Operation Paslama Mama: The Actual Account of a Real Environmental Adventure
(All names have been changed.  Dedicated to you who were there.)  Submitted by
Dumptruck

Pochomil Beach, 3 PM Late October 1998:

"Come check this out you guys," said Spider excitedly, as she and Reggae
stomped up the stairs from the beach.  "There's a sea turtle laying eggs down
by the water.  It's so cool!" The gang looked up from playing cards, drinking
rum, and shoveling plates of fresh "Big Fish" into their mouths.

"Hurry up.  You've never seen anything like this," said Reggae, who was as
excited as Spider was.  "Don't worry about the rain, it's a warm rain."  Two
days away, Hurricane Mitch was already throwing increasingly bigger waves up on
Nicaragua's Pacific shore.  The sky had been erupting in half hour intervals
and the storm winds made no sign of diminishing.  Still, thought Dumptruck as
he left the hospedaje patio and ran down to the beach with the others, in spite
of the rain it had been a great day's break from the endless PCV frustration of
trying to persuade Nicaraguans to preserve their natural resources.  Good
friends, good rum, a few tasty waves.  Toughest job he'd ever loved.

Tumbling down onto the beach, the gang joined a crowd of Nicaraguans gathered
around the still form of Lepidochelys olivacea, the Nicaraguan Paslama turtle.
At two hundred pounds and nearly four feet long, she was beautiful and
inspiring, dull colored but still glistening with sea water.  It was stunning
to imagine her having crawled all the way from out of the breaking waves.  She
lie almost perfectly still except for the methodical stirring of her rear
flippers as she excavated a hollow in the wet sand beneath her belly.  She was
one of the last turtles of the season to beach herself and lay eggs along that
shore.

Spider edged in close to snap a photo and got briskly scolded by a Nicaraguan.
"Whoa, looks like they don't want anyone to bother her," Reggae said to
Potatohead.  Soft and slightly gelatinous, the eggs were sliding gently into
the sand.  The turtle, however, wasn't bothered.  She either didn't notice or
didn't care about the rain soaked crowd around her.  The whole scene was
spectacular.

"We're witnessing something extraordinary," said Redrock, who knew something
about biology.

"It's a process that hasn't changed in thousands of years," added Ishtar.

"This is fantastic you guys," gushed Spider.  "My new camera rocks!"

"Is anyone else getting kind of turned on by this?" asked Dumptruck with a
laugh.  Waddajerk.  Tajmahal laughed until Fermina Daza elbowed him in the
ribs. 

"Wait a minute," said Fatfoot suddenly.  "If they don't want anyone to bother
the turtle, then what kind of crap is that?"  Having elbowed Spider out of the
way, the Nicaraguans had slowly closed in on the turtle and were gleefully
scooping the glistening eggs into plastic buckets to take home.  One guy had
even gotten his hand under the turtle and was catching them as they dropped.
The serenity of the scene had been broken.

"Those idiots are taking every single egg," fumed Ishtar angrily. "They're not
going to leave a single one to hatch!"

Tajmahal was furious.  "Don't they realize they're going to eat that beautiful
species to extinction?" he exploded.

Dumptruck was getting nauseated by the poaching.  "I can't watch anymore," he
said dejectedly.  "It's too damn depressing.  Ten billion chicken eggs in this
damn country, and they've got to eat the turtles' only hope for survival."

But Spider had gotten an idea.  She stopped snapping pictures and looked up.
"We've got to get some of those eggs to bury someplace else," she said.
"Otherwise, those jerks are going to sell them as "huevos de paslama."

"Let's see if we can buy some off of them," proposed Reggae.  "You guys, what
kind of money do we have?"

"Hold on," whined Potatohead, who was feeling pinche.  "You know the Peace
Corps won't reimburse us for that."

"Potatohead, if you're going to be a fool, I'm going to have to come over there
and kick yer ass," threatened Redrock.  Potatohead fished around in his pocket
for the money.

