Let's Go Home

“Welcome to Frontier flight 39 from Cancun headed to the United States,” announces the captain.  “Our expected arrival time in 7:50, but we’ll try to get you there a little early.  Fasten your seat belts, sit back, enjoy the flight, and let’s go home.”

Let’s go home.  I’m not quite sure if I’ve been dreading or welcoming those words since we crossed the border into Mexico.  

Joee and I weren’t planning on spending the week that we did in Mexico, but time was bountiful, money was scarce, and we were ready to get out of Belize.  We spent most of our time on the white sand beaches of Tulum and roaming the streets inland.  One morning was dedicated to exploring the ruins that oddly resembled an oversize put-put course.  The rest of the budget was spent on swimming with sea turtles and sting rays, and snorkeling the cenotes, underground swimming caves, that run through Mexico.  The last stop before Cancun was Isla Mujeres, named for the women that pirates used to keep there.  It wasn't originally on the itinerary (to be fair we never really had an itinerary), but was a last minute replacement for Playa del Carmen.  We had heard great things and were slightly disappointed to find the tourist hot spot that we had avoided in Tulum.  Still the beaches were beautiful, only slightly more crowded, and most places took debit cards, which was great as cold hard cash was quickly running out.  Between the two cities the week was a mellow one.

We got up early Wednesday morning even though our flight home didn’t leave till a quarter to five.  Better to be safe than sorry should something go awry between the ferry, taxi, bus, and shuttle that took us to the airport.   Of course nothing did and we even beat the Frontier employees to the airport with five hours to kill.  Even in the last hours in Mexico I’m not sure how I feel about the next leg of my journey; the part that takes me back to the States.

I have been gone exactly 174 days.  In that time I have lived and gone to university in a foreign country; visited another ten; learned about a dark history and continuing economic turmoil that Argentina faces; drank whiskey while trekking one of the world’s largest glaciers; got lost in the Andes; sampled some of the world's finest Malbec as I rode between vineyards; found out that bed bugs really do bite; ate Argentine steak until I was too full to move; learned what it’s like to travel alone even if only for a couple of days; stayed in an isolated hostel in a cloud forest; played with monkeys, sloths, and any cat or dog that came my way; took a yoga class in the jungle; watched a volcano erupt; conquered my fear of the ocean; swam with whale sharks, dolphins, turtles, string rays, and apparently a lemon shark; got my PADI Open Water certification; and although I’m far from fluent made significant progress on my Spanish.  

But what I’ve done falls far short of what I’ve learned, some about myself and some about the world around me.  I enforced what I already knew, that I love traveling.  I love seeing how things work in other countries and being lost in the unknown.  Even though it’s chaotic, stressful, and tiring at times I love the simple joys of backpacking.  But that’s just what it is.  Backpacking is nothing more than a vacation without the wheels of a suitcase.  Even with my four months in Argentina I don’t feel like I really came to know it.

This is something I didn't realized until I was deep in a conversation with a porteño in Panama.  I mentioned how everyone walked so slowly in the city, to which he responded, “Until you understand why they walk so slow you’ll never really understand Buenos Aires.”  This simple statement made me question what I had taken away over those four months.  It makes me curious.  It makes me want to pick up and live somewhere else with the goal of truly coming to know another country.

 What I have also failed to realize in the past is that for all of the new things I try abroad there are equal opportunities back home.  I’ve never been to the East, down South, or even the Grand Canyon, which is in my own backyard.  The idea of staying within the continental U.S. to travel is a new, but exciting prospect for the next journey.

 

So as I sit here on this Airbus 320, 38,000 feet above Texas I’m still not sure how I feel about the words “Let’s go home,” but I do know it’s time.  Even if only because Bank of America and Arizona State say so.  If nothing else what I’ve realized is that it’s not just traveling that’s the great adventure, but coming back to the starting line.  "We shall not cease from exploration. And the end of all one's exploring will be to arrive where we started. And know the place for the first time." -T.S. Eliot

Belize

Lonely Planet says they speak English in Belize.  I’m not sure I believe it.  I haven’t had this much difficulty understanding the locals since, well, since I first got to Argentina.  The local dialect is a combination of English, Spanish, and a Caribbean slang I am unfamiliar with, all masked by thick island accents.  When we get off the bus in Belize City it’s still early and the walk to the hostel is short.  A couple of men tell Joee that he has a nice lady, we say Thank You.   

