Fear and Fish Heads

A golf ball-sized eye staring up at me, daring me to try, "Come on white-boy, if you think you're hard enough!"

My first encounter came surprisingly fast. It was innevitable, but the thought of actually going through with it struck a chord of fear in me. They urged me to "try lah" and warned, "can sure die wan!"

The first few days in Singapore were a savage awakening of the senses. The heat was intense, the air thick with sounds and smells I had never imagined could exist. Bizarre perfumes penetrating deep into the subconcious like ethereal double-agents.

So, a week later I've picked up the scent. I stole down Race Course Road under the cover of darkness. Slippery figures loomed in the shadows, calling out to cash-laden hucksters. Then I saw the sign ~ Banana Leaf Fish Head Curry. "Here we go baby!" I gritted my teeth and floated inside, drawn by unseen forces. I made for a secluded corner.
I didn't need an audience for this performance.

Fingers gripping the edge of the formica, a section of virile green banana leaf was slapped down in front of me. "So this is how it begins." The perfume of coconut curry hit me and my head went light. I switched to auto-pilot and gave the Sahib the nod. Within minutes a waiter approached the table and reverently laid down a deep dish. Temporary deafness struck me as I feverishly took in the details. (Weaker men have been known to feint at the sight of the greater Fish Head Curry. Legend has it that a prominent Belgian fishmonger, upon receiving the dish, instantly tore off his clothes, stormed the kitchens and attempted to cook himself in a vat of curry.) It proved an awesome sight ~ the head was almost as big as my own, a golf ball-sized eye staring up at me, daring me to try, "Come on white-boy, if you think you're hard enough!" Now, what happened next was a bit of a mystery ~ I vaguely remember the scraping of forks, grappling with chillies, and a lot of screaming.

Two weeks later, the Japanese guy turned up. Went by the name of Shiro. A curious case ~ he refused to take cabs or public transport, insisted on walking everywhere. He even refused my offer of sashimi and warm sake, opting instead for three bottles of stout and a pack of Camels. I realised I had to stay one step ahead of this character. He was clearly in pursuit of the obscure and was no stranger to danger. There was only one thing I could do.

So we were back in the restaurant. I was playing it cool. He was hiding the fear, but I saw his cover begin to crack when the banana leaf landed on the table. Beads of sweat gathered on his brow. And then the Fish Head arrived. It was showtime! With Samurai-like reflexes, he sprang out of his seat, leapt back from the table and reached behind his back, his face contorted in a mixture of horror and amazement. As the waiters ran for cover, his right hand came back round, in its grip a fully automatic Nikon. There was a blinding flash, followed by another. Then, a deathly silence. People were cowering under the tables. Shiro stood rooted to the spot, still holding the camera. "Somebody clear this mess up!" I shouted. But he'd beaten me to it. The Fish Head had been consumed.

by Spencer Ball