Mango love

Rhona Canoy

SO… If I had to eat only one kind of fruit for the rest of my life, it would have to be the mango. All kinds, but mango. Carabao, pajo, Indian, apple, rosso–name it, I’ll eat it. No other fruit provides a truly sensual experience.

It starts with picking up the fruit, gently pressing its flesh to check its firmness. Then holding it up against your nose to smell the promise of sweet delight. Pulling back the peel, relishing its gentle resistance as it reluctantly reveals the golden enchantment that awaits. Then finally sinking your teeth into its moist cheek, letting its thick honey liquid run down your chin leaving a sticky trail to be wiped away with the back of a hand. Can’t get more sexy than that.

Even eating a green mango is exciting. The muscle strength needed to separate the peel from the firm flesh is a workout in itself. And even just the thought of it can induce a muscle contraction at the back of one’s throat followed by a copious amount of watery saliva as one contemplates upon which preferred condiment should accompany the crunchy slivers. I think it’s the only time a facial contortion and moaning followed by muscle spasms is acceptable in public. Also sexy.

And then I saw how much effort, risk and commitment it takes to get the mango into my hands and my appreciation of this wondrous thing has grown exponentially. From the spraying of the tree to induce fruiting to the time it blossoms start to appear, all is left to the mercies of the wind. Strong sustained gusts can easily detach these tiny blossoms from its tree, destroying all hope of a bountiful harvest. But if by chance the winds are kind, then the hard work begins.

Piles and piles of old newspapers are cut to size. Each piece is then folded and pasted, painstakingly assembled by hand into pouches. At the appropriate time, each pouch is then wrapped around each growing mango by hand in order to protect them from insect attackers and destroyers so that each fruit has a chance to fulfill its delectable destiny.

As the mint green-skinned mangoes,  still not quite ripe, grow ready for picking, they face the labor of harvesters who detach each one from the tree either by hand or with the aid of a long pole with a catch basket. They are then carried to where the sorters and packers sit under the shade of–what else?–a mango tree.

They are then classified according to size and quality. Those that are damaged are discarded and left to hopefully fertilize the ground for future harvests. Then each mango is placed in a box together with other mangoes, ready to be delivered to its final destination. Mango pulp for juice, dried for healthy snacking, or eaten as is. Each fruit-filled box is then loaded by hand onto a truck to be transported to where they are wanted. The next time these magnificent ovals emerge into the sunlight, they will bask in all their glory.

We never think of how many people benefit from this thing of beauty. How many families are fed by the jobs it creates. All the hard, tiring manual labor involved in getting it to market. How offhand we complain about how much it costs. Knowing what I know now, I am humbled by the journey this fruit has taken just to fulfill my craving. All the time, resourced, all the people. The thought blows me away.

And now, to me, the mango is even more magical. Not just to be enjoyed but to be relished.