Mango on a Hot Tin Roof

Our office sits in the choicest spot in Buala, wedged beneath not one, not two but three sprawling mango trees. (For you city folk, this is the equivalent of living on the junction of your dream address and one of the more elite Monopoly streets.)

Every so often you hear the thud of mango on roof and then It Is On. My office, Community Affairs, rushes out to locate the fallen fruit. Hospital staff, who work opposite us, are close on our heels. From the adjacent building Royal Solomon Island Police officers sprint out to join the hunt. And of course there are the motley crew of builders working on the hospital extension who are already there, throwing stones at the ripe mangoes and jimmying up the tree with a length of pipe. We tussle over mangoes and then sit together eating them, nectar running down the arms and faces of everyone from the most senior police officer to the guy who mixes the cement for the new slab (who I call ‘Blonde Marley’ for reasons that should not need explaining.)

And this, in a picture, symbolises life in the Solomons: a complex web of hierarchy and social status that is just as easily cast aside in order to enjoy some good mangoes together. In Australia politicians plan meticulously for what happens here naturally (‘Bring me a baby to kiss!’ vs. me sitting out the back of the Provincial Assembly eating watermelon and debating the World Cup with the Premier and Cabinet.) I don’t remember the last time I ate watermelon, or any fruit for that matter, with Kevin or Julia (but if you’re reading, I would love to! I know a place that does good mangoes…)

What ho? Falling mangoes! Until next time…