Their lives go on

     Waking this morning to the news of yet another war started by humans, it was comforting to see a squadron of pelicans sailing overhead as if nothing had changed. 

In their lives, most likely, nothing has, though at least one  commentator has stated that Putin's aggression "changes everything" and that "we are in a different world now." It is probably more accurate to say that humans are in a different world now, a world in which the uneasy peace of the last thirty years seems to have ended and which more resembles the violent world that our species has created for far too much of its history. We have not generally been a nice species. 

     Here in Yucatan, the life cycle is beginning again. Birds, like this pair of common black hawks at Rio Lagartos, are engaging in courtship behavior,

Photo courtesy of Kate Fitzgerald

and indeed, this pair mated in full view of human observers not long after this photo was taken. Hawk life must go on regardless of what humans do. 

     On Isla Cerritos, magnificent frigatebirds are giving up their riding of the air currents for at least a year to nest and ensure the next generation of these genuinely magnificent creatures.

Photo courtesy of Kate Fitzgerald

     In a city park in Merida, groove-billed anis are flirting and occasionally holding still for pictures.

     On the beach behind my rental apartment, Yucatan's melipona bees are gathering pollen, benefiting both plants and young bees.

     The rest of life goes on, doing what it does, regardless of the geopolitical machinations of humans (though war and other human activities are unquestionably bad for life forms other than ours.) This part of the world is full of reminders of rulers and societies that warred with each other, created monuments to themselves, and then vanished into the forest for a century or three. 

Worth remembering.

It's Different Here

 and I don't just mean the lack of snow and serious cold, though for those, I am profoundly grateful. This part of Yucatan has become a cruise destination, but it has avoided becoming the tourist hell of Cancun or Cozumel on ship days; nor has it suffered the degree of gentrification that keeps people like those I grew up with from living on the island where we spent significant parts of our childhoods. And even with a mandate requiring masks just about everywhere except directly on the beach, there are no yahoos blocking traffic, screaming at people, or threatening government officials (though a few locals, especially those whose front yard is the sidewalk, do occasionally sit outside without them, and the cruseros often have to be gently reminded of the rules and provided with masks by health officials on the malecon). 

    Besides, when the next person is perhaps a quarter-mile away, the chances of spreading infection are not great.

    It is also easy not to be obsessed with the human world. The creatures here have their own cultures, though some (particularly, it seems, the pigeons) make use of us. The male grackles hold Very Important Meetings every morning

and sing from every available perch. Sometimes they engage in handsome-grackle standoffs.

    And the beach dogs (not to be confused with the sometimes-pitiful street dogs) seem to have their own culture and hold their own meetings.

And sometimes the morning light is a reminder to stop, and breathe, and be glad.

Gifts from the Sea

     A wild Norte that lasted for something like 36 hours ended with a  clear, cool morning and a very low tide, a perfect time for beach walking.

It was also, evidently, the perfect time for something else, as the exposed sand flats were hosting several people busily gathering something and placing the items in buckets and reinforced bags. (If you look closely, you can see a person in this photo.)

Remembering what was called the shell-hunting posture from my long-ago Florida youth, when one of my jobs was collecting particular species that washed up so that the shells could be sold in the gift shop owned by my mother and aunt (no one suspecting in those days that such creatures could become endangered), when I ran across someone close enough to engage in conversation, I had enough Spanish to do exactly that.

    As I suspected, these folks were gathering molluscs, particularly the conchs washed in by the Norte's high tides, but not for their beauty or tourist value (though the variety most commonly found on the beach here is a lovely and non-endangered member of the conch family). Instead, they were harvesting what would be very expensive seafood if purchased in a restaurant. My informant's plan for his was ceviche, the ubiquitous Latin American dish of raw fish or shellfish cured in lime juice and spices. (Not something I eat, having heard too many stories of parasites lurking in such things, though most people here seem to consume the stuff without a problem.)

    These particular conchs were doomed, having been stranded in a place where getting them back to their sea-bottom habitat was not among the choices. I suspect that the people who have lived on this coast for the last few thousand years have always viewed the post-storm conch inundation as one of the sea's many gifts.