The mangoes hung like conkers on strings. They swung lazily in the breeze that I brought with me into town. I reached a hand up into the tangle of heavy fruit as they swayed on strong green vines. They bumped against my knuckles. I stretched up onto my toes to get at the highest fruit. I squeezed their waxy skins – feeling for the difference between the green bitterness of unripe flesh and the soft golden give that would mean sweetness and sticky juices on my chin. Finally, I felt the push of my fingertips sink into the pulpy mango meat. It was so soft that I knew would be little more than syrupy lumps strung together within a thin rosy rind. I tugged it down and bit it open right there in the street, spitting the mouthful of sour skin onto the dusty ground. Juice trickled out of the hole and over my hands as they gently cupped the mango. I brought it to my mouth and sucked. I tore shreds from the soft skin to get at more of the bright yellow fruit. I swallowed it down and sucked at the almost bitter stone till it was little more than a dry and stringy husk.