Durian
 

 

By Al S. Mendoza

 

 

DAVAO CITY – I’m here in the durian capital of the Philippines where I covered the just-concluded 59th PAL Interclub Golf Tournament. Who cares about Edsa?

I should have elected to be absent here today.  But since the world has become smaller with the passing of time – thanks mainly to technology and science – there is no place, no barricade if you will, that can stop me from filing this column.

Duty first, before pleasure?

No, duty is pleasure all at the same time, if you know what I mean.

Love doing what you do and pleasure results from it.  Like age, everything’s all in the mind, really.
In this age of  DVDs and  flat TVs, if not  plasmas, all one needs now is a socket to plug a laptop, when there’s  no business center  around, to send a column, a story,  a message, via e-mail.  Africa now is as near as Anda, if not Aguilar.

This one was sent from the business center of Apo View Hotel, where you can view Mt. Apo in its entire splendor from the hotel’s ninth floor. Mt. Apo is, of course, the country’s tallest peak at 10,311 feet above sea level. On a clear day, it towers like a giraffe grazing in open country.
OK now, as I was saying, this is durian country. But this time of the year, the exotic, many call it erotic, fruit is off-season.

To those not in the know, durian is that fruit that “smells like hell, but tastes like heaven.”
Some nights back, Jake P. Ayson, married to Pat Manaois from this city, and I stopped by a road lined up by fruit stands that sell nothing but durian.

The fruit’s off-season but somehow, some enterprising entrepreneurs produce the world-famed fruit with allegedly aphrodisiac powers year-round.

“How much per kilo?” our driver, Roy, asked.

I heard the vendor say, “eighty pesos.”

Roy was sent by Gov. Pinol of North Cotabato to drive us around on board a Toyota Hi-Ace during the whole week that we were here.

“OK, deal,” Jake said.

We feasted on maybe 12 creamy seeds of the fruit of the gods. Almost in a snap, the celebration was over. 

Eating durian is a celebration because of rituals surrounding the meal.

For example, you kneel to open the fruit, using a bolo, if not a knife especially designed for it.

You have to be very careful or the fruit’s thorn-laden peel might cut your fingers.

Like fried chicken, you also need to eat the fruit with bare hands. Like fried chicken, it’s finger-licking good.

After the celebration, you wash your hands with water poured on the peels of the fruit. Otherwise, the strong aroma of the fruit will stay in you for days.  No soap can wash away the smell of durian.

You know how much we paid?

Six hundred eighty pesos. For just one fruit of durian that weighed more than 3 kilos.

“Didn’t you say eighty pesos per kilo?” Jake told the vendor.

“No, it’s P180 per kilo,” came the reply.

I saw Jake girding for a debate with the vendor.  I had to restrain him.

“Brod,” I said, wrapping him with my arms. “It’s off-season. Let’s just pay and forget everything. 
Charge it to experience.”

“Uwaa!” Jake said. “This is the most expensive fruit I’ve ever eaten in my whole life.”

I paid the bill and goaded Jake to board our Hi-Ace.

Had to do that – Roy and I were dragging him virtually into the van – as I saw the vendor, male, stocky and with hostile eyes, still clutching his durian bolo as we prepared to leave.

Ah, the lure of durian.

***
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