It seemed, at that time, a daunting task.

The discomfort of walking on large pieces of gravel for over twenty kilometres, the searing noon-day heat, and the possibility of getting hit by a train coming round a bend were thoughts that made me put aside this challenge.

Then, the train service came to an end, and I was left with a two-week window to make the 23-kilometre pilgrimage along the railway corridor before it was forever changed.

In the crisp morning air last Tuesday, three photojournalists from The Straits Times started walking toward Tanjong Pagar from the head of the now-defunct line at Woodlands.

Mist shrouded the tracks after a pre-dawn shower, and puffy clouds floated in a lovely blue sky.

It was a glorious day, the singing of the birds and insects punctuated by the clink and clatter of gravel under our shoes.

Lush vegetation on each side of the railway formed a green embankment that separated us from the busy road carrying a convoy of trucks just meters away.

It felt like we were in another country.

Photojournalists Ng Sor Luan (left) and Caroline Chia make photographs along the tracks near the Woodlands Road at the start of the trip. -- ST PHOTO: ALPHONSUS CHERN

Less than two weeks after the last train pulled out of Tanjong Pagar, nature was already reclaiming the land.

With its green tentacles, a morning glory plant wrapped itself around the finest British steel of the last century.

A golden coat of rust dulled the gleaming rails, once polished by the grind of countless wheels.

Along the way, the man-made destruction was plain to see.

A distance marker, cut down, caught the light of the rising sun and told us the number of kilometres (760.25) to Butterworth in Penang, where the other end of the line was.

The distance marker showing 760.25km was cut down and lying in the grass along the tracks near the Woodlands Road. -- ST PHOTO: ALPHONSUS CHERN

The jagged cuts on the tracks made by oxyacetylene torches and the flattened road crossing huts at Kranji spoke clearly of the end of an era.

Pieces of splintered wood are all that remain of the level crossing hut at the Kranji Road. -- ST PHOTO: ALPHONSUS CHERN

Inwardly, we felt that the icons of the old railway should not be destroyed.

The yellow distance markers mounted every 250 metres and the tall semaphore towers with their red and green lights would keep alive the locomotive history of the green corridor.

The crossing huts, once refurbished, would make cosy tea cabins for those taking a weekend stroll.

Photojournalist Alphonsus Chern takes a rest at the Bukit Panjang level crossing under a carefully shaped Bougainvillea plant. -- ST PHOTO: ALPHONSUS CHERN

The carefully tended gardens at the Bukit Panjang crossing would remind us of the love of nature and the love of life espoused by the men who worked along the line.

We felt that visitors deserved to enjoy the environment and the history of the green corridor – unaltered and untainted by commercial interests.

Sharing these sights with us were dozens of trekkers who brought their hats, cameras, tripods, notebooks and video cameras.

Most made the journey on foot, slowly savouring the atmosphere.

A few tried to cycle the distance – including a cheeky mountain biker who was pedalling furiously in a low gear through the stretch alongside the Ayer Rajah Expressway, hollering: “Last train out of Tanjong Pagar!”

Sprinting past us on the tracks, this cyclist joked that he was the "last train out of Tanjong Pagar!" -- ST PHOTO: ALPHONSUS CHERN

An intrepid soul even tried negotiating the tracks on his dirt bike. He valiantly laboured from Kranji all the way to the Bukit Timah station, but stalled there. That was the last we saw of him.

The camaraderie with our fellow trekkers was heart-warming. I greeted each stranger and was pleasantly surprised when almost everyone returned the smile and “hello”.

Grinding our way through the gravel, I would like to think that we shared a common goal – to enjoy the freshness of an unspoiled rustic countryside, where tiny wildflowers carpeted the ground and the huge leaves of the Giant Taro towered over us.

Walking amidst a carpet of wildflowers, photojournalist Alphonsus Chern and a motorcyclist share a short stretch of the tracks near the Bukit Panjang estate. -- ST PHOTO: NG SOR LUAN

A Caucasian man in his fifties whom we met along the tracks told us: “This must have been what Singapore looked like a hundred years ago.”

We could not agree more.

Then, the afternoon heat began to take its toll on us, and we began walking in earnest.

Step by step, railroad tie by railroad tie. Together, we counted 1,532 of them between a one-kilometre stretch outside the Queenstown estate.

Along the line, we met old couples out for a stroll; we met young people recording history; we even met our colleagues reporting on another story at a mosque beside the tracks.

But the one person whom we thought captured the spirit of the old railway was a small schoolboy on his way home.

Gaily walking barefoot on the rails under the Queensway flyover and holding a shoe in each hand, he stretched out his arms like a tightrope walker while keeping his balance.

