The Wilderness in the City

Review of Eating Chilli Crab in the Anthropocene: Environmental Perspectives of Life in Singapore edited by Matthew Schneider-Mayerson (Singapore: Ethos Books, 2020)
By Sebastian Taylor

In June, Ethos Books published an anthology of essays on the current state of ecocultural affairs in Singapore. Edited by Matthew Schneider-Mayerson, the Assistant Professor of Environmental Studies at Yale-NUS College, the anthology collects twelve essays written by authors “born between 1993 and 1998.” This is key, as it clues readers into assessing the book as a set of different perspectives held by Singaporeans born in the interstitial Millennial/Generation Z divide, as opposed to defining the book by a particular genre. Indeed, the essays range in topical scope, from anthropological history (as in the titular “Eating Chilli Crab in the Anthropocene, Dumpster Diving in Semakau” and “Singapore on Fire”) to art analysis (“To Build a City-State and Erode a History” and “An Oily Mirror”) to educational policy in the modern city-state (“Learning to Thrive”). The interdisciplinary nature of the collection is exciting, presenting a smorgasbord of opinions worthy of the complex nature of Singaporean politics and culture.

To understand the interaction between essays, as well as the cutting-edge nature of their discussions, consider how the anthology’s authors use the word ‘Anthropocene.’ As a student from the American public-school system, I did not encounter this term until I met anthropologists and geographers at university in the UK. I would not be surprised if other readers’ familiarity with this word stems from them seeing Grimes’ album title, Miss Anthropocene. The introduction to Eating Chilli Crab in the Anthropocene by Schneider-Mayerson is therefore important, setting the stage for what the reader will encounter throughout the text. Anthropocene here is introduced as a term “to describe the novelty of the world that (some) humans have created in the last few decades and centuries.” The second essay in the collection, “Lovable Lutrines: Curated Nature and Environmental Migrants in the Ottercity” by Heeeun Monica Kim, introduces a new word, “Holocene,” to describe the epoch, which foregrounds the theme of mass extinction. Through this neologism, the reader is offered a different understanding of what the Anthropocene may entail. As a whole, the anthology tries to use this intertextual technique to reinforce or complicate information provided to the readers, though this very repetition takes up space. When we are again introduced to the Anthropocene in the second to last essay in Eating Chilli Crab in the Anthropocene with the line (ironically), “Firstly, the Anthropocene,” one wonders if the anthology could have been edited with an eye for flow across essays, thereby freeing up space for other ideas.

That said, this should not be held against the writers themselves, who at points demonstrate boldness with their use of language in discussing the interrelationship between humans and the environment. For instance, in the fifth essay, “Dumpster Diving in Semakau: Retrieving Indigenous Histories from Singapore’s Waste Island,” author Fu Xiyao chooses not to use binomial nomenclature, or Latin naming, to describe the smooth-coated otters of Singapore. This decision stood out to me as an American reader from a scientific, but non-biological, background. Fu’s non-italicization throws the previous four essays into relief, highlighting how Latin naming is used to establish legitimacy for environmentally conscious behavior and policy. As noted by the introduction, “environmentalists have so often been dismissed as just another special interest group—'greenies,’ as The Straits Times recently put it—and one that’s not particularly important to the way the modern world really works.” The writers of Eating Chilli Crab in the Anthropocene rejects this ideological chasm, that environmental concerns are distant from the daily realities of Singaporeans. From Neo Xiaoyun’s study on mud crabs (Scylla serrata) and how they are prepared and served as a local delicacy, to Ng Xin’s historical survey of tigers (Panthera tigris) and their persistence in the culture of modern Singapore, the various essays sensitize us to the wilderness hidden amidst the city. They remind us of how interrelated the natural world is with Singapore’s urban space.

While the gathered writers all agree on the necessity of protecting of the environment, the language and style of the essays are by no means homogenous. In fact, I would argue that the range of tones, from cautionary (“Javan Mynahs, “Invasive” Species and Belonging in Singapore” by Lee Jin Hee) to condemning (“Changing Course: Jewel Changi and the Ethics of Aviation” by Mathias Ooi Yiokai) to pragmatic (“Another Garden City is Possible: A Plan for a Post-Carbon Singapore” by Bertrand Seah), is a draw of the anthology. It could have so easily adopted the tone of the pioneering An Inconvenient Truth (2006)—that is, of a “fascinating and relentless” disaster narrative, as reviewer Roger Ebert so eloquently puts it. Instead, the characteristic youthful and transitional voices of the writers—who have inherited a planet in decline as well as the privilege to apply their minds to a stable future—shine through. Collectively, the voices nudge (and sometimes push) the audience to learn more about the climate crisis and to act on their learning. This intention gives the anthology the feel of a gently revolutionary pamphlet: there are many calls to action. For example, Mathias Ooi Yiokai, in his essay exploring the centrality of aviation to the Singaporean economy, uses bold declarative sentences to claim, “With our one and only planet at stake, twenty-first century ethics demand that we simply fly less.” This tone establishes the writer as an authority on the carbon footprint of private flights, emphasizing the urgency and necessity of the demand. Nevertheless, Ooi moderates his tone in the following line, “To readers of this book, who have likely had their own intoxicating taste of flight, I empathize, but I urge you to engage with this challenge directly.” Although the tone sometimes makes this reader feel uncomfortable, overall it is constructive in urging positive change.

