Scribbles from the Same Island

by Neil Humphreys

  I’ve watched Geylang girls, still in their teens, smile weakly as disgusting middle-aged uncles, wearing sweaty vests and dirty flip-flops, haggle over the price. Small groups of men gather round to discuss the merits of each prostitute, providing heartwarming critiques of each girl such as: “That one not bad, ah? She look so young one. Like schoolgirl. But her chest so lousy, she got nothing what. Forget it lah, that one not worth 50 bucks.”

  The Dickensian scene reminded me of a British movie called Mona Lisa, where actor Bob Hoskins trawls London’s underworld of crime and prostitution. Ironically, you cannot buy this classic movie in Singapore, uncensored at least, because it contains one or two tame sex scenes. But not to worry, you can get the real deal for less than the price of a DVD down at Geylang anyway. The hypocrisy is stunning.

  Singapore sells itself, if you’ll pardon the pun, to its citizens, to foreign talent and to tourists as one of the safest, cleanest and most wholesome countries on the planet. And in many respects, it is. But if you cut through the government’s rhetoric and slice open the society’s underbelly, you’ll find 18-year-old girls wearing too much make up telling 50-year-old men that oral sex and full intercourse can be arranged, as long as the price is right. Or perhaps you’ll discover the skeletal, chain-smoking, pockmarked pimps hovering around the hookers at a safe distance. Supposedly, there are no pimps, like there are no street walkers. But a nod and a wink to the greasy man with tattoos standing in the background and you’ve got yourself a cheap, but not free, date for a couple of hours.

  But we can’t go down that road because, apparently, it doesn’t exist. At election rallies or during National Day speeches, when was the last time you heard a politician say: “We must continue to tighten our belts. I know we said that last year and the year before, and the year before. But you all must be losing weight, from all those extra, unpaid hours, not to mention the lunch breaks you keep missing, so there’s still one more notch left on your belt. So we can squeeze a little more, before you either burst or emigrate to Australia. We have no choice. Banking and finance is down 4 per cent, thanks to China. The electronics sector is down 13 per cent, thanks to China. And manufacturing is down 28 per cent, thanks to China. Fortunately, the hooker industry experienced a 4 per cent growth in 2003, thanks to China. Those desperate girls are so much cheaper than those in Southeast Asia. Keep up the good work, girls!”

  You haven’t, because society chooses to close an eye to the various DRA’s. Besides, according to a popular stereotype, these brothels are there to service the thousands of sex-starved foreign, construction workers living on the island. That’s certainly true. But they have to wait their turn, along with the Chinese, Malay, Indian and Eurasian Singaporeans that I’ve seen hovering around the prostitutes. And did I mention the ang mohs? Both the so-called foreign talents and the western tourists. Without their wallets, Orchard Road’s four floors of whores would have been downsized years ago.

  And Desker Road, which appeared to be the seediest and cheapest DRA, enjoys the company of a Caucasian or two in the twilight hours. Of course, Desker Road is unlikely to be referred to on the news, in current affairs programmes or on welcoming posters at Changi Airport. The next time you arrive at Terminal One, don’t expect a poster that says: “Welcome to Singapore. Get a tan at Sentosa. Get laid at Desker Road.” It should, therefore, come as no surprise that I actually discovered Desker Road after a visiting friend from London told me about it. I’d vaguely heard of local friends joke about the place, of course. But my travelling Londoner knew that the street was popular with transvestites, ‘lady-boys’ and hookers who’ve had sex change operations. He was aware that this particular DRA boasted some of the lowest prices in Singapore, but the services were not as reputable or as clinical perhaps as Orchard Towers or Geylang.

  How did he know all of this? From a British-made travel documentary, hosted by Lily Savage, a popular drag queen in Britain. Taking an off-beat, underground route, Savage pokes fun at the seedier side of Singaporean life. I’m told the documentary is very funny. But would it be shown here? Would a similar travel show be made by a Singaporean production team here? What do you think? Outsiders, some 10,000 km away, are allowed to know what really goes on in this tiny city-state in the small hours, but don’t expect Singaporeans to be allowed to watch such a show. They only live here. I’m sure most Singaporeans are not interested in the more sordid aspects of their culture. But they should at least have the choice.

