Mardi Gras at the Mango Festival

The mango is the crown jewel of Philippine fruit. Filipinos celebrate its harvest with a major festival in April called Dinamulag, the Tagalog word for a particular variety of carabao mango.

Do you know the mango? Succulent, golden oval with a fat seed. The pit takes a bit of time to extricate. It can be cut close, off-center on either side, and that delay causes the tongue impatience. Most desirable at peak ripeness, its juice is plentiful and rushes from its thin skin, once sliced, escaping your mouth and dribbling down your chin. The mango's appetizing mass can be tangy with a taste leaning toward pineapple or sweet with the savory depth of an apricot. It can grow a pale yellow or lemon or orangey gold, even red, while bright green in an unripened state. Its perfume is a subtle charmer arising from frequent sun, warm temperatures, drainable soil, and muggy breezes. Once in proximity of its fragrance, it's irresistible. Guinness record keepers hadn't named the Zambales mango the sweetest on Earth for nothing. Mango growers from thirteen municipalities in Zambales Province, Luzon, embrace the festival by thronging to the capital, Iba, to display and sell, attend seminars, confab with business associates, enjoy good food, listen to marching bands, and absorb the colorful spring hoopla.

The festival hails as Iba's most extravagant of the year. Hotels, restaurants, resorts, and civic groups coordinate with the Zambales Mango Producers' Federation. Since Manila is effusive about entrepreneurial promotion, Iba's satellite agencies of Philippine Information and Trade and Industry, my office, are involved. Forty-eight mango growers gather bringing their luscious crop, and other food producers converge.

The four-day trade show is held in People's Park—an open square-block green. Vendors set up inside arresting blue-and-white striped tents, arranged on the periphery, which curve to form a concentric circle of enticement. Food and drink stands nose between entrepreneurs' booths. Seminars at the capitol are ongoing daily and sometimes merchants escape to explore Iba's newly opened businesses.

The year I was involved, community groups organized evening entertainment. Two weeks before the festival, the Iba Hotels, Resorts, and Restaurants Association floated the idea of holding a Mardi Gras costume event. Encircled at a table, eight of us discussed the proposal. Natural materials were a must. We needed judges and awards.

"Since we're hosting this, maybe we should all dress in costume?" asked Ben Farin, the president. "We could walk in the parade or watch from the sidewalk."

This was radical. Filipino culture embraced the collective. Behavior, speech, dress, who should talk, who should lead were circumscribed here, and few deviated from the historic norm. This profound influence went back centuries to colonialism by the Spanish and occupation by the United States. The church held a strangle hold on religiosity, sexism was rampant, and landowning Filipinos tightly controlled the political arena. It was like Chicago under Richard Daly.

Did they mean it?

It could happen if a majority participated. Most Filipinos I knew enjoyed a celebration. It wasn't that they minded others dressing in costumes, rather they weren't going to do it unless their group—family, office, marching band, church, or male barkada, circle of friends—did.

"Will you wear a costume?" Ben asked me.

"Sure, if we're decided. It'd be fun to dress up and march in a parade." My grasp was that the idea was new for Iba's Mango Festival. I hadn't seen a costume competition at last year's event, and the invitation to dress up was open to all. I figured some from many groups would participate.

Ben liked to try out new ideas on me. I was the foreigner. Would I wear a costume? If I did, maybe others would embrace the idea. He would enjoy our group having a showy presence in this huge party. He was a community leader, businessman, had held oftce, and was about tooting Iba's horn. Many civic leaders were in this group, and Rotary, and the business council. I'd joined these as part of my job and to understand the culture. I’d be glad to wear a costume.

It was agreed.

I should have known better.

Saturday evening was the pièce de résistance. The morning's grand float parade was over. Beach competitions and eating contests had concluded. Flower show and pageant winners were decided. Everything was celebration. The parade route and group placement were designated long since, and the doings would kick off with the evening's arrival. Mardi Gras participants were to meet and prepare at the sports arena and then walk to People's Park to join the lineup.

I’d readied with anticipation. Walking and biking around town and along the fine Iba highway system were routine for me. I scouted the local area and towns nearby. Rich farmland and rice fields offered native materials: leaf variety, stems to weave, berries to stain fabric. Plant life was practical for me as time to design a costume was short. Still, vibrant possibilities attracted from all around: silk, sea grass, cork, leather, cane, timber, bamboo, stone. What chimerical delights I envisioned. On one bike ride, I invented Lydia, the tropical goddess of love and literature—she'd be my fantasy character.

