Final Notes From a Great Island
Page 22
Katong Park is also a historic site. On 24 September 1963, the park was bombed as a result of Indonesia’s Konfrontasi (Confrontation) campaign against the formation of Malaysia. Two more bombs exploded there in the following two weeks, triggering two years of violence across the country. Then in 1966, land reclamation started on the East Coast and England won the World Cup (the latter has no relevance whatsoever but I thought I would mention it). The construction of East Coast Parkway left Katong Park overshadowed, in every sense. I stood at the edge of the park now and all I could see was a dog-run area and the concrete leviathan of the ECP. Fifty years ago, I could have jumped into the sea from here. It is extraordinary really.
I glanced through the long list of rules and regulations for the dog run, one of which stipulated that “bitches on heat are not allowed in this facility”. I have been to Essex nightclubs that had a similar ruling. I wandered past the dog run and noticed a fenced-off area. It was the fort! Partially excavated, it was clearly part of Fort Tanjong Katong, the 19th-century British fort. I was excited. Built in 1879 to protect Singapore from a possible Russian invasion, the fort is one of the oldest in Singapore and is commemorated by the adjacent Fort Road. The military structure appeared to be in the process of being excavated as it was only partially exposed. The section was made of brick, spoon-shaped and about 10 metres long and 3 metres across at its widest point. Little slats provided spyholes and what must have been a good vantage point to spot incoming vessels off the eastern coast of the island. But the site was extremely odd. I could not find any information panels or plaques; nothing to indicate what the structure was. Dog walkers, joggers and foreign domestic workers all drifted past the archaeological dig without giving the historic gem a second glance. Why should they? It was fenced off, unnamed and offered the curious visitor no information. Without that, it was nothing more than a lifeless lump of dusty rock.
I found out later that the fort had been reburied during the 1960s (the British made a real hash of their original attempt to bury it in the early 20th century) and rediscovered by a Katong resident who spotted some incongruous rocks sticking out of the ground in 2001. Three years later, a community project kicked off a dig to determine the size of the fort. Diggers chipped away at the soil for 10 months and much of the perimeter wall of the 6,000-square metre fort was revealed. But no one was quite sure what to do next. So, and you really could not make this up, a decision was taken to rebury the fort—again—to protect it from the weather. By early 2006, there was just one section left uncovered. The one I stood above now. It was crazy. Having been buried, reburied, dug up and reburied again, the fort’s future remains uncertain. It could be declared a national monument but there has been no firm decision because historic sensitivities must, as always, be balanced with economic sensitivities. Katong Park occupies prime real estate and is surrounded by condos, with more to come judging by the noisy construction sites that I saw. Perhaps the government could turn Fort Tanjong Katong into a casino.
I hope something is done to preserve the fort because Katong Park was certainly a comely little spot and deserves more visitors. Not that the park was empty. On the contrary, I was impressed by the number of residents using it. A Caucasian father was organising a game of cricket with his son and some Eurasian lads while Indian Sikhs, Malays, Chinese and Eurasians played football on the opposite field. It was only a five-a-side game, but just about every race was represented. It is a real melting pot in Katong. I know the areas around Mountbatten Road and Tanjong Rhu Road are more affluent and perhaps more English-educated, but you would not see this in Toa Payoh. It is just not cricket.
I left Katong Park and drifted down Mountbatten Road in the hope that I might discover a minimart hidden among the condominiums. Instead I stumbled upon a street that made me do a cartoon-like double take. Barely discernible in the darkness, I made out the words on the sign from the other side of the street— Ramsgate Road! I had visited “Little Kent” off Dover Road and had hoped to find a Ramsgate Road there, but it had been here in Katong all along. Ramsgate Road, a street named after the English town where my family now lives and the town where I spent several happy holidays as a child. I checked the street directory and discovered that there was also a Margate Road, a Clacton Road and a Walton Road further down the street. Those four roads pretty much incorporated every caravan or chalet holiday I ever had growing up in England. Being a sucker for nostalgia, I called my mother in Ramsgate, England, from Ramsgate Road, Singapore. She informed me she was busy cleaning out the dog’s ears and had no time to talk, which took a bit of shine off the serendipity.
