CHAPTER 30
My Singaporean journey was almost over. In every sense. There was just one gigantic, gaping, green hole in the middle of the country left for me to cover. And I foolishly intended to cover it in a single day. On foot.
I got up at 6am, dressed quickly, kissed my wife goodbye and assured her that I would not die. I strode briskly through the quiet Toa Payoh streets, crossed over the already busy Thomson Road and headed into MacRitchie Reservoir Park. Knowing that a day-long trek was ahead of me, I performed my usual warm-up routine. I stretched my legs half a dozen times, bent over twice, ate half a cheese sandwich and waited for Benjamin Lee to join me. A lovely, accommodating man, the Senior Conservation Officer at the National Parks Board had offered to meet me at MacRitchie to point out the safest route on a map and underscore the importance of sticking to the trails. When he arrived, Benjamin insisted that I would enjoy the walk, but his uncertain body language betrayed his real opinion: the ang moh’s gonna die.
I had wanted to tackle this walk for a long time. Eager to dispel the stubbornly persistent myth that Singapore is nothing more than an island of concrete, I planned to circumnavigate the Central Catchment Nature Reserve and Bukit Timah Nature Reserve in the middle of the country on foot. Now, that is a pretty daft plan. Comprising the reservoirs of MacRitchie, Peirce and Seletar, the Central Catchment area covers around 3,043 hectares. Bukit Timah is another 163 hectares. So I foolishly intended to trek through rainforest that covered 3,206 hectares. As one hectare (100 metres × 100 metres) is slightly shorter and fatter than the football pitch inside Cardiff’s Millennium Stadium (120 metres x 79 metres), you will realise that Singapore’s major green lung is a respectable size. It could be bigger of course. Those 3,206 hectares constitute 4.6 per cent of Singapore’s total land area, but I have noticed reforestation taking place across the country and those three splendid gardens planned for Marina Bay should ensure that you bequeath a green island to your children, rather than a charred country. That said, 4.6 per cent of Singapore’s land area is still a bugger to walk.
I planned to hike around 4.5 kilometres to the TreeTop Walk in MacRitchie, then cover another 6 kilometres or so to reach Bukit Timah Nature Reserve and eat my remaining cheese sandwiches. After lunch, I would follow a biking trail out of Bukit Timah, skirting the fringes of Upper Peirce Reservoir Park and Seletar Reservoir Park, turn right at Mandai Road, my northernmost point, then venture south along Upper Thomson Road, pop into Lower Peirce Reservoir Park, sneak around the Singapore Island Country Club, return to MacRitchie and be back home in time for tea. For some strange reason, Benjamin was not convinced.
“You shouldn’t really go on your own, you know,” he said, making a mental note to keep a search party on standby. “Have you got enough food and drink, plenty of insect repellent and your mobile phone? Oh, and don’t forget to take down our helpline.”
I laughed. He did not. So I took out my notepad like a penitent schoolboy and reluctantly jotted down the National Parks Board’s helpline. I noticed Benjamin watch me write down every digit. There was no doubt in his mind. He clearly thought that the next time we met, I would be strapped to a stretcher and dangling from a helicopter.
I ventured onto the MacRitchie Nature Trail and was impressed by the number of eager middle-aged trekkers I passed. They powered along, always taking the time to smile, say “hello” or wish me a pleasant morning. I encountered one particular middle-aged group engaged in a bizarre conversation. Peering nervously into the undergrowth, one chap said, “Got a lot you know. I see them all the time. Must be careful.”
“Yah, it’s true,” said a plump woman in a tracksuit with a beach towel round her neck. “The park ranger never talks about it, might scare off visitors.”
“Yeah, loh. But the park ranger must take responsibility, right or not?”
“But he bites, right?”
“Of course he bites. Cannot keep secret. Park ranger must tell the public. He’s damn fierce. If he bites you, must get antidote or sure die one.”
I was not sure if they were discussing a snake or a psychotic park ranger.
