A Fruitful Search of Hawai’i

My first taste of an ice cream bean set me on my quest: if a fruit existed that tastes like Ben & Jerry’s finest with the texture of cotton candy, what else was I missing out on? The Hawai’i of luxury resorts and tourist towns brims with coconuts, papayas, and pineapples, maybe a roadside stand with bags of passion fruit. But driving a little further and getting a little stickier brings a Willy Wonka-esque wealth of the plant kingdom’s wildest wonders.

During previous visits to the Big Island of Hawai’i, I occasionally stumbled on treasures like star apples at tourist-centric farmers markets—deep purple billiard balls harbouring entrancing eponymous patterns and milky sweetness. This trip, I came alone, solely for fruit, on a flight that landed late Saturday night, permitting my Sunday morning pre-dawn pilgrimage over Teletubby green mounds and past poofy-topped Dr. Seuss trees, beelining two hours southeast from the Kona coast’s vaunted beaches.

Two dollars bought entrance to Makuʻu Market’s 175 vendors stretched across five acres. I picked out a spiky rollinia, with the custardy flesh and tannic tang of lemon yogurt, and a soursop that looked like a lumpy, prickly goth avocado, though its silky innards burst with pineapple perfume. My abiu, a pale-yellow fist-sized sphere, leaked a little sap to signify its peak, opening to a perfectly translucent jelly and flavour borrowed from crème brûlée. I splurged on durian, mangosteens, and my only regret: a chocolate sapote whose green tomato exterior and chocolate pudding within were each as bland as they were beautiful.

I left the formal market, at the closed Kaleo’s Bar & Grill, where a woman named Pam sells fruit from the porch on Sundays. My fruit-fanatic eyes went wide at the sight of a seven-pound cempedak, a true treasure tasting of Juicy Fruit gum. The jackfruit-cousin was reasonably priced, at $35, but heralded too much work and mess for a solo traveller sans kitchen. I settled for a deep inhale of its aroma, a fudgy yellow eggfruit, and small sapodilla—like eating poached pears soaked in brown sugar syrup. Pam kindly slipped me a few free consolation wax apples.

The next day, I drove to O.K. Farms, a former sugar plantation growing vanilla, citrus, macadamia nuts, spices, cacao, and endless fruits. I plucked bell-shaped mountain apples from the tree, biting into the crunch of a Korean pear flavoured with dry white wine. My tour ended above Rainbow Falls, an appropriate place to eat the farm’s lychees and longans, two fruits that look like eyeballs but taste quite like what I assume a rainbow does (sorry, Skittles).

I have long maintained that my dream vacation requires nothing more than an unending stream of chilled, sliced tropical fruit, brought to me in a chaise lounge by the pool. But, while that might be more relaxing, I can’t imagine it would be half as much fun as I had that afternoon, hulk-smashing my bowling-ball-sized, spiky-shelled durian against the railing of my hotel room balcony. It opened on the first crack, revealing its smooth, thick, pudding innards. I used my hands to spoon the novel fruit—bright, with garlicky spice—into my mouth and looked out over the lagoon, relishing my own personal form of luxury.

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