When I first moved to Mexico, I rented a house on the beach in Villa Obregon.
There was no living space on the ground level, just a patio that was covered by the rest of the house. It was a pleasant place to while away my days in a hammock while listening to the beat, beat, beat of the surf tom-tom. It may have been my favorite place in the house.
It was also the favorite place of the local cave swallows. They would build their nests in the corners of each pillar in the patio to rear their young. There must have been at least twenty potential nursery spots -- and most of them were filled.
I am fond of birds. I like their colors. I like hearing their sing. And as a former pilot, I like watching them soar so effortlessly through the day's sky.
But there is a cost that comes with living in close proximity to birds. All of those mosquitoes that swallows are much-lauded for consuming eventually are processed into excess waste. And that waste starts piling up under their nests until you find British explorers in your backyard assaying whether the guano deposits are worthy of sending in a gunboat to annex another piece of commodity-rich land to the empire.
Marta, the woman who cleaned the house, was under orders from the owner to prevent the swallows from nesting. It was not quite Cnut attempting to hold back the tide, but it was close.
She would knock down the nests with a combination of hose water and sweeping assaults with a broom handle. Anything in the nest would be dispatched, and the detritus of war would be swept up for the next battle that would inevitably ensue.
I thought of Marta and her armory of bird control yesterday.
As you know, I have had a series of nesting birds in my patio palms. It started with a pair of mourning doves last June (tales on wing). They were ousted by a pair of their more-aggressive cousin Eurasian collared doves. (all the world's a stage), who have now raised two broods out of their conquered nest. Last month they lost a portion of that brood to a predator. I suspect it was the garrobo I found in the library.
I have enjoyed the reproduction cycle. Doves are not as fascinating as reproducing crocodiles, but I settle for what I have.
Well, I did until I noticed the cost of what I thought was a free hobby. Sharing my patio with the doves does have a cost.
On Tuesday, I saw three doves perched in the palm. They were indulging in an obvious act of courtship -- completely oblivious to my presence. I pulled out my camera to record this ménage à trois, but was distracted before I could take the shot.
Directly underneath this rather busy love nest was a pile of digested and discarded whatever-Eurasian-collared-doves eat. Remember those British explorers we met earlier? They would have gladly planted their flag on this guano site. A quick review on the upper terrace disclosed three more latrines.
So, when Dora arrived yesterday morning, Omar and I staked out our task -- to restore order to the house's staircase. With a hose and a bucket filled with water, soap, and Clorox, we set to work.
I now understand why those ocean rocks where birds perch are always white with waste -- even in rainy climates. Bird droppings are almost impervious to water. Pressuring the spray lifted off some of the larger pieces. But it took a scrubbing brush and time to get down to the gray paint.
While I was cleaning up the last few spots, Omar took action for the future. He removed the nest from the tree in the hope that the birds would not return to nest there. If my experience with Marta means anything, I suspect the doves may rebuild.
Or, maybe not. After all, they did not have the initiative to build their own nest. They stole it from the mourning doves.
The collared doves would frequently drink at my pool, along with the grackles, when they were in residence. We will see if their eviction cuts back on their visitation.
Or, if like so much in nature, they may simply persist over my desire to control their behavior.
Somewhere in there is a parable about the coronavirus, but that will be for another day.
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