I still remember my very first passport — that now‑defunct blue‑covered one that quietly symbolised how connected life was between Singaporeans and Malaysians. That tiny booklet felt like a ticket to an endless world, and the first time I saw a stamp — even when it was from Malaysia — my heart leapt. It was proof that I’d just passed into somewhere “else”, even if that somewhere was only a few metres across the Johor Channel.
When I began my solo travels at twenty‑one, that feeling deepened. Each border stamp marked the start of another story, another chapter carved into paper. Over time, those imprints became a personal timeline — proof of wonder, courage, and youth folded (sometimes) neatly between pages. Every now and then, I take out my expired passports, run my fingers over the faded chops, and feel time collapse into a swirl of memories and tales blasted from the past. Sometimes, I even catch the faint scent of travel itself — a soft mix of jet fuel, paper, and possibility — and I’m transported all over again.
Of course, in true Singapore fashion, we’ve since gone digital. These days, we zip through immigration, no stamps required — efficient, seamless, utterly future‑ready. And yet, I can’t help but wonder what we’re leaving behind in this smooth transition. The ritual of receiving that ink stamp — the sound, the motion, the finality of it — carried its own quiet magic that whispers “Adventure”. It was a small ceremony at every crossing, a moment of pause between worlds. (In case you're wondering how would that work when you come through our (and several other countries) borders, check this out)
Maybe some things deserve to stay a little slow, a little imperfect. Maybe stamps belong to that endangered list of inefficiencies that make travel — and life — human. What do you think?
Photo courtesy of kit from unsplash
