boys with sticks

It was merely a matter of time.  But I knew they would come.

Young men with dreams of quick money.

This morning, group after group of boys crowded around the path to the narrow bit of mud where the baby crocodiles rest.  Several of them carrying long bits of bamboo.

When I opened my gate, they scattered.  With the same look that young boys have when Dad shows up and the boys hope he won't notice the wet cat poking its head above the toilet bowl rim.

One of the older boys (and the one with the longest stick) told me baby crocodiles are on the beach.

Yes, I know.  And also a mother.

He laughed nervously and showed me how his bamboo pole had been shattered at the end. Apparently, he had already been introduced to her.

With a mixture of basic Spanish and a lot of Marcel Marceau, he told me he wanted the baby crocodile to bite the stick.  He would then haul the baby up to the walkway and sell it.

My reaction was mixed.  I was a bit put out that my little diorama was being disturbed.  Until I remembered.  The pond is not mine.  The crocodiles are not mine.  And certainly the babies are not mine.

An economist would point out that this is a classic case of the Tragedy of the Commons.  That which is owned in common has only benefits and no responsibilities.  As a result, the benefits soon deplete the resource.

What the boys were doing is no different than what any extractive economy does.  The fishermen of Oregon.  The loggers of British Columbia.  The oil well drillers of Venezuela.  The coal miners of West Virginia.  They all make a living off of nature's bounty.

The tragedy of extractive economies is that when the resource is no longer available, local economies usually collapse.  There is nothing left to harvest.  And the profits have been consumed as seed corn.

My little village was originally a classic extractive economy.  It was a fishing village.  Fishing has now been replaced, in major part, with a tourist-based economy.  What is often called a service economy, but is little more than a riff on extraction.  In this case, extracting pesos out of the pockets of visitors.

I often think about the future for this little town.  Economically, it will never offer much.  There is no reason to build a manufacturing plant or other wealth-producing activity here.  There is no economic reason for it.

And maybe that is not bad.  As long as the tourists show up, Melaque will remain the sleepy little town that it is.  Most people have sufficient.  A roof over their heads.  Food for a full belly.  And an amazing number of vehicles and television dishes.

By American standards, they seem poor.  By a rational objective standard, they are happy to live with the true riches that surround them.  Including the beauty of this place.

And as long as nature keeps supplying baby crocodiles, lizards, birds, squirrels, rabbits, and bugs to sell to pet stores (or directly to tourists), they will be a happy lot.