I reached the TreeTop Walk remarkably quickly. Not through choice, though. I was pursued mercilessly by a group of expatriate housewives. There were six of them, all armed with walking sticks and one-piece Lycra suits, stomping through the forest at breakneck speed and knocking casual walkers into the reservoir. Then they closed in on me. Now, I should have been a mature grown-up and kindly stepped aside and allowed the Lycra ladies to pass. Instead I decided to race them to the TreeTop Walk. It was not their gender, you understand, it was their inane chattering. They never stopped talking. How did they do it? I panted, wheezed and swore at every chipped rock that stubbed my toes. Yet the far from desperate housewives breezed along and still found the energy to swap jokes and waffle on about the aesthetic value of black Lycra. I was insanely jealous of their fitness and vowed to spread my legs and jump on the nearest tree stump if so much as one of them surged past me.
I paid the price for my puerile behaviour. By the time I had dragged my shaking legs to the entrance of the TreeTop Walk, my vision was blurred and I thought I was hallucinating. Everywhere I turned, the forest was filled with those singing and dancing Ribena berries from the TV commercials. They were everywhere. I sat down, downed an entire bottle of Coke and belched so loudly that several startled birds flew out of the trees. It was just what I needed. The Ribena berries disappeared and I was ready for Singapore’s greatest bridge.
On a trip to Western Australia a few years ago, my wife and I took four hours to drive south of Perth to reach the Tree Top Walk in the Valley of the Giants near the town of Walpole. Singapore’s TreeTop Walk, on the other hand, was just a brisk 90-minute stroll from my apartment in Toa Payoh. And it was spectacular. In a country that is so small, there is a tendency to overlook things that are on your doorstep. I have met Singaporeans who have been to Australia’s Valley of the Giants but would not consider visiting MacRitchie’s TreeTop Walk. That is such a shame. Opened in 2004, the free-standing suspension bridge is 250 metres long and stands majestically over the forest canopy, which is about 25 metres below. As the bridge connects MacRitchie’s two highest points, its panoramic vistas of the forest are breathtaking.
As I shared the bridge with only a handful of other visitors, I took my time. The bridge reaches 27 metres at its highest point but it was still dwarfed by many of the surrounding trees. It is awe-inspiring stuff and feels more like Sabah than Singapore. Of course, the adorably kiasu signs are always on hand to remind you where you are. On a list of dos and don’ts, it was suggested that, in the event of a thunderstorm, visitors must see the ranger on duty to avoid being struck by lightning. Why? Is he on a higher spiritual plane than the rest of us? Does the National Parks Board employ shamans? No disrespect to the young ranger who was sitting in his booth at the edge of the bridge but, if lightning had struck at that particular moment, I would have followed traditional protocol and screamed like a little girl and dashed for the exit.
Halfway across the bridge, I spotted a long-tailed macaque sitting pretty at the top of a tree some 30 metres above ground. I was delighted. It was the first monkey I had seen on the tour, which was rather surprising considering they are one of the more common wild mammals in Singapore. The macaque was certainly the first exotic animal I saw when I arrived in the country. Some colleagues took me to Bukit Timah Nature Reserve and the playful primates were everywhere: on dustbins, car bonnets, house roofs, rest shelters, benches and any other location where they could be guaranteed human interaction, some potato chips and the odd Mars bar. The idea of glimpsing monkeys in their natural habitat was exciting, but it was quite an anticlimax watching a fat kid feed them some Pringles in the car park.
But that is all changing. The monkeys are being forced back into the forest whether they like it not. There has been a discernible shift in attitude towards feral creatures in recent years, both in the media and in public forums. Heavier pun
ishments are being handed down to animal abusers and the National Parks Board is doing a tremendous job in raising public awareness. I noticed massive billboards placed strategically in areas that were once popular with scavenging monkeys that reminded visitors to let the wild animals feed themselves. According to the billboards, offenders can even be fined now for feeding monkeys. NParks is determined to get the message across and the positive results were self-evident. From the bridge, I glimpsed at least a dozen monkeys foraging for fruits and seeds under leaves and branches. A decade ago at Bukit Timah Nature Reserve, a fearless macaque climbed nonchalantly onto a bench and stole a bag of potato chips from my lap. The cheeky bugger then sauntered over to the other end of the bench and ate them in front of me. But that is less likely to happen now. The monkeys are trooping back to the trees. Keep them there.
