Shell shock
Eating sea turtle eggs with a clear conscience? It's all part of conservation efforts in Costa Rica, finds Cameron Dueck
She takes an eternity to crawl up the beach, flippers and beak clawing at the black volcanic sand, her gasps audible over the roar of crashing waves.
When, finally, the female olive ridley turtle has crawled 20 metres from the sea, she begins digging. Slowly, one flipperfull at a time, she flings sand to the side, settling deeper into the sandy nest with each excavation. Black turkey vultures flap and fight over eggs tossed aside with the sand as the turtle disturbs the nest of another.
When the hole is about half a metre deep, she stops, scales occasionally blinking over her eyes. Her shell quivers as she shifts her bulk. Then, job done, she begins shoveling sand back into the hole, covering a clutch of about 100 eggs.
The turtle is not alone. Thousands of fellow olive ridleys are following the same ancient ritual along the length of the eight-kilometre Playa Ostional beach, on Costa Rica’s Pacific coast.
Playa Ostional is a small, sleepy village on the Nicoya Peninsula, which is better known for its long, sandy beaches than for its interior, most of which is mountainous and heavily forested. Ostional is accessible only by a drive of several hours down a rough and rutted dirt road that snakes along the coast.
Turtles and surfing are the village’s main attractions, with a row of simple and economical guest houses catering to the few souls who find their way here.
On the beach, under the shade of a coconut palm, a Tico, as the native Costa Ricans like to call themselves, is digging in the sand with his hands, scooping up freshly laid turtle eggs. Each about the size of a table tennis ball, they are white and have leathery, soft skin.