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Operation Paslama Mama

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. 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.

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.

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 paslama’ 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 last 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 rains.

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.

Turtle icon



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

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