Tortuguero, Costa Rica

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Tales from a Tacky Travel Log

What child that grew up with Lisa Frank on every binder doesn’t dream of seeing a sea turtle in the wild? Especially a kid that only had Jacques Cousteau documentaries on VHS when she stayed at her grandma’s farm. 

Whatever your sea turtle wanna-see memories may be, there are a handful of places around the world where, if you go at a specific time of year, sightings are almost guaranteed. 

Tortuguero, Costa Rica is one such turtle Coachella and the embarkation point is only an hour from my house. 

Avoiding the Things We Want Most

I can’t believe me. What a loser boob. Tortuguero, which roughly translates to ‘a buttload of turtles’, is near-ish the house I rent. Yet I had gone 9 years without making the time to pop over. 

Tortuguero is known worldwide for its sea turtle nesting. It’s one of Costa Rica’s most prominent attractions where thousands of sea turtles arrive each year to lay their eggs, and I had successfully blown it off for nearly a decade. I mean, I’ve traveled further distances to watch a mediocre baseball game and got too drunk to even remember who won. But my husband and I hadn’t taken one weekend to do the thing that thousands of people fly thousands of miles each year to do. 

I suppose I could blame my poor travel priorities on bad timing. Each natural phenomenon has its season. And often, when the lightbulb in my head sprung, “turtles”, I had missed the window.

The fact that my husband and I are planning to move back to the U.S. inspired me to plan ahead. And what a ton of work that was… one quick Google search like, “turtle season when” (pure poetry, I know), and a hotel reservation, and we were off to the world’s slowest races. 

You know how sometimes you have those vacations that are very run-of-the-mill and then sometimes you have those vacations where everything that could go weird, goes weird? Well, this one had its odd bits.

On the Road. Emergency Services? Get in Line

When the day finally came, it was raining and we were feeling particularly lazy about a series of buses that stop every two seconds to pick up half-hearted bank employees on their way to the grind, so we decided to take an Uber. It was $43 and we got to ride with a Costa Rican that felt much more like a New Jersey Italian. 

What was James Gandolfini doing driving an Uber in middle-of-nowhere Central American farmland? Under cover sting operation, maybe? The FBI planting agents to take down a Latin American drug lord?

He had a sharp nose, blue eyes, and a tiny, European car that was too small for his big build. The fact that he was spilling into the passenger side made it easier to elbow my husband, Jonathan, in the side every time he cracked a joke, which were mostly riffs on his ex-wife. 

As we were driving along, I saw a man lying on the side of the road and I said, “There has been an accident”. I said it as an observation, and not a call to action. But our driver slammed on the brakes and put it in reverse to check shit out. 

We asked the two men that had also pulled over if an ambulance had been called. 

“Yes, but there is only one ambulance around here and they’re busy with another accident. Said they’ll get here when they can.” 

When I picked my jaw up off the ground, I approached the man where he lay, wincing in pain and holding onto his side. He was conscious but he couldn’t move. 

I said, “Sir, is there anything that we can do to make you more comfortable while you wait for help?” 

And then I prayed he would say no because I didn’t want to touch him. 

He responded, “You can unzip my raincoat”. 

Shit. I did so while Mr. Gandolfini smoked his cigarette and hung back chatting up one of the witnesses—trying to crack a drug smuggling case, I’m sure. A crowd was beginning to form. More passersby were offering help. Seeing that the rider was surrounded by helpful samaritans and an actual witness to his accident, we decided to jump back in the car and bugger off to continue on our mission to spend a weekend as tourists. 

But we would continue on a little less carefree, knowing only one ambulance covered the area. God forbid we get in an accident and 911’s response is, “Get in line.”

Almost There: Somebody Call Jennifer Lopez and Ice Cube

We were back on the road to turtle sexfest paradise. To get there, you have to catch a boat at an embarkation point called La Pavona. We said goodbye to our Sopranos-esque chauffeur and stepped into the bus/boat station. Holy tourism, Batman. It was fun to see the number of people that could have gone on a much more comfortable vacation anywhere in the world, but they chose a humid, jungle peninsula to spot sea turtles in the rain, instead. 

We made our way down the muddy embankment to the river’s edge where our vessel awaited. And by vessel, I mean an extra long john boat with two rows of plastic seats, a roof, and a motor.

Because the rain was heavy, there was a plastic cover on both sides of the boat that hung down from the roof and secured to the mainframe. And for the first time in my life, I felt a twinge of claustrophobia. If this thing went down, I wanted to be able to jump off the side and into the water, not get tangled in plastic wrap. 

