Durians Are Not the Only Fruit

by Wong Yoon Wah

  Nantah’s Yunnan Garden is also a plant heaven. In 1961, a biology undergraduate began a record of all the species found here, including scientific classifications and illustrations, culminating in a 300-page volume entitled Nantah’s Wild Plant Life. This book documented 141 varieties of plant life within the school grounds, all species commonly seen in Nanyang.

  The school grounds cover about 500 acres of rolling hills, containing valleys and lakes, cultivated and wild plants growing densely side by side. By comparison, students in Yunnan Garden are few and far between, like occasional cacti by a desert oasis. This is especially true during the long holiday, when every moment brings the sound of wind blowing through tree canopies and the coolness of leafy shade, but no trace of the students, their laughter and chatter like unearthly celestial music, scarcely perceptible. Working in the Chinese Department building during the holiday feels like being in a plant paradise, as I study their movements every day, eavesdropping on their conversations with the sky. At times I think how good it would be, in such a place, if I were a botanist instead. To live together with vegetation from morning till night, able to observe their temperaments, every moment of their lives, the changes in them, the creation of new species, to penetrate all these mysteries.

  • • •

  In the past year, I’ve taken on the acting directorship of the School of Humanities and Social Studies, and frequently have to travel between the Literature and Administration buildings. They are not far apart, so a couple of times every day I walk the short distance along the tile-roofed walkway. Next to the path by the Literature building, I spotted a large patch of mimosa, creeping between stalks of grass. They put me in mind of the first year female students, who are invariably terrified of sitting at the front of lecture halls, preferring instead to hide in the very centre of the room, preferably sitting behind a tall classmate, the better to conceal their existence. Their posture when they finally feel safe reminds me of the mimosa plant.

  For a farmer, the mimosa are no more than weeds, difficult to exterminate and fitted with sharp thorns that often hurt unsuspecting passers-by. Last year, while writing an ode to the mimosa, I reached out a hand to pick one but as soon as my finger touched it, the incredibly sensitive, oval, wing-like leaves folded in on themselves, pair after pair, each stalk slowly drooping. After this, I knew to observe them without making contact. So it is with people who’ve learnt to keep themselves safe, maintaining a distance from others. An unwillingness to let fellow human beings near you is one method of self-preservation.

  Each day, I walk along the same route to and from the Administration building in all types of weather, the covered walkway removing the need for an umbrella except in a raging storm. The mimosa, on the other hand, collapses at the first sign of rain or even cloudy weather, its pink puffball flowers following the leaves to the ground, looking piteously frail.

  Because of the extreme sensitivity of the mimosa, a Japanese folklore specialist has discovered it can be used to predict earthquakes. According to the Shukan Post (16 September 1977), in an article titled ‘Mimosa Leaves React to Earthquakes’, mimosa leaves are usually spread open horizontally during the day and only close at night. But when an earthquake is imminent, the leaves remain closed even by daylight, or else stay half-open at night. There follows three instances of atypical behaviour in mimosa leaves: on 7 March 1927, on the Okutango Peninsula in Kyoto, mimosa leaves were observed acting in this unusual way, and that day there was an earthquake measuring 7.4 on the Richter scale; in 1938, there was a quake in the sea by Tanabe in Wakayama Prefecture—and from the day before, right up to the quake at three in the afternoon, the mimosa leaves remained sealed tight even during the day; in Shizuoka Prefecture, Kawazu Town, on 15 September 1976, the mimosa folded their leaves at 10.30am, and at 11.50am a Scale One earthquake struck. On the 16th, the leaves remained closed in the morning, and a second Scale One quake hit at 12.30pm. On the 17th, the mimosa half-closed at 10.15am, and at 11.25am, two Scale One tremors occurred in close succession. And finally, on the 18th, the leaves remained half-open all day, until a 2.5 magnitude quake arrived at 11pm.

  Fortunately, Singapore has never experienced a disturbance of the earth strong enough to level houses, otherwise I’d have to watch the mimosas closely for warning signs, each time I walk past.

