by Dwight Wayne Coop

Monterrico is changing, but into what? One can almost imagine thousands of migrating Pacific turtles waiting with bated breath offshore for the answer. Still a fishing village but already a resort bathed in sunlight and the white-noise lullaby of the surf, Monterrico has the distinction of being inside a nature reserve set aside largely for ocean-going chelonians. Today this town in a coastal plain — ironically named “Rich Mountain” — stands at an evolutionary crossroads.

One route is the one cut by Cancún, which today is measured only in the vertical as its Mammon towers rise from the waterline like a bizarre mirage. In a Cancunized Monterrico, the turtles would have to flip-doddle into chandeliered lobbies to paw futilely at cut-pile carpet in search of a nest.

Then there is Puerto San José, west of Monterrico. Here, the inhabitants — to slake short term necessity — make the shoreline too dangerous for turtles even to approach. Between “gotta-dime-mister?” and “what’llyou- have?” it’s open season on turtle eggs and the turtles themselves.

Is there a middle road that leaves gilded overdevelopment by one wayside and slummy seediness by the other? Who could guide Monterrico on such a path?

Monterrico’s thousand souls do not comprise an entity; the village is an appendage of a municipality whose seat is 40 kilometers beyond its caiman-patrolled canal. There are no city fathers, no chamber of commerce and no public relations department in this sleepy tip of a sand spit whose sandy streets look like they have been pounded by a Star Wars land-speeder en route to glitzier locales. Stroll them and you are struck by Monterrico’s paintless cinder-block domesticity, which is ampli- fied by the specter of looming transition.

If leadership were to come from anywhere, it would have to be from the town’s sole economic resource, its 18 hotels. These range from sub-basic to three-star, and there is competition among them. But the vacuum has forced them to fill it with an association that speaks — and acts — for the community.

“Most hotel associations,” says Californian Sidney Eschenbach, recently elected president, “are about promotion. But we are about protection. Monterrico needs no promotion; it’s already known for its beautiful [setting]. We need to protect it from too much success.”

Visitors arrive on a ferry that cruises past banks of red mangrove, stalked by resplendent white herons, jabbing the water with lightning reports when they spot a fish. It is they — and the turtles and other fauna — that the new association wants to protect. The association is more a movement than a commercial alliance.

“That’s why we chose Ola Verde (Green Wave) as our association name,” says member Thomas Stutzer, although for legal purposes they have a longer, lusterless name. Members hail from Guatemala, the United States, Germany, Italy, Spain, Switzerland and New Zealand.

Two issues top Green Wave’s agenda: security and trash collection. Security is not yet a major concern, in part because Monterrico is an island and therefore requires more get-away planning than most bandits care to make. Nonetheless, the nucleus of a security force will deploy a fortnight before Semana Santa.

“We will be ready for the [expected] increase of ecotourism,” Eschenbach says. To fund this and other projects, Green Wave will tax itself and its clientele. “We’re hotels,” he adds, “so each month, every hotel will contribute an amount equal to a one-night stay in one of its rooms.” Additionally, during Semana Santa, everybody will charge guests a special fee of Q5 per person. “But we’ll give our guests a written explanation. I think they’ll understand. And it’ll be one way to let [the public] know what we’re doing to keep Monterrico a place they’ll want to return to — with their families.”

Trash collection is another matter; Monterrico’s biggest fly in the ointment is its excess of litter. Many locals help by keeping their own property neat, and keeping the main drag (such as it is) well swept. But too many other people are not on board.

“At the end of the day,” Eschenbach laments, “we still have to hire someone to collect garbage.” But it will not stop there; the hotels can now struggle as one for the source-reduction of litter. Breweries, for example, are on notice that no one on the island will sell beer in non-returnable bottles. “If Brewery A doesn’t like this,” Eschenbach says, “then we’ll see what Brewery B says.”

Green Wave’s solidarity also enables a united attack on other problems that could derail Monterrico from its charted path, such as subprofessional tour guides. Monterriquenses can earn money by offering pole-rafting tours of the reserve’s labyrinthine mangroves; but the guides need protection, too.

“There are too many guides,” Eschenbach says, “in fact, there are whole groups. No matter how little a guide charges, there’s always someone desperate enough to undercut him by another Q5. So they do anything to find business, like come into our hotels and pester our guests. And they don’t take no for an answer.”

Green Wave wants to certify the guides and standardize their fees. The price of a tour will go up, but this will benefit everyone — including tourists.

“If the guy knows he’s only getting Q15 for something worth twice that,” Eschenbach warns, “then don’t expect him to give you the deluxe tour. He’ll get you back as quickly as he can to find the next cut-rate customer.” Where will Monterrico be in five years?

“Exactly where we take it,” asserts Eschenbach. “If we wait for consensus among ourselves, the bureaucracies, the reserve wardens, the tourism commissioners, it’ll never happen. The crowd we really want won’t come. Nor will the turtles.” •