Once upon a time, whilst travelling in the Far East, we went in search of the singing birds in Singapore. The trusty guide book promised: ‘Most mornings songbird enthusiasts gather at the corner of Tiong Bahru and Seng Poh Roads to drink coffee and listen to their birds give voice. Each bird is housed in a lacquered bamboo cage, delicately ornamented, and decorated with blue and white feeding and water bowls and other little trinkets…”
Sounded magical. Too good to miss. We went in search. This wasn’t the first time I had gone in search of things that seemingly just can’t be found. There was the tiny temple built to last in a concrete Communist maze in Saigon, a hole in the wall bar in New York, a seafood stall lost in a market in Miraflores in Peru. It’s not that I’m not used to not finding things, or losing things, and after all, isn’t it the journey that’s supposed to be fulfilling rather than the destination?
I love and hate the traditions in the Far East that coop beautiful birds up in very small cages. It doesn’t seem fair somehow to put something so lovely into a small prison that allows air in and gives a view out to a world where you’ll never be allowed to spread your wings and take flight. On the other hand, the birds still sing – and you would think that, to have your wings clipped, you would be mute forever. I guess we’re all caged birds to some extent?
So, we traipsed off through the steaming streets of super-clean Singapore in search of birdsong, at the crack of dawn, the sun barely skimming the top of the sky, air hanging hot and humid like damp washing drying around our ears. Singapore. It’s not real Asia. It’s Asia emerging from the car wash, cleaned and polished with all its crevices dusted.
The birds were nowhere to be found. We were at the road junction, we walked up and down roads, silence echoing in our ears, we circled back. Locals enjoying breakfast in a small market watched our futile journey with interest as we consulted the guide book, looked at the map, walking round in circles in search of the singing birds…
We never found them. As I looked up at the sky, I hoped secretly that someone had set them all free.
Mags Winthrop Blog 