The last Kampong
I was curious about the place, only passed by a few years ago, and never step foot into the last Kampong of urban Singapore. I wanted to see how life is like after sunrise, and went there after sending Thao off for her early morning flight back home.
Once I got out of the car, sounds of the rooster making its daily wake-up call greeted me. Standing at 60 metres away and separated by a small stretch of forest, I could hear the sound of women talking and cooking coming form the enclave. That is how crisp and clear the air and sound of a typical morning in a Kampong is. Devoid of noise and air pollution from peak hour traffic, it feels like another world, similar to the one I lived in during my childhood weekends. I was lucky enough to have the chance to stay in a Kampong when I was little, even if its only on some weekends. The memories are etched deeply, as the sights and sound of a kampong has disappeared from our land.
It was reported that this last enclave could be making way for urban development soon, and I have to go take a look and probably photograph it as well as its occupants. My expectation of the place being overly-photographed and visited by curious people like me turned out to be true. I met 3 Vietnamese students who were there as early as I am, and managed to make them think that Im Vietnamese with my limited but well-pronounced string of Vietnamese words, but only for a few seconds. It is good to know that people are interested in this way of life, which is how our parents or grandparents used to live, hand forms a part of our heritage. But this being the last one left, made it became sort of a "local attraction", and I can sense that the villagers are getting tired of strangers that come with cameras to record what could be history in a few years. I wanted to make a stronger connection, and tried talking to them, but met with little success because most of the old Malay villagers could not speak English and my Malay is worst than my Vietnamese. I figured alot of people must have tried chatting up with them and they must have repeated their stories and feelings way too many times.
Its a nice place, with lots of mosquitoes and fierce dogs at the Chinese houses. Hence, I spent most of the morning taking pictures at the Malay houses and chat up with a 77 year old Malay granny. We could not communicate much due to language barriers. It feels strange that this is happening to me in Singapore, where English, Mandarin and dialect allows for zero language barrier in any other parts of the island.
I watched her feed her pigeons, which seems like a daily affair, just that this time round, i scared away all her pigeons. So, I learnt that pigeons can recognize people. She looks very healthy, happy and beautiful for a 77 year old, and I thought it must be the way of life in a Kampong. I guess this is the first time that I told someone in her 70s that she is beautiful, and I mean it.
To get them to open up to me, I will have to make a few more trips, which is not a problem as it is very near my place. I went again in the afternoon hoping to see Muslim men coming out of the wooden hut mosque after Friday prayers, but was told by an auntie that they go to the bigger one nearer to my place. I always thought that Malays are more forthcoming and approachable than Chinese, and this time round, it feels the same. I also met 2 Indian men, who came to look for the landlord, hoping to rent a hut for $30 rent a month (something that they read from the newspaper article), and relived those good old kampong days. The younger guy is around my age, and he must have grown up in a kampong, and he tells me, "I like it, very nice place", not once, but twice, and with a glowing smile.
Why does everything have to go after 30 years? Without things that are older than us and reminds us of where we came from, there will be no common identity, only memories that fade and die together with those who cherished them deeply.
9 year old Kamarulzaman returns home from school. (I shot in slides from the whole morning, and this is the only digital picture I got in the afternoon). A picture to start the story.
Once I got out of the car, sounds of the rooster making its daily wake-up call greeted me. Standing at 60 metres away and separated by a small stretch of forest, I could hear the sound of women talking and cooking coming form the enclave. That is how crisp and clear the air and sound of a typical morning in a Kampong is. Devoid of noise and air pollution from peak hour traffic, it feels like another world, similar to the one I lived in during my childhood weekends. I was lucky enough to have the chance to stay in a Kampong when I was little, even if its only on some weekends. The memories are etched deeply, as the sights and sound of a kampong has disappeared from our land.
It was reported that this last enclave could be making way for urban development soon, and I have to go take a look and probably photograph it as well as its occupants. My expectation of the place being overly-photographed and visited by curious people like me turned out to be true. I met 3 Vietnamese students who were there as early as I am, and managed to make them think that Im Vietnamese with my limited but well-pronounced string of Vietnamese words, but only for a few seconds. It is good to know that people are interested in this way of life, which is how our parents or grandparents used to live, hand forms a part of our heritage. But this being the last one left, made it became sort of a "local attraction", and I can sense that the villagers are getting tired of strangers that come with cameras to record what could be history in a few years. I wanted to make a stronger connection, and tried talking to them, but met with little success because most of the old Malay villagers could not speak English and my Malay is worst than my Vietnamese. I figured alot of people must have tried chatting up with them and they must have repeated their stories and feelings way too many times.
Its a nice place, with lots of mosquitoes and fierce dogs at the Chinese houses. Hence, I spent most of the morning taking pictures at the Malay houses and chat up with a 77 year old Malay granny. We could not communicate much due to language barriers. It feels strange that this is happening to me in Singapore, where English, Mandarin and dialect allows for zero language barrier in any other parts of the island.
I watched her feed her pigeons, which seems like a daily affair, just that this time round, i scared away all her pigeons. So, I learnt that pigeons can recognize people. She looks very healthy, happy and beautiful for a 77 year old, and I thought it must be the way of life in a Kampong. I guess this is the first time that I told someone in her 70s that she is beautiful, and I mean it.
To get them to open up to me, I will have to make a few more trips, which is not a problem as it is very near my place. I went again in the afternoon hoping to see Muslim men coming out of the wooden hut mosque after Friday prayers, but was told by an auntie that they go to the bigger one nearer to my place. I always thought that Malays are more forthcoming and approachable than Chinese, and this time round, it feels the same. I also met 2 Indian men, who came to look for the landlord, hoping to rent a hut for $30 rent a month (something that they read from the newspaper article), and relived those good old kampong days. The younger guy is around my age, and he must have grown up in a kampong, and he tells me, "I like it, very nice place", not once, but twice, and with a glowing smile.
Why does everything have to go after 30 years? Without things that are older than us and reminds us of where we came from, there will be no common identity, only memories that fade and die together with those who cherished them deeply.
9 year old Kamarulzaman returns home from school. (I shot in slides from the whole morning, and this is the only digital picture I got in the afternoon). A picture to start the story.
posted by Kwang Peng at 6:47 AM
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