As I pull open my guide book to check our directions an older gentleman joins us.  He tells us his name is Frank, it’s his 60^th birthday, and he’ll take us to the best hostel in town, Seaside Hostel.  It's listed in Lonely Planet so I’m not opposed to staying there, but I don’t want to tip Frank for taking us somewhere we can find our own.  I try to politely shake him off, but no luck.  He says he’s walking there anyways.  We get to the hostel and sure enough he asks us for $5 BZD ($1 USD = $2 BZD).  The owner, Mitch, is on the phone but looks over his shoulder to tell us “Give Frank $5.”  Part of me wants to tell him “No, you give Frank $5,” and walk away, but I know I won’t.  Instead we hand him the $3 we have and check-in.  

We probably should have taken our initial interaction with Mitch as an omen, but we didn’t.  Over the next 24 hours we learned that Mitch is not a very nice person, Belize City isn’t what I expected, and I catch my first stomach bug of the trip.  The highlight of the city was helping as Mitch’s dog gave birth to a batch of puppies under the porch, followed by tarot cards with a pair of European travelers.  Instead of spending much more time in Belize City we opt to move to the islands and head to Caye Caulker.

Unfortunately by this part of the trip we had spent the better part of our funds scuba diving.  Well worth the $300, but it meant the remainder of the trip included a lot of beach time.  On Caye Caulker we decided not to go diving or snorkeling with manatees and instead saved our funds for cenote snorkeling in Mexico.  The majority of our time was spent on the beach, exploring the island, and finding the cheapest seafood possible.  After four days we continued north to Mexico.  Our last stop before heading home.

In the Heart of the Caribbean

Did you know there are five different types of malaria that can be found on one island alone in Honduras?   And that antimalarial medicine should be taken two weeks before arriving at a malaria infected area?  Joee and I had either missed or forgotten these facts until we were well on our way to the Bay Islands in Honduras.  

Our initial impression of the country was unpromising to say the least.  We checked into our Hostel in San Pedro Sula late and there weren’t many dinner options.  We walked to a cafeteria-style restaurant and ordered a random chicken dish off the menu.  Apparently there are multiple words for “fried” in Honduras because that’s what came out, fried chicken.  The look on Joee’s face was priceless.  Fried chicken was the last thing he wanted.  I told him to, “Wipe that damn look of your face.”  We laughed, continuing laughing over what was one of the most disgusting meals we’ve eaten, and went back to the hostel hungry.

The next morning we boarded the boat to Utila, one of the smaller islands in the Bay Islands.  Other travelers told us only to go if we planned on diving.  Neither one of us had been scuba diving before, and I had a rocky relationship with the ocean, but we decided to go for it.  And I have to say I’m happy we did.  The week we spent at the Utila Dive Center (UDC) was by far the highlight of the journey.  

Sunset of the Trip

As we stepped off the ferry from La Ceiba a guy in a mohawk and bright pink classes handed us a flyer for UDC.  He seemed cool, as did the guy on the scooter next to him with the islands shaved into his chest hair, so we decided to check it out.  Utila is one of the cheapest places in the world to get PADI certified.  Our $300 a piece covered 4 nights at the Mango Inn with breakfast, classroom sessions, two closed dives, four open dives, two fun dives once we were certified, and access to kayaks and snorkeling gear during our down time.  

The course started Monday afternoon so Joee and I decided to kayak out to a nearby lighthouse for snorkeling that morning.  After we (mostly Joee) paddled out to sea, we realized we had forgotten the rope to tie the kayak to the buoy.  After some ingenuity we managed to transform the ribbon on my dress into a makeshift rope.  The snorkeling was easy and water crystal clear.  No coral reefs, but lots of small fish offset by huge starfish.  I sincerely doubted Joee’s kayaking abilities on the way out, but turns out that’s only because I was in the back of the boat.  We switched seats for the trip back and I took care of tanning in the front while he handled the rowing in the back.

We spent Monday and Tuesday in the classroom watching scratched PADI DVD’s full of bad acting and theatrical music.  Tuesday afternoon was our first time in the water.  It was shallow, only five feet, but I still panicked.   I was under for maybe 90 seconds before I stood back up.  My weights weren’t keeping me down, I was flailing my arms to stay under, trying not to hyperventilate, and it was just all too much.  Our instructor Maddy came over, put some weights in the pockets of my vest, and I tried again.  