But the coincidence crowned an entertaining day by the sea. I had already said goodbye to one country with a place called Ramsgate. And here I was, over 10,000 kilometres away, doing it all over again.
CHAPTER 26
I had never been to Joo Chiat, a little enclave of Peranakan shophouses and seafood restaurants that separates Geylang and the East Coast and provides some colourful pre-war architecture. However, in recent years, Joo Chiat has taken in the overspill of prostitutes and pimps from Geylang, much to the chagrin of its residents. Always keen to explore a little local nightlife, I took a bus to East Coast Road and ventured down Joo Chiat Road.
The street’s tone was set immediately by a poster pinned to a KTV lounge window. It promised “Free Pool, 4.30pm to 7.30pm”. The poster was surrounded by photographs of half-naked women crouched on all fours to ensure ample views of their ample charms. How the hell did they play pool in this joint? Not one of the women held a pool cue. I did not want to contemplate where they might have put it. I passed several KTV lounges, bars with blacked-out windows and massage parlours. Then I spotted a shop that had a sign that read “Crabs And More”. I thought that was a bit forward. Everyone knows the Joo Chiat stretch offers more than just a massage, but few patrons wish to consider the medical implications. On closer inspection, the shop was a seafood restaurant and appeared to be doing a roaring trade. But if I were a lady of the night, I would avoid standing under a sign that promised “Crabs And More”.
Joo Chiat certainly provides an eclectic mix of goods and services. Shops sell Tibetan artefacts, fish tanks and marine supplies, DIY products and spare parts for cars, all of which are sandwiched between family eateries, the omnipresent karaoke bars and short-stay hotels. This diverse range of retailers complicates the efforts of Joo Chiat’s working women. Standing outside a bar with the word “angel” in its name may attract the punters, but pouting outside a paint shop offering discounted tins of vinyl is far less appealing.
Just after 8pm, the prostitutes appeared. When they stepped under the street lights, their appearance alarmed, rather than aroused. They wore so much make-up that they looked embalmed. If one or two of them died on the job, as it were, it might be difficult to notice. Within moments of the women tottering along the cracked pavements, the foreign workers were suddenly two strides behind them. It was uncanny. Just half an hour earlier, Joo Chiat had been nigh on deserted. Now, I found myself surrounded by Indian and Bangladeshi workers strolling together arm in arm. That close physical bonding among Asians, particularly Indians, still surprises me. If I returned to England after being marooned on an uninhabited island for 25 years, I would receive nothing more than a hearty handshake from my closest friends. But foreign workers will cuddle each other when they come back from a coffee shop. It is most impressive.
But it is not all hookers and crabs in Joo Chiat. Visitors are drawn to the area, which was once a massive coconut plantation, because of its colonial architecture. The Hotel 81 Joo Chiat might earn much of its living from the women outside but its colourful façade was stunning. It picked up the Singapore Architectural Heritage Award in 1996 and it was not difficult to see why. On the corner of Koon Seng Road and Joo Chiat Road, another two-storey masterpiece, built in 1928 with beautifully carved archways, stood out from the seedier shenanigans on the street. Although the building now houses a KTV lounge, the owners must be credited
for respecting the Peranakan architecture.
On the subject of KTV lounges, why are all their doormen ugly? Is it a job requirement? Outside almost every establishment in Joo Chiat stood an individual who appeared to be auditioning for Richard III. At most nightclubs, the bouncers are invariably young, buffed-up beefcakes in ill-fitting tuxedos. KTV lounges, however, clearly favour fat, middle-aged, chain-smoking types, whose job description involves leering at the hostesses and greeting them with the occasional grope. That was not a pleasant sight.
