Rambutan

You don’t forget the first time you hold a rambutan in your hand—that bright red thing with wild green hair. It looks like it’s about to wiggle away if you’re not careful. When my cousins and I were kids, we’d pretend they were baby monsters or tiny alien eggs. We’d chase each other around with them, below the summer sun when Castillejos Street was still alive with youthful games.

Here in Quiapo, you can find them stacked in small mountains on the side of the church, right where the vendors shout “Bili na, mura lang, matamis!” next to stalls selling tuyo,  herbal oil, statues of saints, and phone cases. The fruit glows under the Manila sun like something not meant to be real. When I was younger, I didn’t like touching them. Too weird, too hairy. I thought they’d sting me. But my Lola would buy a small plastic bag of them after mass, slipping a few coins to the old woman who sold them. Back at home, she’d sit with my Lolo who just got home from tricycle work. She had a small bowl in her lap, opening with her fingers, her thumbs strong against the rubbery and hairy exterior of the fruit. She never used a knife. The way she opened them made it look easy, just a gentle twist. 

The flesh inside is soft, almost translucent, wrapped around a seed like a secret. You bite and the sweetness comes out slow, like warm rain in the middle of a hot afternoon. Not the kind of sweetness that shouts; more like one that hums. Quiet but certain. Comforting. 

Rambutans are native to Southeast Asia. They grow all over the country—in Laguna, in Mindanao, in people's backyards. But in the middle of Manila, where buildings press up against each other like they’re trying to breathe, it still feels like something wild. Something not yet tamed by smog and traffic and the grayness of city life.

When you’re 20 in Quiapo, you move fast. You dodge tricycles, side-eye jeepney drivers, and watch your bag like a hawk. Life here is noisy, with vendors calling out, horns blaring, the sharp clap of footwear on pavement. But then you get home, crack open a rambutan, and it’s like the world hushes for a second. That small fruit, bright and hairy and strange-looking, reminds you that some things don’t need to be fancy or polished to be special. That sweetness doesn’t always wear a pretty face.

Sometimes, late at night, I eat one over the sink. I crack it open like Lola did and let the juice sit on my tongue a little longer. It's not just a fruit anymore. It's her memory, an old therebefore.