In the middle of a dark May night, tourists’ footprints in the wet sand glow with bioluminescence. They walk silently, not wanting to disturb the crocodiles watching over them in a lagoon a few meters from the Pacific Ocean shore. Occasionally, they break the darkness with a red light—more respectful of the local wildlife’s night vision—to illuminate any shadow that resembles the animal they all yearn to see. They look for sea turtles. Any of the six of the seven species that come to lay their eggs at Escobilla, on the coast of Oaxaca. This beach has one of the highest records of turtle arrivals in the world, and the population seeks to raise awareness and protect this endangered population through ecotourism. It’s hard to believe that just a generation ago, visitors to this tourist sanctuary were few and far between, and most were looking to trade or taste one of the most iconic dishes: turtle eggs.
A few kilometers from Escobilla, between the towns of Mazunte and San Agustinillo, there was a sea turtle slaughterhouse that operated until the 1990s. During its peak years, the blood would run from the slaughterhouse and turn the beach red during hunting season. This is how the grandparents of Faustino Escamilla, one of the community guides who now dedicates himself to protecting the species, remember it. “Many people from other communities came to settle here for the economic benefit. They either went out to fish and kill turtles in the sea, or searched for eggs on the beach, or butchered turtle meat for packaging,” he says.
In those years, before the arrival of tourism, the Oaxacan coast boasted a thriving ecosystem of biodiversity. The sea could not be seen from the road due to the dense vegetation. The inhabitants were mostly farmers or fishermen who used to eat iguanas, badgers, raccoons, and turtle eggs. “There was no law protecting them; humans had the right to take turtle eggs and meat for their survival,” Escamilla recalls. Hunting, the turtle egg trade, and the clearing of mangroves soon began to increase. An iguana’s meat cost 200 pesos, deer meat 1,000, and a turtle egg between one and two pesos. “It began to become an economic asset for families,” Escamilla says.
Isidro Altamirano Rios remembers those years well. He worked with organized community groups protecting turtles on Escobilla Beach. His job consisted of monitoring species, collecting eggs for incubation, releasing hatchling turtles when they hatched, and protecting them from predators. “You could fish for turtles, there were permits to harvest their meat, eggs, skin, and shell, and they were even exported,” he says. Little by little, they began to notice that the arrival season—the massive arrival of thousands of turtles to the beaches to nest—was shortening, and fewer and fewer turtles were arriving. The military began to guard the beaches during peak nesting season to ensure no one could plunder the eggs. Support groups were also created for community guides to conduct awareness workshops. However, the government’s efforts were not sufficient, and little by little, the turtle population began to decline.
Environmental pressure groups accelerated the process, leading the federal government to decree a total and permanent ban on the hunting and consumption of sea turtles in 1990. The great news for environmental conservation was a devastating blow to the economy of local communities, which was unable to cope with such an abrupt change. “Many went to Huatulco to look for work and sold their land. Others migrated to the United States, entire families. It severely impacted the population, which decreased significantly. There were 100 students and six or seven teachers in the primary school; now there are fewer than 40 students and two teachers,” Ríos laments.
In an attempt to alleviate the impoverishment of the population and raise environmental awareness, the government created the Mexican Turtle Center in Mazunte, a few meters from the abandoned slaughterhouse. Mireya Viadiu Ilarraza was 31 years old when she arrived in the town in 1996 with her partner. “The center was the most hated place for the population because it was a symbol of government imposition. There were activities, but people didn’t come,” he recalls. Despite the ban, many still ventured to the beach to look for nests.
In the midst of the transition, Hurricane Paulina hit in October 1997, unleashing its full Category 4 fury on the coastal towns built with adobe, wood, and palm fronds. The destruction was absolute. The death toll is estimated at between 200 and 500, one of the deadliest and costliest in Mexico’s history. “The government provided support to boost the economy after the hurricane. It was a watershed. People dared to make changes to their homes and started businesses. Relatives in the US sent their investments, and part of the proceeds went toward opening inns and family-run restaurants,” adds Viadiu, who now works as the Tourism and Environmental Education Coordinator at the Turtle Center.
Ecotourism was the new economic engine and brought back several of those who migrated. One of them was Escamilla, who returned from the United States at 21 to stay in his grandparents’ village on Ventanilla Beach. He now works coordinating beach patrols on ATVs to find nests and bring the eggs back to the camp. On his team, 25-year-old Javier Cortés leads tours to release hatchlings, bringing them closer to the shore with the help of tourists. Cortés’s family left town shortly after his birth and moved to Huatulco to look for work. He returned at 14, attracted by the community’s conservation work. “My grandparents worked as domestic workers and did other jobs, and at night they went out to ‘playear’ [scour the shore for eggs to eat]. Their house was always full of eggs when visitors came,” he says. “Now there are other ways to consume. My grandmother went from being a domestic worker and going out to hunt for eggs to having her own restaurant. It’s no longer necessary to hunt, sell, and consume. Now they have a different consciousness, there’s a different economy,” she adds.
From time to time, they encounter locals who come down from the mountains to the beach to look for eggs. The policy among the community members is not to intervene, fearing a conflict that could escalate or that the looters might be armed. Their method is to equip themselves to travel the beach on ATVs and get there before them. For Viadiu, using turtle eggs for personal consumption has become the lesser of two evils for the species. “Perhaps trafficking can be a problem, but I don’t think local consumption will wipe out the population in the area. Now it’s tourism that’s destroying the beaches, the vegetation that protects them, or the amount of trash generated,” she says resignedly. The tourism that saved the economy and the turtles has grown to the point of plastering the area with signs for land for sale and real estate agencies. The town has been flooded with foreign capital, which, upon acquiring the land, clears it of trees to build hotels and restaurants.
Yet the turtle population seems unaffected by the deterioration of its environment. Before the ban, turtle nesting barely reached 600,000 annually. With a hatchling survival rate of less than 10%, the number was not encouraging. However, in recent years, the figure has doubled. “Between June and March, nesting was 1.5 million. The olive ridley population [considered endangered] is stable,” says Viadiu. However, other species, such as the leatherback turtle, the largest in the ocean, still have low numbers, and the hawksbill has barely recovered.
Although eggs can still be found in some Oaxaca markets and looting is still common on beaches like Morro Ayuta, Viadiu celebrates the change in the mentality of the new generations. “Now, when we go around schools and ask children if they’ve ever eaten turtle eggs, most say no, even if their parents have,” he says with satisfaction.
Source: elpais
