I left the UK for Chile at the end of the first week of July, just as the heat wave was ramping up and the first fires were breaking out. When my plane touched down at Gatwick yesterday, it was through the first rain clouds the country had seen since June. Like the first snows of Patagonia, I arrived just in time to catch the changing of the seasons.
What a change it’s been here, though. I’ve never seen England so dry. Dying trees. Trickling streams. Empty ponds. Parks and gardens a shade of yellow that would be more at home in a Van Gogh painting. Chile gets ravaged by the heat in summer as well, but at least they are ready for it when it comes. We even closed the schools back in June, it got so bad – and that takes some doing. We don’t even close for snow these days.
I dread to think of the impact this terrible drought will have had on the wildlife of these British islands – though I know it’s a pretty established truth that life always finds a way.
Like this little vole, snacking on some birdseed. I never did find its larger Chilean cousins, the vizcacha and the chinchilla, though I’m fairly certain I did see one of the rare rice rats during my trip to the Galápagos last week. I’ll have to try again someday – if I can ever take my eyes off those endless South American skies.
No condors here, sadly, but the local population of buzzards and red kites are a perfectly adequate substitute. I only saw the kites a couple of times today, but the buzzard was around a fair bit. Maybe he was looking for the vole? I can’t imagine it would be anything more than a snack for something as big as a buzzard, although at this time of year the hunter may have chicks to feed somewhere in the forest.
Tomorrow – Athens! The last mad adventure of the summer. My wedding suit is packed and I’m traveling ever so light, since I’ve decided to leave the camera behind this time and go all in on the personal side of the city. After all, I’m going out there to see an old friend tie the knot, not as a tourist. From what I’ve heard of Greek weddings, I’d be mightily surprised if I have the energy to do anything the day after, let alone during the early hours of the morning.
Flight IB0114, somewhere off the west coast of Morocco. 14.01.
For a twelve hour flight, my return journey from Santiago was a lot better than my flight out nearly six weeks ago. My attempt to walk back to Las Condes (ultimately foiled at the unassailable Cruce del Autopista Costanera Norte) had one important side-effect, besides giving me one last Chilean wildlife adventure: it left me absolutely shattered by the time I got into my Uber for the airport. I nearly fell asleep several times in the cab, so when I finally boarded the plane at around half past ten, it wasn’t hard to get some shut-eye, despite having an assigned aisle seat one row from the back of the plane.
Well – I suppose that’s not strictly true. I fought hard to stay awake for the first hour for the sake of supper, but that turned out to be a wasted vigil. Shortly after crossing the Andes, we hit the most terrifying turbulence I have ever experienced on a flight somewhere over Argentina. For all of forty minutes, the plane bucked and rocked like a horse in a rodeo, sending terrifying shockwaves down the aisle and dismantling the dinner service in quite a startling fashion before it had even got going.
I suppose they cancelled supper because by the time we’d got clear of the winds, most of the meals had gone cold. Either way, beyond the very Hispanic juice club forming at the back of the plane, there was no catering for almost the eternity of the flight.
Fortunately, I wasn’t conscious for almost the entirety of the flight, either. I must have slept for at least seven hours, which has got to be a personal record. It helps that I managed to freeze my telescreen by accident only two hours into the flight, preventing me from watching any more movies. The map service on these Iberia flights looks extremely high hi-tech… too much for my poor telescreen. The best I got out of it was an old favourite: Sinbad: Legend of the Seven Seas.
If you think that’s a childish thing to watch, the businessman on my right spent the latter half of the flight playing Angry Birds.
Before that, he watched all three of the Star Wars sequel films back to back, which I caught snatches of as I drifted in and out of sleep. I only saw the first of them in the cinema when it was released and promptly gave up on them after seeing the hackneyed cash grab that was The Force Awakens. By the looks of things, I didn’t miss out on the last two. What I saw of The Rise of Skywalker was genuinely the most contrived and confusing plot I think I have ever seen. The original Star Wars films didn’t exactly have the most intriguing dialogue, but it did have heart, a clear plot and – most importantly – originality.
