Return to a Sexy Island

by Neil Humphreys

  When I reached the top, I admired the sights of Johor Bahru, took some photographs and decided to record proof of my climb for my wife and daughter. I offered my phone to a couple of children at the other end of the rope bridge to take a photo of me but they ran away. In such moments, I curse not carrying my daughter at all times like a get-out-of-jail-free card. Who decided fun was the private property of children? I was indignant. And then I viewed myself through their eyes. I was a lone suspicious-looking person, again, in a kiddies’ park handing his camera phone around. I might have run away from me too. I felt like the Gruffalo. Fortunately, some teenage Woodlanders were on hand to take some photos and I wished them well as I returned to the bus stop. I learnt a lesson at the peaceful Woodlands Waterfront that day. If I want to behave like a kid in public places, I need to be accompanied by a real one. Or become an MP.

  I flagged the No. 856 bus outside Woodlands Waterfront, hurried along towards Yishun bus interchange a little further east, ducked under the elegant apartment blocks of Yishun Central and picked out the pond. Yet another of the island’s water bodies has been revamped as part of the admirable ABC Waters Programme. When Yishun Town sprang up in the 1980s, the pond was created at its centre to collect storm water. Yishun Pond was about as sexy as it sounded. Then in November 2011, the pond was rejuvenated to give residents and patients of the adjacent Khoo Teck Puat Hospital (itself only officially opened in November 2010) something more invigorating. Marshlands, indigenous vegetation and nature trails leading into Yishun Park have all been added around the new centrepiece called The Spiral@Yishun. Apart from another lame marketing effort to get down with the kids by using the funky @ symbol, The Spiral was a welcoming three-storey lookout tower shaped like a butterfly and well worth the visit. I reached the top and savoured the views of the pond and Yishun, an historical, agricultural town I had rarely explored before.

  And then, it pissed down.

  This was not a refreshing passing shower. This was one of those ceaseless monsoonal thunderstorms that makes you want to cuddle up close with someone under a blanket, watching the hypnotic raindrops dance on the windowpane whilst sharing a marshmallow. I sat beside a damp street directory and endured an army of ants marching beneath my upper thigh and mistaking my groin for a thatched cottage. The rain kept me pinned beneath The Spiral@Yishun’s third storey for two hours as water surged into the pond and even cascaded down The Spiral’s staircase. Through the sheeting rain, I picked out a siege of herons lurking within the marshland’s reeds, desperately seeking shelter. Strangely, I found myself singing Manfred Mann’s “Pretty Flamingo” aloud (I had the lookout tower to myself so I wasn’t scaring any small children).

  Yishun Pond and its resident herons had transported me back to my psychedelic memories of Parsloes Park and its pink flamingos residing on a lake island. I say psychedelic because Parsloes Park was a council-managed park within Dagenham’s vast housing estate on the freezing fringes of East London. Miami it was not. But there they were, in the most incongruous of settings, a flamboyance of shivering flamingos, their icepick legs threatening to slip and snap at any moment on the frozen lake as they fixed each other with bemused stares that said “We’re supposed to be in the Everglades. What are we doing on a fake East London lake surrounded by Cockneys?”

  I never did find out what possessed a park keeper to introduce pink flamingos to my childhood housing estate (or what he was smoking), but I’ll always be grateful to him. He gave me pretty flamingos. Yishun Park has given its young ones herons, with a promise to bring hornbills back to the town. There are only 100 hornbills currently living in Singapore, with a small family living in the grounds of the Istana, and the HDB, NParks, Alexandra Health and PUB, the authorities behind Yishun Pond’s makeover, have been tasked with encouraging some of these rare birds to return to a more familiar habitat created around the pond. Such exotic fauna and flora should not belong to those only living in landed properties or black-and-white bungalows in Singapore’s exclusive districts. Urban youngsters growing up in housing estates deserve wildlife experiences beyond shooing away crows at hawker centres and stepping in pigeon poop. Give the kids in Yishun some hornbills to go with their herons. I had pink flamingos in Parsloes Park and I was blown away, as were the flamingos during the Dagenham winter.

  The clouds finally parted long enough for me to continue my water-themed tour of northern Singapore. So I picked up my damp street directory, shook the ants from undercarriage and set my course for Sengkang.

