Flamingos

Once I was with a group of teens in southern Utah playing games. One of them involved saying what animal we thought each person would be. Dogs, cats, lions, horses...and then one of the teens turned to me and said she thought I'd be a flamingo.

I'm still not sure what that means, but I’ve felt a small bond between me and the pink creatures since then, and I was excited to see my peeps today. Celestun is one of only a couple of places where pink flamingos live in the wild, apparently. We took a day trip to see them, toured around in a small motor boat, took pictures and watched them standing one one leg just as they do in books, preening, screeching, showing off. Apparently they get their colour from carotene, which somehow is filtered through their beaks. The water itself had an orange tint.

You can’t help thinking that God was having a bit of a laugh designing those things. As in “I’ve had a long day creating Kilimanjaro and it’s time for a bit of frivolity. I know...pink birds!”

After circling around for a while, our captain steered towards trees at the edge of the lake--rather quickly, I thought. Really, rather too quickly to stop in time...and then we found ourselves sweeping through a little opening into a tunnel of mangroves. The light was filtering through the trees, and the water was glowing ruby red in places. We stopped at a little landing, wandered around, looked at gigantic termite nests. We then drove to a nearby beach, and I swam in the gulf, and lazed on white shells, and we ate filetes in a beachside restaurant.

Driving to and from in the van was also pretty great. We sped past thatched huts, kids flying kites, coca cola logos painted on buildings, schoolgirls in pleated skirts, taxis powered by motorbike or cycle, and old churches. A bizarre cultural moment came listening to Beatles covers in the van, with a very sultry latina singing lines about renting a cottage in the Isle of Wight if it's not too dear. A little surreal.