When durians blush and tarap fades: A Sabahan love affair in season

IT is fruiting season in Sabah again, and I have had my fair share of indulgence – durian here, tarap there, eaten with the casual urgency that only seasonal fruits demand. I say this not to boast, but to confess. When fruit arrives, restraint quietly exits the room.

I do hope visitors to Sabah will do the same – try them while they can, especially the wild red durian (durian merah) and the elusive tarap. These are not fruits you schedule neatly into a travelling itinerary. They appear when they please, disappear without notice, and leave behind memories stronger than fridge magnets.

That said, I must admit something. It had been a long time since my last proper encounter with tarap. Not because of indifference – but because of trauma. A past experience involving unexpected maggots left me with a slowly growing phobia. Tarap, once loved, became a fruit best admired from a respectful distance.

So when I recently returned to it – fresh, clean, unambushed – it felt less like eating fruit and more like reconciliation. A reset. Proof that some fears, like some fruits, deserve a second season. And with that small, creamy victory, Sabah’s fruiting season felt complete again – bah.

Discover Sabah – Red durian and tarap adventures

People arrive in Sabah with plans, bah. Very confident plans. They come armed with itineraries polished to spreadsheet perfection. Mount Kinabalu at sunrise – non-negotiable. Island hopping by noon – mandatory. Maybe wildlife cruise in the afternoon – preferably with guaranteed sightings. Sunset – obligatory, preferably orange. Dinner – “local”, but not too local.

Mountain: tick – and a respectful sunrise click, because everyone was told dawn is mandatory.
Island: tick – and several enthusiastic clicks, one barefoot, one mid-jump, one pretending it wasn’t staged. Wildlife: tick, tick, tick – click, click, click – long lens engaged, breath held, ego inflated, proof secured.

Sabah studies this list and clicks quietly, nods with courtesy, and replies with a phrase that has resolved more existential questions than any guidebook ever will: “Bah… makan dulu.” Eat first.

Because Sabah does not only introduce itself with brochures. It introduces itself with taste. And not the obedient, export-ready kind. Sabah feeds you fruit that refuses to behave, refuses to smell politely and refuses to be available on demand.

This is a story about red durian and tarap. Fruit that blushes when it ripens. Fruit that disappears before you get attached. Fruit that turns tourists into storytellers.

When durian turns red and assumptions turn yellow

Durian is never neutral. It is debated, ranked, crowned, cancelled and priced like luxury property. It has kings, emperors, influencers and sworn enemies. It is yellow by constitutional expectation, loud by reputation and divisive by default.

Then Sabah does something quietly mischievous. It places a red-fleshed durian in front of you and steps back to watch your assumptions wobble.

The husk opens. The flesh glows. Red. Proper red. Not metaphorical red. Not marketing red. The kind of red that makes your brain pause mid-sentence. Occasionally orange-coloured.

Phones come out instinctively. Eyebrows rise in synchrony. Someone lowers their voice, as if discussing contraband, and whispers, “Is this durian… legal?” “Local one, bah.” In Sabah, that is peer-reviewed science. Case closed.

This is red durian or sukang – Durio graveolens – not a mutant, not a novelty, not a PR stunt. It is durian before branding, durian before clones and cultivars decided that louder was better. Alongside its orange-fleshed cousin, durian dalit, it belongs to a small, stubborn family of wild Bornean durians that never auditioned for global fame.

This is not the durian that announces its arrival three shops away. It does not perfume the street, dominate the room, or insist on being acknowledged. It offers presence, not provocation. No olfactory mugging at close range. It doesn’t leap out of the husk shouting for attention. It behaves. It waits. It clears its throat politely and introduces itself the way a Sabahan uncle would – calmly, confidently, and without raising his voice, because shouting, he knows, is unnecessary.

Unlike the high-priced aristocracy of the durian world – the clones and cultivars bred for drama and decibels, include Musang King, Tekka, Ang He, Blackthorn or Tupai King – this wild red-fleshed durian has nothing to prove. It is not engineered to impress judges or conquer social media. It has not been trained to shout “premium”.

These fruits are smaller, longer-spiked, and unapologetically forest-born. Their flesh is vibrant and creamy, but less sweet, more thoughtful. The texture completes the surprise. Drier. Less sweet. Slightly savoury. The flavour surprises – nutty, sometimes faintly alcoholic, like durian that has learnt to hold a conversation instead of delivering a speech. Durian that has learnt restraint. Durian that has gone from karaoke to jazz.

For durian sceptics, this is rehabilitation. For durian devotees, this is depth. You won’t find them posing obediently in air-conditioned supermarkets. They appear where Sabah still does things its own way – at tamu markets in Ranau, Tambunan, Keningau and more – places where seasonality still matters and fruit arrives when it’s ready, not when logistics demand it.

This is durian without theatre. Durian that doesn’t need to shout because it knows exactly who it is. In Sabah, it grows naturally across the interior highlands and along the Crocker Range, where altitude, rainforest and patience still matter.

Finally, the detail that upgrades its curiosity into folklore. “These ones don’t fall when ripe, bah.” They cling stubbornly to their branches, defying gravity, defying convenience, defying modern expectations. Someone must climb. Someone must work. In Sabah, even fruit believes in character building. You don’t find red durian. You earn it. Suddenly, the taste makes sense.

Fruit that refuses to be convenient

Modern tourism loves certainty. Timetables. Peak seasons. Guaranteed outcomes. Sabah’s wild durians politely refuse all of that.

You don’t ask, “Is there red durian?” You ask, “Got already or not?” Sometimes yes. Sometimes no. Vendors shrug. Locals smile knowingly. Tourists learn an important Sabahan lesson: unpredictability is not a flaw – it is a feature.