  Returning to Sengkang for the first time since 2006, I had forgotten that the driverless LRT train has a mind of its own. It stops where it wants to stop and goes when it wants to go. The LRT is a petulant little bugger that teases its passengers. The train slows as it rolls into a station, stops at the platform and an announcement says, “This is Kupang station. If this is your stop, pick up your bags and get ready because I’m going to open the doors ... wait for it, wait for it ... No, we’re off again, you dopey bastards.”

  If the MRT is the mother of public transport, then the LRT is the temperamental teenage offspring. I planned to get out at Kupang, the station in Anchorvale Street beside Sengkang Riverside Park. I stood like a pillock in front of the doors as they proceeded not to open. I later discovered that LRT trains skip Kupang due to the lack of development in the area. So I alighted at Thanggam, the next station, and waited for a train to take me back in the opposite direction. I sat beside a mainland Chinese construction worker on an otherwise empty platform. Half an hour later, we were still keeping each other company at an empty station out in the sticks, increasingly concerned by the other guy’s motives. Finally, I read a noticeboard explaining that this particular LRT line offered only a one-way service on public holidays. As it was indeed a public holiday, I had no choice but to go full circle as the LRT gave me a tour of Sengkang’s half-finished housing estates. With its forward thinking and municipal planning, Singapore is far too clever for its own good. Building stations in anticipation of future developments around the LRT is all well and good, highly commendable even. But when a train stops at a station platform, I expect the bloody doors to open.

  More than 45 minutes later, I made for the exit at Farmway Station (I could have walked from Sengkang MRT, my original starting point, in less time) and pursued the shadows along Anchorvale Street. Shade is a rare commodity in Singapore’s newest towns. What they lack in mature trees, they more than make up for in bright, glossy reflective concrete pavements. Even the saplings appeared to have sunstroke. When they grow, these trees will provide some welcome respite. Until then, arm yourself with sunscreen in Sengkang.

  Outside the Sengkang Sports and Recreation Centre (the place provides a workout just typing its name), I chanced upon the longest queue I had seen for a McDonald’s drive-thru outside of Anaheim. No McDonald’s will ever out-eat that Californian joint, where non-disabled customers wait in line in motorised wheelchairs holding garden buckets for their free refills. Still, the queue at Sengkang was a fair effort, extending around the sports centre’s car park. The Sengkang Riverside Park next door, on the other hand, had no queuing concerns. Disappointingly, I had the place to myself.

  Sengkang Riverside Park is a tremendous feat of municipal planning, combining an essential water source with a wildlife habitat. Built beside and across Sungei Punggol, the park includes a constructed wetland of artificial marshes that filter surface run-off and waste water. So visitors get a tranquil park, mangrove birds get a new home and the aquatic, mostly native, plants get to trap and clean most of the crap heading towards the reservoir.

  I zigzagged my way across the elevated platform towards the floating wetland, which was opened in November 2010. The man-made island in the middle of the reservoir had a fruity theme, which explained why I was sitting inside a giant plum, or it might have been an enormous Ribena berry. The shelter was complemented by benches shaped as sliced oranges, giving the park a trippy vibe I hadn’t felt since the pink flamingos. The wetland was a
round half the size of a football pitch and wildlife had flocked to the place. Without really trying, I picked out half a dozen herons lurking around the 2-metre-tall reeds, a couple of kingfishers, a bird of prey circling overhead (possibly a Brahminy kite), some turtles and four brutish monitor lizards closing in on the wetland, conjuring memories of Roger Moore in Live and Let Die.

  I unwrapped my sandwiches and peered through the air holes in the plum/Ribena berry shelter that provided a voyeuristic peep show for the nature enthusiast. A couple of metres away, a monitor lizard cruised towards an oblivious white-breasted waterhen, either looking for a bite or a very confusing mating ritual. I savoured the silence, the solitude, the shade, the scenery and, most of all, my sandwiches. I thought about old Singapore across the reservoir with its cars crawling along the concrete, air conditioners on overload, temperatures and tempers rising, all waiting to get their hands on something warm, limp and greasy from Ronald McDonald. I like this side of Singapore better. If Sengkang Riverside Park, with its emphasis on managing water sources, urban growth and native wildlife in an eye-catching fashion, is the future for this place, then count me in. Take me to the river.

