It was here at Bedok Corner that several of the motorcars from town stopped for petrol, or for passengers to stretch their legs or have a snack and meal, before they made their final assault on the hidden villages on the coast. From here on, the road was unpaved, after which they had to tackle the mud-packed jalan if they wished to get to the seaside villages.
“Let’s take a break and have curry puff and teh tarik,” said one.
People from town mostly spoke English, not commonly heard in the kampongs.
“I like the bandung drink…”
“Oh, I must have the ju her eng chai,” another said. “It’s the best in Singapore! The cuttlefish and vegetables are truly fresh.”
“Mutton soup for me…”
Kampong Tepi Laut was only across the other side from Kampong Bedok, and the two were within sight of each other. But the Bedok River separated them, and except for a footbridge, there was no vehicular bridge at this juncture. So the Mini Coopers, Fords, Austin Cambridges and Triumphs had to drive further along Bedok Road till they arrived at an intersection. Instead of going straight towards Kampong Simpang Bedok, they had to turn right onto Changi Road. The posh cars grumbled and groaned as they crossed Sungei Bedok on the bumpy wooden bridge, sending their passengers up towards the cars’ roof, or sideways and forwards. The sound the crossing generated was like the regular beat of drums, in keeping with the word “bedok”, which was supposed to be an ancient native drum that had given the area its name. Adults complained incessantly, worried that their cars’ suspension would be damaged by the rough-hewn logs. But the children thought it was a game and squealed with delight. From there, the cars took another right to roll along the mud-packed Koh Sek Lim Road, pass a quarry lake and banyan trees before they could come close to the village shores.
Holidaymakers tended to restrict themselves to the vicinity of Bedok Rest House at Kampong Bedok, or the Municipal Holiday Bungalows at Kampong Mata Ikan at Changi, because they were more accessible by road. Both Kampong Padang Terbakar and Kampong Tepi Laut were inaccessible to motorised vehicles; the only modes of transport were bicycles, tricycles, trishaws, and bullock carts. Their obscurity created an aura of mystery around them. Besides the fishing industry, the surroundings of these villages were cultivated farmlands, mostly owned by Teochew entrepreneurs and farmers, who grew maize, chye sim, pak choy, kai lan and beansprouts. Nearby was a tofu-making cottage industry factory. Fermented soya released a distinctive smell when it wafted into the air. The farmlands also reeked of raw manure when the sun blazed for long periods, swarms of flies hovering and buzzing around. Luckily, the kampong houses by the coast had the luxury of the sea breeze to fan away the odour from the fields. The town people or townies, called orang bandar by the kampong folk, had to brave all these. Hence, their trip to the hidden villages was considered a major excursion and was likened to an adventure.
“Orang bandar sudah datang!” The kids, who acted as lookouts, announced the town people’s arrival in Malay. These enterprising children got paid three cents for their task. They would also offer their services to the customers, to help carry their shopping baskets or to find them a fruit-crate stool to sit on, to rest their weary feet or to clean their shoes, which had accumulated a thick coating of muck by the time they arrived at the village.
Maniam, the Indian cowherd, offered his bullock cart as transport for those who did not wish to walk the entire way. The Peranakan matrons in their baju panjang and finery looked quite a sight, clutching their wicker baskets, their feet dangling from bullock carts—especially if the cart was laden with hay or manure!
“Amboi! Wangi sekali! What fragrance!” they would mutter caustically as they used their large red handkerchiefs that were usually slung over their shoulders to wipe off sireh juice to fan their faces, eyes rolling upwards.
The villagers hurried to get their stalls ready, and a hive of activity ensued. The Teochew farmers harvested the vegetables from their fields. The Indians decanted fresh cow and goat milk into clean but unsterilized bottles. The Malay fishermen berthed their sampans on the beach so that they could sell fish directly from them or from their stalls. Others set up trays of cakes or kueh-kueh. An enterprising teenager, Hassim, planned a lesson on kampong games for the town kids. Kim Guek laid out her jamu potions, cooled the boiled rice for her nasi ulam and sliced the healing herbs thinly—torch ginger, daun kesum, kaduk and limau perut, turmeric, lemon grass. She dry-toasted the finely grated coconut to make the kerisik in an iron cast kwali, bringing out its delicious aroma, then cooled it, and added this to the herbal rice salad.
It was Pansy’s task to prepare the bunga rampay, a fresh floral potpourri which Malays and Peranakans use to scent their houses. The other village women laid their tables with their craft wares—woven straw mats, boxes, fans, and fabric pyramids of Five Stones, filled with the blood-red saga seeds. Some displayed fresh papayas, mangoes, mangosteens, pineapples, buah duku, mata kuching, nangka and jambu ayer, using their daching to weigh out a tahil’s worth and sort out the fruits in manageable piles. The rustic marketplace was ready for the townies.
It was a fine day, not too hot and yet not raining, the kind of day that
