Living in the U.S., for the last sixteen years, I have come to miss many things about Trinidad—most of all, a mango. People might proffer others, like Carnival, Sunday lunch, a good beach lime, ole talk, roti, but for me it’s a mango.
In the U.S., I can find them in any Wal-Mart. When I am in there, I’ll pick up one from a pile. I’ll bounce it in my hand, checking the weight. I’ll turn it over to get a good look at it, like the thing is a diamond. It’s a mango. Feels like one. Smells like one. But it doesn’t speak to me like one. I ask: Where this mango came from? Who tree does this belong to? How long was this mango picked? Who picked it? Why the skin of this thing is so wrinkled up, like it just had a sea bath? Why it has so much bruise on it, like it fought with another mango? I rest it down, saying, “Nah!” Worst of all, it was a rose mango, the most common mango I know; even when it’s sweet, it still isn’t sweet. I think a mango without a story isn’t really a mango.
I remember taking O’levels years ago. Mango season was in full swing. There was a Spice mango tree next door, and nobody was living in the house, so you know what going on. As soon as I would wake up, I would throw on some clothes and out the door I was, heading for that tree. Rain fell the night before, so I am enjoying the mud squishing between my toes. Yes, no shoes, for what? If you are picking mango in sneakers or slippers, you’re soft. If you saw how that tree was laden with mangos and ripe to boot. I steupsed with delight. I scaled the tree faster than a zandolee. Now, this is how a mango gets a story. I have to watch out for the Jack Spaniard buzzing around; it had a couple of nest up there, and the last time I nearly got stung. They are looking at me and I am looking at them. I don’t shake those branches, but by the time I finish, my haul is about fifty, lemon yellow, egg sized mangoes, fruits of the Trini Gods. I sit on my front porch, legs swinging, facing the road, (so everybody could see today’s harvest,) eating mangoes for breakfast, juice running down my hands. Now, you see, I knew where those mangoes came from; I picked them myself. They were not frozen anywhere. About those Spice mangoes, the flesh has perfect firmness and not too stringy and it is sweet, sweet, sweet. Today, someone is living in the house next door, steups!
It is not just the adventure of picking mangos I miss. The first time I ever ate mango chow was by my aunt in S’ando; I had to be about six or seven. Cousin Linda was eating strips of mango from a cloudy juice with black flecks and floating pieces of pepper. Let me tell you, meh eye long. I ask, “What is that?”
She said, “Dis is mango chow. Come try it.”
Well, I fall in love right then.
My aunt had a huge Long mango tree in her yard, and with so many cousins close by, picking mangos was a family event. A bigger cousin was up in the tree, and the rest of us, children and aunts, stood around, grinning and giggling, waiting to catch mangos for chow. I miss that.
I remember the first chow I made with my brother. We must have put everything in that chow: ketchup, mustard, soy sauce, garlic—what we did not put in it is what we forgot—and also too much pepper. It was a witch’s brew, but my brother and I laughed and ate, tears running out eyes—pepper burnin’ we tail.
All mangos are not good though. I had just started San Fernando Boy’s R.C. in Standard II. At break time, the others boys would run to buy anchar. I had never touched that yet, but witnessing such impatience, I swore it was the greatest thing ever. I dared myself, plus it only cost a bob in those days . . . 1985. It did not taste that great to me—a strange, burnt, juicy kind of spice—and my stomach thought so too. Two hours later, I had the best gripe ever. I had the runs after I eat the anchar. I cannot even explain to Americans what a good gripe feels like, but I was in the toilet, holding my belly, giving back the twenty-five cents in liquid form. I would never eat anchar again.
Also, every day in primary school, as part of the government address, before receiving the small carton of chocolate or vanilla milk, the song ‘Mango, Mango, Mango,’ by Oliver Walk, played. It was one of the first folk songs I ever came to like and love. I cannot say when last I heard it.
I got the chance a few years ago, during a family reunion in Tobago, to give to others what was a birthright to me. I had a set of cousins that had never set foot in Trinidad, much less Tobago. There we were with this huge Doo-Deuce mango tree at the hotel, with a long bamboo pole resting against the tree. Being an old pro, I chooked down, (and that is a fabulous word right there,) as much mangoes as I could and shared them with my first cousins, who thought I was being generous, when I was just being family.
I can get a Carnival in Miami, Atlanta, Washington, D.C, New York, Boston, Toronto, Houston, and if I dare, Nothing Hill. I have had roti skins and parata delivered to me by mail. They invented Skype so I could ole talk for hours with friends and family. And Trinidad is not the only place with beaches. But when I heft that mango in Wal-Mart, there is no story, no memory, no event, just a spiritless fruit. I turn it over and the sticker reads, “Hecho en Mexico.” Mangoes are not made; they are grown.
