Incense and Mangoes

I had a friend in grade 9 who loved apples...erotically. Each day he would lay his brief-case (yes, he had a brief-case) on the table. He would open the snaps, take out two apples and set them on the table. He would put his brief-case back on the floor and proceed to "make love" to his apples. With big slobbering bites he would devour them. The whole time he would make groaning noises and say: "this is a better-than-sex-apple"! I doubt he knew what he was talking about, but I certainly did believe that they were good apples. Perhaps even sinfully good. The apple is, after-all, portrayed as the forbidden fruit that Adam and Eve ate.

Personally, I feel that it was a mango that "opened their eyes". Apples are certainly more versatile and keep longer, but a mango is unadulterated pleasure. Opulence. Sex.

I bought a mango for twenty-five pesos from a fruit vendor who had set up along the side of Nunez. I carried it in my hand, feeling the weight of its buttery orange flesh (warmed by the sun) against my skin. I left it in my fruit bowl over night and put it in the fridge the next morning to eat cool after work.

I went for a run to work up my appetite, lit some incense I had bought in China-town and peeled the mango's redyellow skin with my pocket knife. The skin revealed the flesh, brilliant orange, darker at the bottom. This is where the sugar had settled as it ripened on the tree. I sliced the darkest nub off and placed it on my tongue. Waves of flavor and coolness coursed through me. Piece by piece I took the mango apart, until only the slimy sweetness around the pit was left. I picked it up and and sucked off the nectar. Covered in sweat and sweet I think it is time for a cigarette and a shower.

Daily Things

Today a colleague who is fast becoming a friend asked me: "what is it like in Minneapolis, I might be going there for some training?" "Huh?", I said.

Despite the fact that my home town is closer to Minneapolis than any other major American city, I have never been. I guess it's because I've never had any reason to go and the city has never given me a reason. I get enough Norse settlers and cold weather at home. He wanted to know what kind of weather they had. I could help him out there: Hot in the summer, cold in the winter, bring a jacket because it could change any time. He was also interested in the culture. I was a little bit puzzled. I've never considered cities like Minneapolis or Calgary or Milwauke to have any culture to speak of. But I proved myself wrong when I started thinking about what people would eat or do in their spare time: "Well, I guess there are a lot of Germans and Scandinavians. From what I know of them (and myself), they're pretty quiet and eat meat and potatoes. Like folksy, rock or country music and would most likely spend their Friday nights in poorly lit bars." Then he asked if he would see any Indians. This one really had me stumped, because this colleague is from Pakistan, has lived in many countries around the world and runs an Indian restaurant here in Santo Domingo when he is not teaching English. I figured he was talking about American Indians, because that's what everyone here calls them, swallowed my Canadian political correctness and dove in to the conversation: "Yes, I'm sure you would, in fact one of my favourite authors lives there, Louise Erdrich. She is half Ojibwe, I believe. You could visit her bookstore. I'm sure you'll be able to see some East Indians too."

I've spent so much time trying to be normal here that I've forgotten how different the cultures I come from are. This is still a monolithic culture. The only difference between big cities and towns are the numbers of people and fast food chains. To be fair there are a couple museums and Universities, but not much else changes. Seeds of difference are beginning to sprout here. Far too often, though, they are killed before they get a chance to grow.

"Big Yellow Taxi"

To answer your question Joni, yes that's exactly the way it seems to go. But lately I've been thinking the questions should read: "don't it always seem to go that you don't know what you've got till you're gone?"

The truths about places and people I've left behind are haunting me. I've spent half a year now scratching at the surface. As always, I'm anxious to see what lies beneath this sunny veneer. I want to put a crack in it, "that's how the light gets in" after all. I find, though, that there is only more light and more noise on the other side. The country is swamped in sun, car horns and meaningless screaming. I crave a snow cave, or a sauna with a ticking stove and a frozen lake. I long for quiet aisles of books, a barrier between me and the outdoors. I think of libraries as lovers, the only differences is that you can't take them with you. An internet connection isn't a library, no matter what you read the computer still smells the same. I miss the smell of books. There are some things that vaguely resemble libraries here, but none of the real thing. They usually don't let you in or are closed or are actually book stores. It's not the same thing. Libraries need months every year of cold, rain or best of all fog to grow big and strong. I've left all that behind with a curse. People need the inside time to think and write and organize. The weather must drive you to it. Sunshine is not conducive to deep thinking. Missing that side of life I'm reduced to blubbering each time I encounter something more profound than dancing salsa, laughing, complaining about the power going out or electronics breaking. The sound of a bouzouki is enough to bring tears to my eyes. I'm thirsty for all the daily things I've left behind. Just one birthday party that doesn't stop traffic or one sad song, please. How about someone saying: "can I read you something". It doesn't even matter what it is, the idea of someone sharing ideas is enough to make me weepy. I wouldn't say no to a little irony every once in a while. I want a culture that consists of more than dancing and arguing. Being happy all the time is exhausting.

The worst thing is that when I leave this place I will miss it too. In my mind it will be brighter and clearer. If you are a romantic, you must never go back to places you have been, no reality can do a memory justice. Places aren't things.

Waiting on Mangoes

In Canada you call it
winter
because nothing grows
and you need to change your tires
turn on your furnace
seal your windows
put your garden to bed
and perhaps
buy a new winter coat.
The days are cold and dark
the sun is pale.

There is no such word for it here.
Without a calendar
there are few ways to tell
what season it is
Hurricane season is
more of a possibility
than a season.
The rain may dump
for a few days
and form puddles on your floor.
Some wind,
but nothing compared to other places.
If you want the weather kind of seasons
you're in the wrong place
there is only
hot and very hot.
But if you still demand seasons
look to the fruit.

There is orange season:
beautiful
black men
shave orange peels
in the streets.
This perfume
challenges the smell
and even the noise
of passing motorcycles.
The men stalk the streets
with bags of oranges
that look like
tennis balls
ready to eat.

Now that something like spring is coming
laughably large leaved trees
are dropping green fruit
before me as I walk
and the men
have small yellow fruit
beside the sometimes oranges
and year long bananas.
Spring is called out
by the mango
Messiah
royal fruit
that warns of summer's
unrelenting heat.
It turns the molten orange
glow of the sun
into a cool honey tear drop.
The mangoes fatten
so easily on the branch
without any effort
from anybody.