I Didn’t Count the Change

Mango Man and the Value of a Peso

Puerto Vallarta, México, 2022

From our fifth-floor balcony, Carlos leaned over the railing and called out to an older man across the street, standing near a mango tree that must have been over fifty feet tall.

“¿Cuánto cuestan seis mangos?”

The man paused, looked up at the new condo building with the rooftop pool, and said, “Cuarenta pesos.”

About two dollars.

“¡Sí, por favor!”

It was late in the mango season, so the remaining fruit was high up in the tree. After a moment, the man disappeared.

“Where the hell did he go?” Carlos laughed.

“There,” I said, pointing.

The man was shimmying up a telephone pole beside the tree. No harness. No ladder. He’d done this before. Many times.

In his right hand was a small net fastened to the end of a wooden pole that must have been fifteen feet long. Definitely homemade. He worked carefully, extending the pole to the very top of the tree, scooping a mango into the net, then dropping it into a small bag tied around his waist. Six times he extended the pole, patient and precise, until my order was filled.

When we met him downstairs, I couldn’t tell his age. Forty? Sixty? His face gave little away, shaped by many years of climbing poles in the bright sun, retrieving mangoes.

I grabbed the loose coins from the center console of our car, counted them—sixty pesos—and gave them all to him.

He smiled, grateful for the extra twenty pesos.

Six mangoes, fresh off the tree, for three dollars.

Later that day, I walked my oldest daughter to the corner tiendita so she could pick out something sweet for her and her siblings. Two Oreo ice cream sandwiches, a mango paleta, and a box of Zucaritas for breakfast the next morning.

The total was 140 pesos. I handed the cashier a 200‑peso bill. The change came back in coins.

I walked out before I noticed.

I didn’t count the change.

Then it occurred to me, not once in the two months we had lived in Mexico had I bothered to.

There was the mango man, climbing telephone poles for forty pesos.

And there was I, not even checking what was handed back.

I didn’t know what to do with that realization. I still don’t.

Puerto Vallarta, México, 2025

Walking back from that same corner tiendita, after buying the kids more Mexican sweets, my eldest daughter asked:

“Dad, you know how in America, if there’s change on the ground, nobody picks it up?”

“Yeah,” I said. “I tell you the floor is gross, so don’t pick things up.”

“Well, here in Mexico, people do. Why?”

I thought for a second.

“Because coins are worth more here,” I said.

Then I thought of the mango man, shimmying up a telephone pole to retrieve six mangoes for three dollars, and added, “And because it matters more here.”

She nodded.

That was enough.

Thank you Matt Joass & Kat Koh for your feedback.