In Iba, plants grew fast, high, lush with a variety of greens that extended beyond kelly, lime, forest, emerald, silver, yellow. Gigantic banana plants stood in statuesque clusters along the edges of rice farms.

Early Saturday, I stopped a farmer crossing his land near the highway and asked if I could take some of his leaves.

He queried in customary Filipino fashion, "Why do you want them?"

"The Mardi Gras costume event, part of the Mango Festival." He didn't know about the contest. "Anyone's invited to make a costume, wear it and have it judged." He laughed, glad to know but not interested. "Take the leaves," he said, walking on.

I pulled at a dozen fat stems from a bush that towered over me, stacking each, and then knelt, bending forward to scoop them up, jiggling them to lie in the crook of my arms. Their broad widths curved over my fingertips as I walked to my compound apartment off Magsaysay.

Handling would cause the leaves to shred and suppleness would be lost as the day wore on. I put off the construction until early afternoon, holding a leaf to my body to assess how to attach and ensure support. The stems were sturdy and thick and might be a tussle to manipulate. Using the floor as my table and transparent plastic cording, I measured the width of my shoulders. Laying the twine out, I added feet to accommodate knotting. With the leaves on the floor, I overlapped, situating them equidistant in alternating color along the double-strength twine. Binding two leaves to it at opposite ends. I lifted and eased those to sit just over the curve of my shoulders, holding the cord tight. The string would support the weight, stretching to hem and feet. Winding and attaching leaves, I slid the costume on and off to assess my progress. It had to be removable to carry on the jerky tricycle ride to the sports arena. Otherwise, it would fray.

Jlazia, a neighbor, stopped by about three and brought sultry breezes with her. Twenty-two, honey-skinned with shoulder-length jet hair and married with one child, she and her husband lived in the apartment next door in our compound. I put the leaves on. Her expression told me she wasn't impressed, but she made a few suggestions and helped with adjustments. Terse for her sunny personality, I wondered if she and her husband had had a tiff. While invasive questioning was common in the islands, I was so off put by it that I couldn't bear to query my way into Jlazia's business.

"Some leaves are tearing," she said, concerned.

"They're delicate, but that's okay. I'm not trying to win a prize. Everyone in the hotel group is going to wear a costume.”

"That'll work then," she said, as if I had a responsibility to avoid disappointing the compound residents. I laughed to myself. Jlazia helped me until she heard her toddler squeal in the courtyard and left. By late afternoon I finished and hung the costume on a hanger and a doorframe. Hot and weary, I tackled the headdress, weaving a delicate cluster of flowers, like baby's breath, around and between two broad squash leaves, tacking them into place. My apprehension about going alone was rising. I showered, threw on a dress, and left, carrying my disguise gingerly.

Participants were to arrive and prepare at the sports arena, in north Iba, by six p.m. I wondered about who and what number would come. Hailing a tricycle, I slid into its narrow space; the wind blew in my face, delicious—with the costume on the seat opposite to avoid rustle—as the driver sped down Magsaysay.

At the white building, no one was outside but the tall blossomed bougainvillea bushes. Their orchid scentless splendor demanded my admiration. I had hoped to see Vangie, an officer and a friend from the hotel group. The open doors welcomed me and I entered inhaling a long breathe for courage. The room was filled. I felt like a latecomer. The big space, gym-sized, was wide open, without a partition or drape to separate the sexes. Humidity deepened at the cluster of bodies, but Filipinos were scrupulously clean, and I smelled nothing more than the faint, sweet aroma of distant hanging mangos.

Men were in various stages of undress, suggesting they had been there some time. Turning to stare at me and my leaves, I met their gazes. No women. Intuition flooded me. No women were expected. It was the gay community, only. I think we were all startled. What did this mean? Women would be excluded because of cultural sexism. Southeast Asia was decades from a sexual revolution. But only this group of men? Was it they who usually participated in such a contest? They were as cohesive as any other group of Filipinos. They did things together. Did their dominant joining here make others shy away? I didn't know. Surely Ben knew.

They were in the throes of putting on makeup, pulling on costumes or helping another with a zipper, but none missed a chance to stare. Not surprising being foreign, too tall, too white, female. Some were in full regalia and stood talking. I noted costume originality. Bright colors, a multitude of fabric, dramatic props. This group seemed to be the only one who could express individuality in clothing. Some men struck poses, and then laughed at themselves. Some were imperious, some looked unfriendly. None was shy about examining my costume—on the hanger, held high to avoid the floor, as I hastened toward the gym's far end. Was I a threat to their winning? Hardly. Some turned away, unworried.

