I have eaten of that infernal, reeking fruit! And I’m back.
Arguably, it has been two full days since I touched down in San Francisco in a behemoth, double-decker plane crammed to capacity with over three hundred passengers, a trip that was just about 20 hours of spending time in airports, flying on two planes, spending more time in airports, all without seeing the sun, all without eating much that wasn't dehydrated pork gristle, all while crammed in a middle seat and not being able to sleep for 12 consecutive hours. Most impressively though was the consummate act of time travel I committed. You see I left Thursday at around 1 p.m. and 20 hours later I landed on Thursday at 4 p.m. Amazing! Of course it wouldn't have been a proper arrival if it didn't also involve a round of margaritas, some rounds of highballs, and high-spirited discussions about pantheism. Needless to say I'm still suffering the combined effects of jet lag, reverse culture shock, confusion about where I have left all my possessions, extreme doubt about certain things and extreme certainty about others, and all the other emotional baggage that comes with being a broke couch-surfer on malaria meds.
My last day in Vietnam, another hot, steaming morning, I found a cozy little alley in Saigon and settled down to my last traditional Vietnamese breakfast of beef noodle soup and hot "white" coffee. I had settled my visa debacle the day before and found safe transport on a bus back to Saigon from Cambodia. I had forgotten though just how bustling the city of Saigon is and was again amazingly appalled by the violent scooter circus that plays out all around you. High rise buildings and communist architecture, countless peddlers and of course those magically maze-like alleys that apparently tourists and backpackers steered clear of even though they were the most interesting part of the neighborhood I was staying in. Getting back, I had only a day at most to see the city again. I engaged in a long conversation with a local man about how long it took to grow my beard, which was charming. And then I sat down and drank some beers and watched the endless human traffic ooze before me.
But that last morning, after my delicious breakfast, I decided to fulfill a promise to myself I had made when I first got to Asia: to eat of the notorious Durian fruit. And I wanted fresh Durian, of course, sliced by one of the dozens of local fruit peddlers. Luckily, there was one standing just outside of my guest house and through a mixture of English, bad Vietnamese, and gesticulation I made clear my desire for half a Durian fruit sliced and put into a take-away box. For those that don't know, the Durian fruit is about the size of a football, darkish green and covered with spikes. It grows on trees and has been known to fall off and kill people. To add insult to injury, I had also heard that the Durian is notorious for another reason: its indescribably foul stench. But, even stranger, this malicious odor in no way correlates with the succulent taste of the fruit's flesh which I had heard was akin to slightly tangy apple custard. All these factors, and the fact that the fruit is mostly just found in Asian countries, makes it worthy of a quest or two in search of its mysterious secrets that all seemed to combine the worst kind of demonism with a Epicure's sense of taste and distinction. Either way I was about to find out.
The woman got a strangely-grooved blade, cleaned it on a rag and sliced gently into the large, violent-looking fruit. Inside, the flesh was white and bulbous, and strangely seamless, like some animal's inner organs. And in fact when she plopped out these fruit flesh orbs, that's exactly what it seemed like: like she was gutting some animal and doing a very clean job at it. I was beginning to get excited. It certainly looked like a lot of fruit to eat and I couldn't yet smell it because she bound it up and put in a bag for me. It cost one dollar.
With the elation of a teenage boy who just pilfered his Dad's penthouse, I hurried back with my secret bag of infernal fruit, walked up the stairs to my air-conditioned room and locked the door. I had no cutlery to speak of and the fruit, at first glance, seemed fine for hand-eating. I opened the bag, I took the Styrofoam box out and opened it. The off white orbs of flesh looked monstrous just then and I nervously leaned over and took a big whiff.
And really it wasn't that bad. I mean, it smelled at first sort of like fruit that had maybe become over-ripe and left in the sun. Certainly not as foul as I thought. And then I picked up a piece of it and decided the best way to eat it was just to sink my teeth into the liver-like orb.
First bite. Exactly the consistency of custard and the taste? Perhaps one of the strangest things I've tasted. Sweet yes. Rich too. Tangy a little. But also, a sort of strong after and before taste even of fermentation. Like a Balsamic tapioca. If you can imagine that. It wasn't exactly good but not bad either. I guess an acquired taste. And after a few more bites, a more accurate description came to me. The Durian, I said, is like the goose liver pate of the fruit family, because that's exactly what the taste started to remind me of, a sort of sweeter, more citrusy type of animal pate and of course the flesh itself came in liver-shaped vessels.
I then decided to leave the fruit there and take a quick shower. Ten minutes, no more than that, which is when I stepped back into my bedroom and almost keeled over. The whole room smelled like you wouldn't believe. Turned eggs, torpedoed shit houses, open sewers. The odor was somehow mutated too and it seemed to be spreading into the very walls. I ran up to the fruit and ate more of it, my eyes almost watering. It suddenly tasted less appealing. But I figured the more of it I dispatched to the clearing house of my stomach the less it would sit in my room infecting it with its insulting perfume.
The situation became quite dire after a few minutes because I had to check out of my room in twenty minutes and catch a plane and I had to dispose of the barbaric fruit somehow. And I wasn't about to eat all of it. It was clear to me I had purchased enough Durian flesh to feed a small family. I had to think fast.
I went in the bathroom and thought about the toilet. I couldn't conceive of a more proper burial for the Durian than to be sent down the can. But I was worried there might be an unsuspecting pit in there, perhaps even an ink pod that would explode or a tentacle that would shoot out. I had to be prepared to expect anything.
So I just shoved the remaining morsels into the bathroom trashcan and ran out of the room and bid adieu to Vietnam.
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