After taking a few steps, he would cross to the other rail and do the same, swaying his body and slowly waving his arms in large arcs to keep his footing, oblivious to the clicking of our camera shutters.

“Are you walking the tracks, too?” he asked us, in a sweet, sing-song voice.

It took us twelve hours to complete the journey.

We crossed several streams, walked over bridges, went under flyovers, and passed through landscapes from jungle to industrial estates, high-rise housing to lush bungalows.

It was nearly dark when we arrived at the entrance of the yard under the Kampong Bahru flyover.

A long red-and-white tape told us we should go no further.

Peering into the gloom across the yard, we saw signposts strewn on the gravel. The skeletons of abandoned locomotive sheds and diesel tanks stood outlined against the sapphire-blue twilight.

A speed limit sign lies on the gravel in the Tanjong Pagar railway yard. -- ST PHOTO: ALPHONSUS CHERN

To our left, corridor lights blazed in the empty Spooner Road apartments, once home to station masters and train drivers, signalmen and shunters. A door banged idly in the breeze.

Eventually, reality sank in. The carefree people who once lived, played and worked on the line were gone.

We had seen all that we had come to see, and it was time to go home.

To view a photo essay about the sights along the KTM line in Singapore, go to http://www.straitstimes.com/ttl/popup/ttl_popup_potd.html?id=0&path=AlongtheLine_10224&type=photoessay

-- PHOTO: ALPHONSUS CHERN

Under the royal gaze of the king and queen, under a portrait of the Prime Minister, hung a framed, yellowed map of Peninsular Malaysia, showing the East and West railway lines.

The British wall safe and the rotary telephone, the bright red token machines and the yellowed first-aid box with a red crescent instead of a cross, came from a time when life might have been simpler, things cheaper, and the people, friendlier.

During those years, I made friends with several of the station masters.

Hashim Muji, a rotund but serious character, whose changing facial landscape made for some interesting photographs over the years.

Former Bukit Timah station master, Mr Hashim Muji, wearing his raincoat while waiting for an incoming train in 2003. -- PHOTO: ALPHONSUS CHERN

Atan Ahmad, who told me that he yearned for company during the solitary days and nights spent at the station, and wished he was posted elsewhere. His wish was granted, and he is now a signalman at the JB Sentral station. Word has it that he may be posted to Pahang, but this is not confirmed.

The gentle and good-natured Abdul Gani, immortalised in a “6:39” photograph in The Straits Times while passing a token to the driver of an incoming train, is now also a signalman at the JB Sentral station.
 
Near the end of its days, the station grew more and more crowded, with curious passers-by and regular fans thronging the platform, posing for photographs while lying on the tracks, clambering on and over everything.
 
I thought that the serenity of the place was lost. This was not the quaint and unknown place I stumbled across and had come to love over the years. I kept away while the crowds were there.

Atan Ahmad, the station master at the KTMB railway Bukit Timah station prepares a token pouch for the incoming train in October 2009. -- PHOTO: ALPHONSUS CHERN

But on the final night, I took a deep breath and took a taxi to Bukit Timah to bid farewell to two old friends.
 
On the platform were nearly a hundred people carrying cameras, floodlights, and cans of beer.
 
It was a fantastic sight.
 
They surrounded Mr Abdul Gani, who was, for the first time, wearing a KTM peak cap borrowed from a 18-year-old railway fan club member, Mr Azmee Mohd Zaid, because his own did not have a badge.
 
As the Sultan of Johor drove the locomotive Tanjung Kupang No. 26108 into the station, Mr Gani raised the final token south of Woodlands on his outstretched arm. The crowd followed suit, their camera flashes scintillating as at a fashion parade.
 
 
The honour of lowering the Malaysian and Singaporean flags for the last time was given to two railway fan club members, Mr Saiful Anwar and Mr Dinie Razin, both 18, who solemnly held up both flags side-by-side for a full minute while others recorded the poignant moment.
 
Then while the crowd partied on the platform, tears flowed behind the walls, as Mr Gani broke into tears while bidding farewell to his closest friends.

Mr Abdul Gani (R), station master of the KTM Bukit Timah railway station, broke into tears when hugging Thomas Daniel (L), a long-time friend and railway fan before leaving the station for the last time on the night of June 30. -- PHOTO: ALPHONSUS CHERN

One of them was Mr Thomas Daniel, who for more than two years, would visit the station up to four times a week after work to chat with Mr Gani and to help him with his signal routine.
 
“I feel sad and empty now,” said Mr Daniel. “I am so used to going there, it was like my playground.”
 
Then, the lights were turned off, plunging the station into complete darkness.
 
The crowd bade each other goodbye. The group of partying Caucasians neatly flattened their beer cans and carried them away. The fans dispersed.
 