  If nothing else, paying a visit to Desker Road, gave me the chance to see the finest pair of breasts I’d ever seen. Listening to my guest explain, in disturbing detail, every aspect of Desker Road’s services, curiosity got the better of me so we persuaded my old Singaporean friend, David, to be our chauffeur for the evening. Driving along the street at 4am while it was raining was probably not the most astute decision we’d ever made. Desker Road looked about as exciting as an HDB void deck at 4am. Short on customers, the few call girls who had braved the monsoon conditions were undoubtedly aware of the situation and sought to liven up proceedings. Driving past slowly in the car, a young woman walked over and flashed her breasts at us. There’s no need for gory details. But, suffice it to say, my friend grabbed my arm and shouted: “Fucking hell, did you see that? That was, without doubt, the greatest pair of tits I’ve ever seen. Did you see ‘em, Neil? Fucking hell. They were perfect. Just perfect. Dave, Dave, turn around so we can see them again. You got to see them. What a fucking pair.”

  We did turn around. The breasts were once again exposed and, this time, David and I saw what all the fuss was about. The chest was indeed flawless. The only drawback was the boobs belonged to a man. A minor detail that David and I felt necessary to point out to our travelling friend.

  “What? That can’t be right. They were the greatest pair of knockers I’ve ever seen,” he replied.

  “Well, of course,” I explained. “If you’re going to have cosmetic surgery, you might as well get the most for your money right? It’s very common around Orchard Towers too. I’ve seen quite a few around there. They’re easy to spot after a while. Your documentary didn’t teach you that, did it?”

  “Fuck the documentary. I’m just glad you two are here. I might have shagged him otherwise. What a waste of a great pair of tits.”

  No arguments there. But at least my tourist friend knew where to find them. I didn’t. And I’d been in Singapore for over four years before I went on my first, and only, excursion to Desker Road. I’ve got better things to do with my time than watch 50-year-old ang mohs discussing terms with a group of ‘ladyboys’ at 3am. I’m sure you do too. But that doesn’t mean we should gloss over prostitution in Singapore and pretend it isn’t there, in the same way many people ignore blind tissue-paper sellers or abused maids.

  Think about it. There are more teenaged hookers in Geylang than there are Stamford Raffles statues in Singapore, but you won’t see any ‘ladyboys’ on the cover of tourist brochures. Perhaps the Singapore Tourism Board should look into this. It is keen to provide visitors with a more enriching, cultural experience, which is more realistic and less superficial than the usual tours of famous colonial sites. And I’m sure more HDB dwellers have been to a Geylang hotel than Raffles Hotel.

  In some ways, it would have been entertaining had my family opted for that cheap hotel in Geylang’s red-light district. My step-dad would’ve had women all over him like a rash. He’ll claim this is nothing new to him, though he’d be secretly tickled by all the attention. But I’m sure the novelty would wear off. It did for me. When a Chinese hooker, who should still be in school, comes up and says: “Hey, you want blow job? Only 50 dollars. Or 80 dollars for you and your friend together,” you feel like a US Marine in a bad Vietnam movie. And you feel sick. Because there’s nothing funny about the situation at all, is there?

  THE ACRONYMS

  SINGAPORE’S hip-swingers have renamed Holland Village. I spoke to a ‘trendy’ friend who suggested a trip to the recently renovated haven
of coffee shops, bars and bistros. What he actually said was: “Hey, let’s check out Holland V.”

  To which I replied: “What the hell is Holland V, you stupid man?”

  The only V I knew was a cult, science fiction TV show that I watched as a child in the ’80s. If I recall correctly, the V stood for visitors — the unwanted extraterrestrial kind, not the Inland Revenue variety.

  I therefore assumed that ‘Holland V’ was the sequel, where Dutch aliens turned up in clogs, handing out tulips and hookers from Amsterdam. But seriously, many Singaporeans are certainly fond of the odd acronym or six aren’t they?