Whatever happened to the movie industry? When did profit, special effects and live-action remakes become more important than a good story? I hope we can break free of this creative wasteland we’ve been in for the last decade and more.
That looks like breakfast making its way down the aisle. I hope it finds its way back to row 52 before we land in an hour’s time – I’m famished! BB x
Aeropuerto Internacional Arturo Merino Benítez, Santiago de Chile. 18.40.
Farewells made. Suitcase packed. Rucksack slimmed down to my journal, my camera and a couple of charging devices. Now I’m just waiting in the long line to check in my hold luggage and then – after the inevitable hurdle over my exhaustive middle names – we’re good to go.
With such a late departure, I had time to say a few last goodbyes, so I accompanied Tomás to school for the last time on this trip and sought out Byron, the man behind this whole Chilean exchange idea. I’d managed to miss him on my last day, and I wasn’t about to leave the country without saying thank you to the man who made it all possible.
With that and a few other farewells taken care of, I was done by eleven, so rather than hanging around all day I decided to walk back to Las Condes. The sun was shining, I had my camera on me (just in case) and I thought I’d try to snap some of the birds I’ve seen every day at work but never managed to get on film. I’m pretty sure I want to come back and see Chile again someday, so it’s not the end of the world if I leave a few unfinished tasks, but I did want to seize the chance while the sun was shining. It’s been a rare sight during my stay!
First up: the diuca! This charming slate-grey Chilean chaffinch substitute has been an ever-present companion at work but hard to find beyond the hills around Craighouse, so I’m really happy I managed to find one on the walk down from the school! It’s been bugging me that they’ve been at an arm’s length all the time at school but never when I had my camera on me.
Also: the austral blackbird! No relation to the blackbirds of English parks and gardens, this tremendously noisy South American specialty has been, together with the austral thrush and the meadowlark, part of the soundscape of my morning commute to work.
I saw a few lapwings on the way through the fancier suburbs of Lo Barnechea, but too high up or too far to bother taking the lens out. They still remind me of enormous bats with their bouncy flight, but just like their cousins in England, they’re utterly fearless and will attack anything they perceive as a threat. I’ve even seen them take on buzzard-eagles, which are the second largest creatures of the Andean sky after the condor.
Of course, I couldn’t leave without saying goodbye to the mockingbirds. I’ve become especially fond of these extremely characterful creatures, who have been with me from Patagonia to Santiago and even as far as the Galápagos. If I had a house with a garden here in Santiago, I swear I’d try to tame one – and I don’t think it would take an awful lot of effort, either.
Equally, I wouldn’t dream of leaving Chile without saying goodbye to the Lord of the Andes. Fortunately, I didn’t have to. I took a short walk up the slope of Manquehue to see how far I could go, and as I neared the limit (there’s a fence cutting off the road), three condors came soaring into view over its summit. At times they were so close I could see the royal white flush on the upper parts of their mighty wings.
I didn’t take too many photos. I was just happy to watch them for a while.
I have to admit – and this will come as no surprise to anyone who has been following my adventures – this has been the happiest summer of my life. I can’t remember a time when I’ve felt so alive. That’s especially noteworthy because the seemingly endless summer holiday is usually one of the lowest points of the year for me, made tolerable only by dedicating as much of it as I can afford to walking the Camino de Santiago. For those outside the teaching profession, it might seem incredibly ungrateful to bemoan the concept of a nine-week holiday, but for me, it has always gone on far too long.
This summer has been different. Every day has been full of light and wonder, even when it kicked up a blizzard or sent down a thunderstorm. Many years of hard work and boarding school-induced savings have finally given me the chance to do what I could only dream of as a child: to see so much of South America and its incredible wildlife. Sometimes I think I have been mad to shut myself away in a seven-days-a-week job for almost all of my twenties, but if this is what it was building towards… it was worth every lost weekend. Every single one.
