance Minister was relieved that his country did not win.

The next morning, my friends were busy rehearsing, so I did a little sightseeing.  I walked up to the Cathedral which has lost a lot of its internal ornamentation but is still an imposing sight in its elevated position.  It is on the edge of the Upper Town, built almost literally to look down on the medieval warren of streets around the Grand-Place in the Lower Town.

Before anyone starts tut-tutting at my bad spelling of Grand-Place, I am sure you remember that grand comes from the Latin grandis which, as a 3^rd declension adjective, has the same form in the masculine and feminine.  The “e” was added later by analogy with 1^st declension adjectives.  But you knew that!

Sunday lunch was a couple of fantastic salades composées with a waffle buried somewhere on the plate and a generous helping of people-watching from our vantage point near the Bourse.

The concert took place later that afternoon at the Finnish Seamen’s Mission.  And what a treat!  Spanish music for solo piano/piano and soprano.  We were transported to Andalucía, not least by the 30° heat outside.  At the same time, we were in an outpost of the Land of a Thousand Lakes.  The cafeteria had a grocery section where homesick Finns could stock up on such essentials of life as salty liquorice and Koskenkorva vodka.

All too soon, the concert was over, the ladies changed out of their fabulous ballgowns and it was time for us to part ways. They set off on the next leg of their tour and I headed back to the city centre.  On a warm Sunday evening, the scene was animated and colourful.  I dined on some upmarket fast food, featuring delicious chips, one of Belgium’s gifts to world gastronomy.  I followed this with a fresh, hot waffle which melted in the mouth.

My train did not leave until lunchtime the next day, so I mooched around again with my camera after breakfast.  The magnificent buildings of the Grand-Place stood out against a Mediterranean blue sky, although they were partly obscured by a massive stage put up for the Jazz Festival.  More by luck than judgement, I ended up at the Manneken Pis.  The statue is tiny!  It is dwarfed by the oversized replicas made out of chocolate etc in the neighbouring shops.

You will not be surprised to learn that I wandered round a supermarket but my small suitcase could only accommodate a couple of jars of compôte and a box of chocolate truffles. 

I had conscientiously worked my way through the major Belgian food groups. As well as chips and waffles, I enjoyed a glass of Leffe Blonde and a free chocolate courtesy of a shop near the hotel.  Mussels next time! Belgium is truly foodie heaven, a marriage of Flemish heartiness and French finesse.

The return trip was uneventful, except for extra French security checks by personnel who got on at Lille and got off again at Calais-Fréthun.  This added nine minutes to our journey.  We entered the Tunnel from a standing start, instead of barrelling in at 100 mph or whatever, so the transit time was 20 minutes. 

What? Obsessive? Me?

At St Pancras International, I was savvy enough to exit the train quickly to get through passport and security.  I crossed the road to Kings Cross, caught my local train (from Platform 9, not 9 ¾) and walked through my front door less than an hour later.

This trip was primarily to meet friends and enjoy the concert, but I plan to go back and have a closer look at the museums and the EU quarter. 

Or maybe I’ll get no further than a cornet of chips and a beer in the Grand-Place...

First published in VISA 104 (August 2012)

Changing Cambodia

By Maxine Bates

As part of a tour of South East Asia, I spent five nights in Cambodia at the end of December 2011. This was my first visit to the country and, having compared notes with  friends who had visited a few years previously and read a previous VISA article, it appears to have changed tremendously. 

Having flown into Siem Reap airport our first task was to queue for a visa on arrival. This cost US$20. (Although not Cambodia’s official currency, everything is priced in dollars.) You handed over your dollar notes along with a passport photograph, shuffled along the counter and picked up your newly stamped passport several minutes later. Having deciphered which names were being called by someone whose native language isn’t English. Amusing at times.

We had booked to stay at the fairly new Shining Angkor boutique hotel which included airport transfers. These turned out to be by tuk tuk. Luckily we weren’t travelling with large luggage as I’ve no idea where it would have been loaded!  

