The temperature’s been steadily decreasing, but the streets are still busy as ever. The people here are both annoying and friendly, depending on whether they are trying to sell you something, food or service, with features that could pass for Singaporeans, and a longuage which sounds like Cantonese if you don’t pay attention.
The food, so like kopitiams before they were created, tastes like basic chinese food. Simple rice with meat and vegetables. Or Pho, rice noodles in soup. Or banh bao, da baos of a different shape. One night, we had fried beef noodles, it looked like hokkien mee, tasted like a mix of hokkien mee and hor fun topped with lots of slices of beef.
Strange conical hats lining the streets, carrying baskets reminiscient of trhe samsui women we’ve all heard about but never really see now. Pasar Malams on weekends, Pasar Pagis on weekdays. So familiar and yet so alien. Motorcycles and scooters everywhere, on the streets at all hours, peppered by cars, cyclos and the odd bicycle, crossing the road at busy intersections is scary.
The old quarter is what chinatown should be. Tiny streets, people at all corners hawking goods, among the vehicles parked along the roads, in front of shops of all types. And this is what a city should be - alive with activity. Although I could do without the smell of cigarettes and pollution, the few people still spitting on the streets, and the scary crossing of the roads, it’s still more alive than the sterility we’re used to.
