… you will invariably find yourself in a rainforest. Sure, trees line highways back in the States, but you can usually see a good distance into the trees (unless it’s summer in the South and you’re driving past an infestation of kudzu). Here, I’m a little afraid to wander into the unbelievably lush plant life. For starters, I’m not entirely sure just how far I could wander even if I tried, as I’m instantly met by a wall of leaves, stalks, and vines that extend from the ground (which is also a mat of green) to a canopy overhead so dense that it blocks out all sunlight. Secondly, such an environment has all the feel of Jurassic Park. Yes, dinosaurs roaming the earth may seem improbable when you first think about it, but somehow stepping into the Asian rainforest, Crichton’s supposedly fictionalized ideas don’t seem so unrealistic.
So, rather than venture into uncharted territory (which I’m not even sure I’m legally allowed to do, and according to the rainforest guides my family had in Belize, I should NEVER do), I’ve decided to begin my outdoor Singapore adventures in the Botanical Gardens. They are in the heart of the island and are absolutely gorgeous.
Stepping through the silver ivy gates, I immediately check the park map and rules—as you might notice by now, there are a lot of rules here, and I’m deathly afraid of breaking any of them. None of them seem too unrealistic here in the Gardens… no skateboards or bikes or flying objects allowed. As I turn around, my toes are nearly sliced off by a scooter and I notice a group of adults playing Frisbee. So maybe I’m the only one that takes the rules so seriously… nice to know some things haven’t changed since childhood.
The paths through the Gardens are a lot like all the roads in Singapore: very few are straight or intersect at right angles. And there are dozens of them—ranging from the width of a city street down to a faerie path just wide enough for one person to walk along. I call them faerie paths because they’re a little bit hidden and wind through trees with tangled trunks, curtains of ivy and neon flowers—exactly the kind of place one would expect to run into a magical faerie kingdom.
We’ve started coming to the Botanical Gardens every evening. It’s a fantastic place for Dagny to run around barefoot and watch the swans and turtles… she’s mesmerized by them. There are always a lot of people here who are also picnicking and playing, but it never feels crowded. And though I’ve walked the paths every night for about an hour for the past two weeks, there are still parts of the garden I have yet to explore… there is an orchid garden I’m dying to see, and I caught a glimpse of the bonsai and sundial gardens from a distance, but have yet to wander through them. I promise to post some pictures soon, so everyone can get an idea of just how amazing this place is.
In other exploration news, Dagny and I ventured out to the Crocodile Farm yesterday. Not quite up to par with the Botanical Gardens, and after seeing it, was more than a little shocked it was listed as one of Singapore’s Top 10 Children’s Spots.
The trek begins with a cab ride to Serangoon, where my driver (after making 2 phone calls to the Croc Farm to find out where exactly it’s located) pulls into a teeny tiny (and completely vacant) parking lot situated between a gas station and some public housing. There is a building in front of us with the window panes smashed out of it and bent iron gates across the doors.
“Crocodile Farm!” says my driver gleefully—obviously relieved to at last have found the weird little spot.
From the back seat, still buckled in, I say, “Umm, are you sure it’s open?”
“Croc Farm! Croc Farm!” the driver repeats, now pointing to a sign that is barely legible with peeling paint that claims, yes, this is in fact the great Singapore Croc Farm. Dagny starts pitching a fit on my lap and I’m feeling car sick from the long ride, so I go ahead and get out. I don’t really have much choice at this point… my driver has already unloaded the stroller and is opening my door for me.
As she peels out of the parking lot, leaving me on a hot concrete slab in the middle of the ghetto, I see a tiny sign on one side of the building with an arrow that says “Crocodiles This Way.” A few feet farther down is another one: “Watch Your Step, Don’t Be Reptile Food.” I literally cinch Dagny into her stroller so the poor girl can barely move. A third sign points the way down a completely lightless corridor to the back yard of this super-shady unit. I must have done at least a dozen glances over my shoulder, hoping my taxi driver will suddenly pull in and tell me she got the address wrong, but I’m still alone and baking out in the sun.
What the hell. I’ve come this far.
So the Croc Farm is at first incredibly scary, and then really depressing. By simply peering over a 3-foot brick wall, I find myself within easy touching distance of a 15-foot crocodile, laying with his mouth open too cool himself off, displaying his prehistoric teeth. I lift Dagny out of the stroller so she can see, and she giggles and reaches out her hand like she wants to pet it. Those who know my daughter probably aren’t surprised. We continue our tour through the back yard, peeking in on several more crocodiles, alligators, caimans, and super-creepy gharials (the kind with a needle-like snout). And they are all living on top of one another in tiny concrete tubs caked in slime and stagnant water. Yes, this is where it started to get depressing.
After about 10 minutes of walking around, I’d about had enough. Dagny didn’t want to sit in her stroller or be held, and I wasn’t about to just let her wander around—especially since the only employee of the farm was a shirtless guy who wouldn’t stop scowling at us while holding a rusty machete in his one hand.
I decide to go in the gift shop to see if someone there can call me a taxi, when I’m met with perhaps the most disturbing image of all… the “gift shop” is divided in two—on one side is a wall of glass cases displaying alligator and croc skin bags for sale, and on the other side is a skinning facility.
Still not feeling great from my windy cab ride there, now I really feel sick. I’ve worn leather before and eat meat and all that, but this is just a little too much for me.
Back outside the Croc Farm, I start walking, hoping to find someplace where I can hail a taxi. Dagny and I are getting a lot of strange looks as I try to navigate us through a not-so-nice neighborhood, surrounded by not-so-pleasant smells that are making my queasy stomach really start to turn… it’s a combination of seafood from the octopus trader, the durian stand (durian is a spiny fruit that is illegal to even carry on public transportation because it pretty much smells like death), and general b.o. Okay, so maybe I’m to blame for the b.o. In the 93-degree heat, I’m suddenly realizing I may have forgotten to put on deodorant that morning… and come to think of it, may have forgotten to brush my teeth, too. It’s a hygienic phenomenon that only mothers of children who personify Mexican jumping beans at seven in the morning fully understand.
At last I notice a woman flag down a taxi in the middle of the highway. Oh, so that’s how you do it. Feeling a little stupid for having never done this before, I follow suit, and after about 5-10 minutes of flailing my arms at anything remotely resembling a cab in the line of traffic barreling toward me, I finally catch a ride. I swing the BOB stroller into the trunk with one arm while holding Dagny with the other… I feel the need to mention this because anyone who owns a BOB and 16-month old will appreciate the adrenaline rush I was having to be able to accomplish such a feat J
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