Pub Street is the heart of Siem Reap nightlife with many bars and restaurants covering all nationalities from Irish to Italian to Khmer as well as traditional dance shows. We saw banners advertising a New Year’s Eve street party but unfortunately had to sleep through midnight due to a stupid o’clock flight on 1^st January. We had 2012 stamps in our passport whilst our friends back in the UK were still in 2011!

There were as many fish spas as eating and drinking establishments so plenty of choice, both indoors and outdoors, if you wanted fish to nibble the dead skin off your feet! Most fish spas also offered massage with a typical price being $6 for 60 minutes. I treated myself to a French manicure and pedicure for a total of $5 – bargain!

Obviously the main reason for our stay in Siem Reap was to visit the nearby Angkor complex. We hired a tuk tuk and driver who, after we’d had our photograph taken and paid $40 each for a three day pass, took us around some of the temples. Our first stop was the imposing Angkor Wat. We spent a pleasant couple of hours exploring the stupors, decaying steps, traditional window frames, etc, before reaching the main building and the “clothes police”. A couple of uniformed guards studied the attire of visitors and ejected anyone who didn’t meet their criteria. However, there didn’t appear to be any set criteria as we saw one man leaving with short-length shorts whereas another man wearing knee-length shorts was refused entry. Similarly some cardigans and sarongs to cover arms and legs were acceptable and some were not. Crazy! But also entertaining watching the arguments with the guards! After a photo stop for the famous view of the Angkor Wat temple with the Lake of Reflection in the foreground we settled down in one of the many adjacent open-air bars to enjoy a cool drink. Beware of scams when leaving. We paid a lady who appeared to be the owner when she served our drinks, but upon leaving were approached by a young boy who said we hadn’t paid our bill. He followed us throughout the stalls demanding money which was somewhat annoying knowing we had paid. We opted for a roadside café lunch and although very basic we could see our noodle dishes being prepared and cooked. It was tasty, plentiful and very cheap.

The next day the same tuk tuk driver took us to Angkor Thom where we admired the 216 carved faces of the Bayon and strolled around the Baphuon pool to the Elephant Gate. Then on to Ta Prohm, probably recognisable as part of the Tomb Raider film set. I was looking forward to seeing the ruins with trees and foliage growing through them, but at the time of our visit this temple resembled a building site. Very disappointing.

On our third day we opted to travel further afield, some 30km, to Banteay Srei, a Hindu temple famed for its carvings. The display panels were interesting but exploring the site itself became tiresome with so many Asian tour groups climbing all over the stones. However, our main reason for travelling in this direction was to visit the Landmine Museum. Boards depicted the lives of the children living at the relief centre within the museum. Money from sale of admission tickets and items in their shop pay for dozens of handicapped, orphaned or poor children to be fed, clothed, housed and nurtured. Other boards explained why landmines were laid and how they are now removed. A small but thought-provoking museum and well worth a visit.

Another day we booked an excursion to Tonle Sap Lake to visit the floating village. I’m sure our small boat and driver would not have passed any regulations in the UK, but that’s half the fun of travelling. We were steered slowly by houses, a school and a church and disembarked for a shopping opportunity and look at a crocodile pit. From the way the animals were behaving it looked like they were due a feed so we didn’t get too close! The main road between Siem Reap and Tonle Sap is nothing more than a dirt track in places with cattle, bicycles and tuk tuks being the main users. The petrol stations were most interesting with fuel decantered from large drums into whatever plastic or glass bottles the owner could find. We saw petrol for sale in a Jack Daniels bottle!      

Although we only skimmed the surface with brief time in Cambodia I would advise anyone contemplating a visit to go sooner rather than later before it gets too commercialised.

    

First published in VISA 106 (December 2012)

Sands of Dunhuang

By Neil Matthews

The camera threatened to blow away and the masked figures appeared out of the gloom. This was not going to plan.

We had been drawn to Dunhuang by its position as a key station on the delicate old trade network of the Silk Road. On the edge of the Gobi, Dunhuang seemed to epitomise the mystery and romance of the East. A virtually empty flight from Xi'an to an even emptier airport, a ten minute drive to our hotel and the romantic visions deepened. The Silk Road Hotel is built in the style of a Tang dynasty castle. It is vast, echoing and impressive. Some people don't go as far on their holidays as we did from our room to breakfast. Every face smiled, eager to please. Late night chrysanthemum tea on the rooftop terrace gave a hance to savour the sights still to be seen.