I knew a handful of these Ibaans and many other residents. I extended deep effort to integrate into this town’s life, still not a familiar face in sight. At the stage, I got a few supplies out: a small scissors, safety pins, thread and needle, and tape. My pale green straight dress, street-length, would serve as a backdrop to the banana leaves.

A woman I knew materialized before me, slipping through some backstage area, and offered to help. She was a barangay captain and served at that lowest-level unit of government in the Philippines, similar to a U.S. town's district. I was glad to see her. We eased the leaves over my head, adjusting the cording on the flat of my shoulders, so it embraced tightly. I wouldn't have gotten my headdress balanced and pinned without her. I hardly knew the woman, but in that effort she became a friend.

The men started filing out of the arena. I followed. From the back. I studied the costumes. One wore the uniform of a medieval soldier. Chain mail covered his head and shoulders with interlocking rings that looked like iron. Its weave density was well-wrought. Over that he wore what looked like plate armor covering his upper body, arms and legs. He carried a visored helmet in one hand that rested on his hip. Its top swept up in a shallow A-shaped peak that would embrace his skull, while the visor, pulled down, would enclose his face. Amazing headgear, pewter color. Even his ankles and feet were housed in simulated armor.

I craned my neck to examine his work. The costume took time and ambition to produce. Spray paint could imitate an iron look, but the mesh? Had I been closer, I'd have touched it.

We exited slowly, men taking care not to violate their work.

Another designer to my left, lean and muscular, was decked out in a bright yellow-sequined, calf-length pantaloon trouser worn over a sky-blue legging, fitted from calf to ankle to foot extending into a blue sandal. He wore a dazzling lemon-colored jacket—wide blue cuffs that matched his feet—over a china-red body shirt. A pennant-pointed blue cummerbund lay against the trousers underneath the jacket, adding to the riot of color. A red helmet, secured by a chinstrap, supported lemon-colored mangos, sewn between emerald leaves. These stood upright, a foot higher than his head. He carried a basket of green mangos—which would ripen to yellow—with both arms and a smile on his face. He flashed with vibrancy.

Townspeople lined three-deep outside of the building. No one clapped or cheered at the fabulous display. They just stared. This was common. Filipinos didn't respond as spectators. It felt strange. I'd lived in Iba for more than two years but never got used to this cultural difference.

Several people from my hotel group were in the crowd and as our promenade loosened, three approached, admiring my Lydia get-up.

Ben and Vangie and another, Marcelino, were there to keep tabs on how the event was progressing. None was costumed.

"What happened? I thought we were all going to wear costumes."

Marcelino turned to Ben. "Did we decide on that?"

Ben had the grace to look sheepish.

I was irked and once again weary of male sophomoric humor. They had no idea how hard it was, as foreigner, to agree to participate and then be the only one who did. Part of my entry contract was to show how Americans lived. That threatened some men, who were dismayed, when I didn't align with Filipina cultural roles. Ben was one of these. It crossed my mind that I'd been set up for the costume contest.

That had happened more than once. I was the butt of jokes among men when they drank in their barkadas or even in my presence, when they thought I didn't understand Tagalog. But I couldn't change that and was pleased to have fulfilled my part of the bargain.

The contingent moved to the park. A young girl in a blue cotton dress ran by, her face smeared with sticky mango juice. Her hand was extended, holding the pit and looking for a place to toss it. I hustled forward as a warrior prince stepped into the tail of the procession.

We smiled, his handsome face warm, as he edged closer to the men in front. He was fortyish, shorter than I, and well-proportioned. We walked. I studied him. Magnificent.

Black feathers, six or eight, leapt high from his fringed wheat-colored helmet, reminiscent of a bamboo leaf, cut to tube-shape, wrapped and secured. The front stopped above his eyebrows, snug. A rectangular space at his head's mid-back opened and heavy black hair bumped out. The headdress descended to mid-ear and was fringed along his face down to his neck, while a strap fastened under his chin. Naked to the waist, a wash of black body paint lay across his neck, shoulders, arms, chest, and back, playing off his coconut husk-toned skin. He carried a bamboo spear with a fringe of feathers—white and gold—three-quarter distance up its height. The bladed head rose higher.

