the falling tree

Yesterday I was walking with an acquaintance in West Melaque. 

He and his wife have been coming to the Costalegre for sixteen years. They only stay two months -- January and February. Because of recent travel restrictions on returning to their home country, they have decided to stay an additional two months.

As we were walking along, he asked: "You pretend to know everything. Is there something wrong with the trees on the hill? Everything is starting to look gray."

His question reminded me of a flight I was on two years ago. It was the summer, and I was returning home to Mexico from a Panama Canal cruise. As we made our final approach to the Manzanillo airport, we flew over the hills that give this area their scenic charm.

The young man sitting next to me was from Oregon. When he looked out at the hills, he asked: "Was there a forest fire here?" I had not given it much thought. But to an Oregonian eye, our summer hills do resemble the Tillamook Burn. Lots of bare trunks and branches. No foliage.

The answer to both questions was the same. This area has two seasons. The Wet and The Dry. When the rains come in summer and fall, our hills green up as if they were part of the Dingle Peninsula. Ryan's daughter would feel at home here. Well, maybe not with the heat and humidity, but you get my point.

When the rains stop in the late fall, the hills continue their show until just before the arrival of spring. Old leaves then make way for new flowers -- and eventually new leaves with the summer rains. 

That is why the hills looked so odd to my walking companion. In his 16 years of visiting Melaque, all he has known is that the hills were heavily greened. What he was now experiencing was a peep backstage in the dressing room where the actors are donning their costumes for this two-act play.

There must be something in our minds that makes us believe that places stay the same as we last saw them. Perhaps that is why people who visit the area are so shocked when natural disasters like earthquakes, hurricanes, and flooding hit the area while they are not here. It is difficult to conceive just what is going on without experiencing it in person.

There is also the opposite phenomenon -- or a variation on the other. I was standing in line at the Banamex ATM five years ago. The line snaked out from the bank into street. So, I had plenty of time to talk with a friend who sat on a charitable board with me.

She looked at the line of gray-headed northerners and said: "I do not understand how this place survives when we all leave." She was sincerely concerned.

I responded that not all of us do leave, but most of the area's tourist business comes from Mexicans during the summer and on holidays when most northerners are not here.

She looked at me with a combination of pity and surprise, and responded: "I mean real money, Steve."

I suspect that conversation arises from the same perception as the "why are the hills gray?" question. We tend to be an existential race. The only things that are real are what we experience.

That is not a complaint. It is just who we are. And I expect that is why some of us read and watch travelogues. We want to experience new things without needing to travel to new places.

But whether we are here to watch the hills gray or to see Mexican tourists exchange their pesos for a good time, the tree falling in the forest will still make a noise -- even if we do not experience it.