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Written by Admin
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Friday, 22 July 2005 |
 Noah Anderson - PRETOMA Punta Banco Turtle Protection Program Volunteer, 2001 - Punta Banco Volunteer Testimonial From "Volunteer Vacations - 2002 Edition" It's 3:09AM. Who in their right mind is awake at 3:09AM? Oi! You, and the crickets, and the Cicada bugs whose constant droning is loud enough to wake Rip Van Winkle, but whose white noise you also might find on one of those new-age Nature Sounds CDs that are supposed to help you relax. Well, it's having the desired effect. You're relaxed alright. Not so much because of the droning, but because it's 3:09 for Pete's sake! Then something dawns on you, "Sweet!" you think to yourself as you curl back up in your sheet and nestle your head in that perfect little head nest that only you can make in your pillow - you've got 6 more minutes of heaven. I'm sure you know that uncanny phenomenon that has you wake before your alarm clock lets loose when you know you have to wake early? You praise this beautiful human trait, smile to yourself, and in a matter of seconds you are out cold, basking in that other dimension sweeter than nectar, more satisfying than that first big bite of lasagna, as rewarding as that winning goal scored in the final minute, as adrenal as a good solid sneeze, pretty much borderline orgasmic. Ahhh, sleep. BZZZZZZZZZZZZ!!! What's that? Some noise in your dream? Ohhh no. You know exactly what that is. You can't fool anyone, especially yourself. Where is it? Where is it?! That darn clock. Ahhh. Silence. Well, not quite. There are them Cicada bugs, still at it. Their drone starts to put you back to sleep. Noooooo. Must not fall asleep. You do!!! Ahhh! and then shudder back awake. Aaargh, how did my legs get so tangled in this sheet? you wonder as you roll into a sitting position on the edge of the bed. Somebody knocks on your door. "Okay already. I'm awaaake," you think to yourself as you politely say, "Yep," in your most awake sounding voice. It's dark. You're there in your skivvies trying to force yourself against Jupiter-like gravity to stand up. Down with Jupiter. Up with you. Where's that darn light switch? You trip over something as you reach for the wall. Ah, there it is. You flip the switch, forgetting about your night vision. You're blinded, rubbing your eyes (so nice) trying to get your balance. Ohhh bed. So nice. Then the good little angel on one of your shoulders reminds you in a sweet, little, nasty, mother-knows-best voice, "Nothing better than a nesting turtle to wake you up." Aaargh. Where's my shirt? "Don we now our gay apparel...." Christmas carols?! What is a Christmas carol doing in your head right now? Uhn. Who cares. You don your gay apparel and join the 6 or 8 other zombies in the dimly lit, open-air communal room. Nobody's saying anything in their semi-asleep stupors. Finally somebody takes the conch from the Cicada bugs.
|  "What's the schedule?" You're with Jorge on beach #3. Sweet. Less walking. You all shuffle towards the door, toasting, "Suerte," to all as you go your separate ways, equipment bags slung over your shoulders. You and Jorge creep across the beachfront futbol field dodging grapefruit-sized bullfrogs in the darting light of your flashlight. You see the lights of the other volunteers flashing in the trees to the north. How still the town. You stop in the middle of the field and look up at the slooowly moving starry sky. So bright. So black. And there's the Milky Way. Hey, there's a light on at Roberto's house. What the heck is he doing up? The thought fades away as you suddenly notice the sound of the crashing waves that was always there but just now registers in your still sputtering brain. "Now there's some white noise for ya," you say, about the waves, whose droning has you reminiscing about your soft, cozy bed. You can tell the tide's about half way in from the volume of the waves. Then...sand! Ahhh. There it is. The shift has officially started. Time to put thoughts of sleep behind, and keep your crusty eyes peeled for those telltale dents in the sand...turtle tracks. Down the beach you trod, dropping some questions to Jorge in and effort to practice your conversational Spanish, and getting who knows what for answers. But you nod and make affirmative sounding grunts just the same. No need for your flashlight tonight as the starlight and phosphorescence are somehow lighting up the beach and bathing the overhanging palm fronds in a milky, unmistakable, quiet and still, middle-of-the-night glow.