Camels at Mingsha sand dunes

The next morning, our bespectacled guide Mary took us to one of the two main reasons for visiting Dunhuang, its sand dunes. They made an impressive sight, although they did not whistle, sing or rumble as various stories and legends had it. Groups of excitable Chinese rode rather less excitable camels, while other Chinese trooped to the top of the dunes in order to slide down them in rubber rings. Helen and I wandered over to the Crescent Moon, a natural lake which mysteriously has never dried up. Here we looked at calligraphy and photography exhibitions, sipped water flavoured with dried apricots and tried to persuade Mary that Auld Lang Syne originated in Scotland rather than in China.

Crescent Lake

The other prime attraction of Dunhuang is the collection of Buddhist art at the Mogao Caves, 25km outside the city. As our car slipped out of the city centre after lunch in the direction of the Caves, a grey and empty landscape, enlivened with the occasional shrub, surrounded us. The blue skies of the morning had dissolved into grey...or was it orange? Helen pointed to the right of the car and asked what the different colouration indicated. "A sandstorm," said Mary in the most offhand, unconcerned way you could imagine.

Fine. Until a few minutes later, as our driver continued to apply his foot to the accelerator, the sandstorm caught up with us. Not that he was worried, at least outwardly; he continued to honk politely at lorries and cyclist while using most of the opposite lane to overtake them.

"Are sandstorms unusual?" I asked Mary.

"We normally have about four in April," she replied. We decided not to press the point that this was July.

Suddenly the driver pulled the car off the road. Was he going to stop and call for help, I wondered?
Apparently not - there was a diversion because a nearby bridge had been knocked down by recent flooding. As we bumped and bounced past the remains of the bridge, we noted that the storm had not dissuaded manual labourers from continuing their work on the rebuilding. The last part of the approach to the Caves is through a boulevard of poplars. These were now bending at alarming close-to-45-degrees angles as the storm gained strength.

Finally we arrived at the car park and Mary dashed to the ticket office. As the blur of white blouse and blue jeans disappeared into the middle distance, I tried and failed to persuade myself to run after her. That lunch of minced pork dumplings and cold beef and marinated cucumber had not been a good preparation for running through a sandstorm...not to mention the fried rice, green cabbage soup with noodles, sweet and sour pork, cauliflower and the beef kebabs...and the aubergine, cabbage with chillis, steamed bread, pork with green beans and watermelons. The Chinese are generous hosts.

Sandstorm, Mogao Caves

While we waited for Mary to return, the sand swirled around the stone buildings and my hat and sunglasses became essential defensive mechanisms against the invading particles. We were not, though, as thoroughly prepared as some of the locals. Out of the sandy mist came a number of figures swathed in purpose-made or improvised face masks. Along with their dark glasses and cowboy hats, they cut incongrously sinister figures. They seemed to be ready for this eventuality and we were not, which was disconcerting.

Any port in a storm - ours was what is euphemistically called a "retail opportunity", namely the museum gift shop. We couldn't see Mary or the driver, so going back to the car was not an option. Instead we joined the growing number of visitors in the shop, wandering disconsolately round the books, neckwear, jade and other items, wondering (a) when the storm would stop, and (b) why you can only buy postcards in China in sets of 10 or more. Each new visitor staggered in to exchange remarks and glances of wonder, wry amusement and even self-congratulation for surviving it all. If there was any frustration at being unable to view the caves, it was well hidden. Eventually, we braved it back to the ticket office to find that the caves had been closed for the day. The dust might have damaged some of the paintings and harmed the visitors (the reasons were given in this order)

The Mogao caves, for today at least, were the No-go caves. So we made our disappointed way back to the hotel, with the storm still raging and the driver showing as much apparent concern for the additional danger as he had on the way out. (No mere sandstorm was going to stop him overtaking all other vehicles.) The hotel itself had closed the huge double doors at its entrance, as well as all internal doors and the rooftop terrace. However, the high step just inside the entrance which apparently wards off evil spirits had not totally repelled the invasion. Much of the gardens, and the red lanterns hung at intervals around the exterior, were now decorated with dust and sand. It was the next day before things returned to normal, the caves re-opened and the hotel returned to dealing fficiently with more customary invaders: the coach parties of visitors, swallowed up in its vast interior as efficiently as a pork dumpling.

