Fellow travelers have all sorts of snippy things to say about Singapore, its love of social engineering, its smoothly functioning modernity--as if, being in Asia, Singapore has a duty to be exotic. But as a tourist, I love it. I love its cleanliness, its excellent public transportation, its punitive measures to discourage driving. I love its hawker centers, its tropical fruits, its beautifully landscaped parks. I wouldn't want to live in a paternalistic one party democracy, but I'm glad Tiger Air will give me an excuse to return again and again.
That said, we were still excited when our friend Sherry and her police detective boyfriend Steven promised to show us the seedier side of Singapore in the red light district of Geylang.Because Geylang is almost as much about food as it is about sex, we started out the evening with some excellent dim sum. Isaac claims it was the best cha shu bao he's ever eaten, but he tends to lavish superlatives on whatever is currently making his stomach happy.
Next, we made the rounds of the groups of street girls, who each staked out a different block: the beautiful and expensive young women from mainland China in their tiny, tiny shorts, glittering belly rings, and push-up bras; the more casual Filippino women; the handful of Indian women dressed modestly in saris; the transvestites and lady-boys; and saddest of all, the China mothers, women who have been allowed to accompany their school-age children but denied working visas and so prostitute themselves in order to maintain their family.
We finished our tour next to the carefully numbered bungalows serving as legal brothels with "fishbowls" of Thai women lounging around in lacy underwear: apparently, the Singaporean government has decreed that only the Thai shall be prostitutes. Isaac and Steven were given two minutes to go inside.
Next, we made the rounds of the groups of street girls, who each staked out a different block: the beautiful and expensive young women from mainland China in their tiny, tiny shorts, glittering belly rings, and push-up bras; the more casual Filippino women; the handful of Indian women dressed modestly in saris; the transvestites and lady-boys; and saddest of all, the China mothers, women who have been allowed to accompany their school-age children but denied working visas and so prostitute themselves in order to maintain their family.
We finished our tour next to the carefully numbered bungalows serving as legal brothels with "fishbowls" of Thai women lounging around in lacy underwear: apparently, the Singaporean government has decreed that only the Thai shall be prostitutes. Isaac and Steven were given two minutes to go inside.
As we threaded our way through some back alleys, we also spied on card tables layered with pornographic DVDs or serving as platforms for rolling the dice. The more serious gambling is tucked away inside, only accessible to those who know somebody, as is the limited amount of drug dealing which still goes on, despite the mandatory death sentence for drug trafficking.
We finished off the evening with more food, heading for a string of roadside fruit stalls piled with mangosteens, rose apples, star fruits, lychees, dragon fruit. After warning us not to over-indulge in rambutans or dukus, which are considered "heaty," the proprietor filled up small pink plastic sacks with fruit. But this was just a diversion: we had been brought here for the high-grade, D-24 durians selling for 10 Sing dollars a kilogram at a stall on the corner. All over SE Asia hotels and other public spaces guard against this fruit's offensive smell by posting "no durian" signs. But to anyone who has encountered the Bangkok-sewer smell of stinky tofu, the durian's odour isn't so off-putting.
Optimistically, we bought a beautiful 2.5 kg specimen and some cooling fresh young coconuts, durian also being notoriously "heaty". We each took a chunk and Isaac, being the type to scald his tongue on chocolate chip cookies fresh from the oven, stuffed his mouth with the creamy flesh, which he immediately spit out. After he had swished out the taste with enough coconut water, he passed his judgment: rotten onions. Sherry and Steven were incredulous, defending, as many people from the region do, the "king of fruits."
Isaac, with his prodigious sense of smell and imagination, is also the type to declare perfectly good food "soapy" or "moldy" or "footy," but this time he was dead-on. The durian tasted like rotting onions. Still, I ate my share, one nibble at a time, hoping this was an acquired taste I could achieve. I was punished for this adventurousness with durian burps all night long.
Optimistically, we bought a beautiful 2.5 kg specimen and some cooling fresh young coconuts, durian also being notoriously "heaty". We each took a chunk and Isaac, being the type to scald his tongue on chocolate chip cookies fresh from the oven, stuffed his mouth with the creamy flesh, which he immediately spit out. After he had swished out the taste with enough coconut water, he passed his judgment: rotten onions. Sherry and Steven were incredulous, defending, as many people from the region do, the "king of fruits."
Isaac, with his prodigious sense of smell and imagination, is also the type to declare perfectly good food "soapy" or "moldy" or "footy," but this time he was dead-on. The durian tasted like rotting onions. Still, I ate my share, one nibble at a time, hoping this was an acquired taste I could achieve. I was punished for this adventurousness with durian burps all night long.
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