At first I hated it.  I didn’t trust my equipment, my eyes stung from salt water and I couldn’t rub them, the air from the tank was too dry and I wanted out.  I’m happy I didn’t though.  Our other instructor Fernando led us in a symphony of breathing, conducting our breath in a slow, steady rhythm.  Wednesday morning we finished up our book work and headed back out for our second confined dive after lunch.  I was nervous and afraid I would panic again, but went for it anyways.  Luckily the second time was easier.  All of the ailments that bothered me on the first dive became tolerable and then completely went away.  As we worked through our underwater exercises I got more comfortable and started to enjoy being underwater.

By Thursday morning I was excited for our first open water dive.  The Bay Islands run along the second largest reef in the world so the diving is spectacular.  Underwater we saw hundreds of fish (including barracuda which was often on the menu for dinner), eels, sting rays, jelly fish… The coral reef dropped off quickly into the big blue where other members of our diving group saw eagle rays, but we were too slow to get there.  

Joee and I Diving with the Brits

The sights at the surface of the water weren’t bad either.  As we got out of the water after our second open water dive the instructors started rushing us on the boat, telling us to hurry up.  Whale sharks had been spotted on the other side of the island.  As we raced around the island we got our snorkeling gear ready, and sat ready to slide off the back of the boat at a moment’s notice.  Upon Maddy’s orders we all piled out of the boat, careful not to splash and scare away the whale shark.  I slid off the back as quickly and carefully as I could, and opened my eyes to see a 45 foot behemoth of a whale shark only yards in front of me.  It stuck around for a couple of minutes before swimming away into the big blue, but it was still pretty spectacular.  

Later that afternoon Joee and I rented bicycles and took snorkeling gear down to the southern tip of the island.  We stopped at a bar with a sign advertising the best snorkeling on the island.  We promised to buy a beer on the way back and headed out for what was in fact the most amazing snorkeling I’ve ever done.  It competed with the views we'd seen diving that morning.  Slowly but surely I was falling in love with not only the island but being in the water.  Friday and Saturday boasted similar diving experiences as we dived through a shipwreck, and swam with a pod of dolphins.  The entire week was straight out of the Discovery Channel.

Dolphin Swimming with the Boat

When we weren’t exploring the local aquatic world, we were dining on its bounty.  The seafood was fresh, abundant and most importantly cheap.  When we first arrived Maddy told us one of the local fishermen had caught, or rather wrestled in, a 300 lb marlin which we ate for the rest of the week.  My favorite spot was RJ’s where a full fish or steak dinner ran $5 or you could upgrade to lobster for an extra $3.  Other than the stifling heat and ridiculous bugs, I loved Utila.  I have every intention of going back and anyone who has any interest in diving should put it very high on their list. 

El Salvador

Nicaragua and El Salvador really couldn’t be more different. Where Nicaragua was large, El Salvador is small. Despite the size El Salvador is overwhelmed with people, San Salvador being the most populated city in Central America. To be fair we spent only fleeting moments in the Nicaraguan capital, Managua, turned off by its reputation. On the other hand, San Salvador’s reputation isn’t any better.

The one thing they have in common is the unofficial marketing campaigns between Coca-Cola and Pepsi, and another between rival cell phone companies that plaster cities both small and large. Corner store signs, concrete walls, sides of buildings, bridges, and every other empty façade is tagged with official signage. I wonder how it got there. I can imagine a fleet of Coco-Cola (who is winning 2:1) and Pepsi workers making their way up Central America, paint brushes in hand transforming grey concrete to works of commercial art.

 

Our bus arrives in San Salvador at 1am instead of 10pm after the three hour delay. We choose the hostel in Lonely Planet that’s closest to the terminal and ask a taxi driver to take us. Surprisingly he tells us we can walk, which is the last thing I planned on doing in the early morning hours in the streets of San Salvador. After double checking the directions for the fourth time, this isn’t the time to get lost, we head out. We ring the bell at the first hostel to which they open the window and tell us it’s booked. We find a cheaper, albeit probably smaller room across the street. We check in for the night and as we’re walking towards the door I realize we don’t have the key. I ask the owner, who is now walking back to his room, who responds, “Key. Really, you going anywhere?” It’s true, I respond, knowing we’ll be checked out first thing in the morning.

We spend the next morning in San Salvador. Each taxi takes us to the wrong place or has no idea where we’re trying to go. We quickly figure out the bus system which is slow but costs only pennies to the dollar of a taxi. We go to the mall, backpacks and all, where we are stared down by everyone we pass. Joee gets his glasses tightened and a long sleeved shirt (he failed to realize that tank tops and board shorts weren’t enough for the five weeks) and I stocked up on Dramamine. From there we couldn’t get out of the city quick enough.

