Right, I have been really crap of late, not updating this, it’s not that I didn’t want to it’s just the lack of time really, working to fairly strict deadlines to get the first five chapters of the book in and they’re all the most labour intensive ones too (I sound like a guy fobbing off a girl he's not that into, “Uh it’s not you, it’s me, uh I didn’t have time, it’s been MANIC here…”) My day now basically consists of: get up, check FB, Hotmail, twitter, see if Diego left me any food, always good if he did as it’s proper chef food, then tap diddy tap, give it a little tap, tap tapperoo! All the livelong day. With periodic sighs, shuffling to the kitchen, listening to the Velvet Underground, watching Billy Connolly clips, more sighing, back to the computer, maybe a skype call from Rozzer- thanks Jonst.
All of which means I’m well on the way with the book, so here goes.
The thing that has gotten me thinking after three weeks in sunny Singapore is, what do these kats do for kicks? Kavorting escapism- we Brits are great at it, temporary forgetting of life's ultimate futility etc. They sure as hell can’t talk about the weather, “Ohh another sunny day, isn’t it hellish” I don’t think so. So how do they cope here when:
1) They don’t (can’t) do drugs, at all- unless they fancy the death penalty or at least a heavy jail sentence and a caning of the bad kind;
b) A lot of Asians are allergic to alcohol, or Muslim, so the UK’s favourite source of mind obliteration is out;
4) It’s too hot most of the time to play sport- we’re on the equator here and the humidity is, well it’s enough to make me sob heaves of frustration on a regular basis;
And d) the music scene produces one of two reactions in me, complete indifference or making me want to put my fingers through my eye, into my brain, and swirl it around. That or go full retard. (Speaking of, they play the proper Black Eyed Peas version of Let’s Get Retarded in Here on the radio).
So what does that leave us?
Only two of the finest pursuits known to man: prostitution and gambling. (Shopping too but there’s not much scope for writing in that). Apparently Asians dig gambling, hard. They dig prostitution hard too, but we’ll come to that. So much so that they’re building a $5.5b casino resort to draw the punters in and rape them of their money in beautiful surroundings. The shopping centres are also full of fruit machines (combining two loves there) that noisy kids crowd around, pumping in the prime minister’s head like there’s no tomorrow, cheered on by screams of delight. Some of the bigger kids draw quite a crowd. Apparently, Las Vegas makes the majority of its money from Asians who flock to the soulless, oxygen- fuelled bright lights to blow their wads. So to speak.
Which brings me to their second love: prostitution. Around five years ago the East of Singapore, Geylang, was a traditional Malay haven, with beautiful Peranakan buildings and sea breezes. And it still is to a certain extent. Until night falls that is. Then, in scenes reminiscent of Thriller, the shes and shims come out to play, crawling and sassying onto the pavement to wait for their man. There's no expats here though, this is local territory and probably where my taxi driver goes since he can’t afford the four floors.
It’s so brazen, so unashamedly out there. Hotels that charge transit rates- a euphemism for by the hour- as well as tons of massage parlours where apparently not just the men, but lonely, unfulfilled housewives go to get a ‘release’. The sad story behind this sudden influx of prostitution though is that a lot of them are mothers to children they want to see get a good education in Singapore. Many come from China and Indonesia where they just can’t give their children the same opportunities. And there’s demand here, people can’t do much else, so prostitution thrives. But the locals understandably hate it. And it’s not just in the East, almost every bar or club I mention is met with a knowing look, a downward glance and a theatrical aside, “You know [moves eyes from side to side] that place is popular with the low/middle/upper class working girls, it’s got quite a reputation”… I get this with almost every place I mention. It gives you an idea of the overreaching presence of whoredom here. And for some, it's all in the name of having a Louis Vuitton handbag…
This kicks me onto another cultural inequality I’ve heard about here. Apparently the Filipina nannies get so lonely looking after other people’s kids all day (they’re the home help of choice here as well as Chelsea) that on Sundays they get dressed up in their finery and head to the Lucky Plaza on Orchard Rd hoping to pick up another minority- the lonely Indian construction worker. They then take them back to their place of work i.e. someone else’s home and get down to business. It’s apparently creating huge problems here as the Singaporeans keep coming home to a bare Indian arse scampering out the front door.
The point of all this being, that although on the surface Singapore seems a harmonious, egalitarian society, scratch ever-so-slightly beneath the surface and the whore-shaped cracks emerge; the inequality, the desperation, the obsession with money that permeates everywhere else.
But enough of the anthropological essay, let me tell you about the bar I went to last night. Much needed after the humiliating spectacle that was yesterday. I decided on impulse to get a traditional 40s era Chinese dress made, Shanghai in the war style, and yesterday was my first fitting. Unfortunately I’m a pear which means two different sized bodies in one (don't feel sorry for me, I've accepted my fate). Now, I got the dress on OK, but getting out of it quickly became a nightmare that saw my remaining scraps of dignity implode in not-so spectacular fashion. The attendant had to come into the tiny and already claustrophobic cubicle, while I stood in my knickers (full briefs thank God) with a dress around my arms and head. And it took AGES, unpinning, tugging, pulling….me getting increasingly flustered. Did I mention the attendant was a man in his 40s? Well, he was. So embarrassing. No woman should ever have to go through that.
Finally, after being charged $10 by a taxi driver who eventually admitted he didn’t know where he was going, I used my passable (read atrocious) map-reading skills and eventually found the Speakeasy- a bar based on prohibition era America. All traditional cocktails called Rockefeller and the like, outdoor seating, in a wonderfully restored Peranakan shop house. Flickering 1920s films projected onto the walls and attentive but not obtrusive bar staff. Easily my favourite bar in Singapore- and not really known either as it’s down a side street that evidently even taxi drivers don’t know. I got a bit carried away and sank an amount and strength of cocktails that would make Don Draper wince. At least the journey home was more interesting.
Anyway you’ve had quite about enough of my inane ramblings, I’ll take more pictures while on the Orient Express next week. I can’t wait!
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