In which Tim explores the forest in sandals...

It was shortly after seven oclock on a Friday morning, and I had been looking forward to another hour of sleep before beginning a day of seeking out people to do interviews with. A voice came through the window summoning me from sleep.

"Timo! Get up! It's time to go!" It took me a minute to figure out where in the world I was supposed to be going. The sun was barely starting to peep over the surrounding hilltops. Alter attempting to rub the sleep from my eyes I remembered the hydroelectric project that my community is working on, and that I have somehow been appointed a consultant to. There is a good sized stream flowing down a mountain to join the main river, and the plan is to send some of this water along a route of pipe that gets gradually narrower (thus increasing the pressure), and into a plant that will provide enough power for three small communities. It is a neat idea, and I am glad to be involved.

Yet my enthusiasm was tempered on this occasion by the memory of my last trip up to the site. It is a three mile hike from my house to the spring that feeds the stream, and it is all up hill. The rock and gravel road eventually turns into a small, steep and narrow forest trail, then eventually the trail ends and you have the choice between scrambling up the slippery rocks that the stream cascades down, or macheteing your way through the forest on the banks, and still having to do a fair amount of climbing. It had been a long trip that resulted in not much more than looking at the stream, me taking some gps readings, and then turning around to hike home sore, sweaty and scratched up by mean plants. Suffice it to say I did not particularly relish the prospect of getting up on this particular morning to do it all again.

I was told that our plan was to follow the stream down the mountain to evaluate where we could lay a pathway for the pipeline that will eventually be installed. This being the case, I asked if I should opt to wear A) jeans and hiking boots, well suited for scrambling through vegetation, or B) swimsuit and a pair of Dominican rubber sandals, ideal for getting wet and negotiating slippery rocks. I was told without a doubt to go for option B, so I did. Off we we went up the mountain in the cool morning air that was quickly heating up as the sun climbed higher and higher. When we came to the end of the path I was hot and sweaty, and a little blistered from having walked so far up hill in sandals, but I was looking forward to the prospect of soaking my feet in a cool stream for a little while.

We came to within site of the water, and the party of eight suddenly turned and began hacking their way single file through the brush down hill. I expressed curiosity as to why we were not going TO the stream as I had been told. The reply was "Oh, we are going to MAKE a PATH today right where we think the pipe should run." Oh. I guess plans have changed. Now hiking through tight forest on nothing wider than a machete path in a swimsuit is a miserable enough venture given a lot of the plant life that likes to bite, sting and scratch. But add to that the fact that this forest runs straight downhill, and the fact that you are wearing open toed and heeled sandals that like to slip off. It makes for not the most fun of hikes. There was much stumbling, tripping, saying words under my breath that are best not repeated, and thinking about the kinds of things I'd like to do to some of these people who talk about "saving the rainforest" without ever having had to hike through one. It was not one of my shining moments. I was tired, hungry, angry and sore. My hiking companions did not find me very eager for conversation.

I made it back home to bathe, eat a good meal, and sleep for a few hours. The bad mood eventually passed, and I have been back to the worksite a few times with less frustration. Yet frustration is a BIG part of my work here, and it never goes away completely. There is the issue of communicating with my partners across linguistic and cultural barriers ("what clothes should I wear REALLY?"). There's the challenge of dealing with new environmental conditions, such as sauna-like humidity and ferocious plants. And then there's the fact that when I do come home at the end of the day, the only thing I can speak english to is my journal. It is far from easy, but I think I am learning how to deal. Toward the beginning it felt like I was having one or two days a week where the frustration felt overwhelming. Those days become less and less frequent the longer I am here. There are far more good days than bad. I love figuring out the ins and outs of the language and culture. I admire my environment far more than I whine about it. And I am learning to appreciate solitude as something that can be very healthy, for a season. I live, and learn, and try not to be too afraid of looking like an idiot as I stumble through the jungle in my rubber sandals.

Regarding mangoes...

There is a tree near my house that stretches its arms to heaven and dwarfs all of its neigbors. Its status as the tallest tree in town, as well as its proximity to the road make it something of a local landmark. Everyone knows "the mango tree". Its branches are thickly laden with fruit right now, but the height of the tree prevents fruit lovers from from dining at leisure. We have to wait for a nice stiff breeze, which brings about the "plop, plop, plop" of the falling fruit. Lately the fruit has been fattening, so it falls frequently. Sometimes it seems to be raining mangoes.

The foot of the tree has become a gathering place for the local kids. When the fruit falls the kids gather up as much as they can carry, often taking off their tshirts for use as sacks. They lug their loot off to a corner where they spend a good long while eating their fill. My proximity to the great tree is a wonderful thing. It means that the kids, whether from generosity or guilt, always feel the need to share their harvest with me. They often give me their best mangoes.

At first I was reluctant to accept these frequent gifts. It wasn't because I didn't like mangoes; I love them. Nor was it because I was hesitant to take from people who less than I do materially (their wealth in fruit is great, as testified to by the fact that they can barely carry all the mangoes they have picked up). I was slow to accept the fruit simply because I felt like an idiot trying to eat it in front of people.

Where I come from we deal mostly with fruit of the "user friendly" variety. Bananas and oranges come in wrappers that are easily removed and disposed of. Apples, plums and peaches can be eaten as they are, with special care given to avoiding the pit. Grapes, strawberries, and blueberries can be taken whole. We don't know much about things like mangoes, papayas, or passion fruit. They might be a flavor in an exotic juice that we enjoy, or part of a fruit salad at an expensive restaurant. But most of us could not tell you what a mango fresh off the tree looks like, let alone how to go about eating one. And the mango is certainly no easy fruit to eat. Its inedible skin is more difficult to remove than that of an orange or a banana, and its pit is much more tightly bound to the fibrous fruit than that of an apple or peach. Consumption requires a lot of pulling and cutting, which is no clean work given the sweet juiciness for which the mango has been dubbed "queen of the fruits". If one had a cutting board, a good sharp knife, and a large fork it would be possible to eat a mango with some semblance of neatness. Yet these implements are hardly readily available when a grinning four year old hands you the greenish gold fruit out on the street and tells you to eat. Bashfulness always kicks in, because I see how wet and sticky this kid is, and I don't want to have to take my second bath of the day so early.

The kids have no problem with the process. They tear into the bottom of the fruit and rip off the skin with their teeth. Then they suck the fibers completely dry with a depth of joy that makes me think about life. By the end, their hands and face are completely drenched in the sticky orange colored juice. This process did not appeal to me. It was too messy to fit my attempted image of "professionalism," and I really hated spending hours picking those little fibers out from between my teeth. Eating this fruit is a sticky ordeal with an irritating aftermath.

Ah, but I have forgotten the reward, and the reason that children all over the world always run toward the "plop, plop, plop" of falling mangoes. That taste! The juice of such refreshing sweetness and subtle flavor the beckons the desire, even after years of separation. The queen of the fruits is indeed a temptress, and she quickly seduced me to forget my hesitation. I now eat mangoes in the same way as my young neigbors. Sometimes four or five in an afternoon. I realized that the mango season, much like life, is short. We need to bite that skin and the suck the juice out while we still can, and enjoy that succulent flavor as it drips down the chin. It's what I've decided to do. If you'd like to join me, I know a good tree.