  • • •

  The mimosa plants of Yunnan Garden, terminally shy, remain concealed within the wild grass, afraid to reveal themselves. Yet the ball-shaped flowers at the tip of each stem seem lost in their pink dreams, imagining themselves attaining the height of a tree. And the giant mimosas in the Garden represent the fulfilment of these dreams. No longer merely a type of grass crawling along the ground to be trodden on and cursed at by people careless enough to prick themselves, these shrubs thrive in secondary forests, and can grow as high as 30 feet. Their leaves and thorns are shaped exactly like their more humble cousins, only coarser. They are also far less sensitive, only folding up upon receiving a strong disturbance. Their yellowish-white blossoms are comprised of many tassels pressed together, and from a distance resemble a thousand little fans, dangling in the breeze.

  Recently, I’ve been driving out of school for lunch, going to nearby Jurong Town Centre. Outside my favourite curry bee hoon stall, there’s a giant mimosa bush more than 20 feet high that flowers all year round. It towers majestically above me while I eat, just one small human in a crowd of humans, and I feel as insignificant as a puny mimosa crawling through the grass.

  • • •

  In order not to feel like a permanent outsider in the plant paradise, I’ve actively sought to identify the vegetation I face every day. First the name and appearance of each one, then their character and mode of existence. In aid of that, my desk often bears a few books: E. J. H. Corner’s Wayside Trees of Malaya, M. R. Henderson’s Common Malayan Wildflowers, and of course Nantah’s Wild Plant Life. Before getting to know them better, I first make sure to scrutinise each tree and bush I pass, whether on foot or in my car.

  One day, I came across a passage about the mimosa subfamily, and learnt to my astonishment that the most beautiful feature of Yunnan Garden’s landscape, the acacia tree, was a relative of the mimosa. The Malay acacia, or saga tree, originated on Thursday Island, but has since proliferated. The tall trees that shade the Nantah grounds are mostly acacias. Students who enrol in the Chinese poetry seminar every year love to incorporate these trees into their practice poems. Quite often, as I’m correcting their work, I raise my head from my desk to admire the clusters of yellow flowers that hang from the acacia outside my window.

  The saga tree is the least shy of the mimosa family. Its leaves are stiff and do not close, remaining in the shape of a crescent moon, pale yellow when new and tender, and a deep green when mature. Its seed pods are twisted like an ear, containing black saga seeds.

  Two years ago, the calm of Yunnan Garden was disrupted for several weeks by the roar of chainsaws, as aging acacias were mowed down one after another. Lorries lined up to cart away the segments of trunk, which were rumoured to be turned into first-grade charcoal, known as saga charcoal. The long-lasting wood of the acacia tree was often used in the funeral biers of the ancient Egyptian pharaohs.

  The saga tree may be made of hard wood, but is perhaps afflicted by melancholy—its Chinese name, xiangsi, means ‘longing’—it is prone to weakness, and becomes infested with parasites by its teens. After 20 years, it is unable to resist the blows of wind and rain. The oldest trees in Yunnan Garden were the same age as Nantah itself, and when they started snapping in two or crashing to the ground, it was decided for safety reasons they should be cut down.

  • • •

  One afternoon not long ago, as I was on my way home, leaving the Chinese Department’s College of Arts by the main door and walking down its stone steps, I noticed a row of rain trees on the slope to my left, about 15 feet high, while to my right was a row of albizia, 25 feet high. After the acacia trees were sawn down, I hadn’t pai
d much attention to the saplings that replaced them. Whenever I left the College of Arts, my gaze would invariably be drawn down the slope, to the wooden huts half-hidden amidst a grove of trees, and the ships bobbing on the sea at the horizon—all the things that used to be hidden from view by foliage. Yet not two years after their passing, their successors were already sturdy trees. In the tropics, trees are like people, growing quickly and ageing fast.

