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Turtles, tourists, and crocodiles

Eco-tourism on Oaxaca’s Pacific coast goes green

About an hour west of our Huatulco hotel a soldier carrying a large assault rifle pulled us over. He spoke to the driver, looked briefly at the seven of us in the van, and waved us on, past a sandbagged bunker where one of his buddies regarded us with deadpan boredom as we rolled past his tripod mounted sub-machinegun. The military checkpoint just outside the village of Puerto Angel is not there to discourage drug runners, or rebels — it’s there to protect the turtles.

For thousands of years the broad sandy beaches along this part of Mexico’s Pacific coast have been the nesting sites for seven of the world’s eight species of marine turtles. Guided by some mysterious internal map implanted in their brains as they emerge from their eggs and first flop into the sea, the mature females return to lay their eggs on the same beach where they were born. And they come in the tens of thousands. In a precisely coordinated landing they drag themselves above the high tide line, bury themselves in the sand and, with their rear flippers, dig a hole for their eggs. Even before the first humans settled here few of the leathery, ping-pong ball-sized eggs escaped predation, and fewer still of the tiny hatchlings made it from their solar-heated nests across the sand to the water’s edge. But enough survived to maintain a stable, healthy population.

And then the first men came. They named the beach Mazunte, a native word meaning “please lay eggs”, and the turtles brought them both food and wealth.

At first the annual return of the turtles seemed an easily harvested and inexhaustible resource. An estimated 50,000 turtles were slaughtered each year and the eggs, meat and shell from Mazunte’s abattoir provided a good living for the local population — until the numbers began to decline. By 1990 scientists had established that several marine turtle species were in serious trouble and the Mexican government imposed a total ban on their harvest. The move came none too soon for the turtles, but for the people whose livelihood depended on the turtle industry it spelled economic disaster. Many of them resorted to poaching and, despite strict military and police surveillance; the illegal slaughter of marine turtles is still a problem in Mexico and many other parts of the world.

Ironically the former killing beaches of Mazunte were chosen as the site for the Centro Mexicano de la Tortuga (CMT), a research centre dedicated to the study and preservation of marine turtles. It opened to the public in 1994 and a year later it hosted the Twelfth International Conference on the Conservation of the Marine Turtle. Today its modern laboratories and dedicated technical staff support teams of local and visiting marine biologists and its gardens and aquariums have become a major tourist destination. We toured the facility with a student intern who guided us through terraced cactus gardens, where several species of fresh water and land turtles are on display. He led us past the centre’s myriad research tanks and into the main aquarium. As I watched the huge, ungainly creatures sculling slowly around their glass-fronted tanks I thought how vulnerable they are. Barely able to drag themselves on land and with a top speed of one to five km/h in the water their only defense is their shell, and that is no defense at all against human hunters.

I asked our guide if poaching was still a problem. “Yes,” he answered, “the ban is hard to enforce. We are trying to educate the local people about the environment, and tourism is gradually replacing the turtle harvest as the basis of our local economy.”

Beyond Muzunte the broad nesting beach extends as far as I can see. Bounded on one side by surf and the other by dense jungle and rocky headlands it’s easy to see why the beach is difficult to protect from determined poachers. Reversing old habits through education may be a slow process but the tiny settlement at Playa Ventanilla is proof that the environmental message is getting through. Located at the end of a dirt track a few kilometres west of Muzunte, is a local cooperative run by a group of about 20 closely related local families. They are dedicated to protecting and preserving the complex ecosystems of Laguna Ventanilla, an estuary that supports a bewildering array of bird, reptile and mammal species. And by providing tourist revenue from guided boat tours and horseback rides the beach and the estuary indirectly support the people who guard them.

We parked our van beside a cluster of modest houses where the people of Playa Ventanilla have settled. A small sign with a picture of a crocodile welcomes us to Laguna Ventanilla. There are a few cabanas for rent and a small open-air restaurant on the beach but, except for the sign, the place looks more like a sleepy little village than a commercial venture. The entrance to the lagoon is an invigorating half kilometre walk farther down the beach, a stunningly beautiful expanse of white sand. Walking close to the water’s edge I play tag with the surf, watching the waves rise into bright blue curls before shattering into white foam and sending me scurrying up the sand. Except for our group of seven and three lone horseback riders the beach is empty.

At the entrance to the lagoon we meet Carlos, who looks Mexican but speaks perfect English with an Oxford accent. Turns out he has a degree in environmental science from Manchester University and is combining his job as a tour guide with research for his Masters degree in biology. He also wields a mean paddle (motors are forbidden in the lagoon). We pile into his old wooden rowboat, and slip silently into a narrow channel through the mangrove.

“This area was devastated by a hurricane eight years ago,” Carlos tells us, “but the mangrove comes back quickly and provides cover for the birds and animals that live here.” A two-foot gravel turtle eyes us warily as we glide past. Around the next corner a 15-foot river crocodile is sprawled out on a log beside us. “Be quiet,” Carlos warns, “he’s still warming up for the day but when they’re startled they can make a blind dash for the water.” Looking at the tooth-studded jaws at one end and powerful armored tail at the other I was glad he didn’t wake up.

Carlos pulls up to a makeshift bamboo dock and we step ashore on one of the estuary’s islands. A trail leads through a grove of coconut palms that miraculously survived the hurricane. We follow it through a fringe of dense jungle and emerge into a large clearing where a group of white-tailed deer is browsing. A few wire enclosures contain other animals — a fox, an armadillo, a fawn. “This is not a zoo,” Carlos explains, “all of these animals were either injured or orphaned and we are preparing them to return to the wild.”

At the edge of the clearing a small thatched kiosk offers snacks, benches, and shade. We order a cool drink from the large Mexican lady in charge. “Hola. I hope you enjoy Laguna Ventanilla,” she says with a big smile. We told her it was very beautiful and I thought to myself: these people are pioneering eco-tourism in Mexico before it is too late. The 20-odd families at Playa Ventanilla who have discovered the true value of their natural environment could well set an example for the rest of the country.