August 13, 2007
On the brousse ride from Soanierana-Ivongo to Toamasina (really, the names here are impressive) the driver pulled over in desperate need of a coffee so as not to fall asleep. I was in equally desperate need to find a bathroom, so it was a welcome break for me. When I got back from the pile of huge dead palm leaves (despite my rather constant announcements to the contrary, the world really is your toilet), David was standing at a vendor's shack holding a nubby, thick-skinned, mottled green, irregularly heart-shaped thing twice the size of a big mango and trying to ask how much it cost in French. After handing over 500 ariary, about 34 cents, we piled back in the brousse with our new piece of food, having been assured that it was sweet and good, but with no name to give it.
We got to the hotel where we pulled the fruit out and asked the man at the desk what it was. he knew the name, but only in French and my I-can-get-around-but-can't-hold-real-conversations French didn't recognize it. Another man standing around was able to warn us that it had black seeds and we shouldn't eat them, but he couldn't supply the name in English, either. So we took it to our room and laid it on the little white wooden table. David pulled his knife out after we'd each tried to smell it and hefted it about a bit. He cut into it over the sink in case it was really juicy and exposed a creamy but fiberous white flesh with large black seeds. We each hesitantly took a bite: it was creamily sweet, but slightly tart, and I suddenly exclaimed, "David, it's your body wash!" Because it was. We were the excited tasters of a passion fruit. And I highly recommend it.
