Memoirs of a nomadic generation

There’s something about Ubin Island that is distinctively different from the main island. There are no busy thoroughfares here; no labyrinth of avenues that radiate and detour further into large ringlets of tall skyscrapers. Instead there are thin trails of tarmac, snugged right in between fields of lallang and assam trees. Sparrows and grasshoppers flit about the path of crumbling gray on which I carelessly trudge. At times I miss my step, slipping into potholes of brackish water.

I descend down the slope of the bank gingerly and inspect the beach. It is a skinny stretch of moist coarse-grained gravel. Waves plunge angrily against the shoal, sending sprays of salt onto my face. There are two figures on the water’s edge, an old man and a woman. The elderly couple has parked several rods precariously close to the waterline. The wave foam nudges their poles, threatening to destroy their fishing pad. The couple coordinates their movements with efficient ease. The man fishes out bait and tackle from his rusty toolbox and hooks it methodically on the end of the line. Then, without bothering to check his behind, he swings his arm back at an acute angle. I barely scamper out of the way. In a fluid motion, the rod is cast forward, releasing the line. The spool swirls noisily for a brief moment before a distinct splash is heard. He jerks the rod a couple of times to ensure its tension and slots it into a makeshift holder made of severed PVC pipes and stones. It looks like a routine he has been practicing for hours, if not, years. The lady senses my presence, but ignores it and looks on from afar. Occasionally, the couple checks their rods and speaks in muffled undertones.

I feel like I’ve violated an intimacy.

In the distance, the tide turns from jade green to mauve blue, reflecting the overcast sky. Sheets of rain smear the cityscape of the main island several kilometers away. The metropolis across the sea-the proverbial air-conditioned city — is in a perpetual state of redevelopment and urbanization. Unlike the lethargic locals on this isle, the city folk are an efficient and impassive people, focused on riding the highway that has no detour or end in sight. In due time, the onslaught of modernity will subsume this idyllic enclave, erasing all traces of its past. But for now, the couple remains there, casting and hauling in their lines with defiance, as if daring the advancing storm to blow over to their side of the isle.