All told, the gang came up with nearly three hundred cordobas, enough to
purchase about three hundred "huevos de paslamar" and rescue them from the
dinner plate.  It was their own money, food money, money to ride the bus.
After completing the deal, they made their way back to the hospedaje to play
cards and wait for nightfall, Spider clutching the eggs in a small plastic
bucket as they walked off the beach.

8 PM, later that night:

The blackness of the night under the tropical storm clouds was total, and
though the wind was even stronger than before, the rain had, for the moment,
ceased.  The crew had waited for the darkness to bury the eggs, hoping to
remain unseen by hungry, prying eyes.  They'd turned out for the night mission
in full battle gear: chinelas, big fresco spoon (for digging holes), all of
Spider's camera crap, and one plastic bucket containing approximately three
dozen warm turtle eggs.

Marching south down the Nicaraguan shoreline, they sought in earnest a decent
refuge in which to bury the eggs: a place free from sources of light that might
confuse moon-seeking turtle pups, a place free from beach traffic and from
animals (two legged and four).  But it wasn't easy.  They walked a mile down
the rain soaked and deserted beach past an endless row of illuminated
hospedajes, restaurants, and juke joints.  The sand was cold with night and the
beach ravaged by numerous gulleys torn through the sand by running water.
Spider and Redrock were in the lead with eggs and spoon; the others straggled
behind in twos and threes, and Fatfoot and Dumptruck were last.

Then Dumptruck noticed they were being trailed.  "Fatfoot," he whispered, "take
a look behind.  What do you see?"

Fatfoot looked slowly over his shoulder as they walked.  "Some dude with a
bucket and shovel... oh, that's bad."  The two began to run to catch up to the
others.

"We've got a problem you guys," gasped Dumptruck.  "There's some poacher back
there following us.  He's gonna dig up the eggs as soon as we bury them."

"Did he wait for us the entire evening?  We're going to have to lose him,
then," said Ishtar.

At that moment the sky opened in a thunderstorm's rage.  Warm rain fell on the
gang as suddenly and as heavily as if a wave had crashed over their heads.  In
seconds, they were soaked and their wet clothes clung limply to their skin.
They couldn't see any farther than about twenty feet in any direction.  "This
is our chance," said Spider.  "Run for it and let's do this thing!"

They sprinted as fast as their legs would carry them, gear jostling, chinelas
flapping.  They ran into the darkness before them, into the rain.  In the
downpour Redrock and Spider buried the turtle eggs in the sand, and turning,
everyone scattered into the night.  The tropical downpour erased their every
footprint, as well as the signs of their digging.  They never again saw the
poacher, who'd likely set off for home when the rains started.

Dumptruck found himself suddenly separated from everyone and very alone on a
dark and rainy beach whose every feature was being changed by the raging storm.
All landmarks had been obliterated, and the deep gullies they'd crossed just
twenty minutes ago were now torrents of rushing water thigh deep, to which
Reggae and Potatohead each lost a chinela while crossing.  As the rainwater
raced mercilessly towards the sea and the sea rose to meet it, the beach was
practically disappearing under the inundation.  Dumptruck stumbled half blind
back to the hospedaje in the pouring rain.

Not until nearly an hour and a half later did everyone else finally arrive.
They all exchanged high fives and congratulated each other on a mission well
executed whose success was certain.  Spider however was panicked and wailing.

"Shit, you guys, my camera's soaked!"  I think it's ruined.  It won't advance
frames or anything.  What am I gonna do?  I can't even get the film out.  This
sucks!  Why did I even bring it in the first place?"

And so it is that today on that Pacific shoreline, no footprints of that night
mission are to be found, nor any traces of a shallow hole dug hastily with a
spoon.  No mention was ever made on any Peace Corps Three Month Report, and the
ruined camera produced no pictures to record what had been a truly altruistic
act.  In fact, nothing remains at all of Operation Paslama Mama except this
anonymous account, and God willing, thirty six healthy turtle pups which
crawled out from the warm sand under the light of a tropical moon and swam out
to the waters of the Pacific to keep an endangered species alive for another
generation.  May they swim far and deep.


--------------- 
This article first appeared in Va Pué! magazine in December 1998