We heard rumors that surfing along the Pacific coast of El Salvador was good. We also heard rumors that it was horrible and the rocky shores were no place for a beginner to learn. Instead of taking our chances we headed north to the highlands of Suchitoto, a small quiet town on the banks of the reservoir San Fransisco Lempa.

We passed the days hiking to a waterfall, creating our own official bar crawl through the main plaza, and ranking the local popusa stands. Popusas are probably the best thing the country has going for it. They’re corn tortillas filled with anything from beans and cheese to elaborate seafood combinations, and they are delicious.

We stayed in a small makeshift guesthouse with a great view of the water and the biggest bugs I've ever encountered. The four rooms were divided by freestanding walls and the roof looked like it was made out of link-n-logs. We didn’t pay much attention to the fact that you could see the sky in between the beams until we came home after a particularly torrential downpour to find our bed and many of belongings soaked. It was late and I didn’t feel like waking up the owner so we flipped the mattress and stole sheets off another bed that was unoccupied.

The Competition

After a total of three nights in El Salvador we had more than enough. I’m sure the country has plenty to offer between the Ruta de las Flores, supposed great surfing locations, amongst what I assume are other worthy attributes, but sometimes it’s hit or miss and we missed.

We also missed the deadline to book a seat on the nicer bus out of El Salvador so we decided to chicken bus our way to the Caribbean coast of Honduras. Chicken buses are converted school buses, some still sporting the name of the Philadelphia school district they used to belong to, others pimped out beyond recognition including intricate murals and brightly colored paint jobs, custom lighting, and subwoofers in the back. All are tweaked to include a rear door, which often has a small teenage boy hanging out of it, yelling the next destination to passersby and signaling stops with earsplitting whistles to the driver. If there are any safety precautions, I missed them. The boys take turns challenging daring stunts of stupidity hanging out the doors, each outdoing the next, one hand barely missing cars as the bus driver makes equally as daring passes along two lane roads.

A Very Empty Chicken Bus

At each stop locals fill the already packed aisle ways to hustle everything from fresh fruit and vegetables, juice and sodas poured into plastic sandwich bags, sandwiches to fried chicken. The vendors range from young children to old men and women, each competing to sell more or less the exact same thing as the pusher before them. I try not to buy anything from the kids, telling myself they should be in school. I don’t know if this is for better or for worse, but it’s what I do. Although it takes three hours longer than the luxury bus it’s an experience, and it’s not like we really have anywhere to be.

Chicken Buses

Between all of the stop and go, ear splitting whistles, constant chatter from the vendors, and mountain roads I end up taking a lot of Dramamine. The down side being it makes me drowsy, but I have to stay awake because Joee’s Spanish isn’t the best and I need to keep an eye on my bag. The fun side is that some great things come out of my mouth in my Dramamine induced state.  For example, I will say the exact same sentence multiple times with no recollection of having said it out loud only moments before.  Or the following conversation:

Me: “Joee have you ever seen the movie The Boy in the Striped Pajamas?”
Joee: “No.”
Me: “It’s this really sad movie about these two boys who become friends during the Holocaust. One is the son of a Nazi and the other is in a penetration camp.”
Joee: “A penetration camp?”
Me: “Yeah penetration camp… No. That’s not right.”

Ten minutes later

Me: “What are those called again?”
Joee: “Concentration camps, sweetheart. Concentration camps.”

I will let you fill in the endless and relentless stream of “Penetration Camp” jokes that immediately followed.

Granada

Granada is just one of many quant cobblestone stones we’ve visited in Central America. Easily lost among the ranks of San Juan del Sur, Suchitoto, Antigua, and a slew of other towns we didn’t have time to visit. What sets Granada apart is its reputation as the art and cultural center of Nicaragua. When we arrived we opted for one of the less crowded hostels. We were pleasantly surprised when our double room turned out to have not only a double bed, but also a bunk bed and second room attached.