I embarked upon the long walk along Rifle Range Link and Rifle Range Road. Perhaps understandably, I met a lot of young men carrying weapons. National Servicemen were dotted all over the place: under tents, at checkpoint barriers or marching in single file through the forest in their camouflaged uniforms. To make a rather obvious point, the soldiers were so young. They were just kids. I know it is not politically correct, but I will never be comfortable with teenagers brandishing guns. They should be out chasing young women at Zouk, not chasing inanimate objects in the jungle. When I was their age, I felt uneasy with a pint of cider and blackcurrant in my hand, let alone an assault rifle. They looked bored, too. I knew the way to Bukit Timah Nature Reserve but, to make conversation, I asked one lonely serviceman for directions. He sat alone in the middle of the Central Catchment Nature Reserve and fiddled with his cable. He probably was not the first soldier to do so, of course.
“Hey man, how’s it going?” I asked enthusiastically. “Am I going the right way for Bukit Timah?”
“No, you want to go back that way,” he replied, gesturing in the opposite direction.
“Are you sure? That’s MacRitchie. I’ve just been there. Bukit Timah should be this way.”
“Ah, okay, if you’re sure. But I really think Bukit Timah is the other way.”
“Well, I’ll soon find out. What kind of exercise are you doing out here anyway?”
“Navigation.”
I had to look away and cover my mouth. With navigational experts like that in the Singapore Armed Forces, who needs an enemy?
I followed the trail into Rifle Range Road and was overcome by the putrid stench of rotting flesh. It was inescapable. With my T-shirt pulled up over my nose, I saw two scavenging crows pick away at a dead snake in the middle of the road. The snake had not been dead for long and could consider itself unlucky. In the hour that I had plodded along the road, only four military vehicles had passed, one of which had presumably squashed the snake’s head into the tarmac. It was a mashed-up, bloody mess. Ignoring my close presence, the birds’ beaks poked at the snake’s organs like a surgeon’s probing scalpel. It was a fascinating scene I had seen many times before, but it was usually through a small screen and accompanied by David Attenborough’s narration. Now I understand why smell-o-vision never took off.
I reached Bukit Timah before noon, ate my sandwiches, replenished my water supplies, informed Benjamin that I was still alive, rinsed out my sweaty T-shirt and had a surreal conversation about local politics with a half-naked man in the toilets. Eager to get away, I plunged back into the forest at Senapang Link and trekked north along the biking trail that runs alongside Bukit Timah Expressway.
Now there is one obvious problem with biking trails; they are designed for rugged, all-terrain mountain bikes and not tiring hikers. The path was extremely narrow, with sharp, jagged rocks sticking out of the ground, mischievously camouflaged by thick vegetation to ensure that the soothing songs of the cicadas and the cheerful chirping of the birds was occasionally interrupted by cries of “Argh! Where the fuck did that rock come from?”.
Somewhere in the Taban Valley, short bursts of rapid gunfire sent the entire forest running for cover. I am not joking. I was admiring the number of macaques playing in the trees when a series of gunshots exploded into the air like a dozen thunderclaps. I foolishly dove into some grass and grazed my arms and knees on some rocks. But I was not the only petrified primate. Troops of screeching monkeys scattered in every direction and I noticed a few squirrels jump from trunk to trunk in utter panic. The periodic gunshots were deafening. Through a clearing in the forest, I made out a number of targets and realised I was peering down at the Bukit Timah Rifle Range. Every time, the sharp shooters fired, there was pandemonium. The monkeys hopped up and down in the trees and bared their teeth, the birds flew away and the undergrowth moved as various reptiles slunk away. The forest obviously did not like having a rifle range next door. Neither did I.
Coincidentally, Benjamin sent a text message a little later to check that I was still conscious. I was in the process of replying when a helicopter circled overhead and appeared to follow me. It would disappear above trees only to reappear the moment I stepped back into an open clearing. It tracked me for several minutes as I trudged through the Dairy Farm area. You may call me paranoid, but the moment I replied to Benjamin and confirmed that I had not yet passed out, the helicopter disappeared.