First published in VISA 76 [December 2007]

Singapore Legend

By John Keeble

Not everyone is lucky enough to become a legend in his own lifetime. It happened to me, by chance, in Singapore during a photo exploration that drew together the island’s past and present, survival on the streets and survival of an endangered culture. 

Peranakan house

I was pausing during a fascinating introduction to the Peranakan culture, stealing a few moments at an unoccupied market table to write my notes, when I found myself part of the table’s usual denizens, the old men who met there daily to live today in their legends of yesterday.

There was Hussein, a Singapore legend before his riches to rags fall; the oldest man who was The One Who Knows The Most About This Area; and Ali who was once a pop star and boxing champion and who still sings, as he did for me. ‘He is a legend,’ one confided in me earnestly. Others had other talents. I became The Writer, an instant legend.

In fact, in Singapore I was The Photographer. I had been given an introduction to a fellow photography enthusiast, Carolyn Lim, whose beautiful images grace many screens and who, with amazing luck for me, had a few days free just before the start of the Year of the Horse.

‘What do you want to photograph?’ she asked as we ate monkey brain mushrooms and ginger in one of Singapore’s million tempting eateries.

Ah, well, nothing touristy, nothing I’ve shot before … anyway, we settled on some irresistible one-offs, including the intensely touristy Chinese New Year in China Town, but the main theme was the Peranakans, a Southeast Asian population dating from the 15^th century and today fighting for survival as a living culture. It grew from Chinese traders and adventurers taking local wives in the trading centres from Penang to Singapore.

‘Only men came because it was illegal then for women to leave China,’ explained William Gwee, one of the most respected figures of Peranakan culture in Singapore, who welcomed me into his home with its extensive library where he works. ‘They came to make their fortune and many returned home when they had done what they set out to do. However, some stayed with their local wives and this developed into part of the population with its own culture.’

Under the British rule in the 19^th Century, they prospered as a vital link between Chinese, Malayan and British traders and administrators. Culturally, they held mainly to the Chinese ways but later wealthy generations were often English-educated, giving them at least bilingual abilities and an elite position in local society.

‘In recent times, the Peranakan culture has been dying out,’ said Mr Gwee, author of books on the Peranakan way of life during the mid-20^th Century and an expert on Peranakan language which is under threat as modern generations follow economic and social demands for international English. ‘There are only a few of us left who experienced the Peranakan way of life and we are dying out too. But I find some of the younger generation are interested [in their cultural inheritance]. They communicate on Facebook.’

His efforts to preserve the language have included briefing scores of academics who have visited him to mine his knowledge. His language books include A Baba Malay Dictionary (Tuttle Publishing).

This saves for the future Peranakan words and phrases that have dropped out of common usage. In their own way, Mr Gwee’s language books spotlight the evolution of the culture. Changing language charts changing cultures – here, for example, there is an old Peranakan phrase for a man who marries his late wife’s sister. Was that really necessary in the culture? ‘Yes,’ said Mr Gwee, ‘It was very common.’

Mr Gwee’s focus is not only on the demise of his culture. In his home, he has Taoist, Sai Baba and Catholic images. ‘People ask me why I have so many,’ he said lightly. ‘I say: ‘If I get to the gates of Heaven and I am turned away, I can try the others’.’ A pretty good joke … I think … with the engaging Mr Gwee, it was difficult to tell.

While the living culture is endangered, the Peranakan past is there for everyone to see in many parts of Singapore. The most noticeable evidence is the Peranakan houses and shophouses, more colourful than the Chinese shophouses. On the East Coast, where Mr Gwee lives with his wife Rose and generations of  family furniture, there are Peranakan restaurants serving traditional dishes and, in the heart of  Singapore’s historic Central area, there is the Peranakan Museum.

