When a boy like me gets sad I try to remember old memories. Or at least make them up, taking bits and pieces of memories and compiling them, changing them a little every time. And because I hail from the Philippine Isles these memories almost invariably involve mangoes.
Yes. The sweetness of its scent, the sunburst yellow of the skin, tattooed with dark marks of ripeness that indicate they’re ready for the picking. Peeling it, biting into it. Too busy savouring the soft fleshy sweetness to notice errant juices flowing down your forearm, scraping the seed bone dry, and then wiping your hands clean on your white tee-shirt. Mmm, or green mangoes still firm to the touch, crunchy and sour. Bought off the Manila street vendors, peeled, served with bagooing, a fermented fish that sharpens sourness of the unripened street treat. Yum.
My mango is still more specific. My mango comes from my home town of Santa, Ilocos Sur. Mangoes, a little smaller than typical Philippine mangoes. You know, the kind you buy at the grocery store when you’re homesick. No Ilocano mangoes are heart shaped, with thicker skin, the size of a rioting fist.
Yes, I remember or at least imagine the days - after school, just after the rainy season when the plants were in bloom. They all had fruits to share with us greedy school boys. The plants were all lush with glossy leaves, bursting with all shades of green. Emeralds, limes, and forest greens. Complimented by flowers and fruits of the rainbow.
My friends and I would climb to the tops of the trees and pick at their fruits along with the marching ants that always seemed to find their way into our garments. And still without hesitation, with out regard, only with the wide eyed anticipation of the succulence of the fruit we were about to devour, we would climb higher and higher to find our reward.
Yet of all the fruit trees, of all the rambutan, santol and guava trees, everything paled in comparison to the mango tree. You see to a boy...or should I say manly man of ten years, a mango is a beautiful thing. Especially the mangoes in my grandmothers back yard. These were the heart shaped mangoes the kind I would think of when I looked at the statue of Jesus in my grandma’s living room. His burning red heart, akin to the shape of the mangoes in her back yard. I would always imagine them when I was made to pray the rosary, kneeling at a distance from the statue. What I would do for just a sliver of fruit.
After school, and before I had a tutor, my friends and I - there were five of us - would all run home and grab our sling shots. Then run over to the plaza. The plaza was a central court where the kids from the barangay (village) would come to skip out on chores. It was entirely made out of concrete, complete with grand stand, basketball court and stage for pageants. Filipinos love pageants. There we would alternate between playing basketball and shooting cans off the stage with our sling shots. My friend Justin, the smallest of our group had the best shot, he always made me envious.
Our after school adventures would always lead us to my grandmother’s house. Her house was not like the rest of the village, for my grandparents had been a prominent couple in town, my grandmother being a principal at the high school and my grandfather being the provincial surgeon.
I of course was oblivious to this and to any class differences, since I was just a boy of ten. I would often sneak my friends into the house past our Dalmatian, past our helpers and into the backyard. My grandmother’s back yard, as I remember, teemed with vegetation, chickens and fish ponds. All of it of course was wild and had been unkempt for quite some time. Its glory days forgone, twenty years before my birth. However, there remained at the corner of her garden the mighty mango tree. This tree was the biggest and most formidable vegetation in her garden. Its branches stretched high above the wall that enclosed the house and high above the rooftop, shading her kitchen.
The safest way to get to its fruits was through the house and into my late grandfather’s quarters, around the back and across the roof of the kitchen, carefully walking atop the beams that ran its length lest we fall through her tin roof.
Once there we had free reign at all the fruits within a 10 year olds reach. However, the safest route was also the trickiest as my grandmother detested my guests, especially guests from the village who entered the private quarters of the second floor. So often we had to climb the tree, risking life and limb just for a taste of mango fruit. The hard way was however the most satisfying for after braving the formidable trunk and the tangle of branches along with the bushy green leaves we were able to securely reach out and grab mangoes to our hearts desire.
But the process was not yet complete. There was another step. To fully appreciate such a magnificent fruit one had to be in the proper setting. We had to transfer our bodies from the tree onto the corrugated tin roof of my grandmother’s kitchen. From there the roof was stable enough for us to lay our thin bodies down on the shade the tree had so graciously provided.
The overhanging branches of the mango tree provided just the right amount of shade in the afternoon. Attracting the faintest breeze to wick the sweat of your skin. On the corner of the rooftop we would sit, me and my friends, and eat mangoes in the late afternoon. We would eat until our stomachs were sore, until we could no longer eat dinner... then we would nap and be happy, and enjoy the freedom of our youth and the irresponsibility that had not yet been taken from us. The thought of a scolding - the scolding we would surely receive from our parents - never crossed our minds.
When we were satisfied and somewhat awake we would take the seeds which we had bitten bone dry and hurl them at passerbyers. The leaves of the mango tree would also provide us with a disguise, because from where we were onlookers and pedestrians could fall victims to our seed barrage without the slightest knowledge of our whereabouts. A perfect ending to the day.
Soon there after my grandmother, irritated, would call out to me telling me to prepare for dinner, pretending to be oblivious to the mischief I was making. And my friends would have to go home to do chores and to receive the spanking they had spent all afternoon avoiding. And our dreams and adventures and mischief would be put off for another day.
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