Oh yes
August marks the end of the mango season here in Kona. You needn’t know that, though, as walking in the woods envelopes you with l’eau de la mangue séchée from all the rotting mangoes on the ground.
Now, consider this. You have three mango trees on your property. Today is the last possible day on which you can safely harvest their fruit. By tomorrow, all mangos, regardless of if they have been harvested or not, will become the property of larvae and other slimy stuff.
What do you do?
Well, the obvious answer is, as “C” excitedly told me yesterday morning, to “engage in a hedonistic day of mango eating, also known as a ‘mango orgy’.”
To begin, you need to harvest the mangos. This isn’t as easy as walking up to the tree and picking fruit. First, “orchard hygiene” is in order, i.e. collecting all the fallen, rotten, fly-invested mangos which reside on the grounf surrounding the tree. This is to limit the potential for uncontrolled rot and fruitfly populations near the tree – things which are unpleasant for both the tree and it’s neighbors.
Next, it’s time to get the mangos. This tree, by the way, is nearly 20 metres tall, and all the good fruit is right at the top. Without hesitating, C takes off his flip flops and begins to climb like a monkey – in the politest sense of the term. Five seconds later, he is among the highest limbs of the tree. I hear a “WATCH OUT, I’M GOING TO START SHAKING” before the sky storms with a rain of beautiful mangos. Many hit the ground and splatter into nothingness, but most survive the journey. We gather the survivors in a bucket, give them a very thorough wash outside, and head into the kitchen.
C says “one sink is for you, one for me. This hedonism is messy business,” and gestures that I sit down. He has set up the sink (which is bisected, creating two basins) with one stool, one knife, and about 10 mangoes each.
He shows me how to cut the mango, then gives us and begins to devour the damn thing. I do the same, and enjoy the bliss that only comes from harvesting something yourself. The mangoes were firm – much more so than the watery ones we buy in the grocery store in Canada – but satisfyingly so, as if each mango bite was one out of a substantial pound cake. The flavor was complex – mango-ey, peachy, floral, with occasional dots of cheesy funk (probably from accidentally eating larvae and the areas they wee enjoying too). The juices voluptuously spread over our beards, faces, torsos, arms, and even legs. Many mangos later, we were stuffed.
C said it best, “this is the only type of orgy with no consequences.”