by Ursula Watson
Shortlisted for Stories for Survival Writing Competition 2024
The machete blade glinted in the rays of the sun. It was looped and buckled against the bare chest of the man opposite me. Above the blade, his eye caught mine and his mouth broke into a smile, an oblong of white within the darkness of the van.
I sheepishly smiled back, my lips dry and my palms sticky as the bus, the colectivo, swayed and lurched along the broken path. The driver braked and the bus shuddered to a stop. More passengers were climbing on and amongst the newcomers two chickens pecking and circling the floor of the bus looking for any chance morsels of food amid the dirt and dust.
I tucked my feet in under the seat, hoping my bare toes peeking out of my sandals wouldn’t look too appealing to them. The man with the machete was joined by two others, all three of them wearing the same uniform of long shorts, tall rubber boots and a machete blade across their bare chests. They spoke in rapid Spanish, slapping backs and hands to welcome one another.
The bus moved on, a breeze blowing through the open van, the tarpaulin roof flapping. Dusty concrete block buildings with peeling, battered signs and small shops along the road turned into banks of green forested slopes once more. We were moving towards the perimeter of Corcovado National Park now, and the daytime sounds of the jungle could be heard with screeches of the howler monkeys and the ever-present sound of cicadas all around.
I thought back to the suburban habitat I had left behind with the dull hum of traffic, car alarms and dogs barking. I had swapped the grey of my English town for the bright blue and vivid greens of Costa Rica; swapped the consistency of my mundane daily routine for a jungle and the unknown. The panic of what I had done made me sit up straight just as the bus took a wide lurch down a steep track leaving me on the very edge of my seat with nothing to hold on to. The machete wearing man grabbed my hand to steady me and I smiled my thanks whilst the sharp blade dangled against his chest precariously. ‘Vacation?’ he asked.
‘Volunteer’ I replied.
‘Si, voluntario. Las tortugas?’ he asked.
‘Yes!’ I replied, emphatically nodding my head in recognition of the Spanish word.
With the bus on a steadier course, I moved back into my seat and took a breath. It was a bold move to journey this far across the globe by myself I thought, repeating in my mind what concerned friends had said. But it was a necessary one. Only one in a thousand turtles survive to adulthood. Those words in the nature documentary a few months ago had made me sit up and take stock. I felt un-noticed in the many thousands of people who lived in my town, lost and invisible, indiscernible amongst people since retirement and old age. I wanted to help these beautiful, peaceful creatures that had lived on this planet for so many years but were now in critical danger of dying out completely. I wanted to step out amongst the many and be seen again.
‘Muchas gracias’, said the man, ‘para las tortugas, para Costa Rica’ and he let go of my hand to place it on his chest pushing the machete knife flat against his body. I smiled sheepishly, grateful but guilty, feeling the thanks wasn’t yet deserved.
More of the documentary played in my mind, I had watched this scene in my head so often the last few weeks as I lay in bed before sleep. The girlish figure of Penny who ran the turtle conservation project stood on the beach at Carate close to the water’s edge. Gently tipping buckets of tiny turtles onto the sand as the sun set, I counted as many as I could and repeated their name, Olive Ridley. Thirty, maybe forty turtles felt their way in soft sand towards the lapping water and the setting sun, ready to take the plunge; into the water, on their first day of life. Onto a new beginning and for maybe all of them already a day that could also be their last. Penny was warm and friendly in her emails and already felt like a friend. She had welcomed my offer of help wholeheartedly and so my plans had fallen easily into place. Now here I was, on the edge; on the cusp of something necessary and important, just as I, myself, wished to feel again and ready to take the next step.
