When I was a boy growing up in Panama's Canal Zone, there was a certain time of year when cuts suddenly appeared on my head and the heads of all my friends. No one—not our schoolmates, not our teachers, not even our parents—had to ask about them. They knew that it was mango season.
In Panama, the mango trees are very tall, so harvesting the fruits, especially at the beginning of the season, when they were small, involved hurling rocks at them. We called this "stoning the mangoes down," and it was a far from gentle exercise. We threw our stones with such vigor and untutored enthusiasm that many of us still bear the scars (in my case on the forehead) from those that went astray. And most of us recall not only the exact day that we got those scars, but even the very tree we were tackling at the time.
It is easier to remember this detail than you might think: We were so intimately familiar with the mango trees around our town that we gave them names. The two trees close to the Trotman and Daniels homes were called, quite naturally, Trotman and Daniels. Both families objected to our tagging trees with their names, but we didn't care. For when a boy—and it was mainly boys who ventured into the bushes searching for fruit—came back with a mango in his hand, all he had to do was say the name of the tree where he'd found it, and we would all race off in its direction, like a swarm of bees heading for a newly located field of blossoms.
We also had names for the various shapes and tastes of the mangoes. There was the Turpentine, the Calinda (for good quality), the Sweet and Sour, the Pipi (it resembled a penis), the Red Bati (it looked as though the mango had a red behind), the Cherry (with fruit that was small and very sweet), and the Hairy (with long hairs that stuck in your teeth; the least desirable but the most common).
Early in the season, the immature fruits were white and bitter-tasting. We would eat them, anyway, but upon the discovery of the first fruits that had progressed to the green stage, we would abandon the baby mangoes and hunt only the green ones. Our favorite was the Calinda, which we would pick straight off the tree, wash (sometimes), and bite right into. Or we might run home, dip them in salt and pepper, and eat them that way. We also made "mango salad"—green mangoes, vinegar, salt and pepper, and (for those who could take the heat) Scotch bonnet chiles. We sliced the mangoes, dropped them into the mixture, let them sit for a few minutes, then picked them out with our fingers and ate them. There were times when the salad was so hot that our lips would turn bright pink.
After the initial commotion over green mangoes, a kind of truce would begin, a time of quiet anticipation. But it didn't last long. The lucky boy to come across the first truly ripe mango would summon a friend for confirmation. Then, when it had been established that the mango was definitely ripe, near insanity set in. The boy would announce his discovery by screaming as loudly as he could. Almost before the echoes had died, other boys would appear from nowhere, and the sky would fill with a hail of stones that continued until the coveted fruit fell to the ground. But even in our excitement we were fair: We knew exactly whose stone had caused that mango to fall, and allowed the victor to savor his prize undisturbed.
There was no glory attached to finding the second ripe mango. For after that first ritual, all the trees seemed to expose their mature fruits in unison. Suddenly, mangoes were plentiful, and every one of the big, majestic trees would be ravished. We no longer needed to stone the fruit down. Instead, we organized two teams: one for harvesting (you had your choice of climbing up the tree and shaking the branches violently; plucking the mangoes one by one, barehanded; or hacking at the branches with a machete) and the other in charge of gathering. The climbers had the privilege of choosing the best fallen ones off the ground first. Some of these mangoes we ate right away, skin and all; some we peeled with our teeth and ate the flesh as the juices ran down our chins and arms; others we pierced at the tip and sucked out the juices. Mangoes that burst open as they hit the ground were left to the ever-present ants. No part ever went to waste.
Ripe mangoes soon became so plentiful that we grew creative about ways to use them. We would organize a cocinaito (a cookout), gathering under our favorite trees with pots and utensils we had sneaked out of our mothers' kitchens. We were all between 7 and 12 years of age, and not one of us knew how to cook, but this did not deter us. We would start a fire, cut up the ripest mangoes, and cook them in a pot with sugar and a little water until they became heavy and syrupy. To stir this "stew," we used nearby twigs; if plates were scarce, we used leaves. Then we'd sit and eat the mango jelly in silence, relishing every bite.
Once the feast was over, we debated whether to let our cooking fire spread into the forest or not. The squeakiest, most timid, guys like me always wanted to put out the fire, but we were ordered to leave the scene so the other boys could make the decision. Sometimes they got rid of the fire, but often they did not, and then the neighborhood was visited by firemen, who questioned everyone. We all turned out, because not to show our faces would be too suspicious. Of course we always denied any involvement, while the firemen had to decide whether to stop the flames immediately or allow the fire to burn out.
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