I've been living in Melbourne's west recently, close to world heritage listed wetlands, where the wind smells of the ocean. Despite being surrounded by houses and embedded surburban patterns, there's a fragile feeling of being on the edges. Quietly comforting. Flocks of Corellas that visit in the afternoon, Black Swans beside Main Road, and the New Holland Honeyeater dripping pollen on my flowers like clockwork, as the sun is rising and setting.
I treat these visits like urban miracles, but often become resentful. One of my most common visitors is the dreaded Common Myna, sometimes known as the Indian Myna, an introduced species that (observationally) can be described as highly invasive. I've read varying accounts of the Myna's habits, everything from kicking out eggs of other birds and filling nests with plastics, to driving out species with aggressive group tactics. I can understand, rationally how they are successful urban dwellers, yet I've also been taught to hate them for their skills... for what they represent.
The Common Myna came here by boat. They were brought over some two hundred years ago, as a successful insect control for crops. Because of their ability to adapt to environmental conditions like low tree cover and urban density, over the last few hundred years they've come to be known as one of Australia's worst invasive species, and a highly skilled one at that.
Recently I've been thinking that maybe my dislike of the Myna bird is more representative than reality. They might be an enemy of the state, but adaptability to human created environments is not just aggressive tactics, its survival. I think the anger of seeing the Myna bird might be less about their presence... and more about my own disgust at human created systems that come at the expense of nature's balance. A more personal debate, and with less clear answers.
