By Jenny Pérez-Genge
It was early October when my
family and I moved to the hot, humid tropical, mega city of Bangkok, Thailand.
Our bungalow was part of a nine-house compound, surrounded by greenery in the
midst of tall buildings and busy streets.
For a few days after arriving, we
got busy cleaning and organizing the house so we paid little attention to the
backyard. From the living room and the second floor windows I could see a big
green mass of leaves and while I was excited to explore it, I was also a bit
apprehensive about how to take care of it. One early morning I went outside,
took off my sandals and stepped on the white pebbles that formed a thin path
across the garden. The daily Monsoon rains of the past six months had nurtured
the exuberant layers of diverse tree species and bushes. The smell of wet soil
wrapped around me like a soft blanket. I took a deep breath and
instinctively conjured smells from the past, the scent of soggy tropical soil.
I felt at home.
I stepped off the pebble path, the
ground felt as soft as a pillow of feathers. I could also sense the moist shade
of the legendary Asian Bamboo trees, and here they were in my own backyard! I
smiled. I kept walking and looking down to see where to step. The discomfort in
the soles of my feet distracted me; I hadn't walked barefoot for a long time. I
took a couple more steps when I noticed a humungous tree in the back corner of
the yard. It stood straight and still like a guard, protecting his boundaries.
I was astonished ‘A giant in my backyard!’ I did not smile this time, I
felt a bit shy and fragile. The presence of this tree inspired respect in me as
if I were in front of a wise monk.
The intricate formation of its
trunk attracted me most. It was a gathering of ropes holding onto each other
while forming small caves between them, my eyes followed up one of the rope
figure formations. It reached as far as the roof of the second floor of our
house. The canopy of the tree was no less exuberant than the other side of the
garden, but it was higher. Through the leaves of the tree I recognized the
silhouette of a white building with balconies behind our property. I imagined
someone at this time of the morning lounging on the balcony, eating noodles or
sipping coffee but I could not see any details through the thick leaves and
branches of the tree.
I don’t know how long I stayed in
front of the giant, all I remember is that I felt like the tree was pulling me
toward it. I could not resist, I stared in silence, breathing deeply,
contemplating every shade of green, the size and shape of the leaves, the
convoluted brown trunk of the giant and the smell of freshness. Just then, when
I was about to look down the path, I noticed behind the leaves of the giant,
between the building and our property, there was a thick tangle of lines, part
of the city's electrical grid. I pondered, if it were not for them and the
white building on the other side, I could swear I was in the countryside
instead of the heart of a city of fifteen million people. I gazed at the giant
tree and the bamboo trees in my backyard and I sighed. It was time for my
morning coffee.
While sipping my coffee I searched
the Internet for the type of tree it was and identified it as a Banyan tree. I
was curious of its age and calculated that according to the thickness of its
trunk, it was around eighty years old; some twenty years older than the houses
on the compound. ‘If trees could talk’ I thought ‘what fascinating
stories the giant could tell us. It would have seen a very different city.’
Bangkok was called the “Venice of
Asia” back then for its many water canals. People used to sell their
goods while paddling dug out canoes. The boom of modernity arrived all too
quickly, and in a few decades Bangkok grew as fast as bamboo shoots in
springtime. Most of the canals were covered and paved over, skyscrapers and
malls cropped up where rice paddies and green vegetation once stood, making
this city the heart of Southeast Asia, and mauling its traditions forever.
I wish I had learned from our
landlady the history of the compound but my Thai language was non-existent and
her English was not adequate enough to explain. I decided instead, to honor my
private jungle by paying respects to the tree daily. Once I discovered
beautifully handcrafted flower garlands at the market, I used to buy a pair
each week and offer them to the tree and the yard. There was a small branch of
the Banyan that stuck out at my height and was perfect to hold the white
jasmine garlands, my favorites. The smell of jasmine flowers would surround me
for a few days each morning during my prayers and meditations. How could I not
be thankful with the Banyan´s enormous presence warmly embracing the house and
protecting us from pollution, keeping us cool under its shade and sheltering
our view from the neighbors above?
My children and I made plans for
making a garden in our backyard as soon as the rainy season was over. We
assumed that any plant would grow judging by the deep green vegetation already
there and the dark moist soil, so we bought a diverse collection of
seeds and planted them near the Banyan tree.
Time passed and neither basil nor
chilies grew more than a couple of centimeters. We tried planting different
seeds several times, at other times of the year, but nothing prospered in that
part of the garden. We did not give up gardening. We had great results
when we planted seeds in pots, placed them on the balcony and harvested
herbs. However, the enchanting presence of the giant beckoned us to the yard
often, especially in the afternoons when the sun was going down and before the
mosquitoes got active.
There was a window of around an
hour each day, the perfect time to spend under its shade. We would spread a
blanket on the ground and sit next to the roots of the tree, the children would
review their abc’s, and I would read a story to them. On the weekends, if we
wanted to stay home, we would look for the shelter of the giant and have a
picnic; often the children from the other bungalows would join us, we would
spend hours there and then, they would run off and jump into the pool in the
middle of the compound.
I am from a place where rain falls
nine months a year. If the sky is blue and the sun is out, people in Bogota say
“It´s summer today!” while on normal rainy days people complain about how
chilly winter is that day.
My childhood memories are filled
with scenes in the rain. Some are fun and silly, some come with a sense of
beauty and appreciation. A typical rain used to arrive in the early afternoon,
just at the time when the school bell rang and we returned home. As my two
friends and I loved playing in the rain, we used to walk home wearing our
soaking wet uniforms and jumping from one puddle to the next while trying to
splash the farthest and reach the other girls.
