Alive
- Singapore.
It’s an afternoon where the humidity and heat are akin to a clingy partner – too much, too close. It’s 12pm or so, by the looks of people moving past in clusters, little colour-coded dots that I can now identify at a distance – green scrubs, red lanyards. In my home in Novena, I am walking distance to a huge healthcare complex, the police intelligence headquarters, several condominiums, and a train station. The lunch groups chatter and move at a leisurely but purposeful pace to be out of the sun and into air-conditioning in the most expedient manner. I’ve traced their paths for a while now and can predict their movement better than any algorithm. From these little groups, a familiar yellow circle bobs over.
She’s probably in her late forties, yellow circle a broad-brimmed hat. Sweat glistens on her tanned arms as she whips the familiar measuring tape out of her pocket and wraps it around my trunk. I hear her voice from far away, reciting to the younger man with her. “6.34 m. Looks healthy, can proceed with regular trimming.”
The woman is Liza, and she’s my doctor. She visits every month, because I can’t go to her.
The young man scratches his nose as he scribbles. An elderly man on a bike rides past them, blasting Hokkien music. He doesn’t so much as glance over.
My name HT 2003-110. I’m 23 metres tall, 6.34 m wide, and a hundred and twenty years old. I’m commonly known as a rain tree in Singapore, but my brothers and sisters have many names, depending on where they are. Monkey pod tree, samanean, even chankiri in Cambodia.
I wasn’t born here, but in the Americas. I was brought here in the 1880s by the British East India Company as a seed. We’re known more for our diaspora to Southeast Asia than our origins. I’m not anything special – no real money-making skills like the nutmegs, rubbers, or oil palms. No large, hardy leaves to make into roofs and baskets. Still, the British brought me here for a reason – to shelter the special ones. I shaded coffee and nutmeg plants from the scorching sun and people along roadsides. I’m a sight to behold, with my majestic, intertwining branches, and my siblings and I arch over expressways and almost every walking path, giving Singapore its Garden City title.
I’m prouder of my lesser known skills – cattle, goats, horses, pigs and even children enjoy my sweet fruit pulp. Their gentle munching calms me.
It’s been a hundred and twenty years since I’ve immigrated here, and they’ve placed a little plaque in front of me. I’m one of 260 heritage trees, out of 2 million that line the streets and buildings. There are so many of us rain trees, and I’m not sure why I was chosen. My siblings in Connaught Drive witnessed the surrender of the Japanese in World War II. Further away, my Khmer cousins in the Killing Fields had children and infants smashed against them. Will they get plaques too?
I can live forever – as long as I’m not disturbed. Liza and her team make sure of that. I’m a symbol of what they want their country to be known as – resilience, adaption. No one asked me if it’s what I wanted.
—-
2025 – Listening Valley
exact location unknown
It’s a cool, damp morning. Low-lying mist makes it difficult to see, and beads of condensation cling to my leaves and branches. I can’t see very far around – but then there’s a gentle thud of seed pods falling to the ground, echoing against the northern ridge of the valley. I register this, together with the odd caramel scent of decomposing bark. It means that the upper slope is wet – and our dry spell is over. I drop two pods myself, pop pop, to let my family members know the good news.
My name is Vireya (to thrive), I’m a samanea peregrina, and I’m a hundred and twenty years old. I descend from neotropical rain trees, but my species only exists in this fog-sunken island valley, hundreds of kilometres from civilisation. It’s a magical place, surrounded by basalt cliffs and concave rock formations.
It took quiet faith to get here. I wouldn’t have lived this long without the wind, the water, or the jewel bright birds that carried me to this valley. I had to learn to take care of myself. I took my time to grow, to conserve my energy, not knowing if I would ever run out of food and water. My bark grew thick to protect myself against extreme temperatures and animals. I even started producing a toxic green sap – I had to learn to trap and digest birds and other small animals when I had no other option. My siblings and I developed a language, releasing seed pods that echo over the valley when we need to communicate – about potential danger, or even just “I’m doing well. The weather feels nice.”
I’m the matriarch of this samanea peregrina community, and proud of this strong and resourceful family I’ve built. But I am always grateful – I could have been hidden in the bottom of the ocean, with no one the wiser. I’ll never forget the treacherous journey through the Strait of Magellan, on a boat from Argentina to Singapore. I never arrived. My seed-self in a sack tipped and fell across the deck in a howling storm, as humans with crisp and clipped shouts echoed overhead, their boot heels slipping and squelching on the floorboards in their attempt to save me. I fell overboard, still – and the ocean brought me to Listening Valley.
Everything is about survival here, but I’ve never felt more alive.