A Tropical Paradise
July 1 2022
In early morning
when the tropical heat is not quite so oppressive
a thin older man
with dark skin
taut as burnished mahogany
rakes the beach by hand.
Crabs are evicted.
Dead fish
left by the tide
gathered up.
And skeins of seaweed
still dripping wet
disposed of out of sight.
The white sand is imported,
all the rocks
have long been removed.
The beach is cordoned off
so the locals don't trespass,
and picturesque palms
that were never native here
sway in the steady breeze
that blows in from the sea;
the same winds
that brought traders and cholera.
But unlike most invasive species
that land in virgin soil,
they need careful tending
to survive.
A tropical paradise
that is really a simulacrum
of island life.
Where vacationers
on all-inclusive holidays
get drunk
eat too much
and return to northern winters
with either tell-tale tans
or badly burned.
And the man
who manicures the sand
returns each day
to his small inland home
and large family.
Where there's no A/C
and spotty electricity,
and although there's running water
it's unsafe to drink.
The tourist dollars
he depends on.
And a tropical homeland
that once flourished with diversity,
but has now been reduced
to sanitized beaches
imported food.
Where the shore
is off-limits
to fishermen and crabbers,
and the garbage
is dumped out at sea
but not far enough to matter.
This actually came out of considering the ethics of a beach vacation in a place like Cuba: where you know the tourist dollars are essential for people's livelihoods, but where we also conveniently ignore that it's a repressive police state. But since I prefer to avoid politics, I focused instead on culture and environment. Of course, it's important not to idealize a precolonial past, which I'm sure was a hard life. But it's also important to recognize that our idealized image of a tropical island beach is just that: a stage set, constructed to fit what we've come to expect. And that it comes at a cost: reserved for foreigner consumption; ecologically unsustainable.
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