Exploring Singapore: One Turn at a Time

An Island in the Dark

It is 1987, and we have just opened our Wavefront office in Tokyo as part of what would become a series of partnerships in the Asia-Pacific region. This trip marked the beginning of our efforts in the area, and we had been invited to Singapore to meet with prospects, share what our software could do, and explore new opportunities in computer animation.

For our stay, I chose the Goodwood Park Hotel, a colonial landmark that felt like a step into Old Singapore. The massive banyan tree out front, with its roots sprawling deep into the ground, added to the sense of timelessness. Back then, the city hadn’t yet transformed into the ultra-modern metropolis it is today. It was still a place of contrasts, balancing its rich traditions with the promise of what would come.

That first night, though, sleep wasn’t on the cards. By 3 a.m., I gave up trying. By 6, restless but eager to explore, I headed outside to see what the morning offered. Under the banyan tree, a few cabs were parked, their drivers chatting softly and sipping coffee.

One cabbie stood out—a wiry man with a friendly smile. I walked over and asked, “I’ve got the morning free. Can you take me around the island for a few hours? I’d like to see as much as I can.”

I’d read about Little India and thought it sounded like a vibrant place to start, so I mentioned it. He nodded thoughtfully and said, “Little India is good, but I’ll show you something better. Let’s start at Jurong Bird Park.”

I didn’t know what to expect, but his quiet confidence made me climb into the cab.

The Drive to Jurong

The drive was as much a part of the experience as the destination. As we left the city’s towering skyline behind, the streets began to change. The modern city center gave way to what seemed like miles of housing blocks—tall, uniform buildings that stretched as far as I could see.

I remarked on them, and the cabbie proudly explained, “These were built by the government.”

What caught my eye, though, were the hundreds of clotheslines strung between the buildings at every height. They were covered with colorful laundry flapping in the breeze, creating a patchwork of hues against the gray concrete. The sight was mesmerizing, almost artistic in its chaos.

I mentioned it to him, and he laughed. “That,” he said with a grin, “is the Singaporean national flag!”

Of course, it was a joke, but something in his tone—half pride, half humor—made me smile. It was a small glimpse into everyday life, a part of Singapore most visitors might not notice.

As we drove further, the buildings became less dense, and greenery started to take over. Open stretches of land, tropical trees, and even a few traditional kampongs dotted the landscape. It felt like we were leaving the urban world behind and stepping into something quieter, more rooted in the island’s past.

By the time we reached Jurong Bird Park, the sun was rising, painting the sky in shades of gold and pink. The cabbie parked under another massive tree near the entrance and said, “Two hours. I’ll wait here.”

Under the Canopy

He dropped me off beneath a sprawling tree just as dawn painted the horizon in soft orange and pink. “Two hours,” he said. “I’ll wait for you.” Then he disappeared, leaving me at the entrance to a place I hadn’t planned on visiting.

Jurong Bird Park was massive and alive with sound and movement. Winding paths led me through lush greenery, bursts of color, and the unmistakable chatter of birds. Orchids lined the path, their bright blooms pulling me back to my childhood. I’d been an orchid kid, meticulously caring for those delicate flowers and marveling at their ability to thrive under the right touch. Here, surrounded by them, it felt like stepping into a dream.

Then came the birds: hornbills, flamingos, delicate sunbirds darting through the air. Birds I’d only ever read about. Seeing them up close made the world feel enormous and magical like anything was possible.

But there was more than wonder. Walking through the park alone had a weight to it, too. Every breathtaking sight came with a faint ache like I wished someone else could be there to share it.

When I returned the tree, the cabbie was waiting like he said he would.

“You were right,” I told him. “That was better.”

From Birds to the Old City

After leaving Jurong Bird Park, the cabbie didn’t take me back to the Goodwood Park Hotel. I’d told him I wanted to visit Little India earlier, but he adjusted the plan when I mentioned I was a chef during our drive. “Let’s start in Chinatown,” he said. “It’ll be more interesting for you right now. Then we’ll head to Little India.”

He dropped me off in the heart of Chinatown, pointing to where we’d meet later. Clearly, this wasn’t his first time crafting a route for someone like me, and I trusted his instincts.

