Under the Rambutan Tree

A cheerful, sunny afternoon, with white clouds and light breezes, insects and flowers - this is the delightful setting for my party under the trees, in one cosy corner of our rambutan estate. The aged trees with their drab green foliage stand festooned with gay streamers; beneath the fruit-laden branches of each stands a table spread with such local delicacies as I can possibly think of. The undergrowth will not be cleared away. The lallang and prickly shrubs and twigs heighten the casual, informal atmosphere of the party, and guests sit on gaily designed straw mats wherever possible in the shade. For this afternoon at least, we are in the green confines of a mock jungle and no unnecessary contact with civilisation is to be made.

 At the appointed time, guests clad casually and coolly trek through the trees to the chosen spot. Catchy Malay ditties and melodies softly greet a welcome; lively chatter breaks out as old friends meet again. Everything is pleasantly going on well. Light refreshments are served - guests drink orangeade from white paper cups and crunch crisp chips off white paper plates. Someone starts to strum a guitar. Another accompanies him on the harmonica. Soon, the drowsy peace of the afternoon is shattered as raucous voices seek to out sing one another in the latest pop-hits. No one really minds the noise, and the birds and the bees join in with their quaint chorus. A rousing start to a party indeed.

  

Well, everyone is here but before we eat, the appetite needs to be sharpened, so an expedition through the estate sets out. A few timid ones stay behind, of course. It is a pleasant afternoon for a ramble through the trees. The dogs run eagerly ahead crashing through the bushes; we follow clumsily with squeals and much laughter - someone suggests a game of hide-and-seek, we scatter in all directions, dodging behind trunks and climbing up into the branches. But it is a hot afternoon and we soon tire of the game. We look for mushrooms and caterpillars among the tall grasses, and we heartily pray we don't meet with those narrow fellows in the grass!

Finally, hungry and weary, covered with cobwebs and insect bites, we make our way back to camp, cheerfully whistling. The food looks good. Sprawled on the mats, we gobble down curry puffs, sandwiches with spicy fillings, kueh, biscuits, home-made cakes and jelly, washed down with orangeade and other varieties of mineral water. Well, it is the fruit season, and the fruits are ripe for plucking. There is nothing to stop us. The ground soon lies scattered with red and yellow rambutan skins. We haven't a care in the world.

A period of idle gossip and rest follows. After the recent activities, it is agreeable to prop oneself against a tree trunk and chat lazily while chewing kachang. The dogs move about looking for tit-bits. The evening is approaching and the hum of insects seems to have increased. It is not so hot now, and a light breeze is blowing. We listen to the rustling of the leaves and the swishing of the lallang. We feel sleepy. So we play card games and we start dancing - barefoot on the mat covered ground, in time to soft music from the radio. The air once more rings with echoing laughter and clapping hands.

But now it is time to go. It is getting dark and the bloodthirsty mosquitoes are out. We help to clear up. The last farewells are said and the guests depart. It is the close of another end-of-term party.

The estate once more stands silent and lonely.

This essay was written by No. 2 sister during her schooldays. I found it when rummaging through the drawer of an old desk. The rambutan estate mentioned belonged to our grandpa when we were living in his country house.  Every time it was the fruit season, the rambutan tees would come alive with red and yellow fruits, and we would help ourselves to them, hoping Grandpa would never find out! Come to think of it, I don’t remember being admonished for pilfering his fruits, I think he knew all along but chose to remain silent! 

Today, the rambutan estate is gone and in its place sits a housing estate – I think Grandpa would have been quite sorry to see his rambutan trees cut down and destroyed if he had been alive.