THE WAITING GAME

We are waiting for Sonam. The driver-guide duo has desired so. I am new to the game and being a slow starter, in any case, prefer to ‘wait’ and watch. My gypsy is one among several which is poised by a small waterbody awash with egrets. It is 3.30 p.m. and the mercury is rising over 40 ºC. A Gaur is cooling off in the shade even as a sambar peeps out from the thicket venturing towards the waterhole, cautiously. Another one follows. Sonam is snoozing amidst bamboo bushes. The scorching summer has thinned the grass, yet she remains obscured. Only the experienced guide can see the hint of stripes through the twig tracery. Sonam is oblivious of the spectators at the ringside. Everyone is hoping and wishing that she comes out for a drink. Time is ticking away even as it stands still.

Sonam is a tigress and this is her territory. This is my first jungle safari in Maharashtra’s famed Tadoba Andhari Tiger Reserve. The waiting game has just begun. Tourists are waiting to catch a glimpse of the tiger in the wild. Meanwhile, the sambars retreat and in come the monkeys. Hanuman langurs - mothers and babies, pesky juveniles and rogue males - enliven the scene with their antics. Gaurs troop in herds, but no sign of Sonam waking up. Chips, cookies and colas pop up all around. Tourists are lulled into chatting with each other and light banter ensues between the guides. After nearly an hour, I start to get restless; minutes are ticking away and I haven’t even seen the forest yet. Half of the safari has been spent in waiting for Sonam. I finally take the reins in my hands and decide to move on to explore other bounties.

The drive through the bamboo-flanked road lures us into the jungle. Deep inside there are majestic Mahua trees, the quintessence of jungles of Central India. Unfortunately, the flowering season is behind us. The sloth bears who love to feast on the mahua flowers are, therefore, scarce too.  The tree is beginning to bear fruits though.  These are last days of summer; we are mercifully at the cusp of monsoon season. We are also at the cusp of change of tourist season. By end-June the park will close for three months of rains. We are the few straggler-tourists lucky to have beaten the rush-hour frenzy.

The showers of the previous night have lowered the temperature and the morning safari on Day 2 starts on a fresh note. The drive is suffused with the heady perfume of Parijat or wild jasmine. At Agarzari range, the brash driver, who is better ‘guide’ than the guide himself, promises to introduce us to Madhuri. As we are driving along an earthen path wondering why no other vehicle is in sight, the guide gets information of Madhuri’s movement, on his primitive cell-phone. We turn around and soon figure out where the other gypsies have been. The action is happening right next to the main gate.

Madhuri is stalking a sambar in the bamboo thicket. This time round the visibility is better. The sambar is browsing cautiously and carelessly, by turns, almost as though shrugging any sense of danger. Sambars have poor eyesight so it can’t see the tigress that is virtually within 10 metres of it. We could see Madhuri inch forward stealthily half paw (held mid-air) at a time, in a real-life slo-mo clip. Another sambar joins the first doubling the chances of Madhuri's meal. Somewhere, the brainfever bird is entreating the rain gods for some respite from the heat.

In what seemed like eternity, Madhuri would stop in her tracks assessing the situation and distance before making another silent move. The sambars were now comfortably browsing away. In a moment of weakness and haste, Madhuri over-steps and the sambars are alerted. They simply balk and jink few steps away. They don’t need to run for their lives like the impalas hunted by cheetahs in savannas. The moment the tiger’s presence is sensed or it is spotted, the game is up. We could hear the tigress growl her disappointment as she slunk away deep inside. A Grey Junglefowl crowed loudly from the forest innards as though mocking the king. The apex predator too has its failures, far too many.

For the tourists, the game was still on. The jeeps revved and lined up on the adjacent road anticipating the tigress’ next move. The guides were there exactly for that reason. Our driver had something else up his sleeve. He moved away from the gypsy ‘herd’ and asking us to hold tight, took off. The next 10 minutes or more we hurtled on the murram road at 80 kph, our gypsy a Formula one racing car. It was edge-of-the-seat excitement, alright. The adrenalin was flowing, despite myself, even as a sense of unease gripped me. We arrived at a spot of open grassland face-to-face with the entourage we left behind! We had missed Madhuri by inches; she had crossed the path minutes ago. The others were lucky… but they hadn’t had enough yet.

