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.
I was staggered by its foresight and the overriding fact that the waterway was such a damn fine family-friendly park. Plus, the Punggol Waterway was a brilliant bus stop. I crossed Kelong Bridge, its stilt structures a nod to the town’s heritage as a fishing village, and sat at a bus stop from old Punggol Road. A new bridge link was built across the waterway to join Punggol Road but the developers retained a portion of the old track within the park complete with bus stop. I love kitschy stuff like that. I sat down and waited for a couple of amblers, a father and son, to approach, whereupon I asked what time the next bus was coming. I said I had been waiting for an hour. I perfected my confused, puzzled stare as they explained matters. I did enjoy myself.
Not far from where I sat, a 7-metre crocodile had been spotted in the Punggol swamp in 1960, according to a Straits Times report, three times the length of the estuarine croc I had tracked down in Sungei Buloh Nature Reserve six years ago. The eyewitness’s name was not mentioned but he broke the national 100-metre record the same day.
I followed the meandering waterway, nodding to cyclists and sidestepping children on scooters, and realised I was beginning to envy the residents. Some 21,000 public and private homes will rise up along the waterfront and by the time I had reached the children’s water play area, I was ready to see show flats. Instead, I jealously watched children running in and out of the fountains and soaking themselves. I was itching to peel off my clammy clothes, run through the cooling fountains and shoot the kids with the water cannons. But my access-all-areas pass, my daughter, wasn’t with me and I suspected that I was already on wanted posters around Woodlands Waterfront Park after my sky walk so I trudged on, read the superb heritage murals at Heartwave Wall and then decided to do a little trespassing to reach the island that made Punggol Waterway possible.
Passengers on the No. 84 loop service feel isolated if they are not holding something tall and erect between their legs. The bus to Punggol Point is the fisherman’s charter. I was the only one on board without a fishing rod. I was also the only passenger who alighted at the penultimate bus stop. The street directory indicated a Punggol Track 22, but when the dust from the departing bus had settled, I was alone in front of a closed-off muddy path blocked by a barrier. Still, I presumed that was to keep out vehicles so I happily ducked underneath a Keep Out sign and sampled a little of Punggol’s rural farming past.
With dusk approaching, the swampy setting proved unsettling. Established trees on both sides of the boggy track afforded the farms on my left some privacy, but they also blocked out the sunlight. Every movement in the long grass had me twitching. Ordinarily, the rare sight of a purple heron rising from a stream beside me and soaring effortlessly for the treetops would have been something to savour. Instead, I found myself producing that sudden yelping noise a small dog makes when you accidentally tread on it.
I hurried ahead and stumbled upon an empty construction site. Large muscular vehicles surrounded me, and the diggers and trucks left tilted atop piles of sand and the area’s desolation left me feeling strangely lonely. Finally, I reached a clearing and found what I was looking for—the dam that joined the mainland to Coney Island (or Pulau Serangoon). By damming Sungei Punggol near Marina Country Club and Sungei Serangoon at Coney Island, Singapore created two new reservoirs in July 2011. The island’s 16th and 17th reservoirs are linked by the Punggol Waterway that I had just left. These two reservoirs alone will supply 5 per cent of Singapore’s water needs. Honestly, if there were another country that took such a profound long-term view of supplementing the supplies in its larder ... well, there isn’t, is there?
I planned to break into Coney Island. Fishermen do it all the time. The 45-hectare island is a popular hideaway for intrepid anglers, but one not without risk. In November 2011, lightning struck two fishermen on Coney Island, killing one and severely injuring the other. Clouds loomed overhead, but not enough to pose a threat. Aside from a couple of guys playing with their fishing rods on the Punggol side, I was alone and quickly jogged across the dam. I was greeted by a perimeter fence with barbed wire on top and an SLA warning against trespassing that was too prominent to ignore, even for me. I contemplated a hole in the fence by my feet and had crouched down to gauge its width when a stray dog bolted through and almost sent me into the reservoir. I gave the female stray a wide berth for fear of stumbling upon any pups and losing several toes. A month before I visited, a 20-year-old female jogger was attacked by a pack of nine stray dogs at Punggol Waterway. She barely had time for a tetanus shot before hysterical letter writers and blog posters were demanding death to all dogs. On this tour of Singapore’s quirkier corners, I have learnt to walk slowly in the opposite direction. Run away in a frenzied fashion and they will give chase and clamp onto anything dangly. Just leave them be. The dogs were there first.
Having wisely decided not to break in and enter Coney Island and disturb its wolf packs, my day was just about done. I made for the usually dull, dozing Punggol Point. But the old fishing jetty wasn’t sleeping, she was alive and kicking. The northeastern point had been sharpened in my absence, the park packed with picnickers, fishing families and cyclists. It was like stumbling upon an old folks’ home and finding all the residents twisting their melons to hip hop, swigging cider and groping each other on the sofa.
I had inadvertently discovered the new Punggol Promenade, a 4.9-kilometre-long waterfront trail that started at Sengkang Riverside Park. I had come full circle. Punggol Point Park itself had only opened in November 2011. With a new viewing deck and children’s playground, the area was crammed with picnic mats. I peered over the spruced-up jetty and it was almost reassuring to note that the sea remained appallingly polluted, the one constant from my last visit. The sun was setting and the sky glowed in glorious pinks and purples as children ran alongside dogs on the beach while their parents poured out drinks beneath the viewing deck. I was rather thirsty myself and realised I had no change for the vending machine on the promenade.
“Excuse me, do you have change for $2?” I asked a Malay family stretched out across various blankets in front of the police post. “The vending machine only takes coins.”
“Yeah, sure, no problem,” said an uncle. “But I don’t think the machine is working.”
He was right. The machine rejected my coins. Someone touched me on the shoulder. A young policeman had ventured from his post.
“Ah, the machine’s not working yet, sir,” he said, emphasising the bleeding obvious, no doubt while a dozen illegal immigrants snuck into the country over his shoulder.
“Oh well, looks like I’ll be going thirsty until I get back to Punggol,” I replied.
I was heading for the bus stop when the police officer called me back.
“The family wants to speak to you,” he said, pointing to the picnickers who had changed my $2 note.
A cross-legged sixty-something Malay auntie waved me over.
“Come here,” she said.
She opened a cool box and handed me a can of Coke.
“Take, take,” she ordered.
“No, please, there’s no need, thanks anyway,” I mumbled.
She brushed aside my garbled mutterings with an indifferent wave and returned to serving up food for her family.
“Ah, just take, lah.”
“Well, please let me pay you at least.”
“It’s $2,” shouted the uncle who had just given me change.
Everyone laughed. I giggled and raised the can of Coke, acknowledging my gratitude. The uncle winked back at me.
No drink had ever tasted better.