Unearthing Singapore of yore

 A long time ago, I was ashamed to admit that I spent the first five years of my existence in a kampong somewhere along Elias Road. At that time, when I was about eight or nine years old, I felt embarrassed each time classmates asked where I lived before moving into our Tampines flat.

The national narrative in schools then – and probably now – was how Singapore has finally progressed from its third-world, dilapidated-squatter beginnings, so much so that in my young mind I viewed my kampong roots with disdain. I thought living in a kampong was a sign of backwardness, where buckets had to be placed under corrugated-zinc roofs to catch dripping water on rainy days, walls were cobbled from plywood and toilets were separate entities with no running showers or flushing systems.

Fast forward to some 20 years later, I am now very thankful for having had a taste of kampong living. For Singaporeans born after the 80s (I was born in 1982 by the way), hardly anyone could claim that they have had such an experience. Looking back, I could recall only memories from three years of age onward, but it planted in me a whole lot of concepts regarding simple, back-to-basics living today, including the foraging trend that has gained a significant following worldwide. 

And I bet a lot of people aren’t aware that Singapore was quite a haven for foraging just not too long ago. My earliest childhood memories include peering up at jackfruits tied up with gunny sacks to protect them from insects, cutting berries and leaves with discarded can lids turned knives at make-pretend markets, my cousins stealing eggs from hens (note: chickens were of the free-range variety) and sucking nectar from ixora (which gave me a bad tummy ache later).

However, my father, the real kampong boy, could not abandon his roots even after moving into our flat. On Sundays, he would drive us in his rickety lorry to a secluded stretch of beach in Changi. (I vaguely remember it was somewhere near Laguna National Golf & Country Club, before the entire Tanah Merah Coast Road area was reclaimed.) We would spend the afternoon digging for clams on the coast, my younger brother and I filling our plastic bucket with the sea’s bounty. By the end of one afternoon, we would have collected enough shells for a meal; my mum would stir-fry them with some garlic and chillies the following day and that would also translate to some dollars saved.

Even to this day, my father still shows signs of his kampongness from time to time. Last year, when I spent around nine months in Singapore, he came home one day with a bag of durians and declared they were collected from the forest grounds “somewhere in Bukit Timah”; another day, he came home with a red plastic bag laden with scavenged clams but my queries about where on the heavily urbanised island could such shells still be gathered were met only with his sly grin.

I think foraging for edible treats in Singapore is almost next to impossible nowadays (well, unless we can start plucking mangos off roadside trees?), so that’s why it made me cherish my memories of a bygone Singapore even more. But now at least I’m proud to say I was once a kampong girl.