In our village, Salleh the attap weaver braved the storm to climb up onto roofs to help repair some of the damage. But it was a hopeless task. He was buffeted by the wind and rain and could not secure himself safely enough to fasten the layers of attap. At one point, I saw him struggle, when he was holding a sheaf of attap and was nearly swept across the roof by the wind. Our wooden doors and window shutters, poorly crafted, banged repeatedly, frightening the dogs and cats enough to hide under tables and beds. Indoors, we ran hither and thither to find empty basins, pails and kerosene tins to put under the gaping holes of our roofs as the rain forced its way through. We were getting wet even indoors as we scrambled for sheets of tarpaulin to cover our beds, but the mattresses became drenched.
Eventually, the Kallang River could not contain itself and broke its banks.
If we had thought that the 1967 flood in our village was bad, this was going to be far worse. The sound was horrendous, deathly in its purpose, the gurgling waters immediately swallowing up the farms sprawled by the river’s edge. People ran out of their houses, trying to salvage their prized possessions, children or livestock. Houses fell, trunks of trees cracked. St Andrew’s School, affiliated to the Anglican Church, sitting on a slight hillock near Meyappa Chettiar Road, rang an alarm of warning insistently. Parents cried out to their children to climb up on to stools and tables. Some scrambled to their rooftops. Swirling, muddy water obscured the lorongs and roads, then rushed into houses, toppling and dislodging furniture, forcing it to float into the open—chairs, meat-safes, cupboards, people’s clothes and personal items. These became weapons of destruction to those in their path. People don’t just die from drowning in a flood but also from injury by bulky and dangerous flotsam, like parts of a rusty zinc sheet, or planks with nails. Chickens, ducks, pigs, goats and dogs attempted to swim with frenetic effort, but their struggle only made it worse, and they succumbed to the flood, turning belly-up. The fish in our overflowing fish ponds disappeared into the merging whirlpool. Our flimsy wooden jambans broke and the contents of the outhouses poured out, creating an awful stench, adding to that of the dead floating animals.
“Kiu mia! Kiu mia! Tolong! Tolong!” urgent shouts of help were heard in Hokkien and Malay, barely above the sound of the rushing water.
It was chaos. Every villager whose house was not badly affected rushed out to help the others, picking up babies, small children, old people and animals. It was heartbreaking to see farmers trying to rescue their livestock. Our resident goatherd, Sivalingam, hurriedly rapped his cane and herded his goats out to Upper Serangoon Road, trying to cross it to reach the sloping hills of the Bidadari Cemetery, where they might be safe. But the animals were so unnerved by the moving vehicles on the road that they would not stay in one tidy group. They bleated in fear and skittered all over the place, causing traffic to come to a halt and giving Sivalingam more anguish. As dry land morphed into swirling, murky, watery lakes, the government sent out rescue dinghies and boats to our village. The kampong generator spluttered and gave up its ghost, plunging us all into darkness. Rescuers had to navigate with torchlights and lanterns. The gloomy landscape was punctuated by beams and pools of light. Anything beyond those small areas of light was out of the range of help.
“Ada orang tak? Ada orang tak? Anybody there?” the rescuers cried out.
If they were lucky, they would be rewarded with a voice crying out in response, giving them directions to their whereabouts. People were plucked to safety from rooftops and trees.
Fortunately, our family home in a terrace of five houses was on a slightly higher ground than the farms, so by the time the water reached us, it had lost its ferocity and meekly flowed into our homes carrying scum, debris and bloated animals with it. I even saw a massive Chinese wooden coffin float by. Hopefully it did not carry a corpse. Eventually, the wind began to die down and the rain also began to diminish.
“We need clothes, towels, blankets and food for the victims,” Pak Osman went around telling all the householders, as we were sweeping out the water and cleaning our houses. “The principal of St Andrew’s, Mr Francis Thomas, and his wife the matron, are housing the victims in the school hall, and we need volunteers to sort out the groceries that people have donated, to prepare food, to change the victims’ wet clothes, et cetera…”
Third Elder Brother was already out there helping. I had been looking after my younger sisters whilst Mak took care of Robert.
“Mak, can I please go to the school and help?”
“Yes, yes, go,” she said to me without hesitation. “I can manage now that the waters have stopped rising.”
Fatima and I went to St Andrew’s school together. For once we were not feeling chatty. The school had a distinctive frescoed creamy wall that looked like a continuous wave of scallop
