The Tree Whisperer, by Kelly Kaur:

Monday, 19 October 2022 Singapore

It is 2 p.m., the muggiest point of the day. I cannot bear the thought of trudging to the bus stop on the other side of the road in this overwhelming Singapore humidity. Every pore of my body struggles to acclimatize to my vacation. I look longingly at the taxi stand: Oh, I am second in line. Who cares what it costs, right? Guiltily, I jump into the backseat, sink back, and feel the cool air conditioner slowly revive my sanity. I barely hear the faint whisper of the driver repeating my home address as he gently veers his vehicle into the busy street. The trace of sickly sweet, perfumy fake pine from the cheap dispenser dangling over the front mirror suspends in midair. The aroma makes me homesick for Calgary. “Excuse me. Excuse me.” I lean forward to catch the soft murmur of the taxi driver. He points to his windshield. “Do you see any wind outside?” I shake my head, puzzled. The man keeps pointing, “Look in front. Look to the right. No wind, right?” “No, no wind,” I answer. I am perplexed. The Chinese taxi driver, a small man huddled over his steering wheel, probably in his sixties, raises his voice. Now, he points out the right window of the moving car. “Look. Look. Look at the trees. Do you see the branches moving?” “No… no… the branches are not moving,” my voice trails off in curiosity. “Now look at the leaves at the tops of the trees. See? The leaves are moving but the branches are not.” My eyes wander to the top of the giant trees that dot the road. The leaves ARE fluttering. Weird. The taxi driver lifts his left hand from the steering wheel, and his five fingers mimic the movement of the dancing leaves. “You see, right? No wind. No breeze. But the leaves at the top of the trees are moving.” Again, his fingers flutter. My eyes move from the trees outside on the sides of the road to his swaying fingers. I am not sure what is happening at all. The car turns left at the traffic lights; now, the man points to the coconut and palm trees in front of some blocks of private low-rise condos. My inquisitive eyes follow his hypnotic gestures. “Ok. Now, look at that. Can you see? Look at the long leaves of the palm trees. The movement is different. Each leaf, ah, move like this—one, two, three, four.” This time, his fingers flap up and down straightly, one at a time, like the fronds of the palm trees outside. “I’ll tell you why, ok? Even when there is no wind, the leaves are moving to get water and energy. The trees are full of energy. Can you see? Feel it. Smell it. The leaves are moving all the time and looking for water. Getting water from the ground. Getting water from the air. Large breathing trees. Human. Alive. No wind also no problem. Still alive.” At this stage, I’m spellbound. The taxi driver has my full attention. I gawk at the leaves on trees and bushes outside. I gape at the coconut trees and the palm trees as the taxi whizzes by the landscape. The line of trees never ever ends. I’ve never noticed them in such detail. Trees. Green. Bushes. Plants. Flowers. Buildings. Roads. That’s just Singapore. The flash of concrete, machines, and nature. Always patiently there, like an unlikely juxtaposition. Yet a beautiful harmony. Now, I can’t take my eyes off nature’s green moving scene. I always knew that the Singapore trees were there, all my life. This man’s soft, gentle voice is soothing. I’m mesmerized: these trees and plants, their life, their movement, their energy. “You know, if you go to other countries, you do not see so many trees. When you go to Kuala Lumpur, you feel tired because there are not too many trees around you on the streets. Then, you come back to Singapore, and you feel so much energy all around you. Look, look there now. See the leaves still moving, moving, dancing,” then he chuckles. “You know what? I told this 90-year-old Chinese man in my taxi about the dancing leaves this morning. He was so surprised. He told me he never noticed the leaves moving that much. He said he’s 90 years old, and this was the first time he was hearing about them. He said from now on, he will look for the magic leaves every day.” The taxi driver’s face lit up with ardent joy. “Can you smell the trees and flowers?” I leant forward and asked. I was completely sucked in by his enthusiasm. “Of course, lah. They smell so good. Even though the longkang, you know, the drain, or the dustbin around the blocks stinks, you just smell the trees and flowers. You know, at night, I sleep on the balcony outside under the trees. I look at the sky and stars and moon. I can hear the noisy buses and cars. I close my eyes. I smell the sweet perfume of the Singapore air. I feel like I am out in a wild forest. Not concrete jungle.” He chuckles quietly and continues, “Singapore got so many buildings. No space, lah. But the government was smart when they planted trees and bushes and flowers from a long time ago. Not cheap, you know. Each tree is over a thousand dollars. So, when you look around and see buildings, bricks, stone and concrete, you still feel like in a wonderful garden.” I nod silently, in total agreement with my fellow Singaporean who had aptly described how our government had wisely planted beautiful greenery amidst all the buildings. No cost, indeed, had been spared, and the result was an oasis of unexpected gardens. The taxi slows down in front of my block of flats. This time, I perceive trees, trees, trees. I had never noticed them in detail before, even though I have been here for seven weeks already. “What is your name, sir?” I ask him as I pay his fare and open the door. “My name is Mr. Long,” he smiles. “You know, every day, I tell everyone in my taxi about how the leaves and trees have life and how they move even though there is no wind. Trees are living beings. They are so powerful. Positive energy.” “Goodbye, Mr. Long,” I wave at him as he slowly pulls away. The leaves on the trees around my block of flats gently sway. Pure joy. I take a slow, long deep breath and inhale the energy of Mr. Long’s dancing leaves. When I get home to my 12th floor flat, I lean over the balcony, recollecting Mr. Long—The Tree Whisperer! I ponder about being back on vacation after three quarantined years away. My home. Singapore’s concrete jungle looms around me. There is a mix of government subsidized and private high-rise buildings. Shops, markets, and shopping centres dot every neighbourhood. I stare enviably at the few luxurious concrete houses, proudly encircled by brick fences—rare, expensive sanctuaries worth millions on a little island where land is rare and reclaimed. A row of tall, three-storey semi-detached houses lean into each other below. The plethora of dwellings sit in organized, unexpected fashion. Yet, every road, median, and building is carefully dotted with plants, trees, bushes—I let my eyes wander. I have forgotten about the ever-present greenery, foliage, and vegetation, having grown up here and seeing them as simply part of Singapore. As a young child, at school, I sat under giant trees in the school field to block the furious sun rays. I hugged trees and hid behind them when my friends and I played Hide and Seek. From my high-rise flat, I often looked down at trees. I even towered over their majestic height. At East Coast Beach, my family and I had picnics under the coconut and palm trees that swayed in the breeze from the South China Sea. Today, Mr. Long made me realize that I had simply overlooked how Singapore was more than a giant seamless city of stones, bricks, tree trunks, bushes, flowers—continuous, smooth concrete jungle and nature knotted, fused, and intertwined. Singapore was a true Garden City. The sun suffocates my senses. I wipe the rivulets of sweat with my indispensable giant white and red cowboy-patterned handkerchief. The waft of sweat upon sweat. Salty. There are so many towering blocks of flats that sit at every corner of this small island, a country crammed with 5.7 million people. Singapore, the country of my birth, is close to the size of Calgary. Singapore. Calgary. I am blessed. Truly, each country’s landscape is lovingly engraved in my soul. It’s all about perspectives. I am here. I am there. I am home in both Singapore and Calgary; I am an outsider, in both, at times. But in nature, in both countries, I can simply exist and be authentic. Right now, in this spectacular moment, perched high above the canopy of trees, I soak in and celebrate the private symphony and performance the Singapore leaves have put on for me. I take a deep intense gulp of the humid air. I smile when I think of Mr. Long, The Tree Whisperer, sharing his magic gems with each and every passenger in his taxi every single day.