A Peep at the City of Singapore
Could an American boy, like a prince in the Arabian Nights, be taken by a genie
from his warm bed in San Francisco or New York and awakened in the centre of
Raffles Square, in Singapore, I will wager that he would be sadly puzzled to
even give the name of the continent on which he had alighted.
Neither the buildings, the people, or the vehicles would aid him in the least to
decide.
Enclosing the four sides of the little banian-tree shaded park in which he stands
are rows of brick, white-faced, high-jointed go-downs. Through their glassless
windows great white punkahs swing back and forth with a ceaseless regularity.
Standing outside of each window, a tall, graceful punkah-wallah tugs at a rattan
withe, his naked limbs shining like polished ebony in the fierce glare of the
Malayan sun.
For a moment, perhaps, the boy thinks himself in India, possibly at Simla, for he
has read some of Rudyard Kipling’s stories.
Back under the portico-like verandas, whose narrow breadths take the place of
sidewalks, are little booths that look like bay windows turned inside out. On the
floor of each sits a Turk, cross-legged, or an Arab, surrounded by a
heterogeneous assortment of wares, fez caps, brass finger-bowls, a praying rug, a
few boxes of Japanese tooth-picks, some rare little bottles of Arab essence, a
betel-nut box, and a half dozen piles of big copper cents, for all shopkeepers are
money-changers.
The merchant gathers his flowing party-colored robes about him, tightens the
turban head, and draws calmly at his water-pipe while a bevy of Hindu and
Tamil women bargain for a new stud for their noses, a showy amulet, or a silver