c 2001
I go out of the house after lunch, to get the bus by the beach. I have afternoon class now. I walk past the wooden kampung housing, complete with coconut palm and chicken. This time of the afternoon, there are few of anything about. It is quiet. I go on for about three or four minutes until I get to Jalan Pantai, to wait for the minibus to take me. In front there is the open sea, going to meet the horizon, the horizon meeting the sky, clear and high. I cross Jalan Pantai and wait, trying to get a little protection of the tree group from the sun. This time of day, of course, it’s hot. The temperature must be around 32 Celsius; it is on most days of the year, barring the monsoon, when there might be a three of four degree respite. But it doesn’t appear to be that hot; the breeze is continual, taking the edge off the bite.
I look around. The road is straight here, and I can see the bus coming from some distance away; it might appear opposite, from down the same road that I have just come.
I am in what is the suburbia of the beach; the outer reaches of the sand, with the ankle-height rough grass. You wonder how it can carry on here, in inhospitable albeit attractive terrain. I think that they, like me, enjoy the introspection of the place, the bouquet of the air, and the touch of the breeze; maybe too, the clarity of being here.
I note in acute examination, the tall, thin trunk rough to the touch, with narrow spreading branches, ready to whip the unwary, brittle twig, three centimetre needle leaf, soft yet strong, green with flecks of yellow, alternating both, like rugby socks. The new 1 cm segments are soft on the hand, touching me like a woman’s hair. I put my nose near; then in gentle, unobjectionable way, massage them to get the aroma, a rich combination of earth, juice and sea air. I could have this put in a bottle, and live in a house with it. Apart from the odd car, there is just the sea on the beach and the noise of the wind in the tree. A couple of teachers pull up, and ask if I want a lift. I reply that I am waiting; that is true.
I have no recollection of what or who I taught that afternoon, although I do have a record of my time there. I can think with some pleasure though, of one afternoon by a beach tree ...