  The person who decided to plant rain trees and albizia to the left and right of the slope must have been a botanist with an artistic eye and a fondness for this genus. The albizia is a cousin of the rain tree, and also belongs to the mimosa family. They’re hard to tell apart when young, but diverge in appearance as adults: the rain tree has an umbrella-like canopy, while the albizia’s crown is flat, like a modern building; albizia leaves are longer and more sensitive, folding together at night or in cloudy weather.

  Albizia are native to Singapore and Malaysia. They worship the sun and love absorbing rainwater, and are the fastest growing trees in the world. Under the right conditions, with favourable weather and soil, they can shoot up to 50 feet tall in just three years. Yet their roots are not deep, which makes their trunks and branches frail, and they are often broken by strong winds, making them unsuitable for planting next to public streets or expressways. On our campus, though, they are beautiful, much-loved additions to the landscape.

  Since the albizia and rain trees reached maturity, each time I walk down those stone steps, I look to my left and right several times. They function as my clock and weather bureau. As I leave for lunch, if their leaves are closed, I make sure I have an umbrella with me. And on afternoons when I am absorbed in my work, if I happen to glance from my window and see the folded leaves, I realise it’s past five and I should be heading home.

  SECTION FOUR

  The Animal Kingdom

  The Ants of Yunnan Garden

  IN OCTOBER 1973, I moved into the Nantah compound and Yunnan Garden.

  I was late. The tertiary academic year in Singapore starts in July, and the undergraduates had already been attending classes for three months. Singapore’s climate is hottest from March to June or July, so the universities have their long vacation then. When I arrived at Yunnan Garden, the weather had started to cool down, especially in the morning and at dusk. The seasonal northeast wind was making its once-yearly passage from the Indian Ocean to the rainforest zone on the southwest coast of Singapore. This wind brought a great deal of rain to Yunnan Garden—jade-green leaves, breezy weather. And me? At this time, I was filled with self-confidence, believing I would plant new thoughts about literature in Yunnan Garden. The rainy tropical climate is ideal for growth, and a huge number of plants proliferate here, with new ones frequently appearing. Teaching is like the act of planting trees, and I was happy to have found fertile ground.

  How did I know that the monsoon season was on its way? The ants of Yunnan Garden told me so.

  • • •

  When I first arrived, I stayed at 49 Nanyang Valley, the closest accommodation to the Literature Institute. This three-storey building had its back to a hill and opened onto a lake. My flat was on the ground floor. A couple of weeks after moving in, I came home one noon and, before even opening the door, saw a stream of black ants marching pell-mell from the low-lying lake across the road into my home—slipping underneath the door, crawling right across the living room, through the kitchen and under the back door, heading for the hill. There must have been 100,000 of them. It took them a solid half a day to complete the move, some holding food in their mouths, others carrying grubs or their weaker comrades. Nor were they uniform in appearance—some, probably the queens, swaggered along with large bellies; others had oversized heads, and must have been soldiers. Their discipline was formidable—not even the worker ants dared leave the line and start looting, and no soldier ant attacked me. I stayed out of their way, even though it annoyed me that they were using my house as a shortcut. When I returned again later that afternoon, they had finished their passage. My colleagues later told me this happened frequently on the lower floors of the Nanyang Valley buildings. Ants are able to predict the weather, and before the coming of the rains, they quickly leave the lakeside for higher ground. Because they’re in a hurry, they have no option but to use our territory as a thoroughfare.

  • • •

  Sure enough, a week or two after the black ants moved, the monsoon season started. This was in November, and rain continued to splash down till the end of the following January. It started and stopped at fixed times. If there was a downpour between four and five in the afternoon, that would probably be repeated for the next two weeks. It rarely rained all day, and usually after no more than an hour the sun would come out again. Close observation told you when it would rain and when it wouldn’t, and it was common to see people standing by their doors patiently waiting for the rain to stop. Their attitude put me in mind of the little ants scrutinising the sky. The tropical weather is like the human temper—as the weather forecast is often wrong, so we are often the only ones who can fathom our own temperament.

