The Secrets of Caribbean Sands

Every culture has its secrets. Deep below the heat soaked dunes, Matapalo was no exception.

After a long bus journey from San Jose down the coastline of Costa Rica, the small grey bus, panting from the weight of four times its capacity, breathed a sigh of relief into the orange dust. Climbing from its depths I was greeted by Maria, a beautiful broad woman whose age I could not place. In return for renting a hammock, a desperately needed mosquito net, and eating with Maria’s family, I would work eighteen hours a day patrolling and clearing the beaches of logs. Under the stars we walked the miles of sands curved along the leafy coast like a lucky horseshoe. It was then that we saw her. Rising from the water as thick as lead, her steps so slow that, like magnets, our bodies reached out to her. Pregnant and tired, Maria gripped my hands around the plastic bag to catch the weary turtle’s eggs. “We will hide you, we will protect you” she promised the cream ovals lying dormant by my feet.

Our knees and hands deep in wet gold sand, Maria held the bag and gazed longingly inside. “When the skies are black, they come. They bring dogs from the cities and smell the life to steal it from the earth.” Looking up at her in shock she continued, “The Black Market will welcome them. Women will come, wild with desperation for God to grant them a child, they will break them open and drink. But not today.” Her face shone pale yellow in the light of the moon, and as the village breathed in and out to the rhythm of the waves, Maria lay still by the hidden lives in the belly of the earth.

As the sun rose and set each day, so did each villager come to dance away hungry crabs with sticks and stones whilst drinking cold guava juice and coconut milk by the sea. Guarded by the unfaltering watch of Matapalo, a summer storm brought life from the most dangerous of grounds, and as the final newborn climbed into the sea, Maria beamed. Laughing, she turned to me, “Pura Vida” she smiled, “Pura Vida”.