Haze


One of the advantages that Singapore holds over Hong Kong is the air quality. For months every year the Special Administrative Region is draped with clouds of filthy air that billow down from the factories of the Pearl River Delta, and the smuts of black diesel smoke puffing from every bus. The Lion City enjoys endless summer breezes and blue skies.

Until burning season starts.

It’s unclear if this is due to the weather or agricultural bloody mindedness, but around this time of the year the underbrush in Sumatra begins to catch fire, and clouds of smoke begin to wash over Singapore.

In Hong Kong, yellow air and a perpetual dry feeling at the back of your throat is a normal state of affairs, whereas in Singapore this is a confusing and upsetting time. That isn’t to say things are better in Hong Kong; the default setting for the atmosphere shouldn’t be one of respiratory unpleasantness. However, the fact that nobody even complains in Hong Kong makes for a big contrast with Singapore, where complaining often feels like the national sport.

Given the other big complaint at the moment is to do with the shortage of McDonalds-branded Hello Kitty dolls, you might well assume the people moaning could do with an attitude adjustment. When you hear rumours that the National Environmental Agency has given the Indonesians a stern talking-to, as if a good dose of grumbling will be enough to fix all atmospheric issues, it starts to feel a bit surreal.

I’ve been indoors in air conditioned rooms all day so I haven’t had to contend with dirty air, but I have also run through an anti-mosquito fog, which may suggest to the casual reader that I care not for my lungs. Still, the haze is pretty foul, turning the sky a funny colour and making buildings less than a quarter of a mile away fade away into discoloured shadows in the clouds.

The other effect it has, apart from making our apartment stink, is to do something weird to my face. Or at least that’s what I blame for the piece of wood that seems to be growing from my beard. My wife has often picked at the stubble in my face, but she went a step beyond today, managing to pull from my face a half-centimetre piece of wood that seemed to have been growing there.

Or perhaps the bad air is good for plants, and I’m actually part tree. Who can say?


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