The earth roared as the falling palm tree hit its grassy surface.
‘The Tree of A Thousand Uses’ men called it, for its multitude of purposes. Even the parasitic larvae of the sago palm weevil, Rhynchophorus ferrugineus, that resides in its flesh can be served on a platter.
As Grandfather chipped off the bark to reveal the flesh, my skin crawled at the sight of thumb-sized bugs squirming through the sap.
“Aren’t these worms?” I asked out of curiosity, pinching my nose shut to prohibit the inhalation of unpleasant odour of the rotting and tender sap.
“Yes,” Grandfather replied, his fingers attentively plucking the grubs wriggling through the sapwood, careful not to let their mandibles nip his skin.
“Why?”
“Well… are you saying that these are what we’re eating?” I grimaced.
My question elicited a chuckle out of him as he was done harvesting.
On his shoulder, he carried a basket woven out of coconut leaves, in which he had kept the sago worms.
“You won’t regret it,” he replied to me as we left for home.
Later that evening, I intently watched as Grandfather decollated the grubs with precision, while listening to his constant humming.
It was frightening to witness the decapitated larvae still in motion as Grandfather stuffed them into a bamboo culm with some minced garlic and ginger.
“Can’t forget this,” he added, lifting a container of our stock of tempoyak and scooping spoonfuls of it into the culm before resting the latter over a fire.
The food was only done after what felt like an eternity, and Grandfather served it on a simpuh leaf.
“Are you extra sure this is safe for consumption?”
Grandfather snickered: “Of course.”
The memory is still so vivid as if freshly implanted in my mind—the reawakening of every taste bud and the explosion of flavour as soon as the grubs touched my tongue were indescribable.
The meat of the wrigglers was extremely creamy.
“It’s us poor men’s cheese,” my grandfather said, entertaining me with one of his lame jokes. Laughter filled the kitchen as we both gobbled up the creepy crawlies.
It recurs every time I visit. Déjà vu is the correct word. Nostalgic.
My grandfather, with the lame humour of most 70-year-olds, would tease me by fooling me into thinking that the little crawlers would revive and eat my insides—which I had believed and stopped consuming such dish for a while, but was then coaxed by my grandfather himself to eat again.
“Never let our culture fade, boy,” he muttered. “They’re what makes us, us.”
“Whichever one of our ancestors found out we could eat these bugs had the guts of a vulture. Whoever it was, props to him. Or her.”
Now, every time I remember Grandfather, I would always flash back to the memory of my first time eating sago worms.
Shout-out to my old man for introducing me to such a unique delicacy I can share with others curious of our culture.
I’ll never forget the entire experience—the sweat, the laughter, the jokes, and the full stomachs we’re both rewarded with.
From that day onwards, the sago worm dish has been my favourite dish. — DayakDaily
David Volka Jim from Bau is the Consolation Winner (Youth Category) in the ‘Gastronomy and I: My Favourite Dish writing competition organised by DayakDaily and supported by the Sarawak Ministry of Tourism, Creative Industry and Performing Arts, and Imperial Hotel Kuching.
