Jurong East is far from the tourist vision of Singapore. Welcome to Singapore.Īlvin Pang’s poem ‘Suburbia: Jurong East’ is set in the eponymous suburb and in the mind’s eye.

The money is made of plastic and there are stewards in case you need guidance, all while being welcomed into an idea of the present that has harbingers in the past and future. As you collect your bags, you will not be jostled, not even hurried let alone harangued, and you will begin to glimpse the concrete and green just out of reach, just in the humidity out there outside, all before you step aboard the MRT to take you anywhere in the city state you might desire, sweat-free. After you pass customs, you will grade their service on a touchscreen and it will tell you to ‘have a nice day’. This is travel that is sanitised, suburban, temperature controlled by sensors and computers. The muzak will lull you, the travelators move you, and the janitors spray and wipe behind you. You could come by the Causeway from Johor Bahru, but chances are that you will fly in, to a clean, quiet, gleaming, glistening, orderly terminal that looks more like a luxury mall than any other airport you have been to, especially LAX. When you arrive in Singapore, chances are you will arrive at Changi Airport.

What Gives Us Our Names by Alvin Pang