Cashew harvest season in the border region

(GLO) - The cashew harvesting season in the highlands begins from February to May and ends when the first rains of the season begin to fall.

We arrived in Ia Mơ border commune (Chư Prông district) on a day in early April. The border sun stretched across the hillsides, casting a golden glow on the red dirt roads leading to the villages. In the distance, peaceful houses nestled under the canopy of cashew trees, their branches laden with ripe fruit, loomed high above the houses.

The author stands beside cashew trees laden with ripe red cashews. Photo: NTD

The cashew harvest season in the highlands begins from February to May and ends when the first rains of the season begin to fall. Somewhere on the hillsides and in the orchards, the cashew trees are in full bloom, their branches laden with fruit, painting the mountains and hills yellow and red.

I still remember the name "cashew" that I used to call it when I was a child, but now hardly anyone uses that name anymore. And now, hardly anyone eats cashews either. Of course, cashews are nutritious and can be processed into many products. However, those colorful, juicy cashews always evoke memories, associated with the past for so many people. The aroma of ripe cashews fills the nose, the salty and spicy taste of salt and chili lingers in the mouth.

Just like the smell of ripe cashews, those who like it will be captivated, while those who don't will ignore it. The first bite of a cashew is subtly sweet, but the second bite turns into a sharp, astringent taste in the throat. Yet, it is precisely that strange, pungent aroma that remains etched in the childhood memories of so many.

This season, the wind sweeps across the hillsides, carrying with it the dry, crisp scent of sunshine and the sweet aroma of ripe cashews, wafting far and wide. Cashew seasons have arrived in this land so quietly yet so intensely! The same deep green cashew trees, the same clusters of tiny, fragrant white and soft purple flowers that attract honeybees, still present, and the same ripening fruits in April.

Those clusters of flowers have now borne fruit, plump and fragrant. After months of being exposed to wind and dew, the cashew fruits are now bursting with life. Then, when a gentle breeze passes by, each ripe fruit falls to the ground beneath the tree, lying silently on the carpet of dry leaves, waiting to be picked up.

The cashew season arrives for the people of the border region with the simple colors of the earth and sky, the fragrant aroma of the sweet fruit, and old memories that seemed to have been forgotten. For the children, the cashew harvest season also means days spent wandering along dusty village roads, picking ripe cashews, and then roasting the first fragrant nuts of the year. The roasted cashews, their shells slightly charred, are then gently cracked open with a small stone to reveal the creamy, white kernel. This simple pleasure has been a part of the childhood of the children in this windy highland region.

The season begins with scent, with the subtle fragrance of time. To know how old you've lived, just close your eyes and listen to the scent flowing through your memories. The scent of the fruits here is evident as mothers and grandmothers carry baskets on their backs from the early morning mist. After a long day of bending over to pick each fruit, their sun-tanned hands grow weary, but everyone's face shines with joy at a "double victory" harvest.

Visiting the wooden house, I noticed six cashew trees surrounding it, their fruits ripening. Ms. H'Len, with a bright smile, was busily picking up the fallen cashews. Her hands moved swiftly, gathering the fruit into her basket. Listening to her story filled me with joy: "This year, the cashew trees are bearing a lot of fruit; the nuts are firm and the price is better than usual."

In the afternoon, on the wooden courtyard, the sunlight cast long shadows of cashew trees onto the red earth. Countless cashews, laden with fruit, were ready to be carried to the roadside, where traders awaited to collect them. Cashews from these small gardens would travel by truck to all corners of the country, carrying with them the sunshine and wind, the hardships and hopes of the kind, honest people living on the border.

As evening approached, the last rays of sunlight streamed down the treetops, painting the cashew orchard a golden hue. I sat quietly beneath the old cashew tree, listening to the whispering wind, and suddenly felt a pang of sadness.

There are seasons of longing that pass through a person's life like that, even if it's just a fleeting visit. I remember the sparkling smiles under the trees, the vast borderlands in the afternoons, the sweet scent of ripe fruit, like a part of my memory that awakens within me with tenderness and affection.

Source: https://baogialai.com.vn/mua-dieu-noi-bien-vien-post317209.html