It was at the museum that I met Chrisella Dekker, a South African volunteer taking a turn as the tourist guide through the museum’s room settings, artefacts, images and art of the past – beautiful gold jewellery, slippers made from thousands of tiny beads, religious objects and pictures. The museum traces, too, the origins of the culture. ‘Every man needs a wife and local women dreamed of marrying a Chinese man,’ said Chrisella. ‘They had the big houses and the money.’

We worked our way through the evolution of the Peranakans and their beliefs and practices. ‘That’s a good dragon,’ Chrisella explained to her small, enthralled audience of travellers who chanced upon the free tour. One of our group had disappeared. We never found out if she had been taken by a bad dragon.

A major item on my photography list was one of Ms Lim’s special interests: the massive wood-burning Thow Kwang Dragon Kiln that can fire hundreds of pots at a time at temperatures between 1,250 and 1,300 degrees centigrade. On the day I visited it looked like a slumbering dragon, 70 years old, 27 metres long, its mouth far lower than its tail to use rising heat from the fire for the 32+ hours for each firing. Its huge size allows walk-in placing of pots and every metre can be controlled during firing with 17 pairs of stoking holes.

‘It is safe from the developers for the moment,’ said Ms Lim, who is part of the effort to preserve this important aspect of Singapore’s history. ‘But the future …’ We walked inside the kiln, photographed it from every angle, wondered how any nation could even contemplate risking such a valuable piece of its heritage.

Inside the Dragon kiln

Then it was Ms Lim’s turn on stage. She is a potter of some skill and had agreed to throw a pot for me while I photographed the process. Under other circumstances, it might have gone in the Dragon kiln to be fired but it was not in use that day. Other examples of her work were fired in it and they now reside in the pottery business’s art section.

On the other side of the island, with the New Year approaching, every Peranakan mind was turned to the Kitchen God. This is not a god who makes your rice nice. It is the god who hangs around the kitchen all year, listens to all the gossip, and then pops up to heaven to snitch to the big god.

‘We have to give the Kitchen God sweet things so that he can say only sweet things about us,’ said Peter Wee, president of Singapore’s Peranakan Association and owner of  Katong Antique House on the East Coast.

With an introduction from Ms Lim – herself a Paranakan – he offered to show me his shophouse with its display of old photographs more fascinating than the museum’s exhibits because here was the man and the photographs showed his ancestors. Others historic images gave an insight into Peranakan people and their elite position in society with elegant houses and 1930s cars.

‘This is what a Peranakan house is like,’ he said as we went through his shophouse, Mr Wee pausing for my photography with the casual air of someone who had been photographed many times before. The front room was the shop; the second was a private room with his collection of photographs, furniture and space for some office work; then there was the third room open to light and air, with water and greenery and good feng shui; and finally the kitchen, the domain of the women and the Kitchen God listening to their gossip.

In front of his wall of photographs disappearing up the stairway to the next floor, Mr Wee paused, indicating the images. ‘That’s my great grandfather,’ he said. ‘That’s my grandfather … this is my mother.’ Now his image resides among his ancestors’ images, a man of his time among the men, women and children of their time at the peak of the Peranakan culture and society.

Gardens by the Bay

As I left, he gave me the Peranakan Association’s beautifully produced quarterly magazine – a glossy, modern Singapore showcase of Peranakan life linking today’s flowering with the culture’s historic roots. It also listed Peranakan associations in Malaysia, Thailand, Indonesia and Australia. Old culture, modern communications and network structures: the Peranakan  hope for the future.

Four days in Singapore. A thousand photographs. Not bad. But still not enough … maybe one last call. The new Gardens by the Bay, recommended by another Peranakan friend living in Thailand. The light had gone, perfect, and over the bay was a night cityscape and in the gardens there were sci-fi ‘trees’, maybe 20 metres high and slicing the night with blue light.

I thought, not for the first time: ‘Yes, Singapore really clicks with me.’

First published in VISA 114 (April 2014)