  Nineteen

  LONG before Al Gore came along, my mother championed the environment. She had energy-saving devices in the house before they became de rigueur. She had her children. My sister and I only had to leave the living room for a sneaky chocolate biscuit in the kitchen and a maternal, protective voice would bellow, “Turn that fucking light off.” No one ever said that on An Inconvenient Truth. I once left our well-lit bathroom, trousers around ankles, and waddled my way towards the kitchen cupboard to get a fresh toilet roll, only to return to a darkened bathroom, trip over the unsighted mat and tumble towards the bath like a penguin with happy feet. No one was spared by the resident eco-warrior. Rooms often suffered dramatic blackouts with people still in them. The eco-warrior brooked no argument in the matter.

  “Who’s turned the light out?” my terrified voice often echoed from the bath.

  “I did,” replied my stern mother. “It’s wasting electricity.”

  “But I’m still in here reading.”

  “What are you reading?”

  “Adrian Mole.”

  “You’ve already read that book 10 times. You must think I’m made of money. This house is lit up like a bloody Christmas tree.”

  “But I can’t see in the bath now.”

  “There’s nothing there for you to see, believe me.”

  There is grainy footage from an old family home video of our family sneaking into her bedroom and switching the lights on as we all cry in unison, “Surprise! Merry Christmas!”

  “Turn that fucking light off,” she replies.

  So my mother would speak very highly of Treelodge@Punggol, Singapore’s first public housing eco-precinct. Opened in December 2010 and home to the one millionth HDB apartment, Treelodge (I’m going with a shorter form to avoid that anal @ again) provides a sneak peek at our children’s future homes, an attractive trailer of what is coming soon to a housing estate near you. The seven 16-storey blocks boast groundbreaking innovations for public housing, from centralised recycling rubbish chutes, green roof decks to cool the buildings whose north-south positioning reduces that unremitting sunshine, a jogging path, exercise stations and a children’s playground made from recycled materials. My mother’s spirit is even present in the guise of solar panels providing the energy to light all common areas. If only the solar panels came with a censor-activated recording that screamed, “Turn that fucking light off.” My mother is available for voiceover work.

  I climbed the spiral staircase and nosed around the housing estate that new Singapore built. Green overpowers the senses. From the tree-lined walkways and manicured flower beds to the ingenious vertical greenery that covers all seven blocks like an eco-friendly membrane, plants and flowers dominated in every direction. Treelodge provided a fascinating template for the rest of the island’s lofty ambitions. It was a housing estate inside a garden, rather than a series of concrete blocks with a patch of grass in front. Residents are provided skinny balconies and planter boxes and encouraged to fill their nooks with something green and living. Such subtle additions beautify the entire complex, adding a Hulk-like skin that does anything but make the visitor angry.

  Indeed, there was a discernible kampong feel about the place. I visited on the eve of Chinese New Year and there was a barbecue taking place on the void deck. There was an obvious bond between residents. Punggol is a new town still lacking a major shopping centre and enough schools (both are being built) and is tucked away in the remote rural northeast corner of the country. Punggol people, however, make a very deliberate lifestyle choice. Treelodge residents live there for specific reasons, the right reasons.

  Residents like the incomparable Woolee. I stood at the lift lobby reading the posters about the twin chute system when I sensed a middle-aged Chinese man beside me, beaming proudly.

  “It’s good, right?” he said, nodding towards the information panel about the recycling chute.

  “I think it’s absolutely fantastic,” I replied honestly.

  For five years in Australia, I emptied bottles, removed their lids and rinsed them before allocating them to the right dustbin (a green one for garden cuttings, yellow for recyclables and red for regular refuse). Our neighbours were often treated to me shouting, “Our bloody daughter has put her shitty nappy in the recycling bin again.” But if I could do that, Singaporeans can easily separate waste from recycling. If ever a country needed to minimise its reliance on landfill, it’s the Little Red Dot.

  “Come, come, I show you,” Woolee cried, suddenly leading me by the arm across the void deck. I had never been invited by a stranger to visit a rubbish chute before. It was a novel experience.

  Woolee demonstrated how each chute worked, pointing out which was for waste and which was for recycling. He even went as far as to pull open the chute door and mime throwing in a bag of invisible rubbish. He invited me to take a photo and I gladly accepted his offer.

