Urban Betel Adventure: Sex, Drugs, and Spitting

Betel nut was my chosen narcotic, but finding it was not really an adventure -- it is everywhere. I could have bought myself a box anywhere in the city from a convenience store, grocery store, or roadside vendor. But I chose to head out of the city in search of much seedier retailing.

Sex, of course, can help to sell most things, but it is has been ruthlessly used to profitable effect in Taiwan for hawking betel nut. Made-up and under-dressed teenaged girls sit on high stools in glass boxes along major roadways across the island flogging the nut. This is something that is not hidden away down some dark, dangerous back alley in the city; it is right out there in the open, everywhere. Passing drivers are treated to displays of erotica that you might think would be more at home in Bangkok than rural Taiwan.

Spotting a glass kiosk, aglow with neon, the driver begins to gawk helplessly, veering dangerously, his eyes searching out the naked flesh. The mini-skirted temptress, perched up on her throne, uncrosses her legs and, as elegantly as possible (which is not very elegant at all), slips down to the floor, and beckons the driver. If the driver succumbs to such base selling tactics, he swerves into the side of the road and pulls up alongside the kiosk; whereupon the girl hops out on her high-heels to sell him a cheap box of betel nut.

Setting out recently on my quest, I found a row of betel-nut beauties on the outskirts of Taipei. The area was still residential, and the kiosks had been set up on the ground floor of a tall apartment building, but it must have been beyond the city limits because the Mayor of Taipei has successfully banished such smut from his streets. This neighbourhood was more third world. It smelt dank from the river; litter and parked vehicles were strewn over streets and sidewalks, amongst food stands and street vendors; the cacophonous third-world din of horns, yells, and motorcycles jarred my ears. And betel nut was for sale.

I walked along the street, looking into the open fronted betel stores, trying not to leer too much at the 'shop keepers'. Each store competed in gaudiness: bright pink or orange walls; multi-coloured, neon-tube lighting; and a painted, near-naked girl sitting on a tall stool near the front of the tacky premises.

I chose one of the seedier stores to buy from. I'm not too sure of the criteria I used in my selection, but I did check for both the absence of gangster-like big brothers in the background and a smitten of hygiene -- after all, you do have to put the nuts in your mouth. Luckily my selection also had the most beautiful girl -- sexy but with a touch of sophistication. She suggested that I buy the "red paste" nuts -- better for a beginner. They don't have the normal betel-vine leaf wrapped around them and include red lime instead of the usual white. I paid a ridiculously cheap price for a box of ten nuts and left, feeling as if I had just done something wrong. Walking away with my prize clutched in a sweaty palm, I looked down at the cheap photograph of a naked girl emblazoned on its glossy surface; I turned my head back and checked; no, it wasn't her.

As soon as I got home, I popped one of the nuts into my mouth and jumped in the shower. I was sticky and tired after my betel hunt and thought the cool water and stimulant of the betel nut would refresh me. If the betel beauties don't make you salivate, the betel nut itself surely will. Suddenly my mouth filled with spittle and I had gulped back a mouthful before I remembered that you aren't supposed to swallow; spit, spit you fool. I spat and covered my bathroom floor with a big pool of red saliva and gunk. I slipped the nut into my left cheek, squeezing it a little between my teeth, and waited for the effect to hit me.

My mouth filled with a hot, sweet, licorice taste, not at all unpleasant, as my saliva glands worked double time, gushing forth torrents of red spittle. By now my bathroom floor looked like the scene from "Psycho" where Norman Bates hacks into a showering girl with a kitchen knife.

My mouth felt warm with a flushing sensation, but the expected high never hit me. It felt, rather disappointingly, as if I had just knocked back an espresso, a small one at that.

I cleaned up the bathroom, dried myself, and looked at the remaining nine nuts sitting in the open box.

© Paul S. Davey, 2000

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Paul S. Davey is a freelance travel and fiction writer. He started life in the UK but now turns up in the strangest of places around the world -- usually with his notebook handy

novels:
Ghost Money first chapter of a new novel
Fei Azzis and the Water Table of Sa' An (coming soon)

travel:
Tryin' to Get to Mexico
Freedom in Cambodia
Saigon Gary
Pedalling Taipei
Tofu Culture
Hawking Carrot-Cake and a New President
Cambodia, Freehand