She’s green, she’s a queen, and she needs to be seen – get your sourdough toast ready for the scrumptious Big Avocado. This four-metre marvel can be found at Tropical Fruit World, and is exocarp-ly guac you’ve been looking for.
The Big Avocado was revealed to a curious public in 1983, promoting what was then known as Avocadoland. Still a working farm, the renamed Fruit World is now home to cafes, markets, restaurants, a small train, and 500 different fruits. Well, 501 when I visited – teehee!
You’d have avoca-no problem spending an entire avo-noon there, especially as you don’t have to cough up any avoca-dough to enter the plantation. And your friends will be green with envy when the find out where you’ve been, because there’s a second – yes, a second! – Big Avocado only minutes away.
This roadside rascal seduces motorists by the side of the Pacific Highway, and has been split in half to reveal her delightfully creamy insides and plump, sensual stone. It’s a wonder there aren’t constant pile-ups as rubber-necked drivers try to catch on last heavenly glimpse.
Needless to say, these two are the perfect condiment to any trip north.
And they all love happily avo after…
Avocados come from Central America and, like all Latinas, the Big Avocado has a feisty, yet morally virtuous attitude, with a chubby bottom that begs to be groped. Yes, she’s passionate, romantic and… and… I’m sorry, I can’t do this anymore. It’s just too much.
Every time I pass this emerald colossus, my heart hurts. The memories of the original Big Avocado – who lived in nearby Alstonville until being murdered by hateful thugs – wash over me like a pantothenic acid-rich tsunami of hot, gooey sorrow.
This Avo looks so similar to my former bosom friend, but just can’t fill that avocado-shaped hole in my soul. Yes, she’s a verdant emerald. Yes, she’s fun to take photos with. And yes, her texture is botanically accurate. But will she ever hold me when the hot knives of panic slice their way through my reality?
This astonishing aguacate will be the highlight of your trip through the north coast of New South Wales. The photos you take with her will remain treasured trinkets, passed down through the generations of your family for centuries to come. But, for me, being near her is like hot death.
I avocadon’t think I can deal with the pain anymore.
Long before the humble ‘avo’ became the brunch of choice for perpetual children the world over, the Big Avocado was providing comfort and companionship to the damaged kiddies of Australia – including a very young Biggles Leticia Bardot.
Aw, just look at how gosh darn cute we both were!
The riboflavin-rich ragamuffin stood sentinel outside the House with No Steps in leafy Alstonville for time immemorial, but was demolished in mysterious circumstances many moons ago. For most, he’s but a fading fantasy. I, however, remember my adventures with the Big Avocado as if they were yesterday.
When I close my eyes I’m overcome by his sweet, nutty scent, and can feel the warm embrace of his wrinkled skin. The Big Avocado was everything to me, and now he’s gone.
Do not, however, allow my impish grin and stylishly minimalist board shorts deceive you. For this was a tumultuous period of my life, one that took me to the very brink of desperation and cast me on a treacherous journey through a pitch-black cave of depression and self-loathing.
Were it not for the unconditional love of the Big Avocado, I may not have survived to become Australia’s leading historian of Big Things and oversized roadside attractions. You would not be reading this website. The world would be a colder, less personable place.
The Big Avocado saved a generation from the crushing pressure of depression and self-harm. In the end, the only one he was unable to support was himself.
Does someone need an avocuddle?
It would be easy, and somewhat lazy, to say that it was love at first sight. I doubt The Big Avocado even noticed the awkward, shy boy who was dumped at his bulbous bottom by a hard-faced madame from the Department of Community Services. If I, on the other hand, even saw him through my waterfall of tears, the trauma of that day stripped his presence from my mind.
That awful moment had been a long time coming. A series of increasingly bizarre outbursts had seen me shuffled between almost a dozen foster homes. I was a boy in search of love and safety after years of neglect, and struck out at anyone who tried to help me.
The only people who understood me were Australia’s Big Things but, sadly, my attempts to be adopted by Charlie the Chicken proved unsuccessful.
Eventually, after a particularly unpleasant tantrum that was widely covered by the tabloid press of the time, my few worldly possessions were gathered up and I was dispatched to a controversial high security detention centre on the far north coast, where I’d receive the care and supervision I so desperately needed. The silver lining was that, to prevent further flare ups, I was to be imprisoned at the only juvenile delinquent centre with a resident Big Thing.
The Big Avocado had rescued many a hoodlum from a life of hatred and crime. It was hoped that the same would happen to me.
You guac my world!
Those first few months at the House With No Steps rolled by in a chlorpromazine-induced haze of paranoid delusions and electro-shock therapy. My counsellors did their best, but I was falling further into a bottomless abyss of foolishness. Known as a ‘biter’, I was cut off from human contact, locked away in a dingy basement.
And then, on a crisp winter’s morn, I was strapped to a gurney, my mouth ensconced in a muzzle, and gingerly wheeled out the front gate. Breaking many human rights regulations I was left, drool pouring from my gaping maw and eyes spinning with madness, at the foot of the Avocado.
I may have been there minutes or I may have been there days, but I clearly remember the point where I looked up and saw that bright green orb hovering in front of me. A calm swept over me that I had never known, and I allowed myself to become one with the Big Avocado.
“Bigs,” he told me, “you are following the wrong path. Your life has been lost to lunacy and ultraviolence, but is destined to be one of peace and love and really tired puns.”
I waited for him to order me to kill my tormentors, as my bed had told me earlier that day, but the words never came.
“My life has no meaning,” I slurred, the heady mixture of muscle relaxants and methylphenidate finally wearing off.
“Yes it does. You are destined to build the greatest website dedicated to Big Things that the world has ever known. It will bring a new era of harmony to a very troubled world. You will unite people of all races, genders, sexual orientations and body shapes with your unabashed enthusiasm for oversized roadside attractions.”
Of course, this was many years before the internet was invented, so I might be misremembering the conversation, but that’s pretty much the gist of it.
And they all lived happily avo after
No longer a twisted creature brimming with vulgarity and loathing, I took to wearing pink short-shorts and mincing around in a flamboyant fashion. My days were spent chatting with the Big Avocado, who became my spiritual guide, muse and – all too briefly – romantic partner.
Unmuzzled and uncaged, I was even allowed to visit other Big Things in the region, such as the Big Prawn and the Big Pineapple. My life became one of joy and wonder, and it was all thanks to that spherical sweetheart by the front gate.
When I was finally released from detention, the Big Avocado was there to bid me adieu. He glowed with pride, and we embraced through a flurry of tears.
“Go out into the world, Bigs,” he told me. “Go out into the world and spread a little magic. Bring a little happiness to those who need it the most.”
“I love you, Avocado,” I wept.
“I love you too, Bigs,” he replied. They were the words I’d waited a lifetime to hear. We would never see each other again.
By the time I returned to the House With No Steps 30 years later, it had been transformed into the flourishing Summerland Farm, and there was no sign of my friend. I like to think that, after decades spent saving young lives, he’d finally taken some time out for himself, enjoying retirement on a farm somewhere in the sunshine.
Most likely, he was pulled down and tossed into the garbage. I prefer not to think about it. There is an imposter nearby, but he doesn’t have the presence, the heart, of the original. Just knowing he’s there hurts.
Wherever he is, the Big Original Avocado will live on forever in my heart, and within the hearts of so many juvenile delinquents. He rescued me from myself. I’ll always love you, my friend.
