A young nation with international aspirations, Singapore rapidly urbanised in the 1980s and quickly transitioned from an agricultural to industrial economy. Overcrowded shophouses were replaced with high-rise flats and sprawling skyscrapers, ushering in the so-called “era of expressways” that saw small roads replaced with multi-lane highways across the city-state. With land at a premium on the island, the rural kampongs had to give way.

And so hundreds of traditional villages were bulldozed, the native flora stripped, earthen paths levelled and livelihoods razed to the ground as part of a government-wide resettlement programme. Village residents – some reluctant to give up their valuable real estate; others eager to swap countryside living for flushing toilets and running water – were herded into government-built subsidised flats erected atop their old homes. Today, more than 80% of Singaporeans live in these structures.

With the rural villages’ demolition also went the famed “kampong spirit”, a term used by Singaporeans to describe the culture of camaraderie, trust and generosity that existed within them. In kampongs, residents didn’t need to lock their doors and families welcomed neighbours, who often stopped by unannounced to borrow whatever they needed. It’s a way of life that the government has tried to recreate in its apartment blocks by increasing the number of shared communal spaces to encourage social interaction.

In 2017, Singapore’s Housing & Development Board partnered with the Singapore University of Technology and Design to develop a framework for urban kampongs, a high-tech approach that uses motion sensors and shared Wi-Fi spaces to encourage camaraderie among neighbours. Lawrence Wong, the then-minister for national development said one of the goals was to “strengthen the kampong spirit in our high-rise apartments”. But communal living isn’t the only ingredient to foster this friendly spirit; the environment matters, too.

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One reason Lorong Buangkok has managed to escape the fate that befell other kampongs is because the surrounding area wasn’t as desirable for commercial, industrial and residential development as elsewhere in Singapore – though that has slowly changed. Once surrounded by a forest clearing and farms, it is now flanked by an enclave of private gated housing and a cluster of flats that overlooks the low-rise settlement.

Another reason became obvious once I met the village’s landlady: a headstrong woman with a resolute commitment to preserve Singapore’s sole surviving kampong.

Approaching 70, Sng Mui Hong, has lived nearly her whole life in the village. She is the youngest of four siblings, and only one who has stayed here. Her late father, a traditional Chinese medicine seller, purchased the land in 1956, the same year the village was created and nine years before Singapore gained independence.

According to local guide Kyanta Yap, who leads tours through the kampong, the majority of the plots were leased out to workers from the nearby hospital and rubber plantation – many of whose descendants still reside here. Back then, monthly rent for each house was between S$4.50 and S$30 (£2.40-16.20). Today, Sng still charges Lorong Buangkok’s 25 families more or less the same rate. By contrast, renting a room that’s roughly one-tenth the size of a kampong house in an adjacent government-built block might cost about 20 times that amount. And the houses across the dividing canal can sell for upward of a few million Singaporean dollars.

While the village has arguably the most affordable housing in Singapore, no new occupants have moved in since the 1990s, and there’s a slim chance there will be any in the near future. As Yap told me, residency is conditional: someone generally has to move out or pass away for a home to open up, and then only those with a connection to either past and present tenants or Sng’s family are considered.

Since Singapore emerged from lockdown last June, Yap has noticed an increasing interest in Lorong Buangkok and his weekend tours now quickly fill to capacity.

“It’s not that surprising since no-one can travel, and this is a unique local tourist spot,” he said. “There are also many who visit on their own; the general public, bikers, joggers and even groups organised on Meetup.” Yap said most come to take a serene walk through the kampong, snapping photos of a rare green oasis tucked away in one of the world’s most-densely populated and urbanised countries.

Yap added that the secluded, tight-knit community of 25 households who live in the kampong have now grown used to the steady stream of curious passersby.

Though Lorong Buangkok may represent an intriguing time capsule for many Singaporeans, it represents something much more for Sng. She recalled following her father around as a child while he tended to this land. It was from him that she picked up the knowledge of traditional Chinese medicine that she now shares with her neighbours. Leaves from the village’s henna plants, for example, can be used to soothe open wounds and burns, and they are also believed to protect against intestinal ulcers when ingested.

Sng knows she’s sitting on hot property. In a country so starved of space, there has been no shortage of developers hoping to purchase the village. But no offer will ever be attractive enough for her to retract a promise she made to her dying father – to preserve Lorong Buangkok. She reiterated a stance she’s defended for decades, and one her siblings, who frequently come back to visit, fiercely share: for as long as she can help it, this land is not up for sale.