‘The greatest itch in the world is curiosity.’
– Albert Einstein (1879 – 1955), a German theoretical physicist widely regarded as one of the most influential scientists of the 20th century.
IT is amazing how a small idea can develop into a deep interest and eventually become an obsession. Can a person be too young to have an obsession? I don’t know. In my case, I was eleven years old, going on to twelve when I became consumed by the idea of earning a little bit of money.
At first, all I did was wonder in my head how it would feel to have money that I earned with my sweat. It was just wishful thinking, though, because in the first half of the 1960s, when I was in primary school in my village, Kampung Ta-ee in Serian District, the whole community was economically backward.
For some cash, members of the community simply sold their rice, rubber, pepper, and other agricultural commodities at a village shop.
Before I knew it, 1964 had passed, and I was in my final year of primary school. By then, the wishful idea seemed to have taken on a life of its own. The thoughts surrounding it were persistent and consumed a significant amount of my mental and emotional energy, especially towards the end of the year when the annual durian season was in full swing, and all the able-bodied men and some hardy kids were occupied with collecting the fallen ripe fruits for sale to some enterprising individuals who came in their lorries and Land Rovers.
The durian trees that grew all over the mountain slope belonged to specific individuals, families, or groups of families, but the mountain itself has always been a communal possession.
For much of the year, the durian trees were left unattended, that is, they were not managed in the same way as a cultivated orchard. The whole wild orchard was never optimised for fruit production as the trees were left to grow and produce fruit on their own, without much human intervention.
There were thousands of durian trees on the mountain and in the area around the village, which is at the foot of the mountain. Compared to now, the trees in those days were prolific fruiters. It could be because the trees were much younger and healthier.
Speaking of consumption, the fruits were eaten either soon after being collected or salted and preserved as ‘jaruk dihan’ (Bidayuh Bukar-Sadung for preserved durian paste) or ‘tempoyak’ in Malay.
The way the village folks regulated the work of collecting the ripe fruits on the mountain in those days was by adhering to an odd system that is akin to “finders’ keepers”, which is an informal way of asserting that whoever by chance finds something that someone else has lost or abandoned is entitled to keep it.
So, imagine you were on the mountain. A ripe durian fruit dropped; you took it and brought it home, although the tree belonged to someone else. You were the finder; you got to keep what you found. The simple rule was understood and practised by everybody. An exception to the rule: you must not get the fruit if the owner happened to be there. If he permitted you to take it, don’t jump too quickly at the chance. Decline his offer first, and take the fruit if he insisted that you should have it. It’s all about pride and saving face, you see.
Generally, the collectors had certain time windows to find the fallen fruits—at dawn or slightly after, in the afternoon, before midnight, and after midnight. Besides picking their preferred time, they also watched the weather because a strong breeze would cause lots of ripe durians to drop to the ground, ready for collection.
One Saturday evening, at about 6 pm, a strong steady breeze blew across the village. Immediately, I could hear from our house the sounds of ripe durian fruits hitting the ground along the edge of the jungle on the other side of the mountain stream behind our house. I knew that even more fruits were falling all over the wild orchard on the mountain. Oh, how my heart ached with a yearning to be there, but it was going to be dark soon, and the mountain was not a friendly place for kids at night.
Just then, I saw my father returning from the mountain stream where he had taken a bath. I asked him whether or not he was going to the mountain that night. He said he was too tired having worked on our rice farm the whole day long, but he might go the following night (Sunday). In the meantime, he just wanted to rest, which meant chatting with some friends at one of the village shops. That set my scheming little brain on overdrive.
We had one reflector lamp, and it belonged to my father. He often used it for various purposes such as night fishing or hunting or collecting durians at night. When he said he was not going anywhere, I took it to mean that the lamp was free for me to use.
As soon as night fell, I made preparations to go to the mountain all by myself. My mind was set on collecting some durians for sale the next day.
After telling my mother that I wanted to do night fishing at a spot about a hundred metres upriver I headed for the mountain using a rat trail behind our house to bypass the village to avoid being asked some awkward questions along the way.
The wild orchard on the mountain was not too difficult to reach as it was between one and two miles away from the village.
The various jungle paths were well-trodden by durian collectors, but I did not want to use them for fear of meeting adults along the way. Little kids were not encouraged to be on the mountain at night and they might tell me to go home for my safety.
Instead, I walked up another mountain stream just beyond the end of the rat trail after figuring that it was going to be quite easy to retrace my steps when it was time to go home. I learned early from several night fishing trips with my father that jungle tracks tended to look quite different and confusing in the dark, and even in the dim light of a lamp.
So, there I was on the dark mountain going from tree to tree collecting the best durians I could find. Thankfully, I did not meet anyone. Incidentally, I was too small to carry more than six or seven durians at a time in my rattan backpack. Since I found far too many to carry home by myself, I hid the rest so that I could come back for them after sunrise.
Remembering that little adventure now, I don’t think that I spent a long time on the mountain that night because when I reached home my parents were not yet asleep. Mother was still weaving a rattan mat while Father was repairing a damaged fishing net.
Without even looking at me, Mother asked, “Got any fish?”
That gave me a jolt. I had completely forgotten about my fishing net. Before going up the mountain, I had stretched it across one of the deep pools in the river behind our house.
“I’ll be right back,” I said as I ran to the river to fetch the net.
A short while later I was back with five medium-sized fish which I put in a jar of water to keep them alive for a while.
The next day, a buyer came to our house to get the durians. Each fruit fetched a few cents (not sen yet). It was nothing to shout about, but they were enough to ease and finally ended my obsession.
In those days, durian fruits on sale were not weighed but counted. Each mountain trip yielded six fruits. At 20 cents each, I made $1.20. Multiplying that by two trips per day, I made $2.40. Not much by today’s standards, but it was better than what I obsessed about in my head.
Remember, this was when a plate of fried ‘kway tiaw’ mixed with ‘taugeh’ cost 30 cents. With a few pieces of ‘cha sio’ included it cost 50 cents. Add kopi-o at 10 cents per cup, one only needed to cough up 40 or 50 cents for a single trip to a coffee shop.
Since then, and throughout my school days, I liked to keep a few cents in my trouser pocket because knowing that I had them gave me comfort and some measure of confidence.
I don’t do that anymore because I have other forms of obsession such as trying to stay healthy, doing my job to the best of my ability, and keeping my family safe and sound.
The views expressed here are those of the columnist and do not necessarily represent the views of New Sarawak Tribune.
