The Durian Experience

I went to Hawaii with a mission. This time, I would try durian, that notorious fruit that stops globe-trekking chefs in their tracks. I'd already missed other opportunities in Asia and Hawaii; this time would be different.

Durian, the king of fruit, comes from Southeast Asia, where it is used for both sweet and savory dishes. Some claim it has powerful health effects, and some claim it is an aphrodisiac; however, the fruit is nearly inedible to those not accustomed to its odor. Durian is even prohibited in some establishments because of this overpowering odor. Supposedly, it can be smelled over a long distance even when the fruit is uncut.

My original goal was to try the fruit plain; I had visions of having a meaningful connection with some fruit seller who would machete open the hard, thorny fruit for me as though I was a Food Network celeb in a far off land. I chickened out. I couldn't bring myself to buy a whole durian at one of the markets, ask someone to chop it open, taste a tiny bit on the streets of Chinatown, likely gag obnoxiously in front of them, and then throw out the fruit like a careless, culturally insensitive spendthrift.

So, I settled for a durian smoothie with pearls in Chinatown.

When I ordered one, the woman behind the counter said, "You know what it is?" I assured her I knew, but that I had never tried it before. She simply said, "Tastes good, smells bad," and smiled.

I wouldn't exactly say good was a perfect description of the taste, but durian does smell bad. It smells like trash, like my garbage can in summer after we've missed trash day. My husband, who suffered though only one or two small slugs of the shake, fondly remembers a taste of "creamy, buttery ass." Actually, he said something far more crude than I care to record here.

But, I found that if you don't pause significantly between sips, like less than 5 seconds, the rotten odor starts to fade away and the sweeter taste of the fruit emerges. So, I kept slurping. Tempered by sweetened condensed milk, ice, and tapioca pearls, the durian took on a flavor more like a melon, but a melon that was somehow off. Every time I stopped for a breath, the sewage-rot odor returned with a vengeance.

And yet, it was growing on me. It had been a long time, since fermented eggs and duck knuckles in Beijing, since I had tried something this different. I was happy; the brief exotic experience and the famously fragrant fruit nudged me to shake my mid-winter Minnesota blues.

And I felt ready. Ready for the durian without the palate pleasing support of the smoothie. Thailand, anyone?

My New Best Meal Ever

We'd heard all about these famous shrimp trucks on the North Shore of Oahu, but little did I know what I would discover when we finally made our way there. The "trucks" are converted mail trucks that serve up shrimp from the local shrimp farms in Kahuku. We first stopped at Giovanni's because we had heard they were one of the originals. Sure enough, when we got there, it became clear Giovanni's was THE shrimp truck to try. Cars lined up to turn right into the grass parking lot. A small tour bus pulled in behind us. A crowd of tourists hung around the two mail trucks leisurely; we were not quite sure if they were standing in line to order or to pick up. I had a flutter of that feeling like when you first go to Anna's Taqueria, when it seems like everyone but you knows what to do and you can't figure it out in time before you get to the tortilla warmer. After taking a minute to assess that nearly everyone was waiting to pickup, we made our way to the front and ordered the shrimp scampi, which seemed to be the house specialty, from a young blond high schooler. After a long wait, we indulged in a plate of hot, buttery, garlic shrimp and rice.


I looked around to see a young Japanese couple posing for pictures with their shrimp. Across from us, a very large girl around eight years old sucked the butter and garlic off every shrimp before pulling off the shells, slurping her Gatorade, ingesting each shrimp in one bite, and licking her fingers. A small bird hopped around, waiting for a bit of butter and rice.

Five napkins each, we were hooked and ready for more. Luckily, we had concocted what I thought was an ingenious plan: order only one plate from Giovanni's so we could visit a second truck, Famous Kahuku Shrimp Truck...


Even though it was the just next one up the road, this shrimp truck was different. There was no line turning off the main road, no tour bus, and no crowd waiting to pick up. Only one family, albeit a very large family, occupied the purple picnic tables, with a cooler of drinks from home. Where Giovanni's felt like an ice cream parlor on the Cape in August, this truck was quiet and calm. With no confusion about what line to stand in, we placed our order; this time is was a Korean style hot and spicy squid with shrimp scampi.


And there is was... the best meal I've had in recent memory. At first we took distinct bites of the two, but soon the buttery shrimp and spicy squid blended together to create a new sensation.


Off the beaten path in no way, it was simply the second truck up the road, yet 99% of the tourists missed it when they took that very first turn off Kamehameha Highway. Matt and I, on the other hand, happily sucked the butter and garlic off of every shrimp, scooped up every spot of spicy squid, slurped our Cokes, and licked our fingers. No scraps for begging birds here. Just two people contemplating a return visit the THE shrimp truck.

Here We Come Again!

ThighMaster, Waipi'o Valley, The Big Island

One morning while we were in Hilo, we decided to drive north on the Hawaii Belt Road to the Waipi'o Valley. I had read of this very steep walk down into the valley (supposedly 1000 feet descent at a 25% grade in one mile) where willing participants were rewarded with taro ponds, wild horses, waterfalls, and intense muscle burn from the walk back up. Lucky ones supposedly got picked up by Jeep drivers. Of course, I wanted to do this. Matt, on the other hand, was a bit hesitant. We both were afraid of blisters and chafing. Still we loaded up on musubis, coffee, and local bananas, and headed up there to see what it was all about.

