you can call me Gerardo. What can I do for you?”
We sit down and introduce ourselves, and then I tell him about the curse and Wendell’s theory that the poachers might be behind it. Wendell adds that he already reported the poaching by phone a few days ago.
Gerardo nods, jotting down notes, then turns to the younger man. “Did you file that report, Chucho?”
“Uh—yes,” he answers, tucking his phone in his pocket.
“Where is it?”
Chucho shuffles through papers on his desk, then opens and shuts some drawers in a file cabinet.
Gerardo presses his lips together and sighs. “When hefinds it, we’ll add this latest development,
muchachos
.” He stands up, shakes our hands. “Be careful up there. Lots of problems over the years up near Punta Cometa.”
“Right,” I say, turning to leave.
The younger one calls after us, “And if you see any more poaching, come straight here, right to me. I’m the one in charge of your case. I’m on top of it.” He scrawls a number on a scrap of paper and hands it to Wendell. “Don’t confront the poachers yourself,” he cautions. “They could be armed and dangerous. In fact, you shouldn’t even be on that beach in the first place. It’s protected. You’ll disturb the turtles. You could be arrested yourselves for lurking around there at night.”
I bite my tongue during his little lecture. The more he talks, the less I like him. Finally, he dismisses us, then pulls out his phone to resume texting.
Outside, the sun is beating down even harder now, bouncing off the stark cement buildings. I relish bits of shade from the palm trees as we make our way down the edge of the road. Soon, signs for the Turtle Center come into view. The tacky little souvenir booths multiply, each with their dangling turtle key chains, baskets of stuffed plush turtles, displays of turtle T-shirts that reek of cheap dye.
As we approach the Center, I shake off the strange atmosphere of the police station. Wendell grows excited, talking about the main part of his internship—taking photos and video footage of turtles at sea for promotional materials.When he mentions the occasional tours of the Turtle Center grounds he’ll have to give, he turns anxious, twisting the hem of his shirt around his finger.
“Want to practice on me?” I ask. “Pretend I’m a tourist in a turtle T-shirt, okay? First in English, then we’ll move on to French.”
“Okay,” he says, a little embarrassed. “Until twenty years ago,” he begins, “the whole economy of Mazunte was based on butchering turtles and getting their eggs. Then, in 1990, when the turtle protection laws went into effect, the town had to find a new way to make money. The Turtle Center was created to attract tourists looking for secluded beaches off the beaten path. And although the town’s economy is better now than before, there’s still money to be made on the black market by poaching and selling turtle meat and eggs.…”
When he reaches the end, looking at me expectantly, I assure him, “You’re a natural. I’d give you a tip, a big one.” I press my lips to his, a quick, salty kiss. “You’re off the hook with the French version. Here we are.”
At the entrance to the museum, a few people in blue shirts with white Turtle Center logos are standing and talking by the ticket booth. Wendell gives me a nervous glance, then walks up to the group and introduces himself.
One of the men lights up and reaches out his hand. “Oh, Wendell! Yes, we’re thrilled you’re working with us.” He introduces himself as Pepe, the community outreach coordinator, Wendell’s main contact.
Pepe pushes his sunglasses up onto neatly gelled hair. He’s strikingly handsome, with a chiseled face and smooth skin. As he shakes our hands, his arm muscles ripple beneath a gold watch. After introductions, he takes us on a tour of the grounds, leading us past a flower garden toward a circular building. He has a friendly, easygoing manner that
We sit down and introduce ourselves, and then I tell him about the curse and Wendell’s theory that the poachers might be behind it. Wendell adds that he already reported the poaching by phone a few days ago.
Gerardo nods, jotting down notes, then turns to the younger man. “Did you file that report, Chucho?”
“Uh—yes,” he answers, tucking his phone in his pocket.
“Where is it?”
Chucho shuffles through papers on his desk, then opens and shuts some drawers in a file cabinet.
Gerardo presses his lips together and sighs. “When hefinds it, we’ll add this latest development,
muchachos
.” He stands up, shakes our hands. “Be careful up there. Lots of problems over the years up near Punta Cometa.”
“Right,” I say, turning to leave.
The younger one calls after us, “And if you see any more poaching, come straight here, right to me. I’m the one in charge of your case. I’m on top of it.” He scrawls a number on a scrap of paper and hands it to Wendell. “Don’t confront the poachers yourself,” he cautions. “They could be armed and dangerous. In fact, you shouldn’t even be on that beach in the first place. It’s protected. You’ll disturb the turtles. You could be arrested yourselves for lurking around there at night.”
I bite my tongue during his little lecture. The more he talks, the less I like him. Finally, he dismisses us, then pulls out his phone to resume texting.
Outside, the sun is beating down even harder now, bouncing off the stark cement buildings. I relish bits of shade from the palm trees as we make our way down the edge of the road. Soon, signs for the Turtle Center come into view. The tacky little souvenir booths multiply, each with their dangling turtle key chains, baskets of stuffed plush turtles, displays of turtle T-shirts that reek of cheap dye.
As we approach the Center, I shake off the strange atmosphere of the police station. Wendell grows excited, talking about the main part of his internship—taking photos and video footage of turtles at sea for promotional materials.When he mentions the occasional tours of the Turtle Center grounds he’ll have to give, he turns anxious, twisting the hem of his shirt around his finger.
“Want to practice on me?” I ask. “Pretend I’m a tourist in a turtle T-shirt, okay? First in English, then we’ll move on to French.”
“Okay,” he says, a little embarrassed. “Until twenty years ago,” he begins, “the whole economy of Mazunte was based on butchering turtles and getting their eggs. Then, in 1990, when the turtle protection laws went into effect, the town had to find a new way to make money. The Turtle Center was created to attract tourists looking for secluded beaches off the beaten path. And although the town’s economy is better now than before, there’s still money to be made on the black market by poaching and selling turtle meat and eggs.…”
When he reaches the end, looking at me expectantly, I assure him, “You’re a natural. I’d give you a tip, a big one.” I press my lips to his, a quick, salty kiss. “You’re off the hook with the French version. Here we are.”
At the entrance to the museum, a few people in blue shirts with white Turtle Center logos are standing and talking by the ticket booth. Wendell gives me a nervous glance, then walks up to the group and introduces himself.
One of the men lights up and reaches out his hand. “Oh, Wendell! Yes, we’re thrilled you’re working with us.” He introduces himself as Pepe, the community outreach coordinator, Wendell’s main contact.
Pepe pushes his sunglasses up onto neatly gelled hair. He’s strikingly handsome, with a chiseled face and smooth skin. As he shakes our hands, his arm muscles ripple beneath a gold watch. After introductions, he takes us on a tour of the grounds, leading us past a flower garden toward a circular building. He has a friendly, easygoing manner that
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