Understandably, Joo Chiat residents are tired of the KTV lounges, the massage parlours and the budget hotels offering hourly rates. I wandered behind the main stretch along Tembeling Road and passed many decent, comfortable family homes. These people do not want hookers on their doorsteps, quite literally in one or two cases. In 2004, an expatriate engineer complained to the media that he had heard strange thumping noises outside his Joo Chiat home one night and found a randy pair going at it like rabbits on his car bonnet.
As the hookers were increasingly overshadowing Joo Chiat’s proud Peranakan and Eurasian heritage, the locals bravely stepped in and took matters into their own hands. Eleven residents formed the Save Joo Chiat Working Group in 2004 to register complaints about disreputable businesses with the authorities. Their efforts were rewarded quickly. According to media reports, there were 400 arrests for vice-related activities in the neighbourhood in 2004, a marked increase over the 50 arrests made the year before. The Joo Chiat residents’ proactive stance can only be applauded. With illegal Chinese immigrants still working the streets here, the residents need all the help they can get.
At the northern end of Joo Chiat, I had originally planned to turn left into Geylang Road and venture into Singapore’s infamous red-light district but I took a brief diversion. Geylang has been the heart of the island’s ethnic Malay community ever since the British impolitely removed their floating village at the mouth of the Singapore River in the mid-19th century. By the 1930s, distinct Malay districts had formed and evolved into Geylang Serai, where I was now standing. In a bid to replicate the community’s proud heritage, the Geylang Serai Malay Village opened here in 1989. The attraction promised authentic cuisine and costumes, traditional dances, museums and galleries.
There is only one problem with the Malay Village—it is monumentally crap. I have visited some lame Singaporean attractions in the last 10 years (Sentosa’s Lost Civilisation and the now defunct Clarke Quay Adventure Ride spring to mind) but nothing comes close to the Malay Village. And that is a real tragedy.
Although it was almost 10pm when I popped in, the Malay Village was still open, not that it made any difference. I was the only visitor. Built in the traditional kampong style with sloped roofs and timber frames, its entrance had the misfortune of resembling a ferry terminal at one of the many seaside resorts dotted around the region. Most of the retail units had clearly been closed for some time, the food stalls were out of action and the Kampong Days exhibit was a joke. Apart from a few interesting panels on prominent Singaporean Malays in the art gallery, the ghost town was a faded, peeling mess, a truly shameful tribute to the vibrant heritage of Singapore’s indigenous community. I later discovered that a new management team had recently taken over control of the Malay Village, the fifth in 17 years. Although the bosses have promised a new restaurant, a resource centre and shops selling art and traditional clothing, the Malay community is not holding its breath. The Malay Village has been down this road four times before. If this makeover does not work, then the artificial attraction should close its doors for good. It is an embarrassment to the community it claims to represent and offers nothing to tourists. Chinese visitors have Chinatown, Indians gravitate towards Serangoon Road and Westerners head for Orchard Road and the colonial district. But Malaysian and Indonesian coach parties have no compelling reason to leave countries steeped in indigenous tradition to sample this replicated rubbish. he Malays deserve something better.
In some respects, Geylang has not really changed. Historians believe its name is a corruption of kilang, the Malay word for “factory”. Coconuts and lemon grass were once processed in factories around the area, hence the name. In the alleyways behind Geylang Road today, the factories remain productive after dark although there are marginally fewer coconuts now. Everyone knows the place. Sex websites provide top 10 lists, tourists occasionally visit for a cheap thrill and Singaporean teenagers are guaranteed an easy classroom laugh with the mere mention of its name. In a country famous for its transparency and strait-laced conservatism, Geylang is synonymous with seedy sex. Everyone knows that. But appearances can be deceptive. I sauntered down Geylang Road from the east and the street initially promised nothing more sordid than a new chandelier. Like Balestier, much of Geylang Road is dominated by lighting shops, offering the latest fittings and designs. I know most men harbour ambitions of leaving Geylang glowing in the dark, but not like this.
