There's something about Punggol and Lorong Halus that speaks to the northeast soul inside of me.
I can't really define what it is.
It may be the quiet of the waters that flow from the river to the Johor Straits that we often call the open sea.
It may be the once-swampy banks that lined both sides of the river.
Or, it may be the chill of the Land that this area seems to bring.
For a long time I never got to come to this place.
It just wasn't a place to come to.
Either that, or it never really crossed our minds to make a trip here.
Except for that one Sunday afternoon when The Parents decided to drive to the end of Upper Serangoon Road where the road used to meet the river and where the bumboat used to meander through the mangrove swamps towards the sea- I never came here at all.
But the place is different now.
You've got parks, you've got boardwalks, you've got cafes, convenience stores, and even little prawning ponds.
Better still, it has become possible to bike here.
Which I do, from time to time, either beginning from East Coast Park, down Tanah Merah Coastal Road, through Changi Village (where I make a pit stop), up Loyang, through Pasir Ris, through Lorong Halus, and finally Punggol or from Still Road, up Eunos Link and Hougang Avenue 3, into Defu Avenue 1, up Hougang Avenue 7, into Upper Serangoon Road, onto the PCN and finally, up to Punggol.
The first route is long- Daffy my bike knows- but oh, what a view you get when you find yourself on the Halus Bridge overlooking waters like these.
This isn't a view to be found anywhere, except maybe at Sarimbun or Kranji or Tuas or Pulau Ubin.
And it isn't merely about the view, but the fact that these waters- untouched, unadulterated as they are- are a stoic reminder of what our country (before all the development) once used to be.
It's important- this reminder- because- some of us never knew.
We didn't know that there was a Serangoon Island, a Punggol Timor Island or a Punggol Barat Island. Back then, our maps didn't show.
We didn't know if anyone lived on the islands, on the river, or on the banks of the river.
All we knew was that the northeast monsoon rains of November and December were always chilly and cold.
All we knew was that after the rains there would be this distinct kampung smell that drifted from the Punggol side into the windows of our home.
I can never disconnect the vibes of Christmas with the chill of nice, cold rains outside my highrise windows.
I can never forget the deepset, penetrative, permeating silence that this neighborhood in the dark hours of night seemed to bring.
She still wields a sense of mystery, this place, but more than that, she is a place of anticipation, of nostalgia and of hope.
Because whatever was once lost can be found again.
And whatever was once taken away can be restored again.