Parque Hawaii

I’m in heaven. I’m on the beach, just a stone’s throw from the border to El Salvador, sitting under a palm-fronded lean-to, watching the sun set over a tumultuous Pacific. I’m completely alone (almost), and will soon be in utter darkness save for the light emitting from my MacBook monitor. This is Parque Hawaii, the ARCAS-run centre dedicated to the conservation of sea turtles, and also iguanas and caimans. The place seems to be run by three puppies, who greeted me enthusiastically when I arrived, checked my bags for me, and playfully escorted me as I explored the centre.

I found free-roaming geckos and captive fish, turtles, and caimans as I made my way around the grounds, and bathrooms, a library, an activity centre, and a couple of bunk-bedded dormitories. So I put my bag in the nicest one, claimed the bunk with mosquito net already installed, and headed down to the beach. As much as I enjoyed my stay at Monterrico, I was now enjoying being far away from the madding crowds and their maddening late-night and early-morning revelry. I was alone—just me, the pups, some reptiles and some fish, the sunset, and, soon, the stars and my old fiend Orion, who has accompanied me throughout my Guatemalan travels.

I felt like I had ridden into a ghost town that had clearly once been a hive of activity; the whiteboard showed that volunteers collected more than 32,000 turtle eggs from May of last year until this January. The busiest months were August to October, with roughly 9,000 eggs per month. January reaped just 83. February, it seemed, was only for the foolish who had no idea when egg-laying season was over; it wasn’t even represented on the board. A message in Spanish mentioned something about food for the puppies and leaving in the afternoon, and a freshly cut quarter of watermelon sat tantalisingly on the long, blue-painted but weathered table that at times must have hosted a dozen or so fervent volunteers. A large tub marked ‘PATROL KITS’ sat on the floor beneath a small notice reminding egg-saviours of their pre-bedtime duties, such as burying the nests properly and writing up all relevant data.

I walked buoyantly a kilometre or so down a sandy and bachata-serenaded lane to the nearest tienda, to get some essentials and give the locals a chance to practice their English. And here I now am, my supplies adequately bolstered with pasta, biscuits, and toilet paper, and my head filled with little more than the sound of the waves and realistic hopes of a good night’s sleep … and wondering what volunteer work I might be subjected to now that the fun stuff was over.

Hasta manana!