Where the Mangoes Grow

Where the Mangoes Grow

 

I stood fully clothed on the edge of the water watching the Filipino children play, creating ripples that widened and collided with others just as their voices did. The sun beat down with its forty degree rays and my body’s survival response was to blanket my skin in a thin layer of cooling sweat. The air ambled lazily around us, a well-known tyrannical presence in that place. The dam was packed with visitors, their voices chattering in unfathomable Tagalog or screeching enthusiastically through the overused wires of the karaoke machines. On the opposite bank, thick jungle terrain towered above the dam, the trees a knot of untamed nature, reminding me how far from home I was.

Some boys had crafted a raft from fallen branches and were showing off in front of a group of supposedly disinterested girls. They stood precariously on top of the unsteady vessel and dived into the murky waters, staying beneath the surface long enough to create some unease amongst the fairer sex and then popping up in their midst to a chorus of shrieks and giggles. I was reminded of my own youth back in England, where the sun sat further back in the sky and had a shier disposition. Here, the tough brown skin of the Filipino youth seemed to reflect the sun’s rays rather than absorb them like mine; a miracle of design. I wondered if I stayed, if I decided to set down my roots, whether my skin would alter. Would I mutate to withstand the force of light and heat?   

A ripple of water reached out to lick my toes and remind me of the relief it offered. I turned to take in the glistening faces of my pale-faced team and it suddenly seemed ridiculous to resist. I caught the eye of one; she raised a challenging eyebrow and rose to her feet, her shoes already forgotten. It was time to immerse ourselves in this place, to disregard our British inhibitions. Knowing that my team weren’t far behind, I launched myself into the murky jungle river and, ignoring the dead fish that floated inches from my face, swam out to join the fun.

Later, as our wet clothes began to crisp and stiffen, we sat and ate mangoes, the juice oozing through our fingers to be caught by eager tongues that were enamoured with the sweet taste.