We’re running as fast as we can, dodging branches left and
right, up to my hips in grass, bare legs getting scraped by every passing
plant, nature all around – we’re surrounded. We only stop for one reason.
Spotted. Mango tree. There’s Andy, my innocent little 7 year
old brother with a prepubescent squeaky voice, Eric rolling with us too, my
other brother (11 years old), and Danny, the ever-so articulate, drops a bad
word, “mierda” specifically, every other sentence, too cool for school.
They’re all monkey’s and scale the mango trees to bring home
tons of mangoes. I love my new friends and our new ritual. After I run, we raid
the chacra for yummy fresh fruit.
It’s the best thing being on an endorphin rush and running
around this green jungle of fruits all around you and eating whatever you can
find.
When we get home with our sack of mangoes, all of mine in my shirt which I make a little sack, we feast like animals. We dump the mangoes on the table, all of them practically rolling off the table and sit down biting into mangoes like we haven't been fed in decades. Eric, Andy, Danny and I give each other high fives with our "mango manos" (mango hands) that are nice and sticky congratulating each other in a sense.
Pictures coming soon. You've gotta see the kids climb these trees. Such monkey's.
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