The river was high and choppy. We zig-zagged our way through curvy chocolate-colored canals with our plastic windows all fogged up. Was this Costa Rica or the Amazon? The air was thick, the sky was grey, and crocodiles sat on the banks with open mouths. Somebody contact Jennifer Lopez, Owen Wilson, Ice Cube, and Jon Voight. I have the perfect location for a revamp of 1997’s Anaconda.

The German man to my right (my default nationality for all tall, blonde European tourists) was on his cell phone the whole time jumping between Google Maps and Instagram. I suppose this is the part where I could make some profound statement about how he had traveled all that way to experience that moment but he wasn’t even living in it. The thought crossed my mind to phone-shame him, here. But maybe he was also feeling tense about our rain cover turning our water taxi into a water coffin and decided to distract himself.  

Forty minutes from our departure, we reached a fork and the boat spilled out onto a wider section of the river where the waters were calmer and the rain was letting up.

Tortuguero, the Pueblo: the Jaguars Will See to It

When we arrived in Tortuguero, there were at least four stray puppies at the pier, digging holes, rolling in the dirt, and playfully nipping at each other. Stray dogs were everywhere. After telling one local that it breaks my heart to see homeless dogs, he assured me that once the turtles leave, the local jaguars will take care of them.

This village of around 1200 people sits on a skinny peninsula with the Caribbean Sea on one side and a wide, jungle canal on the other. Because Tortuguero has no roads, the river is the highway. 

Once known mainly for selling the meat and eggs of the turtles they now protect, the people of Tortuguero also exported lumber. When it was decided they would conserve this special place where the marsh meets the sea, the main business became tourism. 

There is one main sidewalk through town where shops and restaurants are interspersed with people’s homes. One minute you’re glancing at a pizzeria’s specials on a chalkboard and the next minute you’re looking into someone’s living room. It’s a peeping tom’s Camelot.

You can probably walk the whole town, block by block in 20 minutes. The interesting thing about staying in such a small space with multiple tourists is that you’re running into the same people over and over again. 

Leaving our hotel, we crossed paths with an Italian man who we greeted with a ‘Buenos dias,’ and a smile. He replied with a ‘Buenos dias’ and a fart. Great running joke for my husband and me. But the poor thing. We had to cross paths with him time and time again, all weekend. 

At least the time on our whale-watching tour when my husband pointed out I had a booger hanging out of my nose, I could console myself with, “Well, I’ll never see those people again”. 

Be careful what you do in Tortuguero. You will see those people again. 

Booking Tours: Canoe Safety 101

We were met at the dock by a young man our hotel had sent to greet us and show us the way. This is a courtesy service with a purpose. That same young man is a guide and upon reaching your hotel, will pitch you tours. Nonetheless, we were happy to see Diego even though he was eager to upsell. We would have gotten lost without his help.

He led us off the main drag down a tiny dirt path. We ducked through people’s lawns where teenagers were listening to Nirvana’s Nevermind and cutting a broom handle with a hand saw. Your guess is as good as mine. 

Next thing we know, we’re at our hotel, looking out onto the beach. It was a nice place considering we had just walked through people’s yards to get there. And 90’s grunge fans, at that.

Diego didn’t need a very strong pitch because I was already sold on the turtle nesting tour before we even left our house. ¿Como se dice, “Shut up and take my money”?

We sat politely through his spiel about the other tours. Our ears perked up at jungle canals by canoe. Motorboats are a godsend but they take the eco out of ecotourism and tend to chop up manatees grazing near the water’s surface. 

“Will there be life jackets?” I asked. 

Even though that should be obvious, we’ve been on vacation and in canoes without them. 

Diego’s response was, “Of course! It’s the law”. Like that ever meant anything in this lawless land. I remember when I started my business in Costa Rica and I wanted to register it. A lawyer advised me against it. He said, “In this country, we don’t ask for permission. We ask for forgiveness. If you get caught, you can pretend you didn’t know. You’re a gringa. Save yourself the expense as long as you can”. Solid legal advice. I took it.    

Diego went on, “If it’s safety you’re worried about, the canoe is stable. Let me show you”. And I shit you not, his next words were, “Not long ago, I took an obese man on a tour. He was some YouTuber”. And then Diego reaches into his pocket, and my hand to my heart, he pulls out his phone to show us a picture he snuck. You know, so we could see just how large this guy was and ergo demonstrate just how safe the canoes are. And sure enough, the young man in the canoe in the photo could have been a candidate for TLC’s My 600-lb Life. 

I often think about that guy somewhere, unaware that he is now the unofficial poster boy for canoe safety in Tortuguero, Limon, Costa Rica. 

