Last night during dinner, we heard a sudden "plunk! bonk, bonk, bonk...splat." It was the first time in a year we had heard that distinct sound, and we paused with our spoons hovering over our bowls.
"What was that?" our guest asked.
"A mango," we replied in unison and took another mouthful of soup.
In August, the hundreds of mango trees around town produced their brown, pollen-heavy blossoms. Last month the first fruits became visible, tightly-wound balls of green hanging down from the branches. Now the strings that hold the mango up are straining against the rosy weight. Until--plunk--they fall to the ground.
The good thing about mango is that, unlike guava or lemon, each tree produces so much fruit that the kids in my neighborhood can't possibly harvest it all before I can get some. There's just no way. A large part of a tree's crop just rots on the ground.
My first mango season, 2006, was a pivotal moment. Every mango was a delicious, mysterious experience. And I ate at least one a day. Each morning I would sit and marvel at the beauty of repetition, the pleasure in plainness, the tactile richness. Maybe I am a tad dramatic. But really, I stay in Tanzania because of mango season 2006.