Unrehearsed yet synchronised, all vehicles reversed and made to the gate. The tiger was headed outside the park on tar road to cross over to the adjoining range. Before I knew what was happening, vehicles were pulling up by the gate. Some youngsters with their ‘bazookas’ jumped out even before their gypsy pulled over and made a dash for the gate. The opportunity to shoot a tiger on the road in broad sight was unmissable. My driver urged me to get out too. That is when I put my foot down firmly, figuratively speaking. I was not going to do anything unethical in the pursuit of tiger-spotting. I am sure the driver and the guide thought I was a chicken!

Not the one to be discouraged the brash driver took us to a nullah to Maya’s territory. We could sense the cat with her cubs, see their apparitions, but none too clear. Therefore, we moved again to yet another spot, yet another gypsy congregation, yet another wait. An Indian Pitta pair was whistling nearby as it busied itself with nest-building. The pittas are local migrants who come from Ratnagiri to the safe haven of Tadoba for breeding, informs the guide. Few Jungle Babblers were blabbering about even as hush descended on the waiting parties. As we stood cameras primed and trained on the road, four cubs trooped out from the thicket, one by one. The three females gambolled across with ease and elan, the male scampered like a scaredy-cat! I managed to shoot the cubs and even watch them, even as vehicles edged each other out in a bid to secure the best spot. The collective sense of satisfaction and satiation was almost palpable in the air. I knew the tourists would go home happy today.

I pined for more diverse experiences, such as witnessing the majesty of the Ghost tree for the first time. The peeling bark of the Sterculia urens stands stark white on moonlit night, its twisted twigs and boughs appearing ghost-like, hence the sobriquet. The Crocodile Bark Tree or Indian Laurel is the other distinctive majestic presence in the forests. By my fourth safari, I was getting to be on top of the game. No more was I at the mercy of the driver or the guide, brash or otherwise. No more was the King the only focal point. And it was then that the jungle revealed itself in its glory.

In the anonymity of the forest, away from humans, a peacock was dancing, its feathers unfurled – a green bush amidst the dun, dry vetiver grass. Perhaps, it was trying to attract a female, but there wasn’t any around. More likely, it was dancing in joy at the promise of rains. The Pied Cuckoo, ever the harbinger of monsoon, wooed us with its dulcet song. The Pittas joined the musical soiree. Celebration was in the air.

The serenade was breached by the urgent and persistent call of a barking deer. A tiger was in the vicinity. This was Sharmilee’s home turf, but the cat, true to her name, proved elusive. By now the guide knew that I was averse to waiting around at the cost of exploring the jungle, so we struck a compromise. We headed for Pandarpaoni meadow where another tiger had been spotted. I could take in the sights and sounds en route. Pandharpaoni was a village in the heart of the core once but has been shifted out and rehabilitated hence. Chitals punctuated the drive. Alexandrine parakeets screeched and magpie robins trilled. A monitor lizard scurried to its hole-in-a-tree home. The fire line of fresh tendu leaves stood out in contrast to the dry bamboo forest. The guide was hopeful of another chance which was not to be. All the hotspots were exhausted, no movements were detectable; the dejected guide finally resigned.

Our last safari had come to an end and we headed back. Ironically, I hadn’t given up though, for me, a safari is not about the tiger alone. I asked the guide about the significance of the name, Tadoba. Tadu is a deity of Gond tribals with a small shrine to it by the Tadoba lake. With the villages having been shifted from inside the park core, nobody ever visited it anymore. As we raced to make it to the gate on time, there was divine intervention by Tadoba himself. Striding by the lake side was a huge hulk, the notorious Matkasur. A mad scramble of jeeps ensued as they vied for a vantage spot, almost colliding into each other.

Matkasur walked nonchalantly without so much as looking at us, unaware - or perhaps aware - of its celebrity status. He crossed the road in front of the crowd, over to the hill, marked his territory and slowly turned to face us. That one glance seemed to be mocking us lesser mortals. I silently folded my arms in prayer.

All Photographs in this blog and website are the Author's Original work/Copyright. 

Slow Dance of The Elephants

The Aberdare Experience

Aberdare Ark is a modern-day machaan, except that it is a building (shaped in an ark) with all amenities afforded to tourists for a comfortable stay! It sits next to a natural salt lick in a clearing within the lush Aberdare tropical forests of Kenya. The Ark has a viewing gallery in the basement where one is level with the waterhole, a terrace which gives one an overhead view and a mezzanine lookout which is barely clear of the tallest elephant’s height!

