“Cheers, prost, chin-chin!” As I clicked glasses with my two newly discovered traveling companions, whom I had met earlier today at the hostel, and proceeded to chug down my fourth Tiger. The ice cold brews brought some momentary relief from the stifling, oppressive humidity of Singapore.
It was nearing midnight and the Boguis Street “pretty boys” were out in force. These young men dressed as enticing young girls were out to play surprise tricks on unsuspecting tourist looking for romance. Tired of this over-hyped scene, we instead opted for a more quiet side street and settled into a cramped food stall where we began to wolf down on a mountain of shrimp fried rice and succulent chicken and beef sate.
Yes, we were feeling no pain, as we toasted to “Singapore
However, it was hard not to rag on Singapore with its CLEAN, CONTROLLED, CONSERVATIVE image. We joked about the sign which sits on a major road as you enter the city: “Singapore Welcomes Bonified Tourists, But NOT Hippies.” Of course we all had heard the stories of being thrown in jail for three months for chewing gum in the subway; and being caned for violating any minor government infraction.
Brent, the Australian, a rather boisterous sort, short of stature, but displaying big bravado, who on first meeting let me know within minutes that he was a black belt, joked about how people in Singapore seemed scared to cross the street.
“I mean shit, there would be no cars as far as you could see and still the pedestrians, like robots, would not dare cross until the traffic light flashed the little green man. I mean it’s a weird place. The vibe is like people feel they are being watched.”
And then, as if on cue, we all blurted out in unison: “The stamp, the SHIT stamp.” This passport stamp was infamous and one of great traveler lore among fellow backpackers. The official stamp, which stands for Suspected Hippy In Transit,” allowed the authorities if they suspected you were a hippy to stamp your passport, and then make sure you were escorted out of the country within twenty-four hours; and not allowed to return for ten years. I went on to say, “I met this Italian guy in Turkey who had the SHIT stamp. He was so proud of it as he had earned the Medal of Honor.
It was so impressive, a full page of SHIT. We all broke out laughing, and quite honestly, we were envious of his achievement.
Being world travelers, each of us who sat at this table had been on the road at lest for two years. We took big time pride in having our passport stamped with exotic stamps of destinations we had been, cherishing them as if they were battle wounds. We joked that it might be worth getting kicked out of Singapore, just to flaunt the SHIT stamp. Looking at Deiter, this tall, reed-thin German with blonde hair down to his shoulders, who struck me as a thoughtful, responsible, caring type, might be a candidate for exile. With that long hair, it was like placing a target on his back. It might be only a matter of hours before the officials would be stamping his passport with “SHIT” and sending him packing.
“To Singapore,” we all cheered, as yet another round of beers arrived at our table, as we toasted again.
Bllliinngg . . . bbbllliiinnnggg . . . bbbbbllllliiiinnnnggggg!!!
It was the unmistakable, ubiquitous ringing of a rickshaw’s bell, as the driver of the rickshaw glided slowly by. Then as if on script, he let loose with his relentless sales pitch. “You want postcard, phone card, student card, city map, batteries, cassettes.” All of us were so used to this annoying mantra, we just continued to eat and pay no attention, dismissing him with a shake of the head, as if shooing away a pesky fly.
But then, almost immediately, the rickshaw driver circled back and positioned himself right next to our table: “Hey, where you from?” We continued our chowing down, giving him no eye contact. The driver, not a young man, about fifty years old, short and slight with graying hair leaned in closer and said in a secretive, hushed voice.
“Hey, you want nice Singapore
You want nice ‘sucky-fucky’?”
Brent, who was now probably on his tenth beer, got jacked up on hearing this:
“Yeh , Singapore
Deiter and I just looked at each other. There was quiet. My own thoughts on first hearing this was, I really wasn’t up for it. I had plenty of chances to partake of the prostitutes of Asia, but had never chose to do so. I had my reasons. But the main reason now was being just too exhausted and weak and had no sexual desire. Because of my debilitating dysentery and extreme
weight loss traveling in India, I was suffering from a lagging libido and sagging parts. Only in the past couple of weeks, traveling down the Malaysian coast I had begun to put on weight and started to feel stronger. Translation: I was beginning to feel horny for the first time in almost eight months.
Brent, jumping in before we could even comment, said: “Asian potang…
come on!” I turned Dieter for his honest opinion. I asked him in a genuinely concerned matter: “What do you think, Dieter?”
“I don’t know. How much will it cost?” Dieter asked the driver.
“It cost $20 for a “go,” or $45 for entire night. And if you see girls you don’t like, you don’t take. Just come and look.”
Brent shot back: “That’s way too much.” The driver pausing, countered with: “Okay for you we make special price, $15 one shot, $35 for night.”
Dieter muttered an almost inaudible, unconvincing: “Sure, why not?” With my brains between my legs and the booz talking, I nodded my head in agreement. Brent whooped a big: “YEH, LET’S PARTY!”
The first obstacle, a practical one, was just boarding the rickshaw itself, as the rickshaw was only built to accommodate two. Krishna, the driver, informed us that it was against the law in Singapore to have three passengers on the rickshaw, and that we would be severely fined if the police discovered this. So Krishna instructed us, that if we spotted any police, one of us would have to hop off before being spotted. It was agreed that Bret would be the official jump person; and he would take turns sitting on our laps.
Okay, we were off. The ride to the “House of Nice Singapore Girls”
I took for grated would be short. Well, it was not short. The trip was more like a journey (into the unknown). The ride started with us being peddled down a heavily traveled main street that seemed to go on endlessly. It was over half an hour of riding, and it was not comfortable having Brent sitting on us. We began to question: “Where is this place? How much longer?”
“SINGAPORE SUCKY-FUCKY , SINGAPORE
the driver, turned his head, signaling us to quiet down: “You can’t make noise like that in Singapore,” he cautioned. Yet we continued to chant. Yes, we were flying high and in the mood for some Asian sexual adventure.
Soon our boisterous exuberance turned sober, as we turned off the main road to a dimly lit street, then quickly turned again. We were now down by the waterfront and despite us being high on booze, and in a party mood, we all noticed this was a rough looking area. It was dark, desolate and the buildings were stark looking, abandoned with broken windows and barbed wire.
We started to talk among ourselves that the area had a feeling of a place you’d see in gangster movies where you’d “dispose of a body.” Krishna, feeling our unease about the location, just replied with a laugh: “Area quiet but okay, safe.” And we were there all too soon . . . the rickshaw slowly creeped along another dark alley. Then it turned a tight corner and went down an alleyway so narrow, not much wider than the rickshaw itself. The alley was so eerily quiet, it was unnerving. You could see and actually hear the rats running along the side of the boarded up buildings. Then about fifty yards ahead you could see a circle of light on the ground. As we got closer there appeared to be a man standing in the circle.
We had arrived. Slowly and cautiously we got out of the rickshaw. The man in the light stood frozen, as we approached. He looked Chinese, not tall, but he was imposing looking. His face bespoke of a no nonsense attitude.
His jacket rippled with muscles. To me he looked like the type who might eat nails for breakfast.
He greeted us unceremoniously with all the warmth and charm of the lovely surroundings: “You want girl one shot or all night?” No one spoke.
To ease the tension I spoke politely with no disrespect, “Do you think we could see the girls first?” (To me it seemed the typical, proper way to conduct a business transaction). He grunted and led us up two dimly lit flights of stairs.
~ to be continued ~
Upper photo I - arriving Singapore via Burma Airways
Upper photo II - Singapore in the late 70s, at night
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