Too often on my travels I had witnessed the consequences of mass tourism, which didn’t spare even uninhabited areas or nature reserves from overcrowding, noise, or garbage pollution. My impression was that the most pristine and beautiful places on the planet survived only because remoteness or restrictions kept them away from widespread human invasion.
Tossed in the middle of the Pacific and zealously protected by the Ecuadorian authorities, the Galapagos Islands were among such few remaining wildlife sanctuaries.
The influx of tourists was carefully controlled. In addition to heavy limitations on the number of flights and a total ban on cruise ships, no visitor was allowed to stay in the archipelago for more than sixty days a year, and each had to pay a hundred dollar fee. I had to fill out a very detailed form in order to get the entry permit.
When I arrived, it was the middle of winter in the southern hemisphere. I landed on the small island of Baltra, the main gateway to the Galapagos, in the late afternoon. No one could leave the plane until the flight attendants opened the overhead compartments and disinfected all our belongings with a special spray. Before we even set foot on the ground, we were made aware that the local ecosystem was extremely fragile. Even the tiniest intruder could trigger a fatal chain reaction.
Only three out of the nineteen Galapagos islands were inhabited: Isabela, San Cristobal, and Santa Cruz. I had chosen the latter as my base for future expeditions because of its convenient location in the center of the archipelago. There, I would be within reasonable sailing distance of several sites with spectacular scenery and wildlife.
The first destination on my itinerary was a small, uninhabited island east of Santa Cruz, called South Plaza. Of the pair of islets known as the Plazas, it was the only one that could be visited, the northern one being used for research.
South Plaza was a rocky island famous for its ground vegetation: it was covered with a layer of plants of astounding colors, from bright orange to purple red. As the sky cleared, their unusual pigments appeared even more intense against the inky blue of the ocean, making them look like a carpet of glowing coal.
The moment I stepped ashore, I spotted two sea lion pups lazing on the rocks. They were drying their beige-golden fur in the sun, watching us out of the corner of their big black eyes. They showed no sign of concern for our presence when we passed by. As I was about to find out, no creature in the Galapagos was afraid of humans, not even the birds—because they never felt threatened. The requirement to keep a safe distance from wild animals was not meant to protect us from them, but rather the other way around.
A few yards away, a massive sea lion was making guttural sounds. It was a male marking his territory, surrounded by a “harem” of several females and their offspring playing in the water. His warning signals were not directed at us but at another male that was trying to get closer. No chance for the trespasser, though—he was chased away promptly and easily.
“Many young sea lions have no other possibility to start a family than to challenge an older male and fight over his territory,” the guide explained.
Such a spectacle took place every day—not surprisingly, given that a whole colony of bachelors dwelled on the other side of the island. Dozens of young males were waiting for the right moment, basking on the rocks and gathering strength before attempting a new assault.
We were allowed to trek exclusively on a designated path, under the supervision of our local companions, without disturbing the animals in any way. The Ecuadorian guides imposed an iron discipline on everyone. I was pleasantly impressed by their dedication, as well as by their training. They were all specialized in natural sciences, experts in the fauna and flora of the islands.
The trail slalomed through nests built on the bare ground. Some birds were feeding their chicks, while others were performing dances to attract a mate or to intimidate rivals. One seagull immediately caught my attention: its feet were as blue as the sky. The color was surreal, as if taken from a tube of acrylic paint.
“The more intense the blue of the feet, the more attractive they are to the opposite sex,” we were told.
Iguanas were a common sight in the Galapagos, and many varieties were spread across different islands. South Plaza was home to a land species, small and yellowish, which coexisted with a marine one, and the overlap of their breeding seasons had led to the emergence of a unique hybrid variety—one of the latest discoveries from the secret laboratory of evolution.
“If we come back in a few years, we may see these ones in miniature, right?” one of my fellow travelers inquired, pointing to a black iguana that was coming out of the water.
Indeed, sea iguanas are known to shrink their bodies by almost a fifth to adapt to prolonged food scarcity. The phenomenon typically occurs during El Niño, when the warming of the Pacific limits the nutrients in the water. Conversely, when La Niña brings more food from the deep ocean, the reptiles gradually return to their original size.
“Those are not trees, in case you were wondering,” the guide laughed as we neared what I thought were the only trees on the island.
They were quite tall, with a smooth, brown trunk, and branches with flat, spiny leaves.
“It’s actually an endemic species of cactus from the genus Opuntia,” he clarified. “But in a clever disguise.”
The fake trunk and branches were meant to deceive the iguanas and keep them away from the cactus’s fruits. Perched at a respectable height, the fruits were thus safe, and the survival of the opuntia was guaranteed.
One side of the island was high and steep, permanently exposed to the trade winds. Myriads of swallow-tailed gulls nested there, on an almost vertical rock face, and hovered over the water incessantly in search of fish and squid to feed their young. The environment was harsh for any adult bird, but for those who were just learning to fly, it was often deadly. Sometimes the wind would blow so hard that they would not make it back. Right in the middle of our path lay a dead chick, most likely crushed against the rocks by too strong an air current.
Seeing the small lifeless body, a girl from my group turned toward her parents with tears in her eyes and exclaimed:
“It’s so much trouble for these birds to have chicks, to feed them, to protect them… Why is it so hard to give life, and so easy to take it?”
Nevertheless, life in those places was guided by its own considerations and kept a balance of its own. Nature was unmerciful to the helpless, but at the same time it brought new beings into the world with an untiring fervor, as if trying out countless variations or experiments of its own becoming. Its logic seemed to operate beyond the appearances that we perceive as individual forms.
I could well understand why the Galapagos Islands had been such an inspiration for Darwin’s theories or Herman Melville’s “Encantadas” and how they have fascinated generation after generation ever since. For those who answered its call, nature had a million stories to tell. All you had to do was be there, watch, and listen.