The Turtle Whisperer's Tale

Another weekend, another beach adventure, as the story goes.

The last weekend of August, Matt, Paul, Humberto, Jeff (Matt's friend from home) and I hopped on that infamous 1 a.m. bus ride down to a station just outside Acapulco. We cabbed into Bonfil while two of the boys picked up a rental car at the airport. From there, we drove about three hours east in sticky heat to a beach with no name (or at least one that I don't know).

After driving through small, run-down towns and the thick greenery, we pulled up to an empty field, marred only by a tiny dirt path and a small shack constructed of 2x4s and dried palm fronds.
The seemingly random spot was actually our destination - a couple months ago when the boys were out surfing at a nearby spot, they drifted down the coast and serendipitously landed in front of the house. Seeing a head bobbing around in this virtually uncivilized place, they walked up the beach to the house and met the Turtle Whisperer and his wife Victoria.

TW had moved to this isolated spot around four years ago as civil employee charged with caring for the sea turtles and keeping their eggs safe. The government has since cut him from the payroll, but the couple continue living without any electricity, plumbing or transportation to look after the turtles. Their only income, it seems, is the benevolence of others.

The boys had all had a great time on their last visit, so, unannounced, we decided to stop by for an overnight on their sandy "front yard." Even though we literally dropped in out of nowhere, the couple greeted us as if we were their next-door neighbors stopping by for an evening chat. Their genuinely warm and welcome greeting was a little disarming - I think when I meet people who radiate kindness and warmth, it underscores my tendency to be defensive and cold at first.

We set down our backpacks and tents under their frond-thatched awning and immediately bounded off for the muddy-brown water, hence why Paul has deemed the beach "Chocolate." It's a nice little reminder that even in the middle of nowhere, litter and trash will inevitably wash up on shore - unless Victoria was the one who was chucking individual sandals into the ocean and waiting to see where they'd end up.

Their house was beautiful despite being barebones, it was evident they took great pride in their small piece of property. The main house was split into two sand-floor rooms: the first was the kitchen and living area, and the second their bedroom, both decorated with hundreds of seashell windchimes.

A few steps outside was the bathroom, which for being just a hole above the sand was an elaborately constructed wood-slatted building. The small hut was sectioned off into a shower area and a men's and women's bathroom, with a communal stone basin serving as the sink. The toilet was just a wood crate with a round hole in the middle (the women's with an actual toilet seat), and whatever was henceforth produced landed onto the sand below. A nearby bucket could be filled with sand to cover the 'organic' offerings, and TW sprinkled talc on it each night to fend off the bugs. (Sidenote: just outside the hut was a fresh-water well. Mmmm).

A few hours after arriving, Paul and Humberto drove into town to pick up some freshly caught red-snapper, vegetables and Modelo beer. The couple generously prepared us dinner with the supplies we'd bought and sat down to eat with us at the long, wooden table. During the meal, it started to rain and two giant rainbows appeared in the sky, one visible from both ends. Being techno-gringos, we of course got up to snap millions of pictures, and the couple just laughed a bit and reminded us that they get rainbows there every night.

After the meal, we sat around under the awning drinking our Modelo and wondering why no one had thought to bring bug spray. Even though I was wearing jeans and a hooded sweatshirt, the mosquitoes found a way to my flesh by biting me at least 20 times on each foot. The rain had made the tents damp and chilly, but sleeping on the beach always breaks my insomniac spell like none other.

In the morning, TW and Victoria offered us a heaping breakfast of eggs 'a la mexicana' with tomatoes and onions (I was tempted to ask if they were turtle eggs, but that felt pretty evil), as well as refried beans, rice and the classic Mexican pick-me-up, instant Nescafé. After the boys squeezed in one last surf (I have since retired), we handed the couple a 500-peso thank-you and packed up the rental car. After a thorough hugging session, they repeatedly insisted that we return. I realize I just said that we gave them money, but I like to think that if they were all about the money, they wouldn't be able to speak to turtles, then, would they?

In the end, I felt very warm and fuzzy. I wish I could just go on fun, exciting adventures and offer people my wit, charm and pesos along the way. As of lately, my only charitable giving has consisted of a few coins here and there when the mood strikes me or when I feel guilty about being virtually uncharitable in the day-to-day. It took me about a week to become practically desensitized and indifferent to the poverty and misfortune around me - otherwise, how could you handle living here? Maybe the Turtle Whisperer has all the answers.