The shrine to the sultan is deserted, except for the pigeons, who have created a heirarchy on the rafters, and one by one come and visit the Shah, checking on his pile of yellow flowers.
On my first proper day in Singapore, I find myself in Fort Canning. The fort is a hill — carefully kept green grass, a winding brick path, and the summit protected by trees and gardens. As I wind my way up, in the humid air that I’m not quite used to yet, I take a roundabout route past the fancy Hotel Fort Canning, a colonial building with a palatial white facade. It was built in 1926 and housed the administrative offices of British Military members. Just like Singapore, the building was occupied by the Japanese Military in the last years of World War II, and then again by the British.
I can only peer over the wall at the swimming pool and spa, trying to catch sight of the guests but there’s no one around.
The fort itself is just as empty. A single lunch-break jogger comes through the massive iron gateway. In the distance a man in yellow wellies shifts some plants around. As I follow the trail around the fort, just as I hoped would happen, my mind turns from planes and Airbnbs and bus stops and Skype calls into nature.
There are vast trees every so often, with branches like ribbons falling down to the ground. There are patches planted like vegetable patches, but instead of carrots and potatoes it’s cinnamon and ginger. The air is spicy.
In Malay culture, a mountain or a hill is said to be where our ancestors rest. For that reason Fort Canning was called the Forbidden Hill before the days of occupation, because it was said to be the resting place for the kings of Singapore.
When I find the shrine I’m not surprised. The fort seems just right for a place of peace. The dim tiled square and the roof with its dark wooden rafters, and the quiet keramat in the centre, loved on by pigeons and leftover offerings, fits right in among the spices.
On my first proper day in Singapore, I find myself in Fort Canning. The fort is a hill — carefully kept green grass, a winding brick path, and the summit protected by trees and gardens. As I wind my way up, in the humid air that I’m not quite used to yet, I take a roundabout route past the fancy Hotel Fort Canning, a colonial building with a palatial white facade. It was built in 1926 and housed the administrative offices of British Military members. Just like Singapore, the building was occupied by the Japanese Military in the last years of World War II, and then again by the British.
I can only peer over the wall at the swimming pool and spa, trying to catch sight of the guests but there’s no one around.
The fort itself is just as empty. A single lunch-break jogger comes through the massive iron gateway. In the distance a man in yellow wellies shifts some plants around. As I follow the trail around the fort, just as I hoped would happen, my mind turns from planes and Airbnbs and bus stops and Skype calls into nature.
There are vast trees every so often, with branches like ribbons falling down to the ground. There are patches planted like vegetable patches, but instead of carrots and potatoes it’s cinnamon and ginger. The air is spicy.
In Malay culture, a mountain or a hill is said to be where our ancestors rest. For that reason Fort Canning was called the Forbidden Hill before the days of occupation, because it was said to be the resting place for the kings of Singapore.
When I find the shrine I’m not surprised. The fort seems just right for a place of peace. The dim tiled square and the roof with its dark wooden rafters, and the quiet keramat in the centre, loved on by pigeons and leftover offerings, fits right in among the spices.
