China Girls

The hot-spot here used to have the girls milling from early evening, two dozen or more against the walls and pillars within the shadow of the alcoves. A renovation of the vacant corner place has turned it into a Mini-Mart, the covered passage-way barricaded now with racks of product standing two metres high.

         No longer can the girls weave between the pillars playing hide-and-seek with the customers who gather at the junction.

         A wonder the municipal authorities allow it. Presumably the landlord owns the space under the verandas and can use it as he sees fit.

         Entering from Geylang Road now one suddenly finds oneself trapped within the racks, no way out. Singapore can-do enterprise. Pedestrians begone! Out under the sun!

         Budget Value Pte Ltd

         (BC Mart)

         24 hours

         China product, some of which is difficult to get a handle on even after reading the label.

         The sign is an illuminated bright blue, angled for maximum exposure on the corner.

         Music blaring like from most of the store-fronts, American goldies alternating with techno drill.

         The check-out girls in the blue polos and slacks who work there, and the shelf-stackers, have no English. It is their compatriots from the mainland on the other side of the racks dressed up and waiting.

         The Eatery on the other corner too was closed for a couple of weeks, the Indian lads working under lamps to get the job done quick-time. Lavender walls, cream for the ceiling.

         The Indian stall within might not have been there earlier. Good halal vegetarian, seven dollars a serve, slightly above average.

         Now the girls hanging station themselves just off the corner this side, and further around on the other within the cool of the alcove in front of a hotel, or karaoke it might be.

         They saunter across the road from corner to corner and come a little way down the incline into the lorong.

         During the day the old Chinamen provide the custom; the construction workers come nights.

         During the day it's the older girls out, heavier, fleshier, languidly sauntering, some of them making only a token effort with their make-up and wardrobe. They know full well the chaps sitting at the tables over their plates, eating and drinking and casting their eyes over their newspapers, contain a hunger that the rice and noodles won’t satisfy. A number of the men well into their seventies.

         A prettier styled babe who is a bit younger and slimmer—most days she covers the large tattoo on her back—passes by a couple of steps behind a chap who couldn't be under eighty. The nimble, lightweight Chinamen dance on their pins a little as they go, a sign of former energy and perhaps continuing virility.

         Another venerable-type sly old Devil who just had his plastic shopping bag inquisitively inspected by a gal had been craning his neck ever since, wondering where the saucy young thing had got to.

         Not much to recommend her that one on a superficial observation. But that was completely discounting her conversation and winsome manner. Another brief word in passing, before she swings off with her parasol-umbrella. Fair chance of a bite when she doubles back, the old geyser unable to sit still.

         A younger chap, perhaps only just passed sixty, sat quietly through a long lunch without any goggle-eye or craning. Three quarts of an hour over his plate, peering not more than once or twice over the top of his glasses. Nothing to suggest his keenness. The lass behind made a couple of passes before a seat was taken. Beautiful quiet faces from her. Lowering her eyes, shy smiling. More smiles showing her eyelids. Not more than three or four words had the chap out of his chair following her, she on the raised path and he the roadway. No more than two minutes all together. The kinda girl to be rescued from the game by the right fella; she was only nudging mid-thirties.

         The Mainland girls here start at thirty. Quite a few forty and more than a couple fifties and older not unknown. Shameless the oldies. They penetrate pretense instantly, without batting an eye. They'll put the question even to a young chap, one who should be out of their league. No such thing. These lasses know the score. If they don't always get the question out—many have no more than a couple of words of English; some Singapore-born not much more—they get their message across.

         You can't pretend in Geylang, certainly not the top end. They're onto you pitilessly. No gallantry, no airs, forget all that.

         The guy behind draping his arm over the seat you want? No mincing around. In you go, just take it.

         The chap twists his chin at your reticence. Bites off something that he keeps within. He pulls the table toward himself to give you room. You asked to join him. Now you are in his orbit. A quiet middle-aged beer drinker you thought.

         Thanking him with a prayer-like hand-clasp might have worked elsewhere. And following with a preference for chai over beer? You've got to be kidding! Not here pal.

         Soon the waitress, Lisa, has ganged up on you.

         — You write love letter ah? I miss you... Every night I think of you... You...

         A mistake bringing out the journal. Lisa has added reason to join her regular's ridicule. She makes money on the Carlsberg. A beer-girl dressed in the livery in Geylang fills and refills the glass for you and gets you another bottle quicker than you can scratch an itch.

         On top of everything else, when Lisa is told of the Buddhist-bullshit, the bowing and scraping and posturing, there's hell to pay and no holding back.

         — You wanna say a little prayer ah? Every morning and every night? Beer not for you. You good chai boy lah? But you start la-di-da that's different ah? Mix it up then, ah. Then you get down and dirty....

         Not in so many words.

         Lisa's English was fair, but her main point had been conveyed by gesture.

         First the Buddhist votive hand-clasp, chin on chest, Lisa's dyed jet-black flopping on her forehead. Following which came the clear indication of the true seat of the passions: Lisa's forefinger arrowed straight down to immediately adjacent the money belt hanging off her hip. Bending her head down further the second time, Lisa followed the forefinger to its resting place, where had she been a girl, her little brother would have nestled.

         —.... Then you're not so fussy lah? The Buddha doesn't get a look-in there, lah?

         As if the cheeky thing could see into the back corner of the brain, behind all the palaver.     

         How was one supposed to argue against that? At that corner spot too?

         The table-mate had not a word of English, Thank you aside. Egging Lisa on was his role. Mimicking the Namaste and chiding over the choice of drink.

         — This is the real chai. Chuck that in the gutter! This is the shot, let me tell you.

         No problem getting that in Mandarin, or likely in his case Hokkien.

         He didn't rise from his seat to back Lisa's anatomical lesson. The pair however used the same little rhyming ditty for their mockery. The chap might have fed Lisa the line initially, after which they took turns bandying it tirelessly for the duration, a full hour with only short pauses between.

         Keen on a bit of piety and prayer,

         Until the trouser-snake needs some air.

         Something along those lines.

         Shaking head, nodding, swiveling chin. The hand-clasp, head bowing, lowering of the eyes. Chai for God's sake. A pal turning up didn't deflect the fellow. That merely widened his audience. A bottle bought for them brought repeated thanks, but no let-up.

         Neither he nor Lisa needed to point to the gals roundabout. That went without saying.

...piety and prayer, / Until the trouser snake seeks some air.

         Twice at least the rust coloured cab with the advertising on the boot came up the lorong past the tables to the road. Given what it would be worth carrying his message through those streets, the fella wouldn't need fares:

         CatchCheatingSpouse.sg.

         The Straits Times had written about the outfit.