  When I first arrived, a receptionist in my office would ask cheekily: “Are you an SPG fan or an S-N-A-G?”

  My reply that I was, in fact, a Sagittarian never pacified her. Indeed, it merely aroused her curiosity further. “So which is it?” she would continue, “An SPG fan or an S-N-A-G?”

  “Look, stop throwing letters at me. This isn’t bloody Sesame Street.”

  But that was the overbearing first impression for me. The Republic must have been instructed to speak in acronyms, a doublespeak-like code from the novel 1984. The powers that be must have declared in 1965: “We hereby proclaim Singapore an independent state and from this day on you will speak only in short forms, abbreviations and initials, preferably TLA’s (three letter acronyms), so we can confuse our regional neighbours and antagonise the British, who pissed off during World War II and returned 50 years later wearing knee-high white socks with sandals.”

  When I was living in England, the only TLA I heard in my house was ‘HRT’, which was usually uttered by my mother through gritted teeth. I had no idea what HRT meant, but its mention was often preceeded by frequent swearing and complaints about those “fucking doctors”.

  In Singapore, however, acronym-ese is another language altogether. If you can’t converse like a dyslexic rapper, you’ll soon get left behind. For example, last weekend, I went with a friend, who’s a CEO, in his car to the SIR to get my EP to take to the HDB, via the MRT, using the card they call E-Z, then on to JB, along the BKE, for a cheap DVD.

  Doesn’t it all sound a little punch-me-in-the-face-and-cut-out-my-windpipe annoying? Forget Eminem and his gangsta rhymes. If Americans can produce the rapper’s movie, 8 Mile, then Singaporean filmmakers should get a camera crew down to the hawker centres and shoot Lorong 8, with fast-talking uncles spouting acronyms.

  Even national newspapers resort to countless short forms in their stories. Take the recent 24-hour child-care scandal, for instance. Rather than write out, in full, that the infamous child-care centre operates around the clock, newspapers settled for “24/7” instead. That’s almost as lazy as the parents who sentenced their innocent children to the pre-school prison in the first place. Besides, the short form is incorrect. It should read “24/7 4 U BASTARDS.”

  Of course, the quirky aspects of any language can be titillating. My eccentric grandmother, whose vocabulary was complete before World War II and hasn’t been expanded since, has a fondness for questioning my sexuality. When I visit, she looks concerned and says: “You know, you’re looking ever so queer.”

  My nan, bless her, thinks she is expressing concern for my welfare. But in modern parlance, she is suggesting I have the physical characteristics of a fine homosexual.

  But these short forms and abbreviations, on the other hand, are not amusing; they’re irritating and often overused in a desperate attempt to sound cool.

  Teenagers in my block tell me that they’ve hung out at “Macs” or “BK”, as if they lack the breathing apparatus required to finish the sentence using gigantic, exhausting words such as McDonald’s and Burger King.

  Is the pace of the Singaporean ratrace now so fast that we lack the time to speak in full sentences? Instead, we have to converse in nonsensical gobbledegook that wouldn’t look out of place in a Lewis Carroll novel.

  Be careful, though. In a desperate attempt to prove they are au fait with Singaporean culture, bewildered expats will adopt the acronym jargon to show they have truly assimilated.

  A Canadian friend once told me he’d had a great night down at “BQ”. The idiot, of course, meant Boat Quay. This tickled me because in England, “B and Q” is a hardware store. You’d struggle to find an SPG there, but Caucasians with a screw loose are most welcome at both places. So let’s tighten those screws before it’s too late.

  The next time a loony asks you to check out ‘Holland V’, ‘Orchard R’ or even ‘Raffles P’, give them a gentle slap and say: “URA ****”. Oh, just use your imagination.

