<p>One of my first experiences of pure awe in Seychelles was when my employer drove me straight from the airport through a lush tropical fruit orchard and parked in front of an oh-so-cute cottage. “Your digs, I believe, Gilbert?” I enquired politely. “No, as a matter of fact, it’s yours!” The sound of my jaw thudding into my knees was ear-shattering.<br /><br /></p>.<p>I was floating on grass for weeks after that. I made customary ‘hello-hi’s’ with Guenther, my German landlord — a rotund, greying but jovial old chap who I barely ever saw with a shirt on. Much later he told me why he left his dear Dresden in East Germany and settled in Seychelles 26 years ago — he hated the snow there! His topless dress code was his sweet revenge on years of bone-freezing European chill.<br /><br />His orchard, though, was a world in its own. Rich, thick, green and amazingly diverse. The air would be a heady cocktail of fruity aromas. I felt truly blessed to wake up every morning in such idyllic surroundings. Throw in the amazing aquamarine ocean of Seychelles two minutes from home and you get the picture — pure jannat!<br /><br />As I explored his orchard, I discovered fruits I hadn’t seen or heard of before. Exotic, luscious tropical fruits with even more exotic names like jamalac and carambole. We then passed a nondescript eight-feet-tall tree. I saw no fruit on it, so the obvious question: “What’s this one, Guenther?” “Oh, this? It’s chickoo!” he answered uninterestedly. My favourite fruit growing right in my front yard? Wow! He, on the other hand, seemed not one bit bothered.<br /><br />“So, don’t you like it?” “Only if the bloody mynahs let me have it,” he quipped. His orchard was a veritable showcase of biodiversity. A gaggle of noisy mynahs used to systematically demolish all of the chickoos. He had never tasted one.<br /><br />I then lay upon him our desi home-grown tip. Pluck them when they are hard but full-grown, wrap in large dry leaves and bury them in a rice jar for a few days, and presto, you have them ripe, I told him. “But we don’t eat rice, you see,” he said. Ah ha! So I have to teach yet another desi tip to the German. “You must try it for change. Better than bread every day, no?”<br /><br />Days went by. The chickoos had started to fruit, so I used to survey it every morning, longingly. But a couple of weeks later, they were all gone! The next weekend, Guenther was busy mowing the lawn. “Mynahs still at it, huh, Guenther?” I yelled over the racket of the machine, gesturing to the chickoo tree. “Mynahs... What mynahs? We ate every single one of them. Thanks, though,” he shouted back.<br /><br />That’s one fruit less in my lunch box, I rued. Give a man a fish and you feed him for a day, teach him fishing and you feed him for a lifetime, they say...<br /><br /></p>
<p>One of my first experiences of pure awe in Seychelles was when my employer drove me straight from the airport through a lush tropical fruit orchard and parked in front of an oh-so-cute cottage. “Your digs, I believe, Gilbert?” I enquired politely. “No, as a matter of fact, it’s yours!” The sound of my jaw thudding into my knees was ear-shattering.<br /><br /></p>.<p>I was floating on grass for weeks after that. I made customary ‘hello-hi’s’ with Guenther, my German landlord — a rotund, greying but jovial old chap who I barely ever saw with a shirt on. Much later he told me why he left his dear Dresden in East Germany and settled in Seychelles 26 years ago — he hated the snow there! His topless dress code was his sweet revenge on years of bone-freezing European chill.<br /><br />His orchard, though, was a world in its own. Rich, thick, green and amazingly diverse. The air would be a heady cocktail of fruity aromas. I felt truly blessed to wake up every morning in such idyllic surroundings. Throw in the amazing aquamarine ocean of Seychelles two minutes from home and you get the picture — pure jannat!<br /><br />As I explored his orchard, I discovered fruits I hadn’t seen or heard of before. Exotic, luscious tropical fruits with even more exotic names like jamalac and carambole. We then passed a nondescript eight-feet-tall tree. I saw no fruit on it, so the obvious question: “What’s this one, Guenther?” “Oh, this? It’s chickoo!” he answered uninterestedly. My favourite fruit growing right in my front yard? Wow! He, on the other hand, seemed not one bit bothered.<br /><br />“So, don’t you like it?” “Only if the bloody mynahs let me have it,” he quipped. His orchard was a veritable showcase of biodiversity. A gaggle of noisy mynahs used to systematically demolish all of the chickoos. He had never tasted one.<br /><br />I then lay upon him our desi home-grown tip. Pluck them when they are hard but full-grown, wrap in large dry leaves and bury them in a rice jar for a few days, and presto, you have them ripe, I told him. “But we don’t eat rice, you see,” he said. Ah ha! So I have to teach yet another desi tip to the German. “You must try it for change. Better than bread every day, no?”<br /><br />Days went by. The chickoos had started to fruit, so I used to survey it every morning, longingly. But a couple of weeks later, they were all gone! The next weekend, Guenther was busy mowing the lawn. “Mynahs still at it, huh, Guenther?” I yelled over the racket of the machine, gesturing to the chickoo tree. “Mynahs... What mynahs? We ate every single one of them. Thanks, though,” he shouted back.<br /><br />That’s one fruit less in my lunch box, I rued. Give a man a fish and you feed him for a day, teach him fishing and you feed him for a lifetime, they say...<br /><br /></p>