When we reached the Ark it was approaching sunset, a perfect time for animals to congregate at the waterhole before they called it a day. An elephant parade was lined up, with some African cape buffaloes blending in, almost as though to welcome us. In the awed hush all we could hear was the odd rumble and rustle, an overwhelming assertion of life! Unlike other safaris where we encountered elephant herds browsing and feeding from time to time and took pretty pictures, the Aberdare experience was one to watch elephant behaviour and bonding, intimately, in their natural habitat.

From the terrace, I spotted a cow with a calf huddled by its side; other young ones came to caress and pet it, all the time ensuring that it was well-flanked and protected. Two juveniles from different clans came upon each other, touched and twined their trunks, and indulged in boisterous play for a while. One of the young adults had something hanging loose at the end of its trunk; it took me a while to figure that the trunk itself was mutilated and a part of it was hanging by a lip! It seemed like an old wound and the mammal was able to adapt it beautifully despite the deformity.

Elephant herds of varying strength were trooping in and out of the thicket to the waterhole. One of the young male was wounded with blood oozing from its face. You could see, it was desperately seeking attention and commiseration from others, like a little child. It would go close and try to touch every other elephant that came out of the bush. I was shocked to see that it was being shunned by one and all! To my mind it seemed like a case of adults chiding, “I told you so”, for “not listening” to sane counsel! Or maybe there was some other explanation that we have no way of knowing.

As the day wound to a close, I shifted my observation post to the open balcony by the path where the animals had to retreat into the thick vegetation. There was an embankment of boulders - two feet wide - below the balcony to keep the elephants from straying too close. Every time an elephant approached my side and passed by, it would, unfailingly, lift up its trunk sniffing my presence. But their reactions were different. Some were wary, some baulked and some actually bolted, timidly, tail in the air. I wondered how much of my olfactory signature was imprinted on their memories and if I were to encounter them out in the wild would they recognise me!

The jumbos had called it a day and all the resident tourists too retreated to their cubby-hole cabins for a doze. Being claustrophobic, I had to wait out the night somehow. Somewhere around 2 or 3 at night, I must have drowsed only to be awakened by a sixth sense. I went to the balcony to gulp in fresh air just in time to see a faint trickle of pearly grey masses coming out into the open. In the still moonlit night, for the next hour and a half, a slow dance-drama unfolded - for my eyes only - leaving me completely dazed.

A matriarch with a calf, few females and some sub-adults began confabulating by the pool. Soon the calf lay at its mother’s feet to rest and three-four grown-ups stood in a semi-circle forming a protective cover. 

The mater moved away closer to the water’s edge, sniffed the wind, and kneeled down as though checking the depth of the pool with its probing trunk. It tore away the grass growing at the edges and gobbled it. Soon it had rolled onto its side, raised its trunk, and was contorting its body! My first impression was that this animal was sick; that it might have a tummy problem. For an instant it almost seemed like it was in throes. I hadn’t seen anything so bizarre all my life! The matriarch wallowed and writhed as the herd watched respectfully from a distance, not breaking her trance.

She then strode back to its family by when the calf was up and rejuvenated. Then a slow, deliberate, rhythmic ritual ensued… trunks entangling, twining, and feeling each other. The entire herd stood still in a wedge formation with its trunks touching. After a long while, the formation turned inside out with the bottoms now jostled together. Was it a family get-together where they were narrating stories and anecdotes, trading notes and even, joking?

The calf and the sub-adult were left out of the loop, surprisingly, left unprotected behind their backs! When the calf attempted to pry from behind, curious, the matriarch without so much as a look gave it the boot sending it scurrying out of the charmed circle! With no perceived threats and comfortable in the privacy of their circle, they could now afford to keep the pesky young ones out of their adult “bedroom” conversation!

The herd stood in varied patterns and formations (interminably, it seemed!) and changed positions at intervals. If that one hour could be filmed, fast forwarded and reduced to a 15- 20-minute clip, then I would be witness to a rhythmic gyration, a slow ballet.

Was it a spiritual ceremony or a cult ritual? Or I wondered if the herd was mourning having heard and read so much about elephant’s graveyards and death rituals.

Benson, the in-house naturalist, discounted it saying that in the 40 years of the lodge’s existence no elephant had died or was buried there. He had this to say: “Elephants are highly evolved social creatures and with a lot of research being done on their memory and behaviour, scientists haven’t finished yet. I would think we haven’t begun yet.” 