|  "Ah ho! Tortuga!" says Jorge. "Huh?" you mumble looking at the sand. But you know Jorge's right. Born here on the beach, he's got eagle eyes and almost seems sent from above to find turtles. And sure enough, 20 meters ahead, there she is, halfway up the beach chucking sand this way and that, digging her nest. Nothing else is going on except the sound of the waves, the stars, and Mamma Tortuga doin' her thing. Off comes the equipment bag and then you and Jorge find a comfy place in the sand to sit and wait. When Mamma's done digging her nest and starts to lay her eggs, she goes into a trance, so it doesn't hurt her as you tag her flippers and go about measuring her and collecting the eggs - all 100 of which you'll take to the program hatchery when all is said and done. You check her health, her shell, and her eyes as she's busily plopping her ping pong ball sized eggs into her nice little pit nest - as completely unaware of your presence as you are unaware of what the heck Jorge is saying except for, "How beautiful. How peaceful." And his smile says it all. Boy, this guy is in to it. So you've got your eggs as you watch Mamma trundle her way back into the waves. "One down, how many more to go?" you wonder as you feel the wait of the egg bag in your left arm. You score. It's a three turtle night, and as the predawn light engulfs the eastern sky above the jungle hills, replacing the stars' brilliance with a spectrum ranging from baby blue to royal blue to midnight blue that stops you in your tracks, and you can almost see the town yawning and rubbing its eyes, you and Jorge creep back across the dewy field, past a few still sleeping houses, to the hatchery (where you rebury the eggs) and then to your cabin, where you record your data as fast as you can and dive back into your bed fully clothed and fall back to sleep despite the obnoxious morning calls of a toucan perched in its favorite 5:30AM spot just outside your bedroom window and the gorilla-like roars of the howler monkeys chatting about the night's gallivanting just a stone's throw up into the jungle. Hmmm, you ponder the stone idea. Nah, can't be bothered, and the snoring quickly sets in.
|  You wake again, without the aid of your alarm clock this time, at 9:45, with 15 minutes to get all primped for 10 o'clock breakfast - a huge plate of rice and beans with eggs or sausage, or pancakes, or maybe cereal with fresh, tree-plucked papaya or pineapple, or some fruit you've never seen before. And...fresh-brewed Costa Rican coffee. Ohhh, almost as delicious as those 6 extra minutes of sleep you got, what was it, 7 hours earlier. Already it seems like days ago. After breakfast you chill in the hammock for a bit, roll out, compare notes from the night's work, read, walk off your meal with a jungle stroll, play some beach volleyball with the locals, or some futbol, or frizbee with the kids at recess, teach an English class at the one-room school house, check the hatchery for hatchlings and temperature readings, mingle with the locals in front of the "shop", have a snack, practice your Spanish or get a surfing lesson from the local expert, snorkel, chill on the beach under the palms, wash some clothes in the cabin cink, draw straws for who gets the late shift tonight...and by that time you're ready for dinner where you chat over pasta with homemade sauce and garlic bread about how many poachers (peaceful) you saw on the beach the night before, and try to bribe one of the other volunteers to give you the early shift 'cause you've scored the late shift two nights in a row. After dinner it's time to release about 100 baby turtles from the hatchery into the sea. Even though you've done it many a time, you still stand there, jaw on the ground, totally awestruck as the 1-hour old, 3-inch long little buggers disappear, drawn by instinct down the beach and into the crashing waves. When the last baby is washed out to sea you head back to the pad to play a game of cards and try to put your middle-of-the-night shift out of mind. Oh me. But you're helpin' them turtles, you think in the back of your mind as you blow out your candle, close your book and...set your alarm. And...it could be worse. |
Photos courtesy of Jan Csernoch (a.k.a. Jean, Csernoch János)
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Last Updated ( Wednesday, 05 April 2006 )
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