Turtle Power

It's two in the morning, it's raining, and I'm belly down in the sand with my face pressed up against the arse of a 400-kilogram turtle. An army of oversized mosquitoes circle me like drunks at the bar during happy hour. I'm helpless to swat at them as I'm carefully holding a plastic bag, catching precious turtle eggs as they plop from the rear of the Leatherback in front of me. Pathetically, I try to blow a mosquito from my forearm. With a lazy shrug, it relocates to my sweat-covered forehead instead. Despite the rain it's muggy as hell. Sweat trickles down my neck and mixes with the salty, sticky sand, itching irresistibly.

Maybe this isn't everyone's dream Caribbean holiday but of course, I'm loving every minute of it. It really doesn't get much more fun than this. Every night we head out in small groups on either the early patrol (8pm till midnight) or the late patrol (11pm till 3am). We walk up to twelve kilometers each night, on soft sand in the dark - it's exhausting work. We use no lights as these turtles, despite coming out of the water only to lay eggs once every few years, have amazingly perceptive senses. Bright light, loud noises or strange smells (and with the current level of hygiene, there's more than a few of these) will cause them to abort an attempted nesting and force them to relocate.

We walk along the waterline, looking for turtle tracks. On good nights, the moon and the stars throw an eerie pale glow across the beach and both the undulations in the sand and the decaying driftwood show up as dark silhouettes and can be easily avoided. On cloudy nights the beach is a minefield: sinister branches reach out to trip and scratch and pull you into the sand or sea.

Waves crash against the shore and within minutes of setting off our feet are drenched through, crusted in sand and salt. Bare feet would be far too dangerous and shoes would quickly become waterlogged and heavy. Instead we wear sandals with socks pulled up high against the incessant mosquitoes. Without a doubt we are violating several international fashion laws, closely resembling a group of German tourists on a beach holiday.

Currently it is Leatherback season. These turtles are living dinosaurs: truly massive creatures, measuring over a meter and a half in length, averaging around 400 kg in weight, and looking not unlike a boulder with flippers. Their tracks are quite obvious in the sand: a meter wide path with the flippers making a grooved pattern, like tire marks from a tractor. When we find these tracks we know we have a nest. If we're lucky there will be only one track, an 'up' track, and our turtle is still on the beach. If we're too late then a second 'down' track will show where our exhausted mother-to-be disappeared back into the sea.

The major threat to these turtles is (of course) humans. Poachers dig up the eggs and sell them on the local market. Turtle eggs are suppose to increase the male stamina in the bedroom and since poaching has reduced their population enough to get them on the endangered list, I can only guess that there are a lot of unsatisfied Costa Rican women out there. Unfortunately, these women are still going unsatisfied since turtle eggs in fact have no affect on the male libido according to scientific studies (incidentally, if any one knows how you go about applying for a grant for a study like that, I'd like to know).

We average a turtle every second night, sometimes we find more, sometimes we go home empty handed. When we find a nest but have missed the turtle we have to disguise the nest. The Leatherbacks leave pretty obvious potholes in the sand and an experienced poacher can usually find where the eggs are buried based on the tracks. We make it hard for them by using logs of driftwood and smoothing over the whole area where the turtle has been. By the time we're done it would take the team from CSI a double episode to work out were those eggs are buried.

The fun begins when we find a turtle still on the beach and about to lay. It takes up to an hour for the turtle to crawl out of the sea, make its way up above the tide line and then dig a hole, usually around 70 to 80 cm deep. Until the turtle has started digging she is very skittish. Once her hole is dug and she's about to start laying she goes into a kind of Zen trance that would put the Delhi Lama to shame. At this stage you could probably kick off Mardi Gras on the beach without the turtle noticing. This is great as it gives us a chance to get in behind her, dig out her hole a little wider and sneak a plastic bag under her to catch her eggs.

A female leatherback lays up to a hundred and fifty eggs in one sitting. Most of these are fertile and the size of a billiard ball. The rest are infertile and are much smaller, anywhere from marble size up to the size of a ping-pong ball. These are layed last, adding padding to the nest and also as a decoy for any animals that dig up the nest. The Mother's hope is that they will eat their fill of these and leave the real eggs alone. Once the female starts dropping these smaller eggs we know we're finishing up. The trick then is to pull the bag out before the turtle starts filling in the nest. When a 400-kilogram turtle decides she wants to move some sand around, you don't have much of a chance to argue.

After we get the eggs out we then take measurements and do a spot check on the turtle. This is done using pale red light so as not to confuse the turtle, which uses the light of the horizon to navigate its way back to the sea (or so it's believed). The measurements are recorded and later logged for research purposes.

The eggs are moved to a secure location further up on the beach. Moving the nest and camouflaging the new location keeps the eggs safe from poachers. Furthermore, the research team can check on the nest later on and keep track of the number of babies that emerge (some two months later). The nest is reburied to the same depth as the mother originally used so as to get as close as possible to the same conditions as the eggs would have had naturally. A funky triangulation method is used to mark down the location of the nest so that it can be found again later.

