Durian: History of the Smelly Fruit in Singapore

Singapore may not have an official national fruit, but everyone knows who’s running the show. Durian. Loud, divisive, impossible to ignore. You either love it like family or hate it like a bad ex. No middle ground, sia.

Honestly, every few years the same argument pops up. Is durian Singapore’s fruit or Malaysia’s pride? Sometimes Indonesia also want to join the chat. But here’s the thing: whoever “owns” it on paper doesn’t matter. Singaporeans have already emotionally adopted it. End of story.

The Smell vs The Magic

There’s an old saying about durian having “the taste of heaven and the smell of hell”. Dramatic? Yes. Accurate? Also yes.

Actually, even Sir Stamford Raffles couldn’t tahan. Legend says someone tried selling him six durians at his office. The moment the smell hit his nose, he ran upstairs holding it like he saw a ghost. Later complained about headaches and nausea. Bro really said, “Nope.”

But wait. Plot twist.

Another Englishman, Alfred Russel Wallace, was fully obsessed. This guy didn’t just like durian. He romanticised it. He described the flesh as buttery, custard-like, smooth beyond words. Basically, Wallace ate durian and went, “This changes everything.” That’s why Wallace Way exists today. Legacy secured.

What’s in a Name? Quite a Lot, Actually

Scientifically, durian is called Durio zibethinus. Fancy, but it tells a story. “Durio” comes from the Malay word duri, meaning thorn. Fair enough. “Zibethinus” refers to its strong smell, linked to the civet cat, which… yeah, also smells intense. Nature really said, “No false advertising.”

Fun fact: Singapore even has its own wild durian species. Durio singaporensis. Exclusive, okay. You can find them in forested areas like Nee Soon, MacRitchie, and Upper Seletar. Not your neighbourhood fruit stall kind.

Singapore Used to Be a Durian Farm, No Joke

Before malls and condos took over, Singapore was full of durian plantations. Mandai. Bukit Timah. Upper Serangoon. Even Pulau Tekong and Pulau Ubin. Tens of thousands of trees, privately owned.

Road names today still snitch on our past. Lorong Lew Lian literally means “durian road” in Hokkien. Jalan Durian exists too, over at Pulau Ubin. These aren’t random names. They’re receipts.

When Durian Took Over the Streets

Back in the 60s and 70s, durian was too popular. Roadside stalls would jam traffic. People double-parked just to crack one open. Shells piled up everywhere. During peak season, rubbish levels jumped like mad.

Actually, during those months, Singapore produced an extra 200 tonnes of waste daily. Mostly durian shells. The government even considered taxing each imported durian one dollar. Can you imagine the riot? Thankfully, that idea died fast.

Not All Hawkers Were Angels

Let’s not romanticise too much. In the 70s, some durian sellers were… shady. The authorities caught 25 hawkers using rigged weighing scales. They earned up to 50% more per basket by cheating customers. Confirm-plus-guarantee kena caught.

Under the law, they faced fines, but the damage was done. Some hawkers were also aggressive, pushy, even threatening. You just want to buy fruit, leh. Not enter WWE.

From Cheap Treat to Luxury Flex

By the 80s, Singapore was importing serious amounts of durian. Over 13,000 tonnes a year. Prices back then? Good Malaysian durians went for $6 to $8 per kg. Sounds cheap now, right?

Then came premium branding. XO. Tiger Hill. Suddenly durian wasn’t just fruit. It was status. Some kings sold for $25 per kg. Wallet cried, but people still bought.

Over time, the variety list exploded. D10. D24. Musang King. Red Prawn. Black Thorn. Old Tree. Each with its own fanbase, price tag, and loud opinions.

The Lost Art of Being Surprised

Actually, this is the part nobody talks about enough.

Old-school durian eating had suspense. Real suspense. You didn’t know what you were getting until the shell cracked open. One durian could be sweet and creamy. The next one could be bitter until your soul leave your body. And somehow, that was the fun.

Back then, every durian was its own character. Same pile. Same stall. Totally different taste. Parents, uncles, aunties all became instant food critics.

“Wah this one bitter.”
“Eh no leh, got sweet aftertaste.”
“This one jialat.”

Buy ten kampung durians, you get eight surprises. Some good. Some bad. Some unforgettable. That unpredictability made people lean in. It made durian eating an experience, not just consumption.

But now? Modern varieties like Musang King changed the game.

Most Musang King trees come from the same origin stock. Propagated through stem cutting. Same DNA across the plantation. Which means the flavour is locked in. Consistent. Reliable. Safe.

And yes, it’s creamy. Yes, it’s rich. Yes, it’s damn nice.

But here’s the thing.

When every durian tastes almost the same, the shock factor disappears. There’s no moment of “eh this one different sia.” No highs and lows. Just a smooth, predictable ride.

Good? Confirm.
Exciting? Not really.

We didn’t lose good durian. We lost surprise.

And for a fruit that built its reputation on chaos, that’s kind of a big deal.

Durian Went Upscale

In 1983, Singapore opened its first durian restaurant. Air-conditioned. Fancy. No sweating at roadside stalls anymore. The 90s then went wild with durian desserts. Cakes, puffs, ice kacang, tarts. Even a durian café showed up at China Square.

Durian didn’t just survive modern Singapore. It adapted. Like a boss.

Loved by People, Hated by MRT

And yet, despite all the love, durian has one enemy: public transport.

In 1988, MRT straight-up banned it. Too smelly. Too disruptive. If you want to bring it onboard, vacuum seal it properly. Otherwise, hello $500 fine. Durian may be king, but MRT rules harder.

Between You & Me

I think durian perfectly represents Singapore. Strong. Polarising. Not trying to please everyone. You don’t ease into it. You commit or you walk away. And honestly? That’s refreshing.

Durian doesn’t care about your comfort zone. It challenges you. And somehow, once you get it, you really get it. That’s why no matter how modern we become, this spiky, smelly fruit still has a seat at the table. Even if it’s not allowed on the train.