  My research office’s windows faced the mouth of the Strait of Malacca. At the start of a cloudburst, because I was so high up and Nanyang Valley so quiet, I’d hear the rain falling first on the surface of the sea before moving onto land, and then its more resounding steps on bushes and trees as it climbed the slope. As soon as it crossed the vine-strewn fence that encircled Yunnan Garden, it roared from the skies in a great gush, no longer in front of me.

  • • •

  That first monsoon season, I noticed how closely ants were tied to human activity. Placing a cup of coffee on the table, dropping food on the floor, buying a packet of candy—I’d immediately worry about ants attacking. Every corner of my home, and even my desk in the Chinese Department, became the target of hordes of investigating ants. They came in droves, frantically exploring. When two chanced to meet, they’d touch antennae, exchanging information, before going their separate ways. Whether a dead moth on the windowsill or a sweet in my briefcase, they’d discover it in a trice. On my second day in Yunnan Garden, returning to the bedroom after a shower, I opened the wardrobe to find a metal box of mooncakes—a gift from David Cheung’s mother—surrounded by ants trying to find their way in, seemingly unaware that the Mid-Autumn Festival was over.

  Ants’ eyes, while complex, cannot see images accurately, and can usually only distinguish between light and dark. Their antennae, on the other hand, are not only sensitive enough to detect odours, but also function like an antennae on a TV set, receiving signals. I often see ants stopping in their tracks, pacing instead of advancing—and have heard that they occasionally lose their way, but can always find the route back to the anthill.

  • • •

  During my two months in Nanyang Valley, not having my family or even any cooking utensils with me, not to mention being afraid that ants would be attracted to improperly stored food, I ate all three meals in the nearby First Canteen, below the President’s Lodge. On stuffy evenings, or if it had rained, my soup usually arrived with two or three winged ants floating in it, and more corpses in the dishes that followed. Ants also drowned themselves in my coffee or tea. The canteen workers repeatedly assured me, “Ants are the cleanest insects. They definitely won’t poison you.” These winged ants only leave their home once upon reaching maturity, and fly off to find a mate. Leaving the darkness of the anthill for the open air, they pair off and do the act in midair, after which the male dies, and is eaten by a bat or small bird, while the female tumbles to the ground, bites off her wings, and finds a safe crevice or tree trunk in which to build a new nest, becoming the queen of the kingdom she will give birth to.

  • • •

  Male and female ants are often pursued by birds on their honeymoon flight, and so love to fly into farmers’ wooden huts, and love even more to congregate by lamplight. First Canteen, at the foot of a slope, not far from the low-lying grove of tropical trees by th
e girls’ hostel, naturally attracted vast numbers of flying ants with its bright kitchen lights and flickering stovetop flames. Once, around half past six in the evening, these creatures began appearing in my flat, arriving in even greater numbers once I turned on the light. The lizards climbing along the walls captured them with dextrous tongues. Using the village method, I extinguished the lights and placed a basin of water on the floor with a burning candle in its middle. When the ants flocked to it, they were first scorched by the flame, then drowned.

  • • •

  One evening, I visited a Nanyang Valley neighbour, a colleague in the Chinese Department, who lived on the third floor of another block. I’d just had dinner, so he offered me a cup of Chinese tea and some slices of apple. I placed the fruit on the coffee table and chatted with him. With each exchange, the setting sun had sunk from one branch of the tree outside to the one below, and after 15 minutes dusk arrived. The light had still been warm against my thighs when I arrived, but after a short while, like a piece of coal falling into water, everything turned cold and black. I reached out for a slice of apple, only to find the scarlet skin and snow-white flesh had turned purplish-red; red ants had tightly surrounded every inch of that apple, and were endeavouring to drag it back to their nest, lining up on the table in such neat rows, I almost mistook them for the woodgrain. I looked at my colleague, expecting him to be embarrassed, but he waved a hand nonchalantly and said, “Don’t eat that,” before continuing our conversation. Then the apple and ants were lost to the evening gloom, and even when a lamp was lit in a corner of the room, I detected no further movement—in the dim light, the ants, the apple, the teakwood table and the vermillion floorboards all appeared the same colour.