  I took several photographs of a rubbish chute.

  “So why are you so interested in Treelodge@Punggol?” he asked, eyeing me curiously.

  “Oh, I’m just fascinated by the concept,” I replied.

  “Really, ah? You want to buy a place here.”

  “I’m interested sure, but Treelodge only opened in 2010 so I’ve got to wait five years for the resale flats. Can I ask what sort of price they were?”

  “I think one was snapped up recently for $550,000, overlooking the waterway.”

  “Wow, 550 is not too bad,” I replied optimistically. “That’s reasonable considering the crazy property prices.”

  “Hey, they bought it for 550. I buy an apartment at 550, what for I sell it to you for 550? No point, right? I’ll sell it for much more than 550.”

  I was tickled that not everything had changed at Treelodge@Punggol.

  “But do the apartments really save much water?”

  “Come, I’ll show you.”

  And with that, Woolee ushered me into the lift and towards his apartment. Being invited into a male stranger’s home, moments after meeting him, was not a typical occurrence. I kept my hand in my pocket, my thumb hovering over the call button just in case Woolee opened the door to a bearded chap called Bub and ordered him to bring out the gimp.

  Instead, the door opened to reveal a living room full of Chinese people happily preparing for their reunion dinner. Their generous welcome was humbling, particularly after Woolee’s unexpected introduction.

  “Hello, this is Neil,” he said warmly. “I’m going to show him my bathroom.”

  With unmistakable pride, Woolee guided me through each of his modern, spacious rooms packed with energy-saving devices. From his daughter’s bedroom window, he pointed out the site of the future primary school and the Johor Straits peeking through in the distance. Through another window, he directed me towards the solar panels sitting snugly on the roof
, surrounded by greenery. My host ended his tour in the bathroom, where he exhibited the most bizarre toilet outside of Japan. There was a small sink built into the top of a cistern with a single tap on the right. When he flushed the toilet, water also poured through the tap on top and Woolee washed his hands.

  “You see, it saves water,” he said, clearly as impressed with the green technology as I was. “Before the water flushes through the bowl, some of it comes through this tap. No need to use more water washing hands in the other sink afterwards.”

  With 712 units in Treelodge, the water savings from this quirky feature alone must be staggering. Take that, Malaysia.

  I wished Woolee’s family a prosperous Lunar New Year but he insisted on taking me to the next destination, My Waterway@Punggol, which faced Treelodge on the other side of Punggol Drive.

  “The waterway is really beautiful,” said Woolee. “But you will not see many Singaporeans now. We come out at dusk. Only ang mohs like this time of day, right? Don’t get burnt.”

  Considerate to the last, Woolee was a lovely man living in a lovely home and one of the first Singaporeans to truly benefit from the concept of a city in a garden. He has found a green niche to call his own. Treelodge@Punggol was a pilot project, but one that successfully proved that urban growth need not be detrimental to its environment. Every Singaporean deserves a home like Woolee’s. I want a home like Woolee’s. Aside from its sustainability, that toilet-tap contraption could keep me occupied for hours.

  I was rapidly falling for Punggol. Everything was right about My Waterway@Punggol, or the Punggol Waterway (it’s neater and I’m not compelled to smash the @ key on the laptop). Calling it the Venice of Punggol is a bit of a stretch, but the scenic reservoir is worth every one of its $225 million. Just think about this for a moment. In the 1990s, the Punggol 21 project was launched to create a self-sustaining waterfront town but the Asian financial crisis checked its momentum. Rather than retreat, the plan was revisited and upgraded to Punggol 21 Plus when the economy recovered. A pipeline was required to connect the Punggol and Serangoon reservoirs. Old Singapore might have knocked up something functional and formulaic, heavy on concrete and low on colour. But the decision was taken for the sleepy village to be turned into a wide-awake water town with Singapore’s longest man-made waterway—4.2 kilometres long— as its centrepiece. Three years later, the waterway opened in November 2011. This is no lazy longkang. There are five bridges, cycling paths, kayaking outlets, a children’s free water splash park, historical trails and a landscaped park running the length of the waterway, which is bordered, of course, by water-purifying plants to filter rainfall before it is discharged into the reservoir.