The idea for the project came about through our usual photographers' informal idea-storming sessions. People often ask where ideas come from. But really, it's hard to pinpoint because sometimes ideas bounce around so much we end up with a mishmash of everyone's inputs. As far as I remember for this project, it started out with my interest in doing something about young people in Singapore, particularly about the children of rich expats here. My colleague, Samuel, then suggested focusing on young Chinese in Singapore and we decided to go with that.

2) How did you go about selecting the profiles for your story?

Like many other stories, 'The Young Chinese Next Door' is challenging not because it was hard to find the profiles, but because it was hard to find the right one. I spoke to many Chinese people, cold-called, and went to places where young Chinese Singaporeans hung out. I spent my free time scouring the streets of Chinatown for Chinese people to strike up conversations with. It was pretty random but I couldn't think of a better way to do it.

I even attended an orientation party for Chinese students. I walked the length of Geylang Road four times, speaking to Chinese working in the restaurants and coffee shops there. It was tiring but fun.

Although not everyone I spoke to were featured, they led me to others who in turn led me to the eventual six profiles. It is kind of like social networking but in the physical world instead of online.

3) Did you face any difficulty? Was it difficult to get them to speak frankly about their situation?

I suppose the difficulties I faced were not unique to journalism in general. Finding the right profiles was the first step. The next, and more challenging part, was to convince them to share their stories. I had limited time to work on the project so I had to gain their trust in the shortest possible time. I dropped some profiles because I felt that they were not completely honest with me and were hiding something. I needed them to open up their lives to me so that I could observe and photograph their lives in Singapore. And when they did, I saw it as a great privilege.

I wanted to get figures of Chinese nationals in Singapore but the authorities were not willing to release them, even after much persuasion. I wish I had the figures though. It would have provided something for the stories to hang on, making it an even better project.

4) The story ran in the papers on Dec 17 and the multimedia site was launched alongside it. How has the response from the public been?

Frankly, I did not get as many e-mails as I had hoped. It's always nice to get some readers' responses, whether good or bad. I did get a few e-mails, most of which were not positive. The comments were not targeted at the stories per se but at the profiles themselves. It seems there is a lot of anti-foreigner sentiments in Singapore now.

Comments left on Facebook were also not very positive. In fact, some were so mean and derogatory, it would have made a foul-mouthed boot camp sergeant blush. Still, it's always interesting to see what people's responses are and it gave me more insight about Singaporeans' attitudes towards Chinese nationals here.

5) Let's talk about the multimedia process. How did you craft the plan for a multimedia element in your stories? Is a lot more time needed? Do you think it is a necessary investment of your time?

Yes, the multimedia element to the project is way more intensive than doing just a print story. I wanted to give up at some points, but I'm glad my colleague prodded me to do it and gave me the help needed to pull it off.

We wanted the multimedia element to be a simple narration of the profiles' views on their Singapore experience. It was challenging because we had to make sure that the content in the multimedia project did not repeat verbatim what was in print. We did not want one medium to cannibalise another. It would have been fruitless if that were the case. Our aim was to value-add to the print version through the multimedia aspect. Honestly, it was a lot of team-work. I cannot imagine doing this alone.

It was a huge investment of the team's time. We had to work late nights and juggle our daily assignments on top of this project. But yes, it's definitely worth it because the reach of the multimedia site can go further and stay longer than the print version which is largely available only in Singapore. With the site, people in China can get to view it too, which is also the reason why there's English and Chinese text for the site.

Go to http://straitstimes.com/ttl/chinese to watch the multimedia story!

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

Yesterday afternoon, Chris and photojournalist Tim Hetherington, were killed by injuries sustained from a rocket propelled grenade in Misurata, Libya, while covering the plight of the rebel forces there. 

