‘In every walk with nature, one receives far more than he seeks.’
– John Muir (1838-1914); a Scottish-American naturalist, author, environmental philosopher, and often referred to as the ‘Father of the National Parks’. for his instrumental role in the establishment of Yosemite National Park, USA.
A strong wind blew, and my younger brother, Little B, who was walking in front, suddenly came to a halt, causing me to nearly collide with him.
“Whoa!” I exclaimed. “Why did you stop? Keep going!”
“No!” he replied. “I don’t want to be in the front.”
“What’s wrong?” I asked, feeling concerned.
“I’m afraid,” he confessed.
“Afraid of what?” I inquired, growing increasingly worried.
“Can’t you hear it?”
“Hear what?”
“Listen!”
Amidst the roaring sound of the wind, a symphony of percussive sounds resonated from further up the steep jungle path.
“You mean those sounds?” I asked, gazing intently at Little B’s face.
“Yes! They sound so eerie!”
“No, they’re not! See those bamboo groves up there? They’re the ones producing those sounds.”
“Are you sure? Maybe there are ghosts or evil spirits there.”
“Don’t be silly! You’re scaring yourself unnecessarily.”
“Aren’t you scared?”
“No! Since you’re scared, let me walk in front. I’ll show you why I’m not scared. Just follow me!”
Little B’s fear of bamboo groves and their associated superstitions was not uncommon. Many people in our village believed that the knocking sounds were omens or signals of eerie entities hidden within the embrace of the bamboo. Consequently, these individuals tended to avoid bamboo groves, their fear outweighing any practical benefits that could be gained from the versatile plant, which could be used as building materials and its shoots could be cooked and eaten.
Thanks to our father, I learned to see past such superstitions at an early age. During a fishing trip not far from our village, I had become frightened when we approached some bamboo clusters and heard the knocking sounds. Sensing my apprehension, my father brought me close to the bamboo and showed me how the swaying stems knocked or slid against each other in the wind, creating percussive sounds. Before that, I often heard adults talking about “bamboo ghosts” who would become angry if asked to stop making noise.
And so, just as my father had done for me, I showed Little B the bamboo stems responsible for the wind-induced sounds. It was his first time witnessing how the sounds were produced because not all bamboo groves exhibited this peculiar yet captivating music.
As a child in the 1960s, I preferred the hot and dry May-September windy season because, with less frequent rain, people were able to get more jobs done especially on their farms. Also, they could hunt and fish, and for us kids, we had longer hours to play.
If the weather permitted, Little B and I often traversed several hills walking to and from a small rubber plantation located several miles from our village. Despite being old and scarred, the trees still produced a significant amount of latex. Our parents believed it would be a waste not to tap the relatively good trees among them to earn some money. The physical work itself wasn’t difficult, but the daily walking took a toll on our feet.
On our way back to the village around noon or in the early afternoon, we had to carry heavy wet rubber sheets slung on a bamboo pole between us. The most challenging part was ascending the last hill before reaching the final mile to the village. This path was the steepest, which was why there was a rest stop at the summit built by frequent travellers. It consisted of a round-log bench with a backrest where exhausted individuals could rest or set down their heavy loads.
To this day, I still wonder why that particular hill was completely covered in groves of bamboo. Yes, there were scattered trees, but it was essentially a bamboo forest. The surrounding hills had bamboo as well, although not as dense as the ones on that particular hill. The clumps of bamboo stood close together, swaying gracefully in the breeze.
Contrary to the imagination or beliefs of many urbanites and city slickers, the tropical jungle is never silent; it is a place filled with noise. Throughout the day and night, a multitude of natural sounds can be heard, unique to the jungle.
There is the rushing of air, hissing, wheezing, or zinging through the bushes and forest canopy. Birds call out to one another, while insects buzz or blare, each with their distinct species-specific sound. But on rare occasions, the wind would harmonise with the trees, bamboo, bushes, and grass, creating a breathtaking symphony of percussion and whispery tunes.
Whenever we reached the rest stop, Little B and I would listen attentively, waiting for the first signs of rhythmic beats. As the wind picked up momentum, we usually counted in groups of three beats — 1, 2, 3; 1, 2, 3 and repeated as many times as necessary to test if the beats occurred at regular intervals. The swaying bamboo stems usually went tok-tok tak, tok-tok tak, tok-tok tak, and so on. Sometimes, when the wind changed direction, we would hear groups of four beats: tak-tak tuk-tuk, tak-tak tuk-tuk, and so forth.
At the same time, the wind would rustle, whistle, and whoosh through the leaves and bushes, enveloping the entire forest in a symphony, as if an orchestra were playing awe-inspiring secret melodies that only those with receptive ears could perceive.
On those fortunate days when the bamboo groves performed for us, we noticed that the symphony of the wind would wash away our weariness and alleviate our worries. It truly mended our hearts and minds.
All these sounds had one thing in common — the wind. Without it, nothing would stir, and silence would reign. The symphony always commenced and concluded with the wind. Yet, it wasn’t just any wind we longed for. The most desirable kind blew steadily for at least two to three minutes, though regrettably, such a wind seldom maintained a consistent speed and force for four or five minutes, which was preferable.
Oftentimes, when we arrived at the groves, the wind, as if aware of our presence, began to whisper gently through the stems. We would pause; our ears attuned to the sounds that filled the air — creaks and taps intertwined with the rustling of leaves, creating a harmonious orchestra of nature’s instruments. The tempo shifted with the speed and force of the wind, sometimes a lively dance, other times a tender lullaby.
Time and time again, we were gifted with the bamboo’s music performance. We would sit on a log on the hill, our hearts filled with anticipation as the wind orchestrated its masterpiece. The bamboo stems danced with grace, their rhythmic movements weaving a tale of nature’s harmony. We listened intently, mesmerised by the ethereal music that resonated through the groves.
Our desire to be part of the enchanting orchestra grew stronger with each visit, so armed with small sticks, we sometimes joined the performance, tapping the bamboo stems in harmony with the wind’s melody, blending the sound of our youthful percussion with the natural rhythms.
In those precious moments, we felt connected to something greater than ourselves. We became one with the forest, the wind, and the bamboo. Boundaries blurred, and the world around us seemed to dissolve, leaving only the music and our shared joy.
Whenever we tarried in the bamboo forest, we often stayed till mid-afternoon just as the sun began to slide down in the western sky towards the horizon. Around that time of day, the wind usually slowed down and the symphony gradually faded away. Reluctantly, we would continue our journey back to our village, our hearts filled with gratitude for the rare privilege we had experienced. Each time we left, we carried the memory of the music within us, knowing we would return to that magical place again.
I consider myself immensely lucky and blessed to have experienced the music of the jungle, for never again have I encountered such a symphony. The growing population of the village has pushed human encroachment deeper into the jungle, and regrettably, the old bamboo groves, once filled with music, have vanished under the onslaught of agricultural and housing development.
As Little B and I grew into men, our lives took us on separate paths. Yet, the memory of the bamboo orchestra remained etched in our souls. It became a symbol of our shared childhood, a testament to our bond as brothers and our unwavering belief in the beauty that lies beyond superstitions.
And so, even today, whenever I come across a bamboo clump or grove, whether it be in a city suburb, a remote rural village, or a jungle, I instinctively pause, my heart beating in synchrony with the memory of that long-past symphony. In my mind’s eye, I feel the wind and the whispers of the bamboo leaves again, and in them, I would find new solace, peace, and the enduring magic of our shared childhood adventure.
