It Takes a Village - community-based conservation in Baja California, Mexico

Animals, Nov, 1998 by Wendee Holtcamp

Baja communities play a key role in sea turtle conservation.

"Ah, Maria! Ah, Maria!" Juan Sarrabias calls from the bow of his 18-foot fishing panga, the Caribbean Queen. We're just outside Baja California's Magdalena Bay, and I wonder why Juan is exclaiming jubilant Hail Marys when the reason comes into view--a domed turtle shell floating on the ocean surface, a tern perched atop it. For a minute, I consider that it might be a hunk of discarded rubbish, but as we approach, the tern takes flight and the turtle attempts a slippery escape.

Before it can dive under, my husband, Matt, jumps into the cold Pacific and grabs the creature from behind. His legs kicking and his face barely above water, he steers the turtle toward the panga, where the rest of the crew--Juan's brother Gabino, schoolteacher Louise Hayward, University of Baja California student Melania Lopez, field assistant Marc Taylor, and the instigator of the project, Wallace J. Nichols--help lift the turtle onto the boat.

Despite appearances, we're not seeking meat for turtle soup, but data and camaraderie. I'm joining in a day of turtle scouting and research with Nichols, escorted by Juan and Gabino, two fishermen from Puerto San Carlos. Juan tells me amarilla (pronounced "Ah, Maria"), "yellow," is a name for the loggerhead turtle in the local lingo. Loggerheads are the main creatures we're looking for today, but this turtle turns out to be an olive ridley.

Nichols, a University of Arizona doctoral student, hires the brothers as boatmen to take his crew of the moment out with their fishing panga. "I can't say enough about these guys," he says. "They are very honest, super fishermen, and really into the project." Even though he could easily rent his own boat, Nichols likes to give back to the communities he works in, and has formed some genuine friendships and loyal turtle fans along the way.

Besides an inordinate fondness for turtles, Nichols holds unorthodox ideas about the interplay of science and conservation. He stands apart from biologists who prefer to remain dispassionate about their research subjects or who have little time for interaction with local citizens. He believes conservation, science, and community involvement go hand in hand--particularly in countries such as Mexico, where endangered-species law enforcement is sparse despite strict laws. "It's a combination of greed and need that perpetuates the illegal activities," Nichols says. "Turtle is still considered the sea's best food, and even politicians regularly partake."

Against many obstacles, Nichols has succeeded in effecting positive changes in the way Baja citizens think about sea turtles. Using a bottom-up approach, he encourages people he encounters--including fishermen, students, teachers, and professionals--to help out in his conservation and research efforts. He regularly hires Baja fishermen or trades with them, and he encourages them to record information on turtles they spot.

The turtle work has become their project as much as Nichols's, although he downplays his role in the effort: "I view our work as a partnership. I played a part in getting it going, but now it's just a matter of feeding it, or getting out of the way if necessary."

The term "community-based conservation" (CBC) has been coined for the type of involvement Nichols cultivates. CBC is perhaps best known in Africa, where wildlife refuges regularly employ Africans as guards to prevent poaching, and biologists and ecotourism companies hire locals to haul gear or lead wildlife safaris. In Latin America, CBC is a newer concept, but few doubt its potential.

The sound of the 55-horse-power motor humming over the ocean is accompanied again by excited pointing toward another olive ridley with a tern perched upon its shell. "I no look for turtles, I look for birds!" jokes Juan in English. Marc and Matt jump in and guide the turtle toward the panga, lifting her 60-pound bulk over the edge.

This day we find and capture four turtles, all olive ridleys, three with terns perched on their backs. The ridleys are an unusual catch--Nichols has only seen 12 of this species at sea in the past six years in Baja. Once the turtles are on the panga, Lopez places a T-shirt over the turtles' heads to calm them. They squirm and crawl on top of each other, but their activity quickly abates. Reaching down to stroke a turtle's neck, I am surprised at the soft feel of the cool reptilian skin. I didn't expect it to feel so, well, alive.

"As a society, we are moving further away from animals, although we care so much about them," Nichols says. "Those moments when you can spontaneously interact with a wild animal, one on one, in their environment are pretty special, life-changing even." Seeing how radiant my husband is from his interaction with the sea turtles, I understand what Nichols means. Hands-on turtle work means more than us helping the turtles; it's also about the turtles changing us.

Nichols has established an international network of students, teachers, aquarists, and conservation organizations to follow his satellite-tracked sea turtles by using maps and the Internet. A few of the teachers and a group of students raised funds to come and help. Hayward came down so that she could make the project more alive to her students back in the States.