After a night out on patrol, most people don't have a lot of energy (especially after the late shift). We snooze through the day, though the muggy heat makes this difficult. When we can't sleep and we're not eating yet another meal of rice and beans (yep, even for breakfast) we head down to the beach to swim, snorkel or just soak up the sun. Some days we have day work. We've been building a hatchery on the beach front (essentially a large chicken coop) that will be used for the Hawksbill turtles, which should start laying in the next few weeks. These eggs are even more rare than the Leatherback's and so are relocated to the secure hatchery for protection.

It's a mixed group of volunteers: four other Aussies came through the same group I joined up with; another group of ten Americans have joined us, and the occasional random volunteer turns up for a week or so. Mostly the volunteers are female. Of the 17 or so volunteers, only three are blokes. This is a terrible burden for us three lads, as you can well imagine.

The project lead is an Aussie, by the name of Glen, in his early forties. A singularly dedicated man, most people have found him to be a little abrupt. His commitment to the turtle cause however, is unquestionable. It's hard to remember this though when you are nearing the end of your shift and then hear Glen say, "we'll just go another kilometer tonight, in case one has laid a little further up". He's a nice enough guy though once you get to know him and when all's said and done he has the focus and dedication to keep these turtles from extinction.

Two volunteer Research Assistants work with Glen. These guys are a little more laid back than Glen. Jimmy, one of the RA's from the UK, has a wicked sense of humor and during our breaks on the beach pulls out dirty joke after dirty joke. Somewhat disturbingly, he often speculates on what makes a female turtle attractive to their male counterparts. He seems to have decided that it's all in the size of the Peduncle, and gives a low whistle whenever we see a well-endowed female, "check out the Peduncle on her".

The base camp is set in the middle of the Cahuita wildlife reserve. There's some running water (cold only) and a generator gives us electricity for a few hours each day. We sleep in mosquito nets though all of us have been massacred to the point where we look like a colony of pox victims. The tin shed that we sleep in has to be locked to stop the raccoons from raiding our gear (I think they keep wearing my underwear and putting it back in my bag).

The nearest town is a half hour hike and 45-minute bus ride away. Glen has an aversion to alcohol - not drinking at all, he seems to think that a thimble of beer will have us all raping and pillaging (which is highly unfair, I rarely rape or pillage until I've had at least a six-pack). We head into town about once a week on our night off and mingle with the bohemian backpacker crowd. Occasionally, when Glen is out on patrol and we've just got back from an early shift, Jimmy will pull out a bottle of rum and some beers and we'll sneak a few quite ones over a game of cards.

I had originally 'planned' to be two weeks as an official ‘Defender of the Turtles’. However my usual planning skills have come into play and it seems that I actually signed up for a three-week project. Some of the more organized travelers out there would now be shaking their heads in amazed disgust, however it makes little difference for me. I have another week of turtle saving and then after that I think I might wander down into Panama (since I’m right on the border). From there, who knows: most likely a flight to Ecuador unless I can find some path through Columbia that won’t result in serious death or dismemberment.

The City of Angels

Ah, it's good to be back on the road: That sense of comfort you get from a sweaty money belt chaffing snugly against your hip; The joy of being woken late at night by the Dutch guy you're sharing a room with, who has just come home pissed and has turned on all the lights; and of course that homely comfort of having to shower with sandals on.

I'm amazed (and slightly scared) by how quickly I've fallen back in to the routine. I'm already obsessed with minimizing the size of my pack. I'd culled several superfluous items from it before my first day was through. I've perfected my 30 second bio as well, the one that answers the standard backpacker questions : where are you from? where have you been? where are you going? No one really cares about the answers but exchanging this information is part of the backpacker code, an ancient tradition of unknown origin.

Los Angeles is really just a stop-over for me. I've only two days here and only because I need to kill time between connecting flights. Not wanting to venture too far from the airport I found myself a decent enough hostel down on Venice beach. It's a nice little spot, but full of the most bizarre freaks I've ever seen in my life. A combination of eccentric homeless bums, spaced out hippies, and plastic-bodied, wanna-be celebrities form an unreal and endless parade - a tribute to all that is weird in this world.

I take a walk along the beach on my first day. In the distance I can see Santa Monica pier, a massive fun-fare, with ferris wheels and roller-coasters, built on an old-style wooden pier. As I wander towards the pier swarms of people buzz past me - cyclists, rollerbladers and joggers of all shapes and sizes. I'm forced off the path by a squadron of roller-blading, pram-pushing mums who power past in their bikinis. As I flee to the sand dunes, I'm forced to duck out of the way as a old man (clearly an ex-Vietnam war veteran) comes careening down at me in a peddle-powered sand-buggy, wearing an American flag as a bandana and 'yeeha-ing' like a cowboy.