On our way, we drove through Pepe'ekeo, which felt like a jungle - bamboo groves, vast banyan trees, and sun rays and ocean glimpses just sneaking through openings in the green. We drove up to Akaka Falls State Park, a drive that strangely reminded me of the drive to Welsch Village here in Minnesota. We followed the boardwalks to the falls, meeting the freaky monkey pods tree along our way. Akaka Falls was majestic. I realize majestic is a trite way to describe a waterfall, but I just don't know what else to say. It was tall and powerful, and as it fell, mist rose back up almost as high as the falls itself.

Soon we arrived at the Waipi'o Valley overlook. We parked our car and enviously watched the Jeeps barrel down towards the valley floor. In a fit of idiotic adult maturity, I had rejected our Jeep at the rental office in favor of a car with a secure trunk. Now, unless I was ready to hoof it, I wasn't going to get down to the floor. We saw a middle-aged couple walk up the steep road. I asked them how the walk back up was even though I could see the sweat on their faces and their arms on their weary hips as they took the last few steps. "Oh, we only walked down to the first turn," they replied.

Pouting more than a little bit, I snapped a few pictures of the valley from the overlook, and we returned to the car. Seeing sullen me, my sweet, indulgent husband drove to get some water and snacks and decided we would make the hike down. We were sure someone would offer us a ride back up.

The walk down was deceptively easy. Along the way we met a very sweaty family coming back up. The father and one of his daughters were scampering up ahead while the mother and another daughter lagged miserably behind.

When we reached the valley floor, we walked to Hi'lawe Falls, which I believe at 1200 feet is the highest freestanding waterfall in Hawaii. We then headed back towards the ocean, past a handful of houses. My trusty guidebook (which I stupidly carried down there) said that now only 50-60 people live down. A tsunami in 1946 destroyed the village, but not the people, who had evacuated. We noticed a "stone wall" made of the remnants of an old car and abandoned boats littering the yards. The valley floor was filled with small taro and lotus ponds; it was very much like the park in Northfield that always floods (sans the taro and lotus). The land was picturesque, but the residents made it very clear that they didn't like trespassers, so we kept to ourselves.

We followed a muddy road to the beach. Two men were surfing, and two older people were attempting to ford Waipi'o Stream, which splits the beach. Another two people were in the middle of a photo shoot, with a bikini-clad girl and all! We watched the crashing waves and the two hikers fall into the stream before we turned back to meet our fate.

I was disappointed about two things: the lack of mythical horses and the mythical kindly jeep drivers. I knew wild horses would have made the journey worthwhile. We saw waterfalls, taro ponds, and wild pineapples, but I couldn't really say that trip was really worth the effort. We kept joking that we could ride one of the mythical horses back up the road, but we hadn't even seen one, which kind of stunk for all the physical exertion we were about to go through. I saw horseshit everywhere, but no horses. On our way down, we also hadn't seen one car stop to help any of the pathetic walkers. We knew no horse nor man would help us. We were on our own.

And then Matt stopped walking and whispered, "Court." Just like the moose in Newfoundland, two horses climbed down from the valley wall. One froze in front of us, and the other chomped nonchalantly on leaves. Not sure what to do, I snapped a few pictures and slowly walked by the still horse. The horse, like a scared Hideki with his backpack on, stayed frozen in place.

And, so, we reached the base of the Waipi'o Valley Road, satisfied and ready. We climbed in 100 step chunks to pace ourselves and keep count. Half-way up, as we sat on a rock to catch our breath and swig our water, a Waipi'o local man stopped his pick-up to let his hitchhiker pause to take in the view. He told us that the road was the steepest paved county road in the United States. His passenger, most likely stoned, upon hearing I was from Minnesota, lunged forward to give me a big hug. He had reason to be happy; he had found the mythical ride. Too bad for him that it was in wrong direction.

About 1880 steps later, drenched in sweat, we made it back to the overlook. And then we ate a bag of chips.

A Hostel After All These Years, Hilo, Hawaii

Overwhelmed by the cost and pomp of the hotels we were checking out on-line, Matt and I booked a couple nights of our stay in Hawaii at the Hilo Bay Hostel in Hilo on the Big Island. The price was right (1/3 of our hotel costs everywhere else for a private room), and we wanted a change from the big chain hotels anyway.

Right off the bat, we both liked the place. There was a wide, open entrance that led up a staircase to a gathering space. Surfboards decorated the ceiling, and birds chirped a cheery welcome. A young mother made dinner with her toddler in the kitchen, and a young girl sat at the common table journaling, reminding me of me once upon a time. Our host reminded me of one of my student's parents, and I immediately liked him, too.

It only took one minute inside our room to untint my rosy memories of hostels past. The windows were without screens and locks, and my pillow was lined with plastic. We had only flat sheets and tired, thinned bedspreads. A box fan sat on the floor next to a white wicker chair. We were a far cry from the Hawaiian Hilton Village.

And, yet, that night, I slept just fine. And the next morning, with the hostel quiet and the parakeets still under cover, the only movement was the young mother back in the kitchen with her son. Happily, I walked down the hill for coffee from Hilo Sharkey's and to check out the surfers braving the cool, wet morning. Within an hour, I was back at the hostel, journaling happily in the common area.