Red durian has been eaten, cooked and respected long before anyone thought of agro-tourism. It is not “exotic” to locals. It is seasonal. Familiar. Anticipated. And it refuses to stay in the dessert category. In true Sabahan fashion, red durian migrates into the pan. It becomes sambal. Sweet steps aside. Savoury takes the mic. Chillies join the conversation. Palm oil sizzles.

Durian crosses a culinary border and comes back tougher, wiser and unapologetically local. This is Sabah logic, bah. If something is rare, don’t put it on a pedestal. Put it in a frying pan and see what happens.

Tourists who arrive chasing orangutans along the Kinabatangan sometimes leave talking about dinner instead. Wildlife is majestic, yes. But sambal made from red durian? That’s a plot twist nobody warned them about.

Markets that run on rumours, not schedules

If fruit were theatre, Sabah’s markets would be improvisation. Under bridges. In central markets. At tamu. On Sunday mornings along Gaya Street, where breakfast is a flexible concept and durian at 10 am raises no eyebrows.

Here and there, the fruit appears like gossip. Some days it’s there. Some days it isn’t. No apologies. No explanations. No “sold out” signs. Trays of red and orange durian arils glow quietly, like secrets that didn’t ask to be shared. Vendors offer minimalist sales pitches. “Try lah.” “Season short.” “Eat first.” Prices remain modest. Expectations soar. You didn’t buy fruit. You bought timing.

Tarap: The fruit that ghosts you (politely)

Just when you think you’ve mastered Sabah’s durian dialect, Sabah introduces you to tarap.

Tarap looks like durian’s cousin who went to finishing school. Softer spines. Gentler posture. Less drama at the door. Inside, pale creamy flesh that collapses easily, like it doesn’t believe in resistance. First bite and the reaction is almost always the same: surprise, followed by affection. Sweet, creamy, comforting. Tarap doesn’t shout. It charms.

“Red and white tarap” may sound like branding, but in Borneo it is simply nature being playful. Most people know tarap (Artocarpus odoratissimus) for its creamy white flesh – soft, sweet, and wildly popular in Sabah and Sarawak when in season. But the forest, as always, keeps a few surprises. Hidden among wild types are rarer variants with reddish pulp. If white tarap is gentle and comforting, the red-tinged version adds a mischievous twist – familiar, yet different. Sometimes nature just refuse to standardise.

Then someone delivers the bad news. “Cannot keep long, bah.” Tarap fades quickly once opened. It does not believe in shelf life. It scoffs at export ambitions. It refuses global stardom. Tarap’s worldview is brutally honest: If you want me, come here.

Tarap doesn’t keep because it rushes through life. Once harvested, it ripens fast – often leaping from firm to mushy in a day or two. Its soft tropical flesh respires at high speed, enzymes kick into overdrive, and the creamy pulp oxidises almost the moment it’s exposed, losing flavour and browning within hours. Add a tender rind and a natural vulnerability to fungi, and the message is clear: tarap was never meant for storage or export. It was meant to be eaten now, bah.

This is not fruit you bring home properly. I once knew a friend from KL who flew into Sandakan with an empty suitcase, fully committed to the noble but misguided plan of filling it with tarap for the journey home. Whether he succeeded remains unclear. Whether the tarap did, even less so. Because tarap does not travel well. It does not respect luggage allowances, vacuum sealing, or good intentions. It insists on presence. Tarap is not baggage. It is an event.

Which is precisely why it makes the perfect tourism ambassador. You cannot fake an encounter with tarap. You cannot recreate it months later in another country with a carefully defrosted substitute. You either ate it in Sabah, or you didn’t. And if you did, you will mention it casually for the rest of your life – unprompted, mid-conversation, as if it were common knowledge. “Tarap? Oh yes, had it in Sabah once…” That is how memory travels, even when the fruit does not.

Tourism that ripens, not rushes, the last taste, bah

Sabah’s edible wild side works because it does not demand understanding upfront. There are no plaques. No lectures. No warnings beyond “careful, spiky”. It feeds you first. Only later do you realise what you tasted was landscape, climate, seasonality and culture.

Red durians that refuse to fall teach you effort. Tarap that disappears teaches you presence. Markets that shrug teach you acceptance. In a world obsessed with guarantees, Sabah quietly demonstrates that uncertainty can be generous.

There is real tourism potential here – but not of the loud, over-packaged kind. Sabah’s red and orange durians and its fleeting red and white tarap should never be forced into mass production or gimmicks. Their power lies precisely in what they refuse to be: predictable, scalable, always available.

Handled with care, they anchor a form of tourism that values memory over volume, timing over convenience, stories over slogans.

Imagine visitors planning trips not just around festivals and wildlife, but fruit seasons. Imagine Sabah remembered not only for where people went, but for what they dared to taste. Imagine souvenirs that live not on shelves, but in sentences.

Years later, when mountain photos blur and island sunsets begin to resemble one another suspiciously, these moments remain sharp. The day durian turned red. The moment sambal surprised you. The afternoon tarap taught you that some things don’t wait.

Sabah doesn’t shout its identity. It feeds you first and lets memory do the rest. The fruits have already spoken.

* Joseph Tek is a Sabah-based columnist and storyteller whose Aspire to Inspire writings are shaped by decades of lived experience across history, industry and everyday life. Writing from his “second harvest”, he weaves reflective storytelling and grounded insight with Tek-style wit that is warm, accessible and easy to understand. His stories invite readers from all walks of life to pause, reflect and see the familiar anew – reminding us that life’s most enduring lessons often surface in lived experience, shared stories and quiet dignity, bah.