Singapore's autumn' leaves me grateful

SINGAPORE - If you were one of the many people who assured me when I moved to Singapore 18 months ago that there are no seasons here, please step forward. You owe me an informal apology, both collectively and individually. This is autumn.

And it's beautiful, to be cherished precisely because it is so rare.

Yes, I understand that there are no clearly defined seasons in certain parts of the tropics, but over the past weeks of parched weather, I have been delighted to see myriad dry leaves skittering across our many paths and gardens, blown in random patterns by the moody, unpredictable wind. What baffles me, though, is the universal urge to sweep away this carpet of leaves.

Every day, I see cleaners and landscapers toiling to rake and fill huge bags of these fallen leaves.

I'm certainly not a card-carrying greenie, but as an avid gardener I know the value of plantfriendly mulch derived from fallen leaves, twigs and soil.

I also know, first-hand, how dangerous an unprecedented autumn can be. In one of the three countries that I have called home, I watched as a prolonged dry spell in a cruelly hot summer brought autumn forward by several months, an effect I had never seen before.

Tall trees heavy with thick foliage but starved of any moisture in the soil were swiftly denuded as they shed all their leaves. That should have hinted at the fury that Nature would soon unleash, as uncontrolled wildfires claimed 173 lives in a single weekend.

Back during my childhood in the Indian city of Kolkata, our garden held many attractions for me, not least of which was the leaf pit.

It was a large square area enclosed by trees that were an informal boundary beyond which we were not supposed to encroach.

But despite being warned repeatedly about creepy-crawlies and highly poisonous snakes (yes, our neighbour once found a cobra in her garden), which curious pre-school child could possibly turn a blind eye to the allure of a pit of unknown depth that comprised at least 15 cubic metres of leaves whose bottom layer was probably older than I was?

So you get the idea. I have a life-long affinity with these autumnal vestiges of well-tended trees. When I recently discussed this with a friend, I referred to Singapore's spreading leaf carpet as golden.

I was immediately corrected.

They are not golden; they are brown, I was told. Golden was far too poetic and borrowed too heavily on my background as a photographer.

So we compromised. Not golden. Bronze was what we settled on instead. A bit more prosaic, certainly, but more acceptable.

Yes, I fully understand that last month was the driest February in Singapore since 1869, and yes, I was among the many people who scanned the skies each day, wondering how a seemingly unalterable generations-old weather pattern could suddenly change so drastically. The dark-grey clouds seemed to have vanished.

Even the comforting cacophony of thunder, like crashing cymbals in a frenetic orchestra, was no longer a part of our daily lives.

For a while, it was a novelty.

Then days stretched into weeks.

My umbrella sat, forgotten, in a corner. But I actually marvelled at how long Singapore continued to look green, despite the prolonged spell of dry weather.

January stretched into February.

Then, neighbouring Malaysia introduced water rationing in Selangor on Feb 25 and Mr Khalid Ibrahim, the state's chief minister, said the condition was "critical", with dams shrinking to an "alarming stage".

Humans have been hard-wired since the prehistoric era to be attuned to the weather. In cold conditions, cavemen huddled around fires to stay warm and they killed animals not just to eat their meat, but to use their skins and fur as protection against the elements.

And while they sheltered from rain, they soon realised that it nurtured the trees and plants that produced edible berries.

Even now, in the technologygeared 21st century, rainfall or water supply is crucial. Around the world, most nations still need to farm in order to be self-sustaining.

And so, alongside the many financial organisations and stock exchanges that sustain world economies, mankind simultaneously celebrates the spread of more silicon valleys and start-ups while sometimes losing sight of the men and women who farm in increasingly difficult conditions.

The first time I heard of people buying water during my years as a student, I was amazed. Why should anyone be charged for something that flows freely from taps in most corners of the world?

That was my introduction to the user-pays concept. Paying for water - the bottled variety, as well as what we consume domestically as a modern society - reinforces the fact that even though we live on a planet where the land mass is dwarfed by the volume of our oceans, lakes, rivers and seas, we cannot be complacent.

Even generational farmers in the United States farming heartland, where the use of water has seldom been contentious, now find themselves embroiled in legal cases to protect their right to the water supply that keeps them in business.

In Texas, cotton farmer Frank DeStefano has had to go to court to protect not just his own 200ha cotton farm but also the longstanding irrigation rights that sustain hundreds of other farms in the region.

We in Singapore are fortunate that our economy is not tied to farming. In this respect, consider that palm oil, cocoa and rubber are vital to neighbouring Malaysia's financial well-being.

So while the recent weeks of dry weather affected the aesthetic expectations we have of our parks and lush greenery, they made no difference to our productivity, our economy or our daily lives.

Progressively, this dry spell produced gradual visible manifestations.

In the early morning light at Bishan Park one day, it looked as if someone had dumped rusted metal brake drums from car wheels near the Kallang River.

But when I drew closer, I realised my mistake. The objects were not metal. They were fallen leaves at the base of a grove of banana trees, but they were dark brown, brittle and curled inwards. They looked as if they had been deep-fried.

Even the beautiful lotus pond at Bishan, which often draws painters armed with easels and long brushes, began to show signs of the dry weather.

Despite being situated in deep shade, its eastern end began showing 2m of dry soil last week as the water began, almost imperceptibly, to recede before the rain finally returned.

Sometimes, though, modern society takes Nature's bounties for granted.

Consider the story told by a farmer during the height of a cruel drought seven years ago. His little son came running indoors in distress, scared by the sight of something he never seen before.

Gently, the boy's mother explained that it was nothing to be afraid of and that it would not hurt him in any way.

It was rain.

dmcmahon@sph.com.sg

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