SHELL GAME
Lonely guy pairs with honeymooners to watch whales and sea turtles in Colombia
I drop my rucksack on the reception doorstep and tip sand out of my sneakers. My sweat-soaked T-shirt reeks of farm animals. As I wait for the receptionist, dinging the bell a third time, a couple holding hands saunters past in their swimwear. They smile and head out toward the ocean.
Daniel and Federica are on their honeymoon. They’ve chosen this small fishing village, El Valle, on Colombia’s Pacific coast, to explore some of the world’s greatest biodiversity and live their dream of watching humpback whales migrate from the South Pole.
I’ve come to see turtles, to witness them emerge from the ocean and lay eggs on the beach at night. This has been my dream ever since I watched the original Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles movie when I was eight. My girlfriend had planned to come, too, but she’s been held back in Medellin for a job interview, leaving me alone.
Yes, alone, arriving on a pickup-size plane laden with mangoes wrapped in cellophane and several boxes of chirping chickens. Normally I wouldn’t choose to fly with tropical fruit and live poultry, but after seeing online that tickets for the two commercial airlines were “unavailable,” I’ve had to charter a private flight. The usual route is a 45-minute airline flight with Satena or ADA (Aerolínea de Antioquia), from Medellin to the airport in Bahia Solano, then a 40-minute taxi to El Valle.
Because it’s mid- September — prime whale-watching and turtle egg-laying season — I expected the beachfront eco-lodge, El Almejal, to be bouncing with camera-toting nature fanatics. In fact, it’s almost empty. Daniel, Federica and I are the only guests. Apparently the local airstrip is inaccessible to large aircraft after huge, though not unusual, amounts of rainfall the previous week.
“No more guests will be arriving for a few days,” the owner tells me. The empty restaurant, vacant cabins and unblemished sandy paths suddenly become apparent as I ponder my solitary vacation.
After unpacking in my family-size cabin — one of 12 on site — and testing the hammock on my porch, I ask about the excursions. From the page-long list including waterfall visits, surfing, fishing, canoe rides, dolphin searching and bird watching, I choose two: whale watching and a tour around the Utría National Park.
“If it is OK, I’ll arrange for you to go with the honeymoon couple who are staying here,” the owner says. This is a relief. Whale watching and touring a huge national park alone has a certain ring of sadness to it.
On the other hand, it is their honeymoon — a vacation traditionally enjoyed by newlyweds in intimacy and seclusion. Maybe they won’t want to share their once-in-alifetime trip with a turtle-obsessed Englishman.
First things first, though: lunch. The lodge’s open-plan restaurant has a dozen wooden tables and a whale skeleton hanging from the ceiling. In the far corner, an information table is covered with maps, nature books, a stack of National Geographic magazines and an ecotourism trophy. In the other corner a primitive-looking xylophone is held up with more whale bones.
My placemat awaits on a table for four in the middle of the room. The newlyweds sit in front of me, gazing out to the ocean. I try not to watch them kiss. I gobble down the food, pretend to read my book and leave without saying a word.
I spend the afternoon trudging the beach for miles. There are no humans in sight until a hazy dot forms the shape of someone approaching. The blur resolves into a muscular man who is dragging a small dead shark along the sand. The man slings the shark onto a nearby rock, takes a machete from his linen trouser pocket and hacks the head off. Blood runs down the rock and into its surface hollows of sea water. The man washes his weapon in the ocean, wraps the decapitated shark in a bag and walks off.
I suddenly crave a fish dinner, so I head back to the lodge before it gets dark.
The four- seat table is once again set when I arrive; a solitary light illuminates my placemat. The honeymooners sit with their arms wrapped around each other. I choose creamy mushroom soup followed by grilled bass with coconut rice. As I open my book, readying myself for another meal alone, something wonderful happens.
“Hi,” the newlywed husband says, rising from his table. “Would you like to join us for dinner?”
Attempting to conceal a beaming smile, I accept. Daniel and Federica introduce themselves, tell snippets of their journey so far and express a childlike excitement for seeing whales tomorrow. I simply try to assure them I’m not some lunatic going around hotels preying on newlywed couples. “I do have a girlfriend, you know,” I insist at every opportunity.
Federica hails from Italy; Daniel is half Colombian, and they live in Geneva. Daniel has short, black, curly hair and the beginnings of a wispy goatee. Federica is slim, with wide eyes and pronounced cheekbones. Both wear glasses and have that glistening, just-showered look.
We eat and chat. I tell them that, from September to December, olive ridley sea turtles lay their eggs on these Pacific beaches, and my new acquaintances agree to come searching for turtles with me after dinner.
So with our flashlights and Daniel’s iPhone, we set off onto the beach. We tread slowly in a line, scanning light from left to right. But despite a few oh-is-that-one moments, our search is futile. We head back to the lodge.
Luckily, Luisa the receptionist has received a call from a conservation group who’s found one. Luisa tells us the location but warns that there is an expected donation of 25,000 Colombian pesos — about $10. We return to the beach to find a dozen people standing around a female turtle laying eggs. Kneeling beside it are two women in caps with headlights shining red, the only colour that won’t disturb the reptile during nesting. One woman scribbles notes on a pad. The other uses tape to measure the shell, about 61 centimetres long. Everyone else watches in silence.
After the last egg plops out, the turtle flicks sand over the hole with its back flippers. It circles the hole twice, then uses its front flippers to crawl toward the ocean. Everybody tiptoes behind. The turtle stops at the edge of the water, as if to take one last breath. It crawls forward, a wave submerges its shell and then it’s gone.
One of the women, meanwhile, has collected the eggs — 48 in total. The other moves among the crowd, hand out, collecting donations. These women are part of Asociación Caguama, a group of 20 conservationists who walk beaches at night protecting eggs from poachers.
Asociación Caguama workers collect the eggs and save them in a pen until the hatchlings are ready to be released into the ocean. The requested $10 “donation” is to improve living conditions, enabling them to work more effectively.
The next morning I stroll nine metres from my cabin to the restaurant. My placemat has been set across from the honeymooners.’ Whether they like it or not, they’re stuck with me.
Our waiter, Martin, arrives and pours three glasses of ice-cold passion fruit juice. He takes our orders of scrambled eggs with tomatoes and onions on crispy arepa cornbread, and three mugs of Colombian coffee.
We board the lancha — a small boat — at 9 a.m. Daniel and Federica sit in the middle. I perch next to a fat man in sunglasses who nods off beside me. The boat bounces along, quickly drumming my pelvis against the plastic seat. I try to take pictures but give up after my camera leaps up and clocks me in the chin a few times. After 15 minutes, we arrive at a strait of wavy ocean; a whale hot spot, according to the driver. To our right is a small island sprouting trees; to our left, the beachless coast lined with a sheer vertical jungle, as though someone has painted a rainforest onto the white cliffs of Dover.
The boat slows down. The engine’s whirring whimpers to a chug, then is killed completely. We rock gently, water sloshing against the boat’s sides. The man next to me awakens. He stretches and yawns. I take my camera from its case and click it on. Daniel holds his like a gun, ready to shoot at any sudden movement. Federica scans the water. We all wait.
Then, a spurt of air shoots up from the ocean. “Over there,” Daniel shouts. A mound of black blubber rolls out of the water. Seconds later, another blast. Federica shrieks, “Behind you!”
We swivel around to see a fin rotate out of the water and down again. Another blast. Then another.
During a cool-off swim in a nearby bay we eulogize what we’ve just witnessed. We walk through Utría National Park, swiping through images on our phones, squinting to see each other’s videos. We walk back along the beach, stopping occasionally to point out whale squirts in the distance.