Car doors were slammed, and a cloud of exhaust lingered in the red glow of tail lights as Mr Abdul Gani drove his white Proton Saga back to Johor.

As the last KTM passenger train passes the Bukit Timah station, Station Master Abdul Gani passes the railway token to the driver, to the cheers of the crowd of enthusiasts who turned up to witness the event. -- PHOTO: ALPHONSUS CHERN

For a multimedia slideshow on the last days of the KTM in Singapore. Visit here:
http://www.straitstimes.com/ttl/popup/ttl_popup_potd.html?path=RememberingKTM_10173&type=multimedia

Officers from the Ministry of Manpower had picked out the targets – two South Asian men who appeared to be washing cars.

"Let's go", was all the officer said, as he slid open the door of the unmarked van waiting outside the multi-storey car park.

The team moved swiftly, and I found myself hurrying to keep up with them, camera in hand. I kept only a pace behind as they squeezed between parked cars, turned a corner, and bounded up a side staircase.

MOM officers move swiftly into the car park.
ST Photo: Alphonsus Chern

We came face-to-face with a dark-skinned man filling two pails with water.

"M-O-M."

Even as the words were uttered, two hefty officers had already cornered the man, his hands raised as if to plead for mercy.

After arresting one man at the landing,
other officers carry on to the second floor.
ST Photo: Alphonsus Chern

Meanwhile, three more officers had moved to the second floor. I fired seven frames at the trio, and hurried up the steps.

A volley of shouts echoed through the car park as I stepped through the door and saw another man clad in a shirt and three-quarters pants emerge from a row of parked cars. He immediately sprinted for the opposite stairwell, shucking his slippers as he ran, narrowly missing a moving car.

The chase across the second floor.
ST Photo: Alphonsus Chern

The shouting got louder as the officers gave chase, and a couple who had just emerged from their parked car stopped to watch the unfolding scene.

Halfway across the floor, one of the officers tripped and took a tumble. He landed on his knees, rolled to his feet, and continued the chase without missing a beat.

By this time, the car-washer had reached the opposite stairwell. He plunged through the door and down the steps, his pursuers only a fraction of a second behind him, but when I got to the bottom of the stairs and emerged into the night, he was gone.

Apparently, he had dashed across the busy road and vanished into the night. A quick sweep of the area confirmed that he had gone.

As I walked back to the van, heart pounding, a group of middle-aged ladies were sitting together and talking about the episode they just witnessed. Men at the coffee shop eyed us warily as we passed them.

A check of the time stamps on my pictures showed that the chase across the car park floor lasted nine seconds, the whole episode, just 20 - hardly surprising as the man had been running for his life.

Had he been caught, a fine may well have wiped out his savings. Barred from future employment, he might never repay the debt owed to agents in his home country to secure himself a job in Singapore.

By this time, the first car-washer had been handcuffed, and was being taken to a waiting car.

The first car-washer, now arrested, stares at the photographer
through the windows of an unmarked car.
ST Photo: Alphonsus Chern

As I took his picture, he looked uncertain, helpless – a man who was, for the moment, no longer in control of his life.

Read the background story on why MOM tracked down and arrested these particular illegal workers in More raids flush out illegal workers.

Update on Tuesday: Joanne Lee blogs about how her sister was treated like an illegal worker in the US. Read it here.

"Hello, I'm calling from the Jurong West police station, may I speak to Mr Chern please?"

A half-hour later, I was showing my first official guests around the energy photo exhibition at the National Library, even though it wasn't yet open.

One of the officers later confided that a private establishment – one that repeatedly refused me access to photograph - had called the cops after receiving my invitation to view the pictures.

After taking a few photos of my photos, they left, and I went back to putting up the rest of the pictures.

This is how it all began.

While studying at the Nanyang Technological University in the West, I lived on campus to save on travelling.

For an advanced photojournalism class, I found that the only time I could make pictures was after I'd finished all my other work, late into the night.

I would wheel out my red bicycle, strap on the tripod, and make long night exposures of the industrial landscape.

The smoke pouring out of the stacks, the shimmering lights, and the haze that perpetually blanketed the refineries was exciting enough that I came back night after night, photographing until dawn.

When it was time to decide on a topic for my graduation project, I chose "energy" as the theme. I thought it would be a wonderful way to show viewers where it came from and how it got to their homes.

Unfortunately, I couldn't find anybody else to join in, which was just as well, since the bicycle wouldn't have seated two plus twice the gear.

It was hard work. Many corporations declined me access due to "business and security reasons". Fortunately, there were still a few who opened their doors, though after much persuasion.

Many long bus rides to the extremities of the island ensued - the first to say "hello", the second to build trust, a third to take photographs, a fourth for better pictures.

I visited some of these places five or more times. Sometimes, the lights wouldn't come on. On another occasion, it would rain. Then it would be too hazy.

