Singapore’s Foragers Discover More Than Just Food in the City’s Cracks

Somehow, I found myself balancing on the edge of a steep hill in downtown Singapore, reaching for the plump yellow-green fruits of a belimbing buluh tree. Tiled shophouses encircled the hill, with the stark skyline looming in the background like a shimmering tidal wave. I zeroed in on a cluster of fruit just out of reach and reached out to grab it.

From the foot of the tree, MJ Teoh, head chef at Native, explained that belimbing is part of the starfruit family, yielding small, intensely sour fruits. She had enlisted my help to gather ingredients for that evening's dinner menu, including bunga kantan—torch ginger, a flower that resembles a pink flame and is essential for the local sweet-savory dish called rojak—as well as pepper leaves, vibrant green foliage that adds a sharp flavor and is used in her version of miang kham, a popular Thai street food.

We quickly collected our supplies and made our way back to the restaurant, eager to avoid any unwanted attention. Foraging is illegal in certain areas of Singapore, and violators can face hefty fines or jail time. Although only a small fraction of the 283-square-mile area is officially protected and penalties are seldom enforced, the law reflects a broader cultural aversion to foraging, which generally applies to all public spaces. Even when foragers might escape legal trouble, social stigma and inquisitive neighbors often deter people from tapping into the urban bounty.

In just a generation, Singapore transformed from an agricultural society into a hypermodern economic hub known for its manufacturing and expansive international port, striving to erase all memories of its humble farming past. Yet, a dedicated group of adventurous foragers continues to practice traditions that predate the city-state, gathering wild fruits beneath towering skyscrapers, harvesting oysters from rocky coastlines, and seeking treasures hidden in mangrove swamps. With my T-shirt filled with belimbing, I had joined their ranks—and it wouldn't be my last ascent to that hill.

Singapore's rapid development has led to a collective amnesia about its recent past as an island of small villages, or kampongs. After being separated from Malaysia in 1965, the nation’s first prime minister, Lee Kuan Yew, aggressively pushed for modernization, relocating many residents to towering apartment complexes.

“Inevitably, the adjustments were challenging, resulting in some humorous, even ridiculous situations,” Lee recounted in his autobiography. “Some pig farmers couldn’t bear to part with their animals and kept them in their high-rise flats. One family ... decided to raise a dozen chickens and ducks in their kitchen.”

As the government focused on relocating citizens to apartment buildings, Lee was dedicated to creating green spaces that would enhance and cool the burgeoning city. He envisioned urban greenery as a means to elevate “First World standards in a Third World region” and was fiercely protective of these areas, vehemently opposing what he viewed as reckless destruction.

“It took perseverance and endurance to combat entrenched behaviors,” he noted. “People walked over plants, trampled grass, ruined flowerbeds, and stole saplings. Offenders included not just the less fortunate; a doctor was even caught taking a newly planted, valuable Norfolk Island pine from a central median for his garden.”

Today, his legacy is the law. Under the Wildlife Act (introduced in 1965) and the subsequent Parks and Trees Act, Singapore's National Parks Board prohibits residents from interfering with flora in designated protected areas. While rules against foraging are seldom enforced, the prohibition feels akin to the laws against jaywalking in New York — often ignored but not always.

In 2018, a Bangladeshi migrant worker was fined 2,000 Singapore dollars (approximately 1,500 USD) for plucking leaves from a kelat oil tree in the Singapore Botanic Gardens, a UNESCO World Heritage Site. Singapore has a history of scrutinizing migrants, particularly from countries deemed less developed. Ultimately, the man received only a warning, but for many in the foraging community, this incident served as a stark reminder.

Foragers must be even more wary of their neighbors than law enforcement. Lee’s sentiments resonate with environmentally minded NIMBY (“not in my backyard”) residents who view foraging as an act of destruction. Often, the fear of public scorn is enough to dissuade would-be foragers.

“It’s part of the Singaporean mentality,” explains Rossman Ithnain, a former Singaporean diplomat and local flora and fauna expert. “We tend to be law-abiding, which means we self-police to some degree.” Recently, when friends went foraging, he cautioned them, “Technically, it’s not a protected area, but there are many nature enthusiasts with a zealous attitude. Avoid being filmed!”

This issue highlights a generational divide. Older residents, filled with nostalgia, fondly remember the wild flavors of their youth in Singapore. In contrast, younger and middle-aged Singaporeans—who grew up surrounded by grocery stores, air-conditioned hawker centers, and modern conveniences—denounce foraging as a threat to Singapore’s already limited biodiversity.

This is no coincidence. When Lee and his administration sought to reshape how Singaporeans interacted with nature, they focused on children, embedding lessons about environmental stewardship into school curricula.

Rossman invited me on several outings that had an enchanting sense of spontaneity; they weren’t specifically for foraging, yet the potential was always present.

At dawn one morning in western Singapore, I met him and some friends outside Bukit Panjang train station. We chatted in our sun hats as we headed toward the trail. Along the way, Rossman dashed over to papaya trees while a few curious gardeners looked on.