I was both honoured and grateful to have had the opportunity to add Chris to our staff when I was with Getty Images, in May of 2002. Over the years, Chris had a number of close calls. He made countless trips to Iraq, starting with the U.S. invasion in 2003. His travels took him to Monrovia, Nigeria, Georgia to Afghanistan and beyond. This is where Chris excelled and where he was in his element. His work has won many awards, to include The Robert Capa Award from the Overseas Press Club, a First in World Press Photo, Pictures of the Year International, NPPA's Best in Photojournalism and he was runner up for a Pulitzer Prize for breaking news photography and many other prestigious industry recognition's.

Chris will be dearly missed by all who knew him, as well as all that knew his work, which graced the pages of every major newspaper and news magazine the world over. I will miss Chris as a friend, the gentleman and profound photojournalist that he was. Please take a look at a mere sampling of his work in a gallery we've created in his memory.

In Memoriam - Chris Hondros

The most recent examples of this have been from the earthquake and Tsunami in Japan. What words could possibly describe what the pictures and video footage have shown us from this catastrophic disaster? Powerful and timely images and footage from this event have populated the front pages of newspapers, magazines, websites and broadcast networks the world over, starting from the moment the story broke. The Straits Times is no exception, the paper has showcased the best images available from the earthquake and Tsunami on its front page and prime section, for the duration of the story.

You can add to this story, the images coming out of Libya, the Ivory Coast and recent unrest in Egypt. Pictures, both still and moving, say it all. They take us visually inside a story, showing us things and bringing us an emotional connection with events, that words could simply never describe. Like on all major news stories, The Straits Times will continue to provide readers with the very best pictures available.

Photographers would take portrait pictures of Singaporeans from all walks of life, to go with stories on how the measures would affect the newsmakers. The artists will take the facts and figures and transform them into infographics or diagrams.

The end product is a package that is several pages thick.

I must confess that all this information is sometimes just too much for me to digest.

And surely, I'd believe, there are people out there who feel the same.

Through the Lens (TTL), The Straits Times visual journalism website, has been running multimedia stories since we launched in September last year.

So I thought, "Wouldn't it be great if we could summarise the key measures into a 3-minute multimedia piece?"

Together with my colleague, Neo Xiaobin, we brainstormed several ideas two days before Budget 2011.

We realised that our usual way of marrying photographs with text and sound will not work. It could not show the cause-and-effect of Budget's measures, an aspect which we thought was crucial. We wanted the characters in the story to undergo a change due to the new measures. There has to be some form of visual reinforcement.

"Why not we do it in Lego?" I said.

It would be cute, and fun, to watch. It goes with our concept of keeping it simple. We can manipulate the figures to move in whatever way we want. And, it would be more accessible for younger audiences.

We read the Budget preview stories, and bought nine Lego figures and an assortment of "props" that we thought would most likely be relevant.

Back home, Xiaobin dug up two boxes worth of Lego bricks from her childhood. I plucked out a figure from my only Lego collection left - a spaceship - for the first time in decades. When I compared it with the new ones we bought, mine was all faded.

We then talked about how to tell the story. It was the day before Budget 2011, and we only had an inkling of the measures that would be unveiled.

Even then, things might radically change on February 18.

There was little we could except tie down the concept and filming method. We would shoot with a camera mounted on a tripod, pointed directly above a piece of white paper.

This paper became a stage, a canvas. It gave us more flexibility in producing our stop-motion video. We could move the figures in any manner we want, in ways that 'defy' gravity.

In other words, it allowed us to go a little crazy.

On Budget day, we waited anxiously for the copy of the speech that would be given to the press. A blurb for our video in the papers had already been confirmed for the next day. When we obtained a list of the key measures, it was 3 p.m.

We knew it would be impossible to include all the measures in the video. So, we selected only the ones that we felt affected the most people, and rewrote them in simple and concise phrases.

Then, we storyboarded. We grouped the phrases according to topic and arranged them so that they made for smooth transitions between scenes.

Next, we sketched out how the Lego figures would appear, move and change, for all the scenes. The change can either be literal or metaphorical. Most importantly, it must show cause-and-effect.

