I hadn’t stepped foot into People’s Park Complex in years. To be honest, I thought the whole “dark side” of Chinatown had been sanitized by now. I figured the authorities would have cleaned it up, or the pandemic would have wiped out the trade. I was just there to meet an old friend for some mala and maybe pick up a cheap phone charger.
Boy, was I wrong.
I saw the news report from the Chinese news and can’t believe it was still active.
Walking up the escalator to the second floor, I felt like I had stepped through a time portal back to the 90s, or maybe into a completely different country. I’d heard the slang before—the old uncles calling them “PRC Pok Pok Gei”—but I thought it was just nostalgic talk.
The moment I stepped onto the landing, I felt the shift in atmosphere. The air was thick with the scent of cheap herbal oil and even cheaper perfume. The fluorescent lights flickered over rows of massage parlors, their glass fronts plastered with “Foot Reflexology” signs that fooled absolutely nobody.
I wasn’t even five steps into the corridor when the first one “attacked.”
“Leng zai! Massage? Cheap cheap one, $30 only!”
I didn’t even have time to look her in the eye before a hand—tight, manicured, and surprisingly strong—clamped onto my bicep. I looked down. She was wearing a dress so short and tight it looked like it was struggling for its life.
“No thanks, auntie, I’m meeting a friend,” I said, trying to politely shrug her off.
She didn’t let go. In fact, she leaned in. “Full body massage, very good, very relax. You come inside, I show you.”
She wasn’t just suggesting; she was literally hauling me toward a curtained booth. I felt a flush of genuine shock. I’m a grown man, but the sheer boldness of it caught me off guard. This wasn’t some subtle “hi-bye” solicitation. This was a full-contact sport. When I resisted, she didn’t back down—she pressed her weight against my arm, trying to guide me through the door like a shepherd herding a confused sheep.
“Oi, no need! I said no!” I raised my voice a bit, finally wrenching my arm free.
She let out a tsk of annoyance, her face shifting from a forced smile to a look of pure business-like irritation, and immediately turned her gaze toward the next man walking behind me.
As I hurried toward the third floor, my heart was actually thumping. It was surreal. Everywhere I looked, men—mostly older uncles, but some younger guys looking lost—were being swarmed. It was like a gauntlet. One guy near the toilets was practically being dragged by two women at once. It felt less like a shopping mall and more like a red-light district masquerading as a TCM clinic.
I finally met my friend near the food court. I was slightly breathless, adjusting my shirt.
“Eh, you okay or not? You look like you saw a ghost,” he laughed.
“Ghost? No,” I replied, looking back at the escalator. “I just didn’t realize the ‘Pok Pok Gei’ were still so active. I thought that era was over. They’re grabbing people like it’s a sale at OG!”
He just chuckled and shook his head. “First time in People’s Park? Some things in Singapore never change, man. Just keep your wallet in your front pocket and your arms tucked in.”
I sat down, still stunned. In a city that’s usually so regulated and ‘clean,’ that corner of Chinatown felt like the Wild West. $30 for a massage? Maybe. But the way they were hunting for ‘customers,’ I knew I wasn’t sticking around to find out what the ‘full body’ service actually entailed. I just wanted my mala and a quick exit.