Baby turtles, as they hatch, turn towards the
moonlight gleaming over the sea.
Night- time
hatching gives them a better chance of survival, their little flippers
strengthening as they scuttle energetically up and onwards. Should a 1000-1, lucky blighter make it to adulthood he could happily
splash away for another quarter of a millennium.
Ageing humans, on the other hand, tend to turn towards
the sun. In the twilight of
their years a quick splash in the infinity pool followed by a belly flop on the
sunbed, then prolonged horizontal bronzing before the 6 o’clock happy hour, is
as much as some can muster.
Egg- laying turtles always go back to the beach they
were born.
Mammalian humans of the subgenus tourists, may also
loyally revisit the same location year after year.
Put both species in the confines of the same stretch
of sand et voila! A conundrum and an ecological
disconnect. Who has right of way?
Where am I going with this, you may wonder?
Well, actually, I’ve just come back- from Muscat,
Oman.
“Why Oman? The most boring f…ing place in the world!”
exclaimed one well-travelled acquaintance.
Well, we’re older than him and fancied some rest and
relaxation in the luxury Shangri- la resort. No under- sixteens allowed in our
hotel; private pool and beach open solely to residents, and of course, the
hawksbill (critically endangered) and the green (endangered) turtles.
Oman only discovered oil in 1964, then electricity was
introduced by the reigning Sultan (ex-Cambridge). Peering out of our tour
minibus I had a strange sense of déjà vu, something about those mountains,
burnt orange, craggy, devoid of greenery, looming over the low- rise buildings
…the Victorian street lights, reminiscent of Llandudno…
We covered up respectfully for the gleaming modern
Grand Mosque, sniffed at the tuna in the fish market, politely declined the solicitous
souk vendors and listened to
the BBC intonation of the pre-recorded tourist commentary which gravely informed us:-
“We approach
the most expensive residential district and our famous street of love, where you can take a romantic stroll and admire the
Lamborghinis and Porsches cruising up and down.”
My fit of giggling (baffling for the Japanese behind)
gradually abated as the stentorian voice continued its pompous narration.
Apparently, the organ pipes in the magnificent white Royal Opera House are
gold- plated.
Fancy!
Back at the hotel, on the terrace “with sea views”, we
stuffed our faces with three tiers of afternoon tea. I had a sudden moment of
epiphany-
“Those mountains, they look like the slagheaps of
Aberfan!”
“Keep your voice down, for God’s sake, and yes, they
do, a bit.” said my husband as he poured himself another cup of English
Breakfast.
We visited the hotel’s Eco Centre, full of colour
photos of happy hatching turtles and quite detailed information on the resort’s
turtle care project and the animals themselves. Two slightly knackered- looking
local rangers explained they patrolled the beach each evening and helped the
turtles by marking and cordoning off the nests, even digging the eggs up and
reburying them if they were laid too close to the sea. They also help the
hatchlings and warn the residents not to make noise, touch or attempt to turn
the turtles as they orient themselves towards the sea. Smoking cigarettes and
torchlight are forbidden and please “be careful where you put your feet when
there are hatchlings on the beach, as they are difficult to see and can easily
be crushed.”
Somewhat relieved at the care these devoted staff were
giving we went off to the happy hour to sink a couple stiff drinks. There comes
a time where there is only so much gin one can take, ditto the guitar playing
and Moroccan wailing in minor key. We sloped off for dinner.
“I can’t sleep, it’s not the gin, I feel guilty about
being here and those turtles.”
“For Goodness sake, they’re looking after them, aren’t
they?”
“Yes, but they built the hotel near the sand so
there’s less beach for them to lay their eggs.”
“There are worse things
happening to the rain forests in Brazil.Stop worrying.
I’m booking you a massage
in the morning. Now please go to sleep.”
“You have a lot
of tension in your shoulders,” opined the masseuse in the Occitane Spa.
“Well, yes,
I’m worried about the turtles.”
That rather ended that conversation.
Oman was quiet, civilised, the people were nice, the
weather warm, the hotel luxurious and offering blissful relaxation.
And yet, and yet…
I would hate to think that the last hawksbill
hatchling on earth might come to an unforeseen end under the sole of a
well-heeled tourist.
So thank you Shangri- La for a lovely stay and Omanis
for your wonderful hospitality.
But I don’t think I’ll be coming back.
