It strikes me that tropical climates, for all the pleasures that
they offer to the escaping northern traveler, are oddly deprived. Here
everything appears to struggle. Plants struggle for decent soil and moisture.
And because the land-based life is challenged, everything is centered on the
marine environment. Birds are the dominant visible life-form. It is hot enough
here in February so that July must be totally enervating. Hence these climates
don’t produce “great works” like civilization. The heat, humidity saps energy.
Now, of course, this is well-known, as are the similar challenges of the
extreme Nordic climes; to know is one thing, to experience it is another. No
cathedrals in the tropics, as it were…
Aware simultaneously of the pin-hole sized character of my
usual interests compared to all this immensity. They are in another realm and
here lack all size. Yet I sense a kind of pathos hanging about the palms
here, their desiccated, lifeless lower branches turning ever darker, the
peeling bark, and the thick clusters of green coconuts above showing little
confidence in what awaits them after the fall to the white-grey gravel that
stretches between adobe-yellow walls. (Florida notes.)
No comments:
Post a Comment
Note: Only a member of this blog may post a comment.