Also read My Elephant Memories

ALL PHOTOGRAPHS IN THIS BLOG/ BLOGSPOT ARE THE AUTHOR'S ORIGINAL WORK/ COPYRIGHT

MY ELEPHANT MEMORIES

The news item of the barbaric slaughter of Satao - a rare bull with nearly 50 kg of tusk (each) grazing the ground – by poachers caught my eye and made my heart bleed. Visions of African Elephants - tuskers and matriarchs, calves and juveniles – that I had seen in the diverse ecological habitats of Kenya - from the plains to the forests - swam in front of my eyes. Satao was a Tsavo bull and it was here in the vast historic savannas of Tsavo that I had my initial tryst with the species Loxodonta Africana.

RED ELEPHANTS OF TSAVO

En route from Mombasa to Nairobi early in our Kenya sojourn, we decided to take a detour into Tsavo territory. Tsavo National Park is Kenya’s largest, divided into East and West, East being the wilder and less frequented of the two.

In the lazy noon hour, the park seemed devoid of animals though the bush was buzzing with birds. We had almost given up hope after a few hours when the elephant parade began! Being intimately acquainted with the Indian elephant, which is grey-black, the first sight of (brick) ‘red’ elephants was truly exceptional. It is Tsavo’s rich volcanic soil, ochre in colour, which gives elephants that distinctive hue when they wallow or bathe in mud.

In the blazing equatorial sun, we came upon a “nuclear” family trying to shield them under/near a sparse shrub, barely managing to tuck their heads in! That classic sight was a testimony to the species’ qualities of tolerance and accommodation of others.  

Much later, when we visited Tsavo West, the trails we followed threw up elephant hooves, intermittently, but not their owners. Bare boles of acacias stripped of leaves and twigs stood as signs of elephant ravages, but the perpetrators of carnage were nowhere in sight. That is how it is in Tsavo country, the excitement lies more in the suggestion than in the spotting.

After hours of following the red dirt tracks through the acacia-commiphora woodlands all we could see was a herd of elephants walking into the horizon. Should a small herd of elephants walking away into distance - a pastiche at once of mundanity and mystery - be any less thrilling than an elephant at close quarters posing for a photograph? For me, this is a more intimate portrait, almost as if the elephants were leading me into their private domain, if only I exerted my imagination and followed them there.

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ELLIES OF AMBOSELI!

It was March of 2009; the year of drought in Amboseli. Nyika or African bush is largely treeless and hence can be punishing in its natural elements at the best of times. In such a parched landscape, the scene that stayed with me was this: a long-shot of lumbering herd of elephants with young ones in tow cutting through the simmering heat of the dustbowl in search of water. 

This family would have to walk for miles to get to the receding water sources and it would have to do it as fast or slow as the pace of the youngest calf. We, who simply reach out for bottled water or a can of coke in the middle of nowhere, to wet our lips or soothe our parched throats, cannot even begin to imagine the herd’s predicament. The poignancy of the scene lay in the realization of that harsh reality of life in the wild.

As the herd approached our vehicle the calf buckled under sheer exhaustion and lay down to rest: the clan simply stayed put in some sort of protective formation. They stood freeze frame for what seemed like an eternity and we waited with bated breath to see what would happen next. As my son interpreted the scenario, the calf that was resting was the unlikely king, and the family of adults, the servile subjects who had to wait it out. I felt as though the earth had stopped spinning and that instant was IT… for the elephants there was no past, no future; the essence of existence was the present moment – poised between life and death.

The elephant herd would pause for as long as it would take the calf to regain its energy before resuming their long march. We, however, had to move on so as not to overstay safari propreity and had no way of knowing the fate of the calf or of the clan. But, possibly, the entire family would have had to go without water longer than their tolerance threshold, or perhaps I was underestimating their patience and endurance.

DIONYSIUS 

The sight of an imposing lone tusker is worth more than a pride of lions (so to speak!) and we were lucky to see one at a distance near the Olokenya swamp. (Later through the film “Elephants Memories” by Dr. Cynthia Moss we got to know that this was the legendary Dionysius). 

The mammoth, his tusks tending to ground, emerged out of a thicket like a chimera. Surprised or simply gauging our mood as we were trying to sense his, he stood there looking directly at us. Even from that distance we could feel his brute presence, a colossus striding the earth like royalty. Suddenly, contrary to its nature, it darted into nearby bushes and simply vanished before our eyes. It was as though the mask had been ripped off his face and the blinkers off mine as I realized how vulnerable that lone ranger was. No companion, no family, no herd – a persona non grata eking it out in an unfriendly world.