For the places that wouldn't grant me direct access, I had to photograph from vantage points: Hills, tanks, rooftops, overhead bridges, double-deck buses, observation platforms. It was no easy task.

Photographing from the top of a water tank somewhere in western Singapore.
Photo: Samuel He

What touched me were some of the people I photographed for the story. They patiently waited while I got the "right shot". They even agreed to a re-shoot, and another, and another.

Getting the "right shots" filled me with a tremendous sense of exhilaration. A photographer's joy that few outside the profession would fully understand.

Finally, all was done. The book was printed, the exhibition a success. I felt a wonderful sense of achievement and thought the chapter closed.

Round Two

I had just started work at the local newspaper when a call came from the Energy Market Authority. They wanted to commission another show to coincide with International Energy Week.

The project was reborn. More shoots were scheduled, more intimate access gained.

Most facilities were protected by fences such as these.
Photo: Alphonsus Chern

Hours, even days, were spent in the deep interiors of buildings which housed vast amounts of machinery.

Danger and dizzying heights were afoot with every step. Helmets and harnesses were the order of the day. For one shoot, I was crouched on a beam of an overhead crane, my head just inches from the rotating drum that coiled the cables.

The view from the top of the overhead crane at a power station.
Photo: Alphonsus Chern

Photographs were checked before leaving each facility. Those deemed too sensitive were embargoed. A thousand pictures were honed down to twenty.

When I finally visited the shop to see the three-foot-wide prints, I was pleasantly surprised. The colours were rich, the scale, breathtaking.

The only way I could have better conveyed the immensity of the places I visited would have been to print the pictures wall-size.

The photographer setting up at the National Library building.
Photo: Sam Kang Li

But for now, I hope the viewer enjoys the photographs as much as I enjoyed making them, and more so, understands what must transpire that his light bulb glows at the touch of a switch.

Read Alphonsus Chern's full story in Saturday's edition of The Straits Times here.

With the soundtrack from "Star Wars: The Clone Wars" playing ominously in the background, I find myself running up a dimly-lit flight of stairs, my camera primed for action, ten kilos of gear swinging on my shoulder.

I'm trying to photograph the trash left behind by cinema patrons, but the moment I focus on an offending item, I see it plucked out of my viewfinder and tossed into a giant pail.

Efficiency is the name of the cinema-cleaning game, and James Tan, 54, has his team honed to perfection.

The cleaning supervisor at the cinema looks every bit the 1960s Chinese gentleman, with his gold-rimmed glasses and carefully combed hair. With his short-sleeved shirt and pants perfectly creased, he appears more bank clerk than broom-wielder.

In between movie screenings, and in impeccable Mandarin, he tells our team about the unsavoury things he has found left behind in cinemas, from a grubby pair of old shorts to stinking shoe insoles.

What do YOU leave behind?
ST Photo: Alphonsus Chern

He describes how little time he has to clear a cinema hall of trash - ten minutes, tops, from the time the credits fade and the lights come on, to when the next batch of patrons are let in by the ushers to take their seats, popcorn tubs overflowing.

Later, I pop into a theatre to watch the tail-end of a film, and sure enough, I find a beaming James standing outside the cinema when the credits begin to roll.

His team of cleaners are lined up against the wall, looking like Christmas with their green t-shirts and bright red pails.

These young men and women appear casual, even nonchalant, to the passerby, but those who watch them at work will realise that every member of his team is a highly-trained individual.

As the cinema empties, they move in, fast, like an special forces squad, quickly spreading out and taking down the trash aisle by aisle, while James, red pail in hand, directs the action from the centre aisle.

All of a sudden, there are no more cups on the seats, only showers of golden popcorn on the floor. In a flash, James switches from pail to broom.

Valiantly, I hit the ground trying to photograph him in action against Golden Popcorn, but his broom is too swift for my slow shutter in the darkness. I capture a blur of activity; red streaks of broom bristles across my screen.

I pursue him up the steps and across the aisles, trying not to trip up while following him with the camera to my eye, rushing because time is of the essence.

The ten minutes is up. Patrons for the next show begin streaming in, but the cinema is spick and span - there's not a grain of popcorn left for me to capture.

Meanwhile, the big red pails, filled to the brim with soaked tissues, popcorn buckets, cups, papers, and the odd Kentucky Fried Chicken box, are being carted out by his Men in Green.

Well, Men in Blueish-Green, anyway.
ST PHOTO: Alphonsus Chern

I take out my handkerchief and mop my brow; my shirt is soaked despite the Arctic air-conditioning. 

James' shirt and pants are still neatly creased, and there isn't even a sheen on his forehead.

He looks at me, still beaming, from a job well done.