street scenes

The shops shut up tightly, the street emptied of cars, with the occasional cab depositing its luggage-load of passengers in front of some dubious looking motel.

A group of American backpackers look hot and sweaty with their huge backpacks - the girls walk in front, the guys trail behind. Their backpacks are a fair show of gender equality, which does not mean gender equity. The old man in a cap stamps on soft drink cans, releasing a pungent sickly sweet scent of the cocktail of fermented sugared drinks. A chimney of smoke appears to be coming from a hole in his cap, but it is just my eyes, and how the night blurs all edges and screws up depth perception.

One particular late night walk along Bencoolen Street in a fit of insanity helped me rediscover the joys of walking alone.

[Well I wasn't really alone. My cello was bumping away behind me, the clunkity-clunk of wheels hitting the uneven stony floor reminiscent of a talkative mute man.]