In fact, Geylang Road provides a subtle route to its redlight district. It sneaks up on you. The odd pub and KTV lounge gradually overtake shops selling fluorescent tubes and household appliances; it is a surprisingly discreet process. By the time I had reached Lorongs 22 and 20, the transition was complete. Neon lights dazzled from overhanging signs, special offers on jugs of beer were scribbled outside every bar, skinny Chinese girls with bad teeth grabbed at my arm to coax me into their drinking dens and sex shops sold terrifying plastic cylinders with pumps that promised to inflate my penis.
I stopped for a drink at a coffee shop and immediately aggravated the beer promoter by occupying an entire table with one can of Coke, thereby depriving her of four potential beer guzzlers. As she treated me with such cold contempt usually reserved for the parasitic pimps operating in the alleys behind, I reciprocated by staying put for an hour, pretending to be completely engrossed in the Chinese drama on TV that had something to do with martial arts and a eunuch.
After dark, Geylang gives you the opportunity to briefly see how the island’s invisible people live. Singapore’s much maligned foreign workers dominated the vicinity at every turn. On the ground behind me, four Bangladeshis were huddled together in the darkness, passing around a bottle of beer. The ground was filthy. Half-finished containers of take-away food, bags of rubbish and cat excrement cluttered the damp ground around them as they sat, cross-legged, beside an open drain. As it was Friday night, they were obviously wearing their best clothes. It was a pitiful image I will never forget. A little later, another foreign worker, possibly Thai, sneaked between coffee shop tables. Crouching the entire time, the young man hid among the patrons’ legs while hawking contraband cigarettes from a plastic bag. I watched him for five minutes and he did not stand up once. His business was illegal but it appeared to be thriving.
I finished my drink, gave the beer promoter a tip (wear less make-up) and followed the throngs of foreign workers and ah peks into Geylang’s underbelly. The real red-light district runs parallel with Geylang Road in the scruffy alleys that stretch from around Lorong 22 to Talma Road and Lorong 8. Visibility was almost negligible and I could barely make out the women sitting on plastic seats. It was so dark that I am surprised punters do not inadvertently end up having sex with each other in those gloomy alleyways. Being the only white face in the crowd, I stood out like the Raffles Lighthouse and found myself an easy target for the pimps, who had clearly attended the same school of charm and deportment as the Joo Chiat doormen. Standing about 3 metres away from “their” girls, they blocked my path as I passed and occasionally grabbed my arm, all the while gesturing towards the women sitting in front of the drains and some garishly lit shophouses. The pimps’ sales patter was usually the same. They emerged from the shadows, appeared at my shoulder and whispered, “Massage, special service, blow job for you?” No matter how many pimps stopped me, their spiel rarely changed. At one point, I contemplated turning back and asking, “Excuse me, can I change the order? What will happen if I have the special service first and the massage last? Wil
l it fall off? Will I get ‘crabs and more’?” But squeezed in among the gangs of foreign workers, ah peks and pimps, I was a conspicuous figure in the darkness and thought better of it.
Then I was accosted. A slim Indian girl, still in her teens, threw her arms around my waist and held on tightly. She would not let go. Instead, she smiled and shrieked, “Come with me! Come with me!” I was not aroused; I was petrified. Half a dozen Indian men, who had just been talking to the girl, eyed my every move. Rather melodramatically, I threw my arms into the air and kept them there. I marched along in the shadows, arms still aloft, as the girl clung to my waist and her teenage friend followed in hot pursuit. I was desperate for the girl to release me but lacked the inclination and the courage to physically remove her. I was left with no option but to pray she released her grip somewhere after Geylang’s Lorong 12 so I could escape the prying eyes of her admirers, but preferably before Toa Payoh. I did not fancy greeting my wife with my hands in the air and a teenage hooker attached to my hips crying, “Come with me! Come with me!” The young girl released me, finally, when she bumped into some washing poles hanging in the alley. They clattered to the floor which ensured we briefly captured the attention of every punter in Geylang. Fortunately, the incident embarrassed my young friend enough to admit defeat and she slunk away into the darkness.