The path used to be a bustling kampong. The only remnants are the once-cultivated fruits and herbs now flourishing wild. Towering bird’s nest ferns radiate from tree notches and spring straight from the ground, offering young shoots perfect for raw salads. We found ulam raja, adorned with pink flowers and fan-like leaves, which taste delightfully like green mango and possess impressive anti-diabetic properties. As we explored further, we took photos like rugged trophy hunters in front of our discoveries. At a massive daun buas-buas tree extending over a river, I waded in to collect leaves known for their antibacterial properties and their culinary roles in soups and curries.

Up until the 20th century, Singapore was part of Malaysia, a place rich in herbal medicine traditions. Knowledge of these medicinal uses still exists in Singapore, enriched by immigrants who brought their own practices from India, Indonesia, Thailand, the Philippines, Bangladesh, Sri Lanka, and Myanmar. However, this expertise often clashes with Singapore’s modern healthcare system. The connection to outdated natural medicine further complicates perceptions of foraging.

Even when not overt, medicinal practices are woven into dishes like nasi ulam, which translates from Malay to “herbaceous rice.” This dish primarily consists of finely chopped herbs — laksa leaf, galangal, Thai basil, torch ginger, mint, ulam raja, lemongrass, turmeric, and wild betel leaf — each boasting significant benefits in traditional medicine. Sometimes combined with dried fish, the mixture is folded into warm rice and garnished with shallots and sambal chile. It’s a rare dish, requiring up to 19 different herbs, each diced into almost microscopic pieces before being incorporated.

“It takes a lot of effort,” shares Redha Faikah Binte Abdul Wahid, the owner of the Little Red Hen stand at Amoy Street Food Centre in downtown Singapore, where she focuses on nasi ulam.

Once, all the essential herbs and leaves were found locally, making this dish easy to forage. Many ingredients can still be located just meters from the hawker center. However, instead of simply gathering what looks appealing nearby, Wahid and her family wake up around 4 a.m. each day to purchase them from a local market, where supplies are delivered from Malaysia.

This type of international sourcing is standard practice. The country grows about 10 percent of its own food and imports the remainder from 172 different nations. Acknowledging the risks of depending almost entirely on foreign sources, the Singaporean government has recognized this vulnerability, particularly before the COVID-19 pandemic disrupted supply chains. In 2019, Singapore initiated the 30 by 30 initiative to achieve 30 percent self-sufficiency by 2030.

While foragers might seem like key supporters of enhancing Singapore’s native resources, their heavy reliance on external supply chains has inadvertently strengthened the scarcity mindset among NIMBY residents. Critics often believe foragers take as much as they can, despite the fact that most foragers adhere to a philosophy of taking “just enough.” With their deep understanding of the land and the flora around them, foragers are exceptionally positioned to grasp the fragility of the resources they depend on.

The government’s interest extends beyond just green spaces to any type of land development. Since its inception, Singapore has sought to expand its territory through land reclamation. This initiative commenced in 1966 along the city’s east coast, using a mix of sand, mountain soil, and cement to extend coastal areas. Notably, the renowned Changi International Airport, completed in the late ’70s, was constructed entirely on reclaimed land.

Close to the airport, Changi Beach remains one of the few original coastal areas untouched by reclamation. One afternoon, I walked there with Rossman. Small crabs scurried beneath vibrant kelp, razor clams blossomed on the rocks, and bright pink sea cucumbers rolled with the tide as we explored the shoreline. Nearby, a boy and his father were collecting long, spear-like shells in a bag. I inquired about their plans for the shells.

“You can eat it,” the boy said with a ful grin.

We were intrigued by brown mussels, an edible yet invasive species. Rossman gasped when he discovered a noble volute, a once-plentiful edible shellfish now deemed highly vulnerable due to habitat destruction.

The amount of litter was alarming. Car tires were stranded on the shore. I prodded at a red alarm clock encrusted with barnacles and collected a sturdy plastic clothes hanger for my closet, which turned out to be our only foraged find of the day. Rossman was more focused on allowing me to experience the texture of Singapore’s waters before reclamation efforts fundamentally altered every stretch of coastline.

While the struggle between foragers and NIMBYs highlights the evolving relationship Singaporeans have with nature, it also obscures the ongoing destruction that officials perpetuate in the name of progress. Locals often lack a voice to prevent the government from devouring their forests and waterways. What they possess are small acts of preservation—not of wild places, but of practices that promote reverence for natural resources.

As we left the beach, in the fading light, I observed shadows in the tide, methodically stalking little reef guppies with handheld nets. Rossman’s wife arrived in their car, and we sped off into the warm evening, clutching my wet shoes in a plastic bag on my lap.

“So, what did you discover out there?” she inquired.

The car was quiet, the only sound being the air conditioning working overtime.

Jackson Kao is a writer and professor based in Bogotá, Colombia. He enjoys dark chocolate and favors the mountains over the sea.