Tagging Wild Crocodiles in Belize

“Looks like a 12-footer,” Vince whispered. We each held our breath, waiting. Another pair of eyes came up behind the first.

“Shit,” Vince said.

I was out in Belize tagging wild crocodiles with Cheri Rose, a marine biologist who, along with her husband, Vince, founded the American Crocodile Education Sanctuary (ACES). After two months into a job as a travel writer where the most adventure I had was snorkeling, I thought I was ready for this.

Vince, Cheri, and their intern, Chris—a British expat with a ponytail—picked me up in front of a rum store on the main street in San Pedro, a heavily touristed island off the coast of Belize. The couple looked like a Scandinavian brother and sister auditioning for roles in a Crocodile Dundee remake, dressed exactly alike in combat boots and muscle t-shirt with Rambo knife on belt. The four of us crammed into a golf cart and took off at 15 miles per hour to the water treatment area of the island—a sewage lagoon teeming with diseased crocodiles.

Crocodiles in Belize are protected by the Wildlife Protection Act, but many Belizeans believe it is their right to shoot crocodiles in order to protect children and dogs from becoming lunch. ACES says its first goal is educating communities on how to safely coexist with these giant reptiles. The group also collects data on wild crocodiles, tags them, and releases them into low development areas.

As Vince navigated potholes and mud, Cherie talked. She told me about Belizean children losing fingers while feeding whole chickens to crocodiles in front of tourists. She talked about the time she gave a bus driver a bribe so she could ride with a tied-up crocodile in her lap after her truck broke down. She spoke with passion about crocodiles with names like Wiggles and Satan, and others with missing eyes and chopped off tails like they were part of the special needs section at the dog pound. When she brought up her new crocodile sanctuary in Ladyville her voice turned cold. “Of course, we’ve had to start all over since the fire.”

Before Ladyville there was Punta Gorda. Cherie and Vince Rose moved there from Colorado in 2004 and created a 36-acre crocodile sanctuary. In the span of seven years and a half a million dollars, they built a house, a lab, and two cottages (equipped with solar panels) for visiting researchers. A two-acre canal was dug as a safe haven for rescued crocodiles that came from all over the country. The couple donated money to the local schools for books and to the police force for body armor.

Then, they watched it all burn down.

Vince parked the golf cart in the pitch blackness on a small patch of peninsula floating in sewage water. I could see several pairs of yellow eyes in the water. “They get big out here,” he said. “Fourteen feet is average. Crocs can and will charge you from both sides.”

We unloaded the crocodile catching gear: a length of rope, one frozen chicken, flashlights, and insect repellent. Dusk and dawn are prime feeding hours for crocodiles, and truly wild ones will turn the other way when they sense humans. That is, unless they’re being fed.

“A fed croc will charge out of the water as soon as it hears a golf cart,” Cherie explained. “That’s why these crocs are dangerous, because they associate humans with food. Go on YouTube and you’ll see videos of Belizean boys feeding chicken to crocs and American girls stupid enough to sit on their heads.”

Cherie began demonstrating how to slap the water with a frozen chicken to get the crocodile’s attention. “If this croc has been fed, he’ll hear the noise and come running, frozen chicken is like a Snickers bar to these guys.”

While Cherie slapped, I asked her about that fire.

“Last September two children went missing from the Maya settlement of San Marcos,” she said. “The parents of the children went to a Maya psychic. The psychic said she could see the children with crocodiles. The conclusion that was drawn among the villagers was that I fed the children to the crocodiles.”

Cherie stopped slapping the water with the rapidly defrosting chicken and described a scene of mob violence straight out of a Frankenstein movie. “If we had been home, they would have killed us. There were over 100 angry villagers, and they had machetes and torches,” she said.

“First, they looted our home. They shot and chopped up any crocodiles they could catch, at least seven, maybe more. Then they started fires.” The police didn’t come for hours.

A video of the devastation that Cherie later provided me offers a chilling glimpse of what happened. The footage reveals buildings burned to their foundations, the charred remains of a baby crocodile with its entrails cut out (the animal was slated to go to the Chicago Zoo), Cherie’s gutted SUV, which was only identifiable from the remaining bumper. Everything was burned, including their passports, cash, and a guitar John Denver had given Vince. Their home was reduced to a pair of stairs smoking in the sun of a jungle clearing.

The video shows proof of a mob revenge crime for which no one—save for the psychic, Delfina Alvarez Selgado—has ever been charged. According to insurance documents provided to me by ACES, the case against Selgado—”Pretend[ing] to tell Fortune”—was dismissed on grounds that there was “no case to answer.”

Back on the lagoon, Vince was gearing up. “Let’s do this, Cherie,” he instructed, pointing his flashlight at a pair of shining eyes moving quickly through the water, towards the bait. I instinctively shined my flashlight behind me, fearing for a stealth crocodile. As the beast swam silently to the trap, I backed up to the golf cart and considered climbing onto the roof.

“Sometimes the bull male will let a female take the bait and then steal her food,” Cherie explained. The female lunged for the chicken, and Vince yelled, “Grab!” Chris hesitated, pulling the rope, snaring the croc’s snout. The animal thrashed wildly, grunting and groaning loudly. Vince ran to help Chris pull the huge beast out of the sewage. “Why didn’t you pull when I signaled?!” he screamed.

“You said grab, not pull!” Chris screamed back as the two men struggled in a deadly game of tug-of-war with a very angry lady crocodile.

“He’s pissed you’ve got his ho!” Cherie yelled, shining her flashlight on a gigantic crocodile now charging out of the water behind his captured mate.

Chris and Vince were still wrestling with the female. Because of Chris’s earlier hesitation, something wasn’t quite right with the snare. That’s when I realized for the first time they were just ten feet from where I was standing. Weaponless. In Central America. No one knew where I was. I didn’t even sign a release like I had to when I went snorkeling.

“This ain’t my first fucking rodeo!” Vince shouted. “Everyone listen to me, now!” All I could do was keep shining my flashlight in the crocodile’s direction. If anything, I would make sure our deaths were well-lit.

“Keep the bull back, Cherie!” Vince instructed. Cherie took a large stick and smacked the bull on his head. “Get back, we’re not gonna hurt her!” she shouted. This seemed to work, since the bull backed up into the water, but only slightly.

Chris and Vince manage to subdue and tie the captured female. Her green skin was covered with slime and bumps, and she was missing an eye.

Cherie spoke in baby talk while she measured her. “Sorry, baby, we won’t hurt you. We just need your measurements.” Cherie spit on her index and middle fingers, and slid them into the croc’s vagina. I’m not sure why, as I know nothing about sex and crocodiles.

The bull made an occasional ominous noise in the background, but seemed mostly forgotten. “Come and touch her,” Cherie said to me. I hesitated, feeling like I’d be violating the crocodile somehow. “She’s full of parasites,” she told me. “Rinse your hands with alcohol after.”

I acquiesced, mostly because I liked Cherie and I was a little afraid of Vince. Cherie took photos and notched the crocodile’s tail with a knife, so she’d know if they were to ever re-capture her. Satisfied and finished, Vince released the croc. She ran directly back into the water.