After a few slices of pizza with Redbull, we began shooting at 8 p.m. Xiaobin wrote the text in little slips of paper which she torn out. We made minute adjustments to the background and figures for every photo that I took. We swapped the heads and bodies of figures, and even dismembered one of them.

It was an exercise in patience and creativity, under growing fatigue.

Photography ended at midnight. It took another three hours in the editing suite to piece everything together into a video, which we uploaded online at 4 a.m.

Exhausted but happy, we packed the Lego figures away.

Maybe we'll get to play with them again next year.

Click here to watch the video.

It was raining, but thankfully the sea wasn't rough. I had expected worse.

The camera equipment in my backpack started to weigh heavily on my mind.

What if my arms tired and I lost grip and fell? What if my backpack were to drop into the depths of the sea?

Even though I was precariously perched on the rope ladder, my mind was more concerned about the equipment.

Staying positive, I steeled myself to concentrate on advancing one step at a time. Right hand grab, left hand grab, right leg up, left leg up...slow and steady.

I must have appeared very clumsy as everyone - the launch master, my harbour pilot friend Alivia Tay, senior pilot Mr Shapudin, and the container ship crewman from above - witnessed my ascent.

I paused to calm my nerves, but the wind blew and the ladder swayed sideways, moving me along with it. I could also hear the wooden rungs below me beat against the side of the ship's hull. 

Taking a deep breath, I hastened my climb before the next gust of wind hit me. Mr Shapudin said reassuringly: "It's okay. Take your time."

CHALLENGE AHEAD

Little did I realise that scaling up a 58m-high container ship was just a small challenge to what lay ahead.

Alivia Tay scaling the pilot's ladder. -- ST PHOTO: Ashleigh Sim

When I finally reached the top, my gloves were black with grease, and it was the same for the knee section of my trousers.

I looked at Alivia and Mr Shapudin. Other than their gloves, their uniforms remained crisp, and still WHITE.

I quizzed Alivia over dinner at the end of that very tiring day: "If pilots have to scale ships of this size up and down three times or more a day, surely this must be the most difficult aspect of the job?"

"We are quite used to it," she said without missing a beat. "What's on my mind is the job ahead of me. It's more stressful than it seems."

I found out that harbour pilots not only have to steer ships to safety within Singapore's waters, but berth them without any mishaps too. That is their chief concern.

If an accident occurs, she explained, lives of the mooring gang on the ground as well as the crew members of the ship, could be at stake.

Now I truly respect harbour pilots and the huge responsibilities they shoulder.

While their job description may not sound as grand as fighter pilots who protect our skies, the mettle of these 218 men and two women are admirable.

To watch Ashleigh Sim's multimedia story on harbour pilot Alivia Tay, click here.

A case in point. My in-laws were recently in town and to no surprise, we found ourselves at the Night Safari. One of the attractions was a performance by the nocturnal creatures; animals that use the cover of darkness to hunt and explore their surroundings. "Please, no flash photography," cautioned the announcer. The sudden and bright flashes of light frighten and disorient the animals.

Out comes the first animal, walking slowly across a rope line above the audience.

Without delay, the sky was brightened by a legion of flashes, from all sections of the audience.

Were these people deliberately trying to frighten the animal or spoil the show? I don't think so. What this really told me, was they simply didn't know how to disable the flash, or in essence, how their camera works.

To prove my point, I went through the newsroom, randomly asking reporters and editors if they owned a camera. Of the 30 who responded "Yes", I asked if they had read the instructions. Only 6 said they had read some, or all of the instructions, the rest shyly admitted that they had not.

Moral of the story? To get the most out of your camera, from its simple operation to its special features, simply read the instructions that came with the camera.

He would have witnessed his daughter’s marriage and later, the birth of twin grandsons, but he died at 23 in a motorcycle accident after fracturing his skull when he tried to avoid a suddenly errant pedestrian.

