The hot, humid air is heavy with the sickeningly sweet scent of over-ripe fruit and melting plastic. The journey to the rumored tree is a difficult one, a spiritual one. The path through the polluted landscape is packed with mostly women, sometimes hand in hand as they share their strength and stories with each other under the assault of the sun.
Pain, loss, and hardship are what brought the majority of these women to this destination while it’s the research that brought me. You see, the people of this waste-covered soil claim that a unique tree, bearing special fruit has grown from a field of plastic rubbish. They claim that a plastic seed has grown a tree that bears unique fruit and if consumed, creates a fertile womb. The sea of women that move around me are eager to find a cure to their fertility hardships.
After a day’s journey, with the sun setting in the distance, the top of the tree finally comes into view. It is overwhelming. It reminds me of a Banyan tree though the multi-colored flowers and long, white fruit are out of place. The fruit looks similar to a heart of palm and weighs the branches down.
We pick up our pace, both encouraged by the sight of the tree and the powerful, emotional melodies of women singing in the distance. You do not need to understand the words to understand the meaning of them. We were walking into a different future, full of hope.
We reach the tree at nightfall, but it isn’t dark. There are bonfires and cooking fires everywhere. The air is thick with the scent of cooking food that is laced with the rancid odor of decomposition. Surprisingly, the ambient energy of the place seems to mute the foul odor. Its vibrant spirit flows around us from the women welcoming us, the women cooking and handing out plates of food, and the young children playing around the trunks and roots.
The women that I traveled with quickly take plates and make their way to a bonfire to sit and eat. I make my way to the women cooking. The process is simple and beautiful.
The fruit is plucked from the branches and skinned. Then, it is cut into strips, like noodles. The noodles are soaked in milk for thirty minutes. Next, they are transferred to a giant fry pan full of hot oil and cooked for about five minutes. Finally, it is drizzled with honey and served piping hot.
I tentatively take my first bite. It reminds me of a bitter plantain with an aftertaste like it was cooked in a Tupperware bowl. The honey helps. The texture is perfect, though. It was tender with a slight bite.
I did not come here to eat, I came to observe, but along the way, hand in hand with my sisters, my tribe, I realized what our planet was giving us. We are not sick or broken. We are changed.
INSTANT NOODLES 