A decorated hexagonal shield—reminiscent of an ancient northern Luzon tribe—looked weighty. Bordered in a wide rust banding, forest green and muted gold slashes sprang from the center to its edge.

Descending waist to knee, he wore a stiffened triangular covering, front and back, cut open at the sides and overlapped by a broad leaf-shaped edge. A black tight undergarment stretched from his waist to mid-thigh. His legs sported swirls and lines of the ethereal wash ending in bare ankles and feet shod in woven sandals. Looking like a subject from an historic photograph in Cultural Anthropology, he turned. My examination had been too long. Blood warmed my neck and face; still he grinned and moved faster. Another block to go. I could see the costumed mango purveyor's headdress above the walking crowd, his leaves and fruit swayed a little with each step but never drooped.

We joined the fat long line of parade participants getting in place. I was at a loss about where to march. Being with the costumed men felt awkward, and they hadn’t invited me to walk with them. I didn’t want to walk alone either. I moved up along the edges of the parade's various groups, seeking a place to slide in between two.

The procession began and a friendly woman with the Office of Tourism. whom 1 knew, pulled me into its lineup, maneuvering me to the center among its first line of walkers. A score of staff were decked our in matching tee shirts and pants, laughing and smiling. We were at the front, behind the lead car, whose siren blared. Next were candle bearers with their festive burden—tapers tall and two inches wide steadied in heavy gold containers. A marching band made a jazzy noise a dozen feet before us. They wore modest abbreviated garb of silver and gold with tassels along shoulder and arm that swung in a jumble of movement as they played; and my fellows prodded me to move ahead of them.

"You're the banana-leaf queen." They smiled. "She should walk alone." So much for my fictional Lydia. Taking a baby step forward, I laughed to myself—costumed or not, always a spectacle—unaware they'd held back a few steps.

The air was wonderful, filled with light breezes that floated clothing. Candles flickered and a whiff of their smoke skimmed the night. The blue-black sky offered a score of stars that blinked good humor back to us. A distant fragrance of roasting meat, and the light perfume of mangos sailed by as we moved. Pennants waved from above, strung around the periphery of the park in uniform order, red, yellow, green, blue. Some of the watching crowd held masks to their faces, beribboned or feathered, several with shiny sequins. The colors of the evening and the enthusiasm of the music and movement were contagion for joy.

Around the park and then off Magsaysay and over a block to Arbizo Street, the merry line passed my compound, a left at Anonas Street and then back to People's Park. Smiling at onlookers, I ignored their silence and stares, but felt the strain.

It started to rain lightly and the leisurely pace quickened as the parade neared the capitol and was about to turn into its appointed park entry. Filipinos don't dawdle in the rain—it can lead to colds, illness fast. Formation broke, parade watchers scattering for shelter. Unopposed to the mist, I walked to the capitol and stood under its extended portico and tall pillars, where spectators crowded. A man held a simpering child in his arms. Then the girl saw me and shrieked. I backed up, speaking to her in a low, calm voice. Children often hadn't seen a white person. I was frightening. Smiling at me, her dad tried soothing her. She didn't relent and he repaired through the crowd into the building.

Turning to watch them go, I caught sight of the costumed men inside the wide lobby. I moved between people to the open doors.

Three male judges, all business and in matching logoed tee shirts, sat behind a table to the right. The evening's warmth and the lobby's cooler air meshed as I slipped in and stood in a corner. The adorned men, lined up single file, walked before the judges. Each presented his costume without hurry or interruption. A judge might question a contestant about his garb or whisper a comment to another judge, as each reveler stood feet from the table and turned to give full advantage of his get-up.

The armored soldier circled. Ten minutes later, I saw a blur of bright yellow, red, and blue with the platter of green mangos, as the man moved forward with a plucky two-step. Onlookers jostled around me, sotto voce, to examine each contestant. I waited for the tribal prince. He came with a regal step and stopped, looking each judge in the eye.

The rain quit and some spectators sauntered to the portico and the park. Its din built and the music invited. I walked into the night. Later, leaving a striped tent with a friend and on our way to buy mouth-watering plates of mangos slices, I glanced around the park's hub-bub. Ten yards to my right, I saw a rising arm holding something that looked like a trophy. The prince's eyes caught mine. His white teeth showed inside his happy mouth. He winked.

Originally published in The Antioch Review, Vol. 76, No. 1, Winter 2018.