Kamon Buathong

For over two decades, I've been the juice man on a busy road in Chiang Mai, Thailand, known for my durian drink. I’m 48 now, and each day starts before sunrise, scouting the markets for the freshest fruit. My little car hauls my stand to the same spot on the same road, and by now, most of the locals recognize my stand. They come not only for refreshment but for a bit of that extra energy boost a good juice can bring. There’s a comfort in the rhythm of it all—the slicing, blending, and pouring, and seeing familiar faces come back day after day.

Yesterday, a coach of tourists from China stopped by. At first, only a couple of them were curious enough to try my durian drink. They hesitated at the smell, wrinkling their noses, but I assured them, “It’s better than it smells.” After the first few brave sips, smiles spread across their faces, and word spread through the group. Soon, I was making juices one after another, blending furiously until my arm ached. Over 20 juices later, they were thanking me, some laughing, others giving a thumbs-up, happy to have tasted something so uniquely Thai.

Durian has that effect—it divides people. Some love it; some swear they’ll never go near it again. I don’t mind which side they fall on; as long as they walk away with an experience, I’m happy. It’s tiring work, and by the time I’m home, the day has nearly slipped away. But there’s a sense of satisfaction that I wouldn’t trade. I’m not getting rich, but this little stand provides for my small family. And every day, I know exactly where I belong.