Turtle Nesting by Night: Moonlight Tortuga

The tour was scheduled for the same night that we arrived, at 9pm. We were instructed to wear dark clothes. No phones and no photography allowed. Goth and off-grid. We would go in a small group of 7. We had to be as discreet as possible or risk discouraging turtles from nesting, ripping a hole in the sea-time continuum. Imagine if the turtle that wasn’t born was the one that was going to save the world.  

I joke but I’m glad the tour agencies recognize that our presence is a nuisance and try to dial that back. A limited number of guides and tourists are allowed on the shore. The department of conservation lotteries each tour company a section of the beach and the times they can be there. 

Our guide, Bernie—Diego’s colleague—led our group through a maze of Tortuguero backstreets and sandy trails to get to the section of the beach assigned to our tour company that night. We paused in the dark for Bernie’s educational talk about the loggerhead sea turtle. Loggerheads are the second largest species of marine turtle in the world, known for their powerful jaws used to crush clams, sea urchins, and the souls of their enemies.

When we had been educated enough in sea turtle basics, Bernie led us out onto the beach in total darkness except for a little moonlight shining through the clouds. As soon as we stepped out onto the beach there were large marks in the sand leading up from the ocean that I hadn’t noticed during the day. Could it be? They were turtle tracks! And they were everywhere. It looked like a tractor had driven out of the ocean and cruised around the beach.

The guide explained that there were at least four turtles in our immediate area, all along the treeline where the jungle meets the sea. They cross the sand to lay their eggs near vegetation. 

And then, as our excitement was building, he asked us to wait. We all stood in the dark, in silence, listening to the ocean, anticipating cold-blooded vertebrates half the size of a refrigerator. Five minutes go by, then ten. I was being lulled to sleep by the sound of the sea, my allergy pill, and the three glasses of white wine I had downed while waiting on our 9 o’clock tour. What is it about vacation and feigned exploration to bring out the alcoholic in me? When I whispered to my husband I was tired, he was sweet enough to point out that the wine on my breath was strong enough to scare the turtles away. I felt classy. 

The wait continued. The guide explained that we could not approach a turtle until she was already in the process of laying her eggs. If we approached her too soon, we could scare her off. But once she starts dropping those puppies, there’s no turning back for mama, even when a group of gringos are gawking. This ‘trance’ state, coupled with the fact that a sea turtle is pretty useless on land, make them a popular jaguar snack and a big hit with poachers. 

I thought of the only turtle egg I ever consumed, offered to me by a professor from the University of Costa Rica, and served to me in a shot. I took the shot reluctantly, unsure if the egg had been acquired legally and also a little grossed out. The cheap sugarcane liquor burned on the way down but then the egg exploded cold in my esophagus and suddenly I was refreshed. Only in the afterlife, when I wind up in heaven or hell, will I know if the egg had been poached. I’m sure that will be the deciding factor that tips the scales.

The treeline suddenly came alive with the loud sound of snapping branches where multiple turtles were scouting the perfect nesting site. Part of you knows that sound is from the turtles, the other, paranoid part of you that is unaccustomed to the dark, convinces you that you are probably being watched from the treeline by a hungry big cat and armed poachers. 

We continued to wait silently in the dark, swatting mosquitos in tired anticipation. 

Bernie finally announced that it was time. One of the turtles was laying her eggs. He led us over and shone a red LED flashlight on the turtle’s back end perched over the hole she had dug. We crouched down to watch the rubbery eggs fall like a dripping faucet. 

The sheer size of the turtle hits you and you sit in awe. 

We were snapped out of our trance by Bernie calling us over to watch another turtle tiredly dragging herself back to the sea. We followed from a distance, the guide’s red light shining behind her, while she pulled herself along with her flippers, each of us mentally cheering her on and inching closer each time she moved forward. 

We watched her shell bob on the waves until she disappeared. She will mate again and be back on the beach in about two weeks, ready to lay another 90-110 eggs. She will repeat this process for the duration of the season. Turtle. Sexfest. Paradise.

And as we watched her vanish, another sea turtle appeared down the beach. 

One wave rolled in, and suddenly, where there had been nothing, she was there; just barely visible in the moonlight. Seeing her emerge from the sea as if she had materialized from nothingness was ethereal. It was so otherworldly I felt as if I had seen a mermaid. It was primal. Something that time and tide had sent sea turtles to do for 110 million years, drawn back to their birthplace by the smell of volcanic sand. I traveled through time to when dinosaurs roamed Antarctica. As soon as she emerged, the guide rushed us off for fear that she would get scared and return to sea with a belly full of eggs. But I had seen her and felt the spell of a primeval ritual. 

You gotta go to Tortuguero, man, and see the animals that made it through the last ice age.