We made our standard tour through the town. Asking the reception where the closest market was (which we didn’t find till 24 hours later), checking Lonely Planet for good places to eat, and roaming the streets. We grabbed a bag of mango from a lady on the corner and made our way to the central plaza. Joee and I were sitting on a bench splitting the bag of very much unripened mango when a little girl came up and asked for a piece. We gave her one and another for her brother and sister, playing with I assume to be their mother on the bench opposite us. The younger sister came up and asked for another piece and we willingly handed over the rest of the bag. Moments later the first girl came back and asked for a dollar. I politely told her in Spanish, that we weren’t going to give her a dollar. It was at this point that she had a few choice words to throw our way. I started laughing, mostly in shock, and told Joee whose reaction was on par.

We were less pleasantly surprised when we went back to our room after dinner to find that the one light bulb for our giant room was burnt out. After asking the three women at the front desk if they had a spare, each of them coming to our room in succession to make sure that our light bulb was indeed burnt out, they finally found one. The problem now was how to make the exchange at 12 feet without a ladder. Joee’s game plan: drag the bunk bed to the middle of the room, stand on top of it and make the switch. I expected the women to react with murmurs of safety issues, possible law suits, etc., but they were completely onboard with the idea. Ten minutes later, we had light.

So Handy

The next morning Joee and I took a tour just outside of Granada to go zip lining in the canopy. It was here that I made the cardinal sin of traveling: I forgot the camera. For this there are no pictures of either of us zipping down on a cable suspended 40 feet above the jungle floor. We took turns between going solo and pairing up with the guides for feats such as “The Monkey” or “Superman”. On our last run they asked us if we wanted a surprise. We said, “Yes”. They asked us if we wanted to go down regular or upside down (“The Monkey”). We replied, “Monkey.” They strapped me in for my last run and as I made my way down I could see one of the tour guides waiting at the bottom. Only this time he started pulling down on the cable. At first I bounced up a little bit, he pulled down harder, the line bounced harder this time, and I bounced a lot. Suspended upside down, zipping along a cable 20 feet in the air I started to laugh because that’s all I could do from stopping the wave of nausea and motion sickness that was washing over me.

The next morning we set off to Granada to catch one of the nicer buses to El Salvador. We’d heard mixed reviews about the country. Both guide books and fellow travelers telling us it wasn’t worth our time. Either way we knew there would be good pupusas and decided to go anyways. Our $50 bus ride, by far the most we’ve spent, was three hours late.

King Quality slightly made up for this by providing delicious snack packs, playing The Curious Case of Benjamin Button with English subtitles, and taking care of everything at our two border crossings through Honduras. Nonetheless I was still slightly nervous when we landed in San Salvador at 1am with no idea where we were, no reservations and no idea what would be open.

Isla Ometepe and the Mundial

From San Juan del Sur we left for Isla Ometepe on Lake Nicaragua. By this point Adam had become the third party in our journey. After being ripped off by two guys posing as taxi drivers and piling into an unmarked car we made our way to the small boat that would take us to the island. We were among the last to board, thus the last to pick our seats. We decided on a small platform in the middle of the boat where we sat on our backpacks to avoid the oil, dirt, and later inch of water that covered the floor.

Day Glo Cowboy on the Boat to Ometepe

Standing above me and above the engine room, a crew member methodically pumped what appeared to be a broom stick up and down a long black tube, creating a makeshift bilge pipe. I asked Joee (who was in the Navy for 4 ½ years), “That’s not how they did it on your boat, did they?” He laughed and told me, “No, bilge pipes normally aren’t hand operated.”

As the man in front of me slowly pumped water out of the makeshift bilge pipe I quickly learned why they usually aren’t made out of PVC pipe, a broom stick, or run on man power. One wrong stroke and water jettisoned from the open pipe leaving me with a face full of dirty water and miscellaneous boat drudge. Joee laughed and I gave him the “Why me?” look.

View from the Boat

Thirty minutes later we hit land, made our way off the boat, and piled into the back of a taxi pickup truck. Four of the other passengers were heading to an eco-farm, Zopilote, which is seated at the base of one of the island’s two volcanoes. After a great experience at Lost and Found in Panama, we decided to give Zopilote a shot.

After a 200 meter hike we made our way to the main office. Similar to Lost and Found the grounds are spread out between various buildings, making it a challenge to find your way from building to building at night, and even more difficult to dodge the armies of ants that are waiting to attack if you don’t watch your step. Unlike Lost and Found, Zopilote is much more self-sustaining. The bathroom consisted of a compost toilet where instead of flushing you dump rice shells down the bowl. Surprisingly enough it smelt better than most of the other public restrooms in Central America. Volunteers help on the farm where they produce their own breads, yogurt, granola, liquors, and pasta sauce, amongst a number of other items.