One day, Ana forgot to tie her
shoelaces, and when she raised her foot to step in a puddle, her shoe flew into
the air landing several meters away in the middle of the messiest puddle. We
burst into loud laughter that even now when I think of it, I smile.
I can vividly recall the countless
afternoons spent in front of the window waiting for the rain to stop so my Mom
would let me go ride my bike on the street. During those hours, when
time seemed to freeze, I used to imagine that the garden of my house was a
tropical jungle and the heavy rain I was watching through the window was a big
waterfall. The thunderous sound of the water hitting the ceramic floor of the
patio and the old roof of the little storeroom in the backyard still come to
mind every time I hear rain.
I have lived abroad for several
years, and naively thought that going back to live in the tropics meant that
rain, fog and grey skies were going to be my frames and canvas for more fun
stories.
One afternoon, while I was waiting
for the school bus to bring my children home, a sudden strong wind shook the
trees in the yard for a few minutes; I noticed that even the giant looked
fragile. A strange silence and quietness followed for a couple of minutes, then
lightning struck across the sky. A second later I heard one of the loudest thunderclaps
I had ever heard. That one was the first of a successive thread of lights and
cracks, and I stopped counting at twenty. The sky looked as though it was
covered by a dark heavy blanket. My heartbeat accelerated with each clap of
thunder, my anguish increased as more water poured down.
The agony of that afternoon is
unforgettable. My children were supposed to arrive home at 2:30 but it was 4:00
and there was no sign of the bus showing up. I called the school but nobody
answered. The time between the lightning and thunder was one second apart. The
storm was around the corner and my children were in the midst of it.
Finally, I saw the bus crossing the gate and I was relieved. The poor
kids got stuck in traffic a few blocks away from home as the water level grew
so high that the drainage system could not handle the volume. I clearly did not
know anything about Asian tropical storms until that day.
By our second Monsoon season in
Bangkok, during an evening rainstorm, lightning struck nearby and caused a
blackout in the immediate neighborhood, as usual everybody worried about tall
trees that can attract lightning discharges. The tallest tree of all in the
compound was perceived to be dangerous as the leaves were too close to the
electrical wires; and on a couple occasions, unfortunate tree snakes living in
the tree had reached and burned a fuse-box near the tree.
One day, the landlady came to
alert us that a tree cutter crew was at the gate of the compound. They had come
to trim the Banyan tree and other big trees in the compound. Clearly
pronouncing the verbs in my sentence I asked her,
“Do you mean cut or trim the tree?
“Only trim trees,” she replied,
her voice sounded like she was pushing the words out of her mouth. I was not
convinced.
It was time for me to stand still
and straight like the giant in front of my house, protecting my territory. I
called my house helper who ran to stand next to me as if our two bodies would
become a human barricade when we saw three big fat men wearing grey overalls;
two of them held red chainsaws while the other one carried gardening tools.
They walked slowly in the
direction of my house. For an instant when I looked at their chainsaws, I had
the image that they were coming to cut our bodies instead. A strong shiver
crossed my spine and my heart beat faster. As they came closer and our eyes
met, a fierce raging bull came out of me as I felt like I had become the size
of the giant. I guess our faces and bodies were transfigured into something
abominable as the guys turned quietly around and went to speak with the
landlady. Both of us stood there immobile as if the world had stopped for us.
The three men disappeared from our sight. I never saw them again.
A couple of months later, we went
on leave to our home in Latin America for a month. When we came back to
Bangkok, as soon as we opened the door we had a strange feeling that something
was terribly wrong. We walked around the house to check if everything was all
right. The living room was dark, as our helper had left the curtains closed. I
opened them and strong rays of sun came inside. Something had happened in the
backyard. It looked bare and empty. All of us frantically raced outside.
“The giant is gone!” I screamed
holding my head in my hands. My legs shook and I felt like I was falling into
an abyss. Tears rolled down my cheeks. I felt a sharp pain, as though the
giant's suffering was my own.
Everything looked bare, dead, like
a fresh clear-cut in the middle of a lush forest. Whoever cut it took their time
to clean the garden, no broken branches around, no evidence of the suffering of
the giant, only the amputated trunk still standing as if resisting the agony of
death, as it was waiting for us, with its big roots inviting us, to give it our
last goodbyes.
We made a semicircle around the
short stump and placed our hands on top of it. I closed my eyes and felt the
rough texture of the wood and remained in silence. In our own ways, each of us
asked for forgiveness and compassion.
Disturbed and saddened as we were,
my husband and I went to talk to the landlady who was also upset about the
whole situation. She explained to us, in her broken English, that the neighbors
in the white building had been pressuring her by signing letters of complaint
and even demanding the Bangkok Metropolitan Administration to take matters into
their own hands, so she felt she did not have any other option than cutting the
tree down. She promised us a couple of smaller trees to fill the space in our
backyard. She never did.
In the meantime, as we dwelled in
the absence of the giant, only a couple of weeks after we arrived home, we
noticed that tender leaves and little mushrooms had grown around the tree
stump. Ten days later, two types of basil sprouted. Little smiles adorned our faces
as we skeptically observed how nature was taking over the garden. Surely, the
basil was putting its roots in the garden like a migrant family settles on a
new land. Eventually, we filled the blank spaces between the basil plants with
herbs and veggies that grew with splendor.
The giant died but a new garden
was born.