Chinatown was buzzing. Vendors shouted out their wares from crowded stalls, and the air was thick with the aromas of stir-fried noodles, roasted meats, and fresh herbs. The colors, the noise, the sheer energy—it was intoxicating.

I dove into the chaos, stopping at stalls that caught my eye. Dumplings steaming in bamboo baskets, skewers of satay sizzling over open flames, and sweet pastries dusted with powdered sugar—it was impossible not to try everything. Each bite was a discovery, layered with spices and flavors I hadn’t encountered before.

After Chinatown, the cabbie picked me up and drove me to Little India. As we pulled up, the atmosphere shifted. The streets here felt even more alive, bursting with color and texture. Shops overflowed with vibrant fabrics, intricately embroidered saris, and sparkling jewelry. The aroma of spices—cumin, cardamom, turmeric—mingled with the scent of incense, creating a sensory overload.

I wandered through the market, soaking in the joyful chaos. Then, I came across a man crouched low in his stall, working with quiet intensity. He was breaking down a goat, using a heavy cleaver to chop through the carcass with precision and ease.

The setup was simple: a wooden slab and the cleaver. But his skill made it extraordinary. Every movement was deliberate, every cut efficient and clean. He moved with the precision of a surgeon, and his years of experience were evident in the rhythm of his work.

It wasn’t just butchery—it was artistry steeped in tradition. Watching him, I felt like I’d stumbled into a moment frozen in time that had likely played out the same way for generations.

Little India had its own rhythm—chaotic yet purposeful, joyful yet grounded in history. When I caught up with the cabbie again, I felt like I’d experienced two completely different sides of Singapore, each a vibrant piece of the island’s cultural mosaic.

The Warehouse District

After Chinatown, I told the cabbie I wanted something unique to bring back home. I wasn’t after ordinary souvenirs—I wanted something with a story. He nodded knowingly. “I’ll take you somewhere,” he said. You’ll find what you’re looking for.”

We drove to the warehouse district near the harbor. Even then, its scale was impressive—rows upon rows of warehouses, each a hub of activity. The constant flow of goods hinted at the island’s role as a global trading powerhouse. It was a glimpse into another side of Singapore.

The cabbie brought me to one warehouse in particular. On the outside, it didn’t look like much, but inside, it was a different story. The place was enormous, packed to the rafters with curios and artifacts.

It felt like a treasure trove. The shelves were lined with intricate carvings, vibrant textiles, delicate porcelain, and lamps that looked like they’d been plucked from another era. The collection reflected Singapore’s tri-cultural heritage, with Chinese, Malaysian, and Indian influences woven together.

I wandered the aisles, marveling at the variety. Every piece had a story as it had traveled through time to arrive here. The challenge was finding something small enough to fit in my luggage—no easy task when everything felt like a treasure waiting to be claimed.

I don’t remember exactly what I bought, but I remember the feeling. I left the warehouse with meaningful pieces as if they carried a part of Singapore.

Reflections

When the cabbie finally dropped me off, I felt like I’d experienced more of Singapore than I could have planned. The day was full of surprises: lush greenery at Jurong Bird Park, the vibrant chaos of Chinatown, and the quiet wonder of the warehouse district. Each stop revealed a different layer of the island’s identity, from its natural beauty, bustling markets, and cultural heritage.

That day changed the way I thought about travel. It wasn’t just about seeing the sights or ticking off landmarks—it was about letting a place unfold naturally, trusting the people you meet, and following the path that feels right in the moment.

Years later, this one stands out when I think back on all the trips I’ve taken. Not because it was perfectly planned—it wasn’t—but because it reminded me to stay open to the unexpected. That approach has shaped how I travel ever since, encouraging me to embrace the serendipity that only solo adventures can bring.

In 1987, Singapore was a city on the brink of transformation, where history and modernity coexisted in fascinating ways. Now, it’s one of the most futuristic cities in the world. But that day, driving across the island and exploring its hidden corners, I glimpsed a Singapore that was still deeply tied to its roots—and it taught me to seek out those roots in every place I visit.