His daughter - my cousin - was not even born then.

I always felt it was a pity - one, that we never met, and that he was one of only two sons among eight daughters in a traditional Chinese family. I could have found out more about his love for motorcycles and why he chose riding. I would have known this cool uncle.

I don't dislike motorcycles. I have had brief stints as both rider and pillion, and readily admit I liked the throttle and "cutting through the wind" part. But I've chosen to "retire" as I know now what might come my way one day.

Nevertheless, I think motorcycles are tools of convenience and more affordable and handier than a car.

Through my exchanges with interviewees and bike lovers, I've come to understand that riding a motorcycle is an attitude as well as a choice - a form of lifestyle for some, pragmatism for others.

However, I also believe riding a bike has to be an informed choice. It cannot be motivated by either recklessness or exuberance. It is a choice that cannot be regretted, what with the risks involved.

Riding on two wheels exposes you to the elements and leaves almost no room for wrong moves.

For some of my interviewees, brushes with death did little to deter them from riding.

Associate Professor Joseph Thambiah, head and senior consultant of the musculoskeletal trauma division in National University Hospital, says he sees "patients coming back after being patched up". They never seem to learn, he adds.

And for interviewee Koon Heng, an untimely cocktail of drinking and riding 21 years ago left him permanently paralysed from the neck down at the age of 23.

It altered not just the course of his life, but also that of his father, who took on the role of caregiver. Koon Heng made his choice, and the result is one he has to accept, no doubt with regret.

But regrets are for those who survive. For those who don't, the family grieves for a lifetime.

Click here to watch a multimedia story about Koon Heng on Through The Lens.

She was 50 when she passed away in 1979 due to advanced breast cancer. She was uneducated and the family struggled with finances.

So, she quietly did what she thought best.

She went with her neighbours to pray, turned to traditional Chinese medicine and applied herbs on herself.

By the time she sought professional help and surgery to remove her breasts, it was too late.

She died within three months of chemotherapy.

My father recalls her pain and suffering during her last days. He regrets finding out about her condition so late which delayed her treatment.

That was 31 years ago.

Today, advancement in medicine has yielded more ways to fight cancer.

"Even at a later stage, cancer can be controlled for years with the right drugs," says oncologist Tan Sing Huang, a consultant in National University Cancer Institute, Singapore's (NCIS) Department of Haematology-Oncology.

If detected early, lives can be saved.

I know I'm not alone when I say I take my health for granted.

For the past two months, I've been photographing Jenny Sito, 55, a breast cancer patient.

I think I'm like Jenny. She used to regard herself as invincible until she was diagnosed with stage 2, triple negative, breast cancer in February.

I skip meals, stay up late, drink too little water for my own good and think that Panadol is the solution to all my illnesses.

But no one is invincible.

Ms Sito is currently undergoing chemotherapy and will be having radiotherapy in November. Her treatment ends in January with a possibility of a 30 per cent relapse within 10 years based on her age and tumour characteristics.

Her live-in boyfriend of 15 years left her after he found out about her diagnosis. Estranged from her family and with no close friends in Singapore, she struggles with her treatment and side-effects while juggling her travel agency business all by herself.

Ms Sito appears energetic and jovial with people, and tries to busy herself with work and activities. But she reveals that the hardest moments are when she is back in her apartment alone. There, she often imagines the worst.

It is impossible to understand the battle that cancer patients have go through unless you have gone through the same fight. It's even worse if you have to front it alone.

You cannot imagine the pain of having needles being stuck into you because of chemotherapy, the nasty metallic taste in your mouth or the horror of seeing your hair falling out in chunks.

The advice from Ms Sito - go for regular health screenings, mammograms and take care of your health.

"The effects are not worth the excuses," she says.

I'll be going for my first health screening in almost three years since I started working.

Don't be like me.

To watch Neo Xiaobin's multimedia story on Jenny Sito, click here.