Then the rainforest decided to live up to its name and ruin any chance of completing the tour on foot. I was deep inside the forest, on the Chestnut Track just before Bukit Panjang Road, when the heavens opened. I was pleased at first as the blustery conditions blew away the humidity. But it rained. And rained. And rained. Climbing a gentle incline at the time, I struggled to make headway as the soggy path quickly turned into a mudslide and I found myself ankle-deep in water. I found it all rather exciting initially, but the rain refused to relent and my map, street directory and mobile phone were soaked. I left the path and took refuge under some trees, but it made little difference. The contents of my bag were saturated by intermittent big blobs of water rather than a constant shower. There was no shelter anywhere and standing under a tree during an intense electric storm did not really appeal. I had little choice but to return to the flooded track. I ran blindly through the rain, cutting my ankles on jagged lumps of rock and stumbling through trenches of water that occasionally came up to my shin. At least 18 kilometres into my journey by now, my heart pounded and my tired legs were threatening to go on strike.
Fortunately, salvation came in the form of the Zhenghua Flyover of the Bukit Timah Expressway. I took refuge beneath the flyover, along with several motorcyclists, in Bukit Panjang Road. Some renovation work had recently been abandoned and there were tins of paint and bags of cement lying around under the flyover. I found an old pair of paint-spattered trousers and gladly used them to dry myself. I hope the owner did not mind.
The ferocious storm continued for another hour and I could not risk ruining my map, notepad and the rest of the contents of my rucksack by plodding on to Mandai Road. Nor would I entertain the prospect of rambling around Nee Soon Swamp after dark. Hikers do get lost out there and I did not fancy becoming another statistic for the National Parks Board’s rescue team. So I dried my clothes and relied on public transport to get to Lower Peirce Reservoir Park. The flesh was just about willing, but the logistics were weak.
I like Lower Peirce Reservoir Park. The reservoir provides a charming backdrop for a picnic and a great place to go skinny-dipping with your mates when you are drunk at 3am. For legal reasons, I cannot say anymore on that particular subject. The park also has a gentle, amiable boardwalk through mature secondary rainforest and, most important of all, provided the location for my daft Stamford Raffles scenes in Talking Cock, The Movie.
When I arrived, I had the entire park to myself, but that was probably because it was pissing down on a Wednesday afternoon. I climbed over a gate to take a short cut through the Singapore Island Country Club (SICC) to get back to MacRitchie when Mr Kiasu appeared. That guy is like a bus or a policeman, isn’t he? He is always there when you do not bloody need him. My feet had ba
rely touched SICC ground when he descended down an immaculate grassy slope, waving at me frantically. Remembering my manners, I smiled and waved back. My flippancy irritated him.
“Cannot, cannot, cannot,” he shouted as he thundered across one of the greens. “Cannot come in here. No, no, no.” Mr Kiasu liked to repeat himself.
“It’s okay. I’m just going to take a short cut through the golf club to MacRitchie. I’ve done it before.” That was true, albeit with a nature group that had first obtained written permission from SICC.
“Cannot, cannot, cannot,” he reiterated, waving a finger near my face. “Must go back to Upper Thomson Road.” His authoritarian demeanour and aggressive tone annoyed me.
“Okay mate, calm down. I was just trying to take a short cut.”
“Cannot, cannot. This is a private golf course. Cannot. No, no, no.”
“All right, don’t wet yourself. I’m not going to steal the grass off your bloody greens, am I? ”
I will not miss Mr Kiasu when I leave Singapore. I will not miss private golf clubs either.
But there are so many glorious things about this country that I will miss. As I trudged wearily down Upper Thomson Road in the rain, a kindly taxi driver tooted his horn and enquired if I needed a ride. I declined, but his unexpected, benevolent gesture made me smile. I will miss Singaporean taxi drivers and their insistence that I tell them which way to go. Theirs is the only profession where the customer must provide directions to get the job done. I had a tonsillectomy at Singapore General Hospital and the surgeon did not seek my opinion on which way to go in.
I will miss a country where you can call a referee “a plank”, “talk cock” and “fuck spider”, often at the same time. A country where cheeky children step into a lift and shout “Wah, ang moh! So tall, ah” and inquisitive aunties insist on knowing your life story before you reach the ground floor. This is the country that gave the world the chicken chop, the contents of which remain a mystery to me, and Romancing Singapore, a festival of love that offers conclusive proof that the government has finally taken the business of a sense of humour seriously.
Final Notes From a Great Island Page 26
