Joe had twenty birds once. Little silver-eyes. You know the sort. The ones we chase away from our fruit trees, but in Singapore they're called Malaysian honey-birds and are highly prized because of their beautiful singing voices.

Now he has only three, Joe tells me, saddening as he does, so I try to match his mood. We're standing, talking, underneath a hundred or so noisy, twittering, chirping birds, their bamboo cages hooked-up almost touching each other in the shade of a massive tree. Just metres away Singapore's early Sunday morning traffic thunders past in the still-cool sunlight.

To get the idea of what's going on, you have to watch the men arriving,  cages cloaked lest the timid small birds die of fright on the journey – no wonder, some come on the back of a motorbike – and see them gently elevated to position on a  hook under the pergola; watch how tenderly these Chinese men, some of them positively ancient, fuss and croon over them.

You need to notice the artefacts too that deck their bamboo homes. There are painted ceramic seed-holders, bone, jade and porcelain decorations, carved ivory and timber perches, a buddha, a flash of gold here, some lucky red there, accoutrements that will perhaps enhance their charge's chances. For this is no simple soiree of birdlovers. This is not your regular bird fan-club meet. This is serious stuff. For some men, this is their job, their feathered friends, not friends at all, merely employees, trained to sing on, and on, and on.

Joe tells me that those little warblers are worth plenty, and that the whole business is just that – business. Mentally I scratch out the lovey-dovey angle. These guys are in it for the long haul, for the returns.

Which somehow still doesn't detract from the ambience of the place, the bird-music, the shade, sitting here sipping coffee around the sun-speckled courtyard in the company of owners and others. This peaceful spot seems transplanted from somewhere else. You certainly don't feel as if you are in the middle of super-slick, time-is-money Singapore. Here the moments idle by, as the birds tune-up and just keep on singing.

And keep singing they must, for they are in training for the next Songbirds' Singing Contest. A photopcopied poster glued to a wall tells me it costs S$10 to enter. Joe tells me the winnings could be money, more often a trophy. More lucratively the better birds are worth plenty – a lot – when sold. Most of all is the status that comes to a regular winner – that, plus the esteem earned by its owner.

Time to buy a bundle of dead grasshoppers to feed his birds, Joe thinks, from the grasshopper entrepreneur selling out of a plastic box at the side of the Bird Arena, as they call it. This is the fuel that keeps these babies going. And going. And none of the owners begrudge a cent of what it costs to do that.

To win a contest a bird must keep singing, longer, louder, than any of its opponents. This relaxing coffee-klatch for us is, for them, a work-in-progress session. Their owners know exactly which bird will encourage another to sing, which will pace their own bird. And if they make a mistake they will move the cage to another more propitious, more challenging vicinity.

Joe, who seems to know these things, tells me "Males are the best. You can tell a good one by the throat." He shifts his cap thoughtfully. "When they sing, the beak – it goes like this," he makes a vibrating patter with his hands, "like a machine gun." Good birds go for S$2-3000, he tells me. Across the road in a bird-supplies place (funny, the proximity) a forlorn red parrot wears a S$700 tag.

"The males sing for the females," Joe informs me, "When your bird is very good, everyone wants to buy." There are weekly competitions, so the heat is on. A few men get up to move their birds around, furthering their 'education' no doubt.

"Some people buy a new bird, a young bird, for around S$50 and train it up," Joe says, "Another man, the smartest, knows a bird with potential and offers the owner a low price, S$100, S$150 maybe, but he knows he can sell it for $600. The last sort is lazy. He sees a good bird and watches it, watches it. He offers a price you can't refuse. I was once offered S$800. I finally got $4300!" Yeah, you think, Joe's one of the smart ones too.

Every morning, sometimes before sunrise, these birds get an airing. A few men own thrushes. They are tamer, but not so prized. The birds all look remarkably the same. The older ones have a broken white ring around the eye, but all wear khaki, black-tipped feathers and hop

around constantly, cocking that beady eye through the slats of their cage. If you get too close a watchful man may heave himself from his seat, leave his smoking, chatting comrades, and wag a proprietorial finger at you. Touch a cage and you could get into trouble.

The contests work like this: there are four rounds over a two-hour period, and four judges for each species. The strong birds sing longer, 'you can see the chest – it stands high in a good bird,' says Joe. Finally, a trophy for the winner. Kudos for the owner. Perhaps a sale. Perhaps not.

The Singing Bird Arena is at Ang Mo Kio Avenue 4, near Block 159. Sundays only. It will be one of the sweetest memories of Singapore you will take with you.

You can admire the birds too, of course. But don't touch them. They're busy.