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CLOSE ENCOUNTER AT MANYARA

Even as we had started on our game drive in Lake Manyara National Park in Tanzania, two young frisky elephants feeding by the roadside blocked our path. I was consternated at the sight of one of them fanning its ears menacingly and for once the cocoon of our vehicle seemed vulnerable. What a contrast, I couldn’t help comparing, with Ian Douglas Hamilton’s (Lake Manyara was this elephant-expert’s playing field) bravado in undertaking the hazardous task of photographing elephants with ears spread out, for identification, at times crouching on trees or even on foot!

Not wanting to antagonise them, the driver backed off. Finally, they slipped into the thicket clearing our way. Back at our resort, the hotel staff was emphatic that no game strayed in there as the lodge was outside the National Park, though we had seen some bushbuck stroll below our balcony.

By dusk, after the game drive, elephant blockade fresh in mind, we sauntered into the lodge chatting away walking up to the room. Fellow lodgers - a couple – waved a hello or so we thought; instead they greeted us, saying: “Look there, by the (swimming) pool… Elephants”!

My heart stopped beating as I saw two grey apparitions appear over the curve of the hill. They walked towards the same direction as us, parallel to us, the lodge rooms dividing our paths. Our friends turned to their room leaving us alone to decide our fate. Silently, we kept walking, praying, and managed to reach our rooms safely.  The wind Gods had aided us. 

From the first floor balcony, just in time, we caught a herd of three, including a calf, within whispering distance! I shudder to think, what would have happened if our family of three (me, my husband and son) had come face to face with the elephant trio.

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It was much later in Kenya’s Aberdare forests that I was lured into the secret universe of the elephants where I was witness to their legendary bonding.  

Read Slow Dance of the Elephants


ALL PHOTOGRAPHS IN THIS BLOG/ BLOGSPOT ARE THE AUTHOR'S ORIGINAL WORK/ COPYRIGHT

Naturally Resourceful Nation SINGAPORE

Supertree Grove at Gardens by the Bay

Singapore is one big Universal Studio with several theme parks. This thought occurred to me, not on the better known Sentosa Island, but at the island city’s latest tourist draw, Gardens by the Bay. The flower domes (propagating flora of Mediterranean region), cloud forests (montane rainforests) and state-of-the-art ‘supertree’ groves at Gardens by the Bay are a great education and recreation, for locals, particularly the young, and tourists, alright. In that, they are studio recreation of earth’s diverse and niche ecological habitats which betray gianormous effort and technological skill sets that have gone into its development. In the absence of its very own natural resources, Singapore has been resourceful enough to bring Equatorial Africa and Australian outback centrestage in its citizenry’s consciousness. 

This attitude manifests itself, particularly, in the country’s desire to showcase world flora and fauna at every available space and opportunity. Therefore, public spaces are landscaped to just the right degree and uniform shade of green. The boulevard trees, many of them consciously native, are trained to behave like the everyday vehicular traffic that sticks to earmarked lanes and regulations. The roads are flanked by majestic heritage (those hundred or more years old) trees such as rain tree and mahogany but, like our host remarked, if they do decide to spread their tentacles a bit tawdry, they are promptly pruned to size.

The famed Botanic Gardens, the original avataar of the overriding theme of  “Garden city”, are the cultural legacy of the British with their penchant for manicured green spaces. They were envisaged early on in the initial town plan by Sir Stamford Raffles, the ‘founder’ of Singapore. So while they do host indigenous dipterocarps of the primary rainforests, the gardens are actually a tribute to world tropical diversity. The same goes with the breathtakingly beautiful National Orchid Garden which boasts of nearly thousand species of tropical orchids. Like much else Singaporean, technology and innovation is deployed here too, to create new hybrids. It is therefore, apt, that the national flower of Singapore is a hybrid - Vanda Miss Joaquim, eponymously named after its creator. Of course, the world-renowned orchid garden is still a rich repository of wild orchids, the last vestiges of the lowland rainforests that the island was once covered in. 

Singapore was once a tropical island rainforest, but the urban sprawl saw it diminish greatly. Today, only a small pocket lies preserved in the Bukit Timah Nature Reserve, which unfortunately, I did not get to see. To meet the demands of the increasing population, urban Singapore has had to reclaim nearly 200 sq. kms of land from sea. On the one hand, Singaporeans seem to be spending little time on procreation and the “precious jewels” (the natural resource of children) are becoming scarce. The state has to woo and incentivise couples to bear more children. On the other hand, the government has opened its borders to immigrants. That, in turn, has led to disgruntlement among the settlers and the new generation who feel that migrants dilute the fabric of Singapore society. Today, Singapore has one of the highest population densities in the world! To accommodate its people the Housing Development Board (HDB) develops high rises at dizzying speed as housing is a national priority. This has seen verticalization of, not only buildings, as one might expect, but even horticultural farms!