  NOTE: Writing about the seemingly harmless topic of acronyms and short forms triggered an unexpected response. A rather self-satisfied, smug expat (and Singapore’s not short on those, is it?) wrote to criticise my description of acronyms and abbreviations and proceeded to highlight in remarkable detail what constitutes an acronym, a short form and so on, all of which spectacularly missed the point. She seemed determined to put this working-class ruffian in his place and I’m sure it gave her something to boast about to her pals around the swimming pool at the condo. From more rational Singaporeans, however, I received some great responses. A frustrated father complained that he had just attended a parents’ evening at his child’s school and the teachers had spoken in confusing, unexplained acronyms and abbreviations all night long. He wanted to know what kind of message that was sending to the pupils. The bloody wrong one, we both agreed. TODAY published his letter and then the school replied the following day. It was hilarious. Not only was the letter appallingly written, which served only to further undermine the school, but it, too, missed the point. Instead, the principal droned on about how it was important to allow pupils to express themselves freely in class, ignoring the fact that they sound like spoon-fed robots when they just lazily regurgitate initials and short forms. Where’s the originality in that? All I can say is there will be those in society who will miss the point from time to time and I do sympathise. So allow me to explain, “URA twat.”

  THE THIEF

  WITHOUT wishing to sound flippant, Singaporean detectives have had the easiest policing job since Sergeant Jim Bergerac. Good old Bergerac, you see, was a fictional detective on a popular BBC drama, called Bergerac, which ran for 12 years from 1981. Within 60 minutes, the copper always got his man. Not through deduction, forensic science or even bribery (which is quite popular in Southeast Asia), but through geography.

  The sleuth plied his trade in Jersey, one of the Channel Islands off the southern coast of England. Now, this island is a gigantic nine miles wide and five miles deep. If I recall correctly, Jim Bergerac would tick off the local sheep population from his list of suspects, thus leaving 14 people, three dogs and a couple of stray cats that swam over from Guernsey. Having deduced who the bad guy is, there would be a 30-second car chase just to get the ball rolling and prevent viewers from switching over to watch The A-Team. Then, Bergerac would get out of his car, have a croissant and wait for the villain to complete one round of the tiny island, before arresting him on the way back. Variations of this plot were repeated for 12 torturous years, which says more about the average British TV viewer than it does about the charismatic qualities of Jim Bergerac.

  But the efficiency of Jersey’s Colombo came back to me when I read a heartwarming report over the Chinese New Year holidays. On the first day of the Lunar New Year, four scumbags snatched around $1,300 in hongbao money from a mother in Yishun. The poor woman was with her daughter and the pair was on their way to visit relatives, but still she wasn’t spared.

  Within the hour, however, the four thieves had been caught at a nearby HDB block. Yes, that’s within the hour. Now, I’m not sure if Bergerac serves as an adviser to the Singaporean police force, but I’d love to think his technique was at work. Apparently, one or two officers questioned the staff sergeant in charge of the very short case.

  “But sir, if they’ve made off on foot, they could be halfway to Woodlands by now,” said the youngest and most eager po
lice officer.

  “Relax, I’ve got more experience than you. I’ve been working in the heartlands for 20 years and I’ve got every episode of Bergerac on video. The blur buggers will just run around the block. You see, here they come now, all sweaty and out of breath. Be a good chap, will you? Stretch out your arm and grab the little bastards.”

  The four culprits were swiftly apprehended and, would you believe it, charged in court the following day. Now that’s what I call justice. Like Jersey, Singapore has certainly benefitted from being small when it comes to policing the island. There can’t be too many criminal safe houses in Yishun.

  Having said that, success can’t altogether be attributed to the Bergerac School for Small-Town Law Enforcers. When I was 17, I was mugged in a McDonald’s in east London at knifepoint as two police officers sat in a patrol car OUTSIDE the restaurant. While I handed over the cash, I prayed that the two coppers would look up, ascertain the situation and beat the shit out of the young offenders. Instead, they did nothing except expand their waistlines with a Big Mac. Had the muggers run out to the patrol car brandishing their knives and their ill-gotten gains while singing I Shot the Sheriff, the bloody boys in blue would have done nothing. Except move on to their French fries perhaps.

  Can you imagine those two at the scene of the crime in Yishun? The distraught woman would run up and scream: “Those four guys have stolen my hongbao money!”

  “Your hong what?”

  “Never mind. Never mind. Quick, it’s those big guys there.”