One writer, presumably American, arrived in Singapore for a sojourn of six months to reveal “the side of the city they don’t show you”. Wet in our Uniqlo Airism oversized tee, we traipse to that side, too

In an era of jaundiced travelogues, irreproachable narratives, and artificially pristine Instagram grids, a new kind of tourist has emerged—the one who travels not to find paradise, but to prove it doesn’t exist. They’re on a quest to seek out weather that “herds you into polished, fluorescent comfort”, “the nod-nod, wink-wink taboos no brochure spells out”, or, simply, “a more complicated, often un-Instagram-able reality”, all possibly to restore balance to a world of impossibly perfect destinations. They do not express disappointment in not being able to find a kampung (village), but, rather, mockery at laundry hung out to dry on galas (bamboo poles). A performance of cultural engagement. In a recently published travel piece in the e-mag VegOut, we find such a person.

The writer, who arrived “at Changi with every influencer cliché rattling in my carry-on: spotless streets, hawker-stall heaven, a skyline so glossy it could double as a phone commercial”, found what they already concluded to be hackneyed, yet “real”. We were thrilled to know the clichés rattled, which could only mean it was not packed in the bag to the gills. We also marvelled at how Changi, welcoming them in the residential-lite eastern tip of our island, could so rapidly allow them to forge an impression, and establish their position as above the typical tourist or puffed-up influencer—they were made of sterner stuff. It is admirable that they were not here to praise Singapore for the things we are famous for or good at; they came to find something actual and unworthy of Instagram. We love how instantly they were able to frame our city’s celebrated features as superficial or inauthentic, and proved Singapore Tourism Board’s marketing efforts to be wastefully hyperbolic.

It is admirable that they were not here to praise Singapore for the things we are famous for or good at; they came to find something actual and unworthy of Instagram

As they spent more time here, it is regrettable that the writer struggled to find their chill. “The heat isn’t just hot—it’s psychological”, he exasperated. Our equatorial calefaction required the mental adjustment that Hamlet might have made, no doubt with the same existential angst. A city, even worthy of a “phone commercial”, is only admirable if it is comfortable to spend time in. Similarly, we feel sorry that the writer was unable to dress comfortably due to the temperature that made them question their life choices and that “their entire wardrobe philosophy collapsed in two weeks”. We feel bad for them that they had to try the “the standard hacks: linen shirts…”. Sadly, nobody told them that linen in summer is a Western fashion ideal.

Over here, we don the far more comfortable and wrinkle-resistant Uniqlo AIRism oversized tees, with mundane ease and “uniform” pride. While linen has been used for thousands of years in cultures all over the world, its association with a particular kind of summer aesthetic—lived-in look that evokes images of vacationing on the French Riviera or in the Mediterranean (think: The Talented Mr Ripley)—is primarily tied to a specific, romanticised cultural idea of leisure and sophistication. Or a provinciality of thought. This aesthetic works best in dry climate, as opposed to the sultry overkill of equatorial (not tropical!) heat that is required to “see the real Singapore” that, most importantly, isn’t shown.

Their experience with attire was not just the singular fabric choice. They even learned that our baju (clothes) hung outside our kitchens to dry on bamboo poles, secured on racks that the HDB has built for each household “stretch out like urban flags, mapping each family’s color palette”. How remarkable that from the chromatic mix of laundry catching the sun’s rays, they could become the unofficial archivist of what goes on within a Singaporean family, turning a practical act (drying clothes in a space-efficient and climate-appropriate way) into a profound cultural observation. Or, “with each damp shirt you’ll realize why indoor culture here is so strong: the climate herds you into polished, fluorescent comfort. It’s less an invitation and more an ultimatum—embrace the malls or melt.” Remarkable it is that their eventual six-month stay was long enough for them to see with such clarity that the mall-as-social-hub is what a cattle community truly require to stay alive.

This is not just seeing Singaporeans as a passive, mindless citizenry desperately corralled by the weather; it is a foregone conclusion in search of a friendly alibi. Enduring their unique brand of travelogue has to halt when the ‘postcard’ impressions gave way to attempts to diagnose our city’s social character with the alacrity of a charlatan. After they “volunteered with a group that ran English classes for construction workers”, they uncovered, handily “scratch[ing] the surface”, that “the caste lines appear[ed]”, especially when our wailao (外劳, foreign workers) “live in dormitories far from the glass towers they build.” Even our domestic helpers were well-observed: they “get their own seating sections on Sunday ferry rides to Batam—an unspoken reminder of class hierarchy”, ignoring the very real possibility that the home-care professionals prefer to stick together. The writer diligently went out to seek evidence to prove themselves right. The heat be damned.

This is not just seeing Singaporeans as a passive, mindless citizenry desperately corralled by the weather; it is a foregone conclusion in search of a friendly alibi

Sadly, these observations were so pedestrian that they barely warranted the gravity with which the writer tried to poke the multiracial cohesion of Singapore. Conflating race and class with “caste” is not only flawed, but intellectually dishonest. Suddenly, Serangoon Road became Uttar Pradesh. Caste does not describe the social situation of migrant workers; it is a rigid stratification that carelessly and inaccurately describe our city state. These workers, no matter which part of the world they come from and no matter what work they do, are well appreciated, but they navigate social contracts that are different from those of permanent residents and citizens. Their situation is a complex issue of labor rights, immigration policy, and economic inequality—it is far from evidence of a “caste” system or a failure of harmonious diversity within our society itself.

We can overlook a short-term visitor, who “sweats through (their) MRT commute”, their petty complaints about a constant environmental sauna with no towel service for them, food so unvaried that a jump from hawker centres to Tiong Bahru cafés was inevitable, and their overall ignorance of our public etiquette. But what is deplorable is a six-month stay that artfully led to a superficial and offensive take on our society’s class and racial harmony. Not seeing our multicultural success is their choice, but to discern caste lines appearing under the surface when none exists is contention that collapsed under its own weight. As we celebrate the 60th year of our founding this coming Saturday, it is more gratifying if we look at how far we have come, rather than at the drive-by opinion that is as insightful as the warnings from travel blogs that it is informed by.

Illustrations: Just So