Zopilote

There isn’t much to do on the island besides hiking or hanging out on the beach so we spent the first night drinking wine and telling stories over candle light as the electricity kept dodging on and off. It was during this first night that Adam regaled us with his highly entertaining and sometimes inappropriate stories of being a school teacher in the South. He has the unfortunate habit of falling in love always with the wrong person, some of them much younger and sometimes former students. After the wine ran dry we headed off to our hammocks for the night. The wine did little to help with the uncomfortable experience and the following morning we immediately switched over to the dorms.

Our original plan was to travel to Granada on Sunday. This was before we learned that Central America, especially the small island, more or less shut down on Sundays. It truly is a day of rest. Instead we stayed behind to watch the World Cup. We made the 20 minute walk to Little Morgan’s, which was the place to be on Isla Ometepe for the game.  I should also mention that Little Morgan's is ridiculously beautiful.  Lush green foliage, tons of colorful flowers, beautiful view of the lake, perfect down to the kittens chasing butterflies in the flower beds. 

Walk Down to Little Morgan's

Joee and I were both rutting for Holland, having respective friends from the country. Judging from the orange get-up and the bag of orange flowers that he was showering everyone with, so was the guy across the table from us.

Dutch Spirit

It was a good game, good food, good company, but a shame that Holland didn’t win. I was happy that we had stayed and happy that I could experience the Mundial in a country where it’s truly a game of blood, sweat and tears.

Joee Pouring Some Out for Our Lost Dutchmen

The next morning we checked out and made our way back to the mainland. We walked twenty minutes down a dirt road until we could flag down the bus. As we sat waiting for our second bus connection we noticed one of the boxes on the side of the road was periodically moving and cluckling. The rest of the passengers and the free range chickens roaming the side of the street didn’t seem too concerned that one of their comrades was locked in cardboard box, so I can only assume it is commonplace. One bus connection later and we were at the main dock. I was surprised to see a huge ferry, carrying cars and all, waiting to take us back to shore. As Joee and I ran to catch it we heard Adam yelling, “Run Joee, run!” He’d left Zopilote after the first night, presumably for less hippy digs. It wasn’t until we were waiting on the bus to head north to Granada that we saw him board with presumably his next love conquest. Joee and I sat quietly reading our books in the row in front of them as we heard Adam recite the less risqué stories we were heard only nights before.

San Juan del Sur

We had no plan for Nicaragua. Luckily the manager of our hostel in Arenal was from Nicaragua and gave us a list of places to stay. First stop, San Juan del Sur.

San Juan del Sur is just over the Costa Rican border on the Pacific side of Nicaragua. It’s a small beach town enclosed by mountains on all sides with the beach opening into a cove creating a natural harbor. The town itself has a laid back surf vibe with plenty of hostels and restaurants dotting the cobblestone streets. It offers the same activities as most of the beach towns we’ve visited: plenty of beach time, surfing, canopy tours, and the added bonus of turtle watching. After spending the day on the beach we opted for the turtles.

Playing with Hermit Crabs and Silly Bands in the Sand 

At 7pm we headed down to the lobby of our hostel for a presentation (Fun Fact: Leatherbacks grow to 12 ft) before heading to Refugio to Vide Silvestre La Flor. We all piled into the back of a pick up truck in hopes of watching Olive Riley turtles make their way up from the ocean to lay their eggs. It was still early in the season so there was no telling how long it would take. Even though the refuge was only 25 miles away it took the better part of an hour bouncing around on dirt roads to get there.

At La Flor they reminded us for the umpteenth time that absolutely no flashes or flashlights were to be used. Too much light deters the turtles from coming on shore. Instead they’ll lay their eggs in the ocean where they stand almost no chance of survival. To prevent this, our guide handed out a couple of red lights so we could still see the turtles in the pitch black night.

As we walked down to the beach we were lucky, we’d found a turtle right away. We all huddled around to marvel at the turtle laying her eggs. My excitement quickly turned to shock as I went to take my first photo and my flash went off.  I had switched my camera from “Program” to “Auto” and forgot to turn the flash off a second time.

Oops...

After quickly apologizing to our guide, apologizing to the park official, and quietly apologizing to the turtle I took pictures with slightly more reserve for the rest of the night. An hour later of turtle watching fun we piled back into the truck for our slow journey home. Joee and I both agreed that we would be sad when our lives no longer resembled National Geographic specials.

Laying Turtle Eggs