Does the thought of being nibbled away, bit by bit, piece by piece, scare you stiff? Not to worry, because the hundreds of tiny (but most definitely monstrous) fishes doing the deed would never let you have the privilege of staying still. But we'll get to this in a while.
So one Saturday, for reasons still not completely clear to me, three friends and I entertained the thought of visiting Hay Dairies to visit goats. As I've said in an earlier post, we worked on a tourism website, and hence came to know various tourist attractions during our work. The most misleading and deceitful picture was posted on the Hay Dairies site, where they clearly showed the most adorable (and delicious looking, for a wild moment) baby goat. That was tantalizing enough to propel our dreams to be re-connected with nature. (On hindsight, of course, we were positively moronic to trust a website where the likes of me worked on.)
As you would notice, on the offending web-page, it says to go earlier, between 9 to 11, so as to not miss the milking of the goats. As a city-boy through and through, this was obviously an occasion not to be missed. I have long awaited to put pink, oblong, fleshy objects in my hand, and squeeze and tug at it until milky fluid comes shooting out. Missing such a momentous event was akin to missing the birth of baby Jesus. Everyone was reminded and coerced to wake up before 8, with Jiahui even threatening to milk Jaystine if she was late and cost us the milking process. (If nay-sayers claim that I was the one who made up the threat to scare Jaystine, kindly be reminded that I would never do something so despicable, and you're reading my blog anyways, so what I say here practically passes as divine, so don't question the holy!)
So at 10 in the morning, after bus rides through farm roads and rural wilderness, breathless and disheveled, the 4 of us (this was Damian's first introduction to Jiahui, a particular touching moment for me to see two of my dearest friends come together at a smelly goat farm) arrive at Hay Dairies. I just immediately knew it was a sign that things were going to be terrible, the moment I laid eyes on the first thing that greeted us at the farm. The sign (it was honestly a signboard) read: "Touching or feeding of the goats is strictly prohibited, to minimize transference of diseases to the goats, and vice-versa." You just know they threw in a 'vice-versa' as an after thought, to make us feel better. You'd be going on with your life, convinced that they isolated the goats for your own protection, when the cold hard truth is - you're deemed too dirty even for a bunch of goats that shit around indiscriminately.
And the biggest revelation of the day: you can't stroke something you can't touch. How were we going to milk the goats if we can't even get close to it, you may ask. Well, honey, we were just going to have to settle for watching. And by watch, I mean watch them use milking machines to attach to the goats' udders, and watch as the machine pumps milk, squirt by squirt into the container. None of the classic smooth-but-firm downward action they've been flaunting on TV. No farmers in overalls and straw hats, no three legged stools, no goats moaning in pleasure as their udders are stroked. There was one hideously deformed udder (that was quite entertaining for about 18 milliseconds) , but that's as exciting as it was going to get.
The four of us fumed silently and stared, almost trance-like, at the row of mechanically-milked goats. No one wanted to say what was reverberating in our heads at that moment (for me it was "I wonder if the workers here, especially the male ones, ever used the conveniently shaped milking machine for other recreational purposes"), for no one likes admitting that they've been conned.
"This sucks." someone finally says, as we walk away from the blatant liars and goats. We walked further into the farm, in hope of seeing something that would make this trip worthwhile, but apart from a big-horned goat with anger-management issues, and a lot of goats pooping on each other, there was nothing to salvage this disappointing mess. Not even the chocolate goat milk could lift us up.
But when things get this low, the only possible way for it to go is up. On a spontaneous decision, we decided to head towards Farmart, a place Jiahui and I had been before on a prawning outing with the class. It was a village-ish little area where freshly grown vegetables (I have a feeling they just bought it from NTUC and are selling it there as 'purely organic goods') , extra-large eggs and exotic ostrich meat was sold. They also have, as I've mentioned, prawning ponds, and as we later found out, goats that you're ALLOWED to feed and touch, as well as ravenous rabbits, bickering birds, fat filthy frogs and a bored boy you buy goat feed from.
I wouldn't go into the details of the feeding (Jaystine is such a messy eater), but go straight to the highlight of the day - Fish Spa. Now, this is a very secret location, so be very quiet with the wealth of information I'm about to divulge. We wouldn't want too many people of the undesirable sort messing up our lovely and deserted spa, would we? Located along one of the rows of stores at Farmart, are two places you can do fish spa. Personally, we prefer the one manned (or womanned) by the nice filipino (or something) lady. It's slightly more expensive, but the shop looks more spa-like. The other one just looks like they're making use of you to feed their fishes.
It's $10 per half hour, a ridiculously low price for fish spas. Over at Chinatown's Pearl Center, they charge $25 for half hour, and at Sentosa's Underwater world, it's around $30. So imagine our joy at finding such a steal. In fact, we were so overjoyed that we forgot all about how terrifying the experience was going to be, right up to the point of dipping our feet in.
My heart first started to quicken as I saw the hundreds of small, grey-ish fishes come swarming up to where we were sitting. It's like they're closing in for the kill. I had completely no idea what to expect, having never done something like this before. It can't be that bad - Jiahui said she's seen people read books while having their feet eaten. Steeling our nerves, the four of us counted down from 3 and put our feet in at the same time.
Almost immediately, amidst shrieks and screams, we pulled them out again. It was simply torture. Hundreds of small mouths sucking furiously (now that's something I have never written) on one of the most sensitive parts of your body - your feet. Not anywhere else, though I shudder to think what might happen if they offer full-body fish-spas. I have to shamefully admit that I was the one who screamed the loudest and the longest, but it was honestly unbearable. The thought of them eating away at you, and the sight of a whole swarm of fishes attaching themselves to your feet is a bit too much to handle. Throw in the tickling at the 'palm' of your feet, and the back of your calves, and I'm just ready to jump out and declare myself done.
How I overcame it, I will never know. After 15 minutes of squirming, twitching, involuntary spasms and gasps, maybe even a few drops of tears, it inexplicably began to feel pleasurable. The hundreds of nibbling mouths started to feel like effervescent bubbles, and soon enough, I had my hands in the water as well, encouraging them to eat away the dead skin accumulated from my 19 years of hard labor. Before long, our previously bought 20 minutes were up, and we eagerly extended the time, 10 minutes at a time, to eventually a total of 40 minutes. Quite an accomplishment, I'll say, from the previously shrieking and trashing about.
It's quite neat to be able to still see areas as rural as this in Singapore, a place where anything not of economic relevance would be bulldozed and rebuilt, only to be replaced with a beautiful mall, just like the other hundred exactly like it. It's eye opening to experience actual farm life, however minuscule it is.
And I'm determined to find someone to bring to the fish spa, just to hear someone scream louder than I did.
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| That's not my foot. No, I don't know whose foot it is. Stop asking! |