In my 10-day sojourn in Singapore I saw crows, mynas, pigeons and orioles on my regular jaunts, but not much else, despite the verdure. I thought Jurong Bird Park would educate me on the local avifauna but I should have known better by now. JBP, too, is a cauldron of different bird species of the world, from turacos to toucans. The highly popular High Flyers’ show featuring macaws and cockatoos of the Amazon rainforest, though spectacular, left me feeling a bit low. The birds were shitting time and again, nervous as they obviously were performing in front of a mass of humanity. I shuddered to think what rigour  they had to undergo and over what workday they had to rehearse such a precise and synchronized show. At the other show, King of the Skies, which featured predatory birds – hawks and vultures – I could see the leash on the birds’ feet! The exhibits were even more depressing though the enclosures were squeaky clean and the birds well-fed. The ‘World of Darkness’ enclosure of owls proudly claimed: “Enter the darkness of night, in broad daylight…” Imagine seeing the owls in dim light in broad daylight; owls are nocturnal but they do not stay in darkness whole day long. The scarlet ibis (looked like flamingoes to me!) looked sadly out of place on the faux wetlands at the Park. But, it also set me thinking. Were these minority specimens not any different from the migrants that came to Singapore from erstwhile Malaya, or India or China? Migrants, who got uprooted from their native land and were transplanted into an alien culture and habitat due to unforseen circumstances? And who over a period of time, over generations, got naturalized to a new foreign identity, like the Peranakans, perhaps? They are no different from migrants of yesterday who become today’s card-carrying citizens imbuing the city-state with entrepreneurial energy and can-do attitude!

Back to pavilion after the show as the free-spirit myna (above right) looks on

 After these encounters with nature, I was glad I did not go to the Singapore zoo and night safari. It would be an understatement to say that after my safari in Kenya’s Maasai Mara, this would have been a come down. For a country that has little wildlife, such attempts to procure and display wildlife, may be commendable, but also puerile. 

Having done the tourist circuit, I am glad we went off the beaten track, to visit the Marina Barrage, as it took me closer into the psyche of a nation that is environmentally conscious and concerned. I truly admired the chutzpah of the nation that imports 50% of its water requirement from neighbouring Malaysia, its ambition to achieve self-sufficiency in water supply in the coming years. For some reason, Singapore does not have a sustainable groundwater table, so currently its water needs are satisfied by desalination plants, apart from water imported from Malaysia as per two bilateral accords. The Public Utility Board, the national water agency, is not hedging its stakes entirely on its neighbour and has built several reservoirs and water catchment areas for harvesting rainwater. Marina Barrage, the latest reservoir doesn’t just collect rainwater but also prevents flooding by separating seawater from freshwater. This project is not just a staid state project operating behind-the-scenes, it is an engineering marvel that is being peddled as prime recreation club. Even from where we stand we can see youngsters flying kites from the green roof terrace of the Barrage complex. Children play in water and families get together for sailing and other water sports over weekends, we are told. When they do so, they also visit the Sustainable Gallery which is a “sensory extravaganza” to educate public on importance of water cycle and water recycling.

Green roof-top terrace of Marina Barrage overlooking Singapore skyline

What is particularly commendable about PUB’s efforts is that they realize the importance of self-reliance when it comes to generating this precious resource, especially in the light of history of strife with its neighbour from which Singapore separated to form an independent nation. And they make every drop count. Thus, recycling used water and treating it for reuse for industrial and even, household purposes, is also top on the agenda. Recycled water, currently meets 30% of Singapore’s water needs. The PUB product NEWater is high-grade bottled ‘treated waste water’ which surpasses WHO requirements for drinking water. The PUB has designed and developed an ambitious programme for generating water resource and is co-opting NGOs to spread awareness and take the message across its people. Today, Singapore is recognized as a model city for good water management and is global hydro-hub (which means it has domain expertise in water management and is in a position to share it with or help water-stressed countries). PUB won the 2007 Stockholm Industry Water Award “for their holistic approach to water resources management which made water use sustainable for different sectors of society in a unique and challenging urban island environment.”

Singapore is singularly wanting in natural resources as illustrated above but that hasn’t hampered or hindered its progress in any way. In fact, precisely for that reason, today, it values them more and is conscious of environmental housekeeping. The nation, by nature, is resourceful enough to tide over the shortfall and create plenty.