I can’t stand durian.
For those readers who’ve never been in Southeast
Asia, I must explain that durian is a fruit native to that region of the
world. Often called the ‘King of Fruit,’
it’s distinctive for its size, knobby appearance before being peeled, its
strong odor, and its distinctive taste. Durian’s odor, when ripe, is noticeable
even before the fruit is peeled, and that odor lingers in the air for a long
time; it’s for that reason that Bangkok hotels and other public places ban it.
During durian season, if you walk through a parking lot, you can easily pick
out the cars that have been used to transport the ‘king of fruit,’ even a week
later, because of the odor emanating from their closed trunks – yes, the odor
even gets out of metal enclosures.
Now, I have to put this scenario into further
perspective so you’ll understand the true significance of my dislike. My wife,
who is north Asian (Korean in fact) loves
durian; strange taste, strong odor and all. When we lived in Cambodia from
2002 to 2005, she would often sit in our garden while I was at work and eat the
damn thing. I could always tell, though, because the odor would still be in the
air when I got home at five pm.
But, enough about that; this started with why I don’t like durian. Considering my past
history – as a soldier, and Special Forces trained at that, I’ve been exposed
to all kinds of strange foods and drink, and I’m not usually put off by the
taste or odor; at least, not completely. But, durian just got to me the first
time I encountered it in 1989. It triggered an aversion response like no other
food has done. It took me a while to figure out why. In order to understand my
revulsion, you have to go back a few years.
In 1978, I was assistant public affairs officer for
the 18th Airborne Corps at Fort Bragg, NC, which is also home to the
82d Airborne Division, the Special Warfare School, and a host of other
deployable units. We were often called upon to assist in natural disasters,
such as the blizzard that blanketed northern Ohio earlier that year. In the
South American country of Guyana, a place I’d never heard of, a phony prophet
from the Midwest, James Jones, had set up a branch of his communistic People’s
Temple. Jones had been operating in the San Francisco area, but when the heat
of publicity about his activities became too much, he and several members of
cult fled to what was known as Jonestown – an area that the Guyanese government
had allowed Jones and his people to settle.
There had been reports that members of the People’s
Temple were abused and that their assets had been taken away. In Jonestown,
some people became disillusioned with Jones’ incessant propaganda and wanted to
leave. But, the place was surrounded by miles of jungle and patrolled by armed
guards. Jones’ permission was required for people to leave – and he wasn’t
granting it.
U.S. Representative Leo Ryan from San Mateo,
California; where many Jonestown residents came from; heard of the problems at
Jonestown, and decided to take a firsthand look. He took along his senior
advisor, an NBC film crew, and some relatives of Peoples Temple members. Ryan’s
visit went well until someone passed a note to one of the film crew with names
of people who wanted to leave. It became apparent to Ryan that some people were
being held forcibly in Jonestown. The next day, November 18, 1978, he announced
that he was willing to take with him anyone who wanted to leave. A few people
accepted his offer and got on the truck with his group. At the airport, a group
of Jones’ gunmen attacked Ryan’s group as they waited to board the plane,
killing him and four others.
Jones then ordered everyone in the temple to commit
the ‘revolutionary act’ of suicide because the US Government would retaliate
violently against them for Ryan’s death. A vat of grape-flavored Flavor-Aid
laced with cyanide and Valium was provided, and there were men with guns and
crossbows to encourage those who resisted. On that fateful day, 918 people, a
third of them children, died, either from the cyanide-laced drink or from
gunshot wounds – Jones died from a single gunshot wound to the head.
A few days later, as the news of the tragedy
unfolded, units at Ft. Bragg were alerted to go to Guyana to recover the
bodies. I was the public affairs officer for the task force. I’ll never forget
the radio chatter as the helicopters flew from the Guyanese capital of
Georgetown, over the jungle toward Jonestown. First, there were the reports
that you could ‘smell the place’ from several miles away. Then, reports from
the first people on the ground as they encountered corpses that had lain for
three days in the steaming jungle. At that stage of putrefaction, the flesh
begins to liquefy. As they began retrieving the bodies, the count, which at
first we’d been told was around 200, began to rise as they discovered bodies –
often small children – beneath the bodies of adults. The number went from 200
to 400, then 600, no, 700, and finally 900 or more. It’s been more than 30
years, and I still have nightmares about it sometimes.
But, back to durian and why I can’t stand it. The
first time a ripe fruit, nearly ten pounds and about the size of a football,
was put in front of me and I spooned up some of the flesh, the image of
Jonestown popped into my head. That damned fruit wasn’t much smaller than a
tiny child, and the combination of smell and texture was more than I could
take. I pushed it aside, mumbled some lame apology to my host, and that was
that.
It’s not rational, I know. The orange color of
durian is nothing like rotting flesh. The smell is close, but not exact, and
frankly, overripe mango has a similar texture. Doesn’t matter. My mind made the
connection, and it will not be swayed.
Keep your durian, thank you. It might be your ‘king,’
but to me, it’s more like the ‘devil.’
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