Back on the path I pass a woman on roller blades being towed by her pet dog. The dog's wearing black, wrap-around sunnies - Samuel L Jackson style. I pass two guys playing chess, one of them wearing a bike helmet and with a beard down to his waist. I pass a leather-skinned grandma wearing a pink singlet and doing laps of the carpark on a skateboard with a windsurfing sail. I pass a guy on roids and a girl made of pure silicon practicing spiking a volley-ball. After they smash the ball through their imaginary opponents, they practice their high-fives and calls of 'right on' and 'awesome'. A little further on, I pass a guy holding a sign that reads: "Tell me off for $1".

Finally I make it to Santa Monica. I decide to wander the Santa Monica boulevard and pick up some gear that I'd not had time to get back home. I venture into the 'Mall' in search of a shirt. Through my search I learn that the Hawaiian shirt comes in more patterns and more colours than I could have ever possibly imagined. After hours of searching, the best gear I find is in a Quicksilver shop - a fine American brand.

After a few meals here I'm now on a sugar high that I won't be coming down from for days. Meal portions are huge: lifting your plate is a work-out in itself and drinks come by the bucket. Even the straws are larger than life, wide enough that you could suck a grape through them. I tried sushi for one meal, hoping to end-up with something near healthy. The four sugar-based sushi rolls were buried under a whole fried chicken, covered in barbecue sauce and with a side dish of chips.

After that I attempted a smoothie from a 'natural health store'. The girl making it had to change the apple-strawberry syrup container before making up my 'fresh' juice. It tasted not unlike a slushie from seven-eleven. I'm now sticking to subway, though it too seems just a bit sweeter than the Aussie version, and they assume you want coke and a packet of chips whenever you order.

I'm on my way back to the airport now and by tomorrow morning should be living it up on the shores of Costa Rica. I meet my team down there around 2pm tomorrow. They've given us a location to meet at, I assume I just turn up and introduce myself to whoever's there: "Hi, I'm Daniel. I'm hear to save the turtles".

On the Road Again

So I came home from Tibet and embarked on a mission to become a "normal person". I moved into a house. I bought furniture, DVDs, and little tupperware containers to put my left-overs in. I even went out and got a job - a real one, with meetings and deadlines, and strange rituals like 'performance reviews' and 'team planning sessions'.

Yep, those traveling days were behind me, just pub-stories about glory days of dysentery, hunger and hyperthermia. It was time now to kick back and enjoy the comfortable life. My job was interesting enough (as far as jobs go anyway) and it paid well. The house was comfortable and before long started to feel like home (I even owned white goods). Both my health and my funds began to restore themselves to their pre-Tibetan levels. And to top it all off, I even managed to 'commit' myself (to some degree anyway) to a romantic interlude or two. Yep, things were skipping along nicely, what's more I was enjoying myself.

So why the hell am I now on my way to South America to work on a sea turtle conservation project? I'm not really sure myself. Perhaps I missed the open road: the joy of squatting over yet another open pit toilet; the thrill of dodging military patrols in the midst of a riot torn city; the excitement of getting lost in desolate mountains; or the camaraderie of sleeping under a steam roller and nearly dying of exhaustion and hyperthermia.

In all honesty I can't say what prompted me to take to the road again. I guess the best reason I have is 'why not?'. Perhaps this time round I won't find myself in the same life threatening situations I managed to get into last time. Perhaps this trip will be a little more comfortable and easy going than the last. Perhaps I'm a little older and a little wiser now. Perhaps.

I'm flying solo this time round. Despite my best efforts, I could not convince Glover to be my wing-man. After several weeks of failing to convince him through coercion and persuasive argument, I tried appealing to his obsession with danger and stupidity. I sent him the following quote from the Lonely Planet in an attempt to convince him to come along:

"The Interamerica Highway stops at the town of Yaviza in Panama. It reappears 150km further on, far beyond the Colombian border. This break in the highway between Central and South America is known as the Darien Gap, where untamed jungle are a major obstacle to travel. Although a trickle of travelers have walked through this gap, the presence of Colombian guerrillas, paramilitary, smugglers and bandits make this a foolishly dangerous trip."

His response was as follows:

"It sounds tempting, very tempting, but I'm still not coming. It's taken me 6 months of fucking hard training to get close to the shape that I left in, my arsehole still itches uncontrollably regardless of what pills I take or what ointments, herbicides, or pesticides I rub on it, and there's only so many dogs that one can see before they all start looking the same. Have fun though."

So now I'm in a hostel in Los Angeles, killing a few days before my flight down to Costa Rica. There I meet up with a team who I'll be joining for the sea turtle conservation project (see www.cva.org.au for info). The work is for two weeks and involves night patrols on the beach finding turtle eggs and moving them to an incubation center.

After that I'm heading into South America to wander the Amazon. I have no fixed plans but am hoping to see the Galapagos Islands and to walk the Inca Trail. I'm planning to be away for at least three months but will basically go until I feel I'm ready to leave.