Among the many well-written essays, my favorite is the penultimate “Learning to Thrive: Educating Singapore’s Children for a Climate-Changed World” by Al Lim and Feroz Khan. This essay stood out to me for several reasons, not the least of which being my interest in educational reform. In the 2019 Martinmas semester at St Andrews, I was able to participate in an interdisciplinary module in scientific education and teaching. The module combined a hands-on approach to learning with seminars on good educational practices. A major assignment was to propose a “special project” with lesson plan and literature review for implementation in a local school. Although I was a Physics major, I was exposed through this module to education pedagogy research. Most of this research measured success using statistical methods and proposed the use of metrics for the assessment of both teachers and students. So it was stunning to read Lim and Khan’s essay, which questioned the very virtues of educational frameworks. Drawing upon research by William Throop, Lim and Khan assert that education requires reformation at a fundamental level to stress values such as “frugality, adaptation, humility, collaboration and systems-thinking,” or what Throop calls transition virtues. Despite my unfamiliarity with the emphasis on educational virtues over skill-based educational evaluation, I was wholly convinced by the argument in “Learning to Thrive.”

Lim and Khan use a method of research and authorship that is novel in the fields of education and anthropology. They engaged their subjects in their study. Paloma Gay y Blasco and Liria Hernández in their book Writing friendship: a reciprocal ethnography points out how this form of ethnography involves mutual collaboration between researchers and subjects of the study. To conduct their study Lim and Khan formed a reciprocal relationship with the students of Singapore’s first Forest School. Drawing from scholarly research to set a context for the ethnography and then reporting their findings from interacting with the students, their research-based but experience-augmented approach leads to powerful passages, such as this:

Their interactions were less about showing off or optimizing for the best sound; rather, they were content with enjoying the sounds of whatever they could find, fashion and use. In modern Singapore, this kind of organic, low-footprint, collaborative and creative recreation is rare to find and even more rarely pursued. But in the climate-changed future we will inhabit, this is exactly what we need more of. The fact that the children picked up and used whatever resources they could find—after adapting to activities they might not have originally chosen—is a reminder that humans are adaptable and resilient, and therefore a cause for hope.

In addition, tables and figures are used throughout the essay to contrast the educational virtues suggested by Throop against prevailing educational norms in Singapore. A particularly interesting example can be seen below:

This example includes distinctly Singaporean commentary, referencing the ‘Five Cs of Singapore’—a Singaporean joke about materialistic indicators of success. This reference provides local context to the non-Singaporean reader and humor to the Singaporean one who is familiar with the phrase. Additionally, “More tuition, better grades” mimics the cadence of Singlish—a blend of English, Malay, and Chinese languages—that adopts the vocabulary and grammar of the various languages. Although the table may seem simple, it is an effective way to convey compiled information. I wish that other essays in the collection, such as “Another Garden City is Possible: A Plan for a Post-Carbon Singapore,” had made use of such textual aids.

The local context of these essays does not hinder a non-Singaporean reader from engaging with them. Instead, they inform and educate, and the best of them re-inform and re-educate the local reader. “An Oily Mirror: 1950s Orang Minyak Films as Singaporean Petrohorror” by Yogesh Tulsi analyzes the cultural myths of Singapore and Malaysia in the light of environmental concerns. In this exploration of Malayan cinema, the inception of the orang minyak—a half-man, half-oil monster—is tracked through movies such as The Oily Maniac (1976) and Orang Minyak (1958) by L. Krishnan that portray the monster sometimes as an anti-hero, and sometimes as an industrial serial-rapist. Folklore and pop culture are filtered through a critical lens. Of rural villages that were lost to modernization from the 1950’s to 70’s, Tulsi points out, “The existential threat that kampungs faced in the orang minyak movies were also playing out in the real world, with the land needs of an emerging petrostate filling in for the role of the oily monster.” In the movie Sumpah Orang Minyak (1958), beloved Malaysian actor P. Ramlee is transformed into a petrochemical horror. By drawing these parallels, Tulsi guides the audience to critically assess how “oil [is rendered] culturally recognizable and quotidian, rather than alien and foreign.” In doing so, he equips the audience with a new means of analyzing how their own cultures have evolved around the needs of the oil industry. I was myself prompted to re-examine the role that petrochemicals play in the culture of my home state on learning that Yale refuses to divest its $30.3 billion endowment of fossil fuels. In this manner, I find the collection both regional and transnational at the same time. Though I am an American reading a Singaporean book, it is clear to me how the arguments of the anthology spill over into other communities. The authors offer you a place in a united front that urges change in the face of imminent disaster.

Matthew Schneider-Mayerson tackled a difficult task in introducing, compiling, and editing the work by 14 contributors for a book that pioneers a critical look at Singaporean environmentalism. The collection has breadth and depth, by no means a small feat when addressing such an interconnected subject as eco-anthropology. The benefit, too, to this breadth is that if you are not engaged by the subject of one essay, there is a good chance that the topic of the next essay will hook you. Theme and context tie the essays together, but at the core of the text is an appreciation of the Earth and her creatures, mankind included.


Sebastian Taylor studied physics at the University of St Andrews. Their area of interest is nuclear decommissioning and non-proliferation. They are also fascinated by performance poetry and write on the themes of queering the body, self, and space after having served as the Head Editor of the University’s Creative Writing Society.