Boys with Guns

by Kimberly Riskas (Australia)

A leap into the unknown Cape Verde

From the air, Boa Vista looked less like a tropical island and more like a volcanic wasteland. No clouds to filter the punishing equatorial heat. The island’s scorched interior was trimmed by brushstrokes of long, sun-drenched beaches. Wonder which one I’ll be living on? I mused as the plane descended to Cape Verde’s driest island. One bumpy car ride later—after four flights and two days of travel—I arrived at the beach camp that would be my home for the next month. “Bem-vindo, welcome to Lacacão,” said Amanda, the camp coordinator. A sweep of her arm drew the boundaries of this lone settlement: tents atop windswept sand dunes, the blue Atlantic, and Boa Vista’s arid center. Only a few hardy trees dotted the horizon, and their trunks were bent like boomerangs. I had come to this barren island for the sea turtles. Every summer, thousands of tartarugas crawl ashore after nightfall to lay eggs at remote Lacacão beach. Too often, knife-wielding poachers lie waiting in the dunes, butchering turtles and selling their meat on the black market. As a volunteer with a local conservation group, my job was to walk the beach at night and prevent this slaughter. Luckily, I wouldn’t be alone. Half a dozen Cape Verdean soldiers were also stationed at Lacacão for the nesting season, on loan from the army. At least one soldier would walk the beach with the volunteers every night, armed with a rifle in case the poachers made any trouble. Outside their tent, a cardboard sign warned, in boldly-lettered Portuguese, “Attention civilians: Military zone. HEAVY WEAPONRY.” Someone had added drawings of rifles and exploding bombs. We affectionately called our guardians the “boys with guns.” The oldest was 22. Being on the front lines against poaching was thrilling, but action was not always a given during patrols. It was not unheard of to spend all night pacing an empty beach, with nothing more to show for it than a mangled circadian rhythm. But a few nights after arriving at Lacacão, I had a patrol that can only be described as a turtle bonanza. I was paired up with a soldier named Roberto, who spoke no English and didn’t seem to understand my clumsy Portuguese. He had strict instructions not to leave me alone, and we walked side by side in silence for over two hours. Silvery stars glittered above us, a warm breeze tumbled the sand. Suddenly, a loud sighing sound reached our ears in the darkness. A black blob had emerged from the sea in front of us and was slowly crawling up the beach. Then Roberto spied another blob, and another. More sighs filled the air as the turtles heaved themselves toward the shadowy sand dunes. We mimed frantically at each other to split up and follow the turtles, all protocol forgotten. I watched apprehensively as one of them began to nest near the dunes, but there was no sign of poachers. I was alone in the darkness, hearing only waves and flicks of sand as the turtle made her nest. Eventually, she finished laying eggs and trundled back toward the water. I walked beside her, watching as she disappeared in the water’s lacy edge. Only a track of flipper-churned sand showed that she had been there at all. I turned away to look for Roberto and nearly tripped over another emerging turtle. Alone, I trudged back toward the dunes to begin the process all over again. Patrol flew by and through my exhaustion I began to appreciate the size of Cape Verde’s sea turtle population. When Roberto and I found each other again, the sky was slowly lightening. The last turtle of the night began to make her nest, flicking sand into the air at a leisurely pace. Roberto sat down to wait and planted his Soviet era AK-47 in the sand, barrel pointing skyward. Star-strewn blackness hung above us, fading down through inky indigo to meet the luster of daybreak on the horizon. Roberto and his rifle were silhouetted against a blossoming African dawn over a beach crisscrossed by turtle tracks. It was a sight that took hold of me and never quite let go.