City Profits from China’s Billion-Dollar Appetite for Luxury Durian

Driving around Raub, a small town in Malaysia, it’s impossible to miss the prickly fruits that fuel its economy.

You can smell it from the constant stream of trucks that travel the mountain roads, leaving a faint scent on their trails.

You can also see it: the green tips of a giant sculpture, the tenderly painted murals on the low walls, and the roadside signs proclaiming: “Welcome to the durian home of King Musang.”

A gold mining town in the 19th century, Raub has seen its economy take on a new yellow hue in recent years. Today, it’s better known as the land of King Musang, a buttery, bittersweet variety that the Chinese have dubbed “the Hermes of durians,” as prized as the French fashion house.

Raub is one of several Southeast Asian cities at the heart of a global durian rush, fueled by growing demand from China. In 2024, China will import a record $7 billion (£5.2 billion) worth of durians, a three-fold increase from 2020. This is where more than 90% of global durian exports are now headed.

“Even if only 2 percent of Chinese want to buy durians, that’s more than enough,” says Chee Seng Wong, factory manager of Fresco Green, a durian exporter in Raub.

Wong recalls how farmers cut down durians to make way for oil palms, the country’s main cash crop, during the economic downturn of the 1990s.

“Now it’s the other way around. They’re cutting down oil palm trees to grow durians again.”

With an aroma that has been compared to that of cabbage, sulfur and sewage – depending on whose nose it is – durian has such a controversial spiciness that it is banned from some public transport and hotels. He was criticized for gas leaksand was the reason why a plane was grounded after passengers complained about the smell coming from the hold.

Fans in the region have nicknamed it the “King of Fruits,” but on the Internet it has earned a less flattering label – the world’s best-smelling fruit – as tourists unaccustomed to its scent seek it out with delicate curiosity.

Yet it has found a growing fan base in China: as an exotic gift exchanged among the wealthy; a status symbol to unpack on social networks; and the star of culinary heresies, from durian chicken fondue to durian pizza.

Thailand and Vietnam are China’s main suppliers of durian, accounting for almost all of its imports. Malaysia’s market share is growing rapidly, having gained a reputation for premium varieties such as Musang King.

The average price of durian starts at less than $2 (£1.4) in South East Asia, where it is grown in abundance. But luxury versions like the Musang King can cost between $14 (£10) and $100 (£74) each, depending on their quality and the season’s harvest.

“Once I ate Malaysian durian, my first thought was, ‘Wow, this is delicious. I have to find a way to bring it to China,'” said Xu Xin, who tasted durians at a shop in Raub. The 33-year-old sells the fruit from his home in northeast China and is looking for the best durians to import.

She is accompanied by two durian exporters from southern China, one of whom says business is booming. The other expects it to continue: “There are so many people who haven’t eaten it yet. The market potential is enormous.”

It’s easy to understand why they are so confident. Sitting nearby is a large group of Chinese tourists – one of many who have flocked to rural Malaysia for a bite of fruit.

They eagerly sample platters of durian, carefully arranged from sweetest to richest. If eaten in the right order, locals say, fresh notes should emerge with each scoop during the flight: caramel, custard and finally, an almost alcoholic bitterness heralding King Musang.

Such pedantry is perhaps the reason why Malaysian durians have earned a special place on the Chinese table.

“Maybe at first we only liked sweet durians. But now we crave things like fragrance, richness and nuanced flavors,” says Xu. “Nowadays, there are more customers coming into the store and asking, ‘Are there any bitters in this batch?'”

Just hours before the durians ended up on Xu’s plate, they were painstakingly harvested from a nearby farm owned by Lu Yuee Thing.

Uncle Thing, as he is known in town, owns the durian shop, as well as several farms. He is one of many success stories in Raub, where durians have made farmers millionaires. In family businesses like his, sons often help transport the durians while daughters handle the accounting and finances.

“Durian has contributed a lot to the economy here,” Uncle Thing says.

Driving to his farm one morning, there’s a slight pride in his voice as he points out the Japanese pickup trucks that have replaced the rickety jeeps he relied on to transport his crates of fruit.

Still, farming is hard work. At 72, Uncle Thing wakes up every day at dawn and sneaks around his hilly farm to collect ripe durians, either hanging from trees or nestled on nets near the ground. A few years ago, a falling durian landed on his shoulder, leaving him with a stabbing pain that flares up from time to time.

“It seems like farmers make money easily. But it’s not easy,” he says.

Once harvested, the durians are taken to Uncle Thing’s shop, where they are sorted into baskets ranging from Grade A, for large and round, to Grade C, for small and irregularly shaped.

In the middle of the sorting area is a single basket reserved for grade AA durians, the finest of the lot.

These will soon be flown to China.

China’s insatiable appetite for durians has proven to be a shrewd diplomatic tool.

Beijing has signed a series of durian trade deals, presenting them as a celebration of bilateral relations – not only with major producers like Thailand, Vietnam and Malaysia, but also with emerging suppliers like Cambodia, Indonesia, the Philippines and Laos.

“In this durian competition, everyone is a winner,” declared a state media article in 2024.

These agreements are also part of Chinese investments in infrastructure in the region. The China-Laos railway, launched in 2021, now transports more than 2,000 tonnes of fruit, mostly Thai durians, every day.

But this desire to meet China’s appetite comes at a price.

Food safety concerns over Thai durians erupted last year, after Chinese authorities discovered a cancer-causing chemical dye in them believed to make them yellower.

In Vietnam, many coffee producers pivoted to durianspushing up global coffee prices, already affected by bad weather.

And in Raub, a turf war broke out. Authorities cut down thousands of durian trees that they said had been planted illegally on state land. The farmers say they have used their land for decades without any problems and say they are now forced to pay a lease to continue farming there, or face eviction.

Meanwhile, a coup may be underway in China’s island province of Hainan, where years of trial and error are paying off. Its durian harvest for 2025 is expected to reach 2,000 tonnes.

As in many sectors, from renewable energy to AI, China has long strived to be self-sufficient in food as well.

Even as he reaps the rewards of this durian diplomacy, he has his eye on what state media calls “durian freedom.”

“On the one hand, we will no longer need to rely on Thai and Vietnamese sellers to buy durians!” » proclaimed an article in August.

It’s still a distant dream. Hainan’s first locally grown durians hit the market with great fanfare in 2023, but accounted for less than 1% of China’s durian consumption that year.

But from Uncle Thing’s point of view, “Hainan has already succeeded in his experiment… If they have their own supply and start importing less, our market will be affected. »

He shrugs it off for now: “It’s not something we can worry about. All we can do is take good care of our farms and increase yields.”

Ask anyone else in Raub about the quest for Hainan, and your question will be brushed aside with a smug return: They’re still no match for Malaysian durians.

And yet, as China pursues “durian freedom,” it’s hard to ignore the fact that King Musang sits on an increasingly fragile throne.