On my way back down from Manquehue I saw something coming up the road towards me that I had not expected to see at all: a culpeo. This South American relative of the coyote is only a little larger than a fox, but has something more of the wolf in its face than the bin-raiding reds of London.
And it was trotting up the pavement right towards me, in broad daylight, in a perfectly twee corner of suburban Santiago, without a care in the world.
After a whole week in the Galápagos, where mammals larger than rats are nonexistent, I wasn’t expecting my final South American animal encounter to be anything but the feathered kind. I certainly wasn’t expecting a miniature coyote.
I’ve been bewitched by wolves since my adventures in the frozen forest of Białowieza National Park in Poland two years ago. I’ve still got my eye on another wolf-tracking expedition – this time in Italy – but to see one of their relatives so incredibly close is just one more reminder of how spectacular even the everyday encounters with wildlife in this country can be.
Dammit, not just this country. This whole damn continent.
Traditionally, crossing paths with a fox was considered a bad omen in the Andes. But I don’t see it that way. I’m more inclined to agree with the Japanese, who once revered foxes as auspicious spirits and messengers of the fertility god Inari. In short, like a black cat, they can either be portents of good or ill luck, depending on your point of view.
Fur of gold and silver, eyes of honey brown and feet as silent as the night. How could such a spirit possibly be anything but a good omen?
I had 11.000 Chilean pesos in cash left over in my wallet, so I bought myself a fried chicken sandwich and a pain au chocolat to keep the wolf from the door. After all, in all of my minesweeping adventures around Manquehue today, I completely forgot to have lunch.
The way I see it, a man like me could fall in love with a country like this every single day and lose nothing in the repeated magic of that first infatuation.
I am decided. I have got to come back. I don’t know how, I don’t know when, but I will make it happen. I may need to save up again after the fauna fantasia of this summer, but when it comes around, I want to embrace it all over again.
Happiness like I haven’t known in years. More wildlife than I know what to do with. Mountains that make my heart soar. Condors that make my heart race. And speaking Spanish every day, which keeps my heart beating. Chile has done a number on me and I’m all for it. Honestly – can you blame me? BB x
I’m getting better at sleeping on planes. I must have slept for at least half of the flight from Lima to Santiago, because I remember almost none of it – only the first half hour or so and then a period of ten minutes at some point around half past two in the morning when they served out the in-flight snacks. Even so, the Santiago side of things passed by in a zombie-like blur. I navigated customs and an Uber relatively easily, but after letting myself back into the flat around six in the morning and using the last of my reserves for a desperately needed shave, I tumbled into bed and didn’t wake up again until half past twelve.
I’d suggest that that’s the last time I try to tackle multiple flights across three countries, but that’s exactly what tomorrow’s journey home entails, and I know myself too well to accept that I’d eat my words sooner or later.
What a difference a year makes! South America has gone from being a location on a map that cropped up from time to time in texts we study in class to home in all but name for the last five weeks. By the time I leave tomorrow night, I’ll have totalled nearly six weeks here. That’s half a school term. In my book, four weeks is the cut-off point, beyond which a location stops feeling like a holiday and starts to take on the trappings of a place one can legitimately claim to have lived. While I haven’t spent all six weeks in the Central Valley, Santiago has definitely become as familiar a base as Amman and Tetouan once were, many years ago.
There are many aspects that are still alien. The distance. The exchange rate. The American-style grid system of South American towns. the national insistence on tacking cachai to the end of every single sentence, whether it needed confirmation or not. But I feel I’m getting the hang of the accent, the majority of the modismos (the extremely widespread Chilean slang) and what it might be like to live here for the locals. Lucky them!
It sure is chilly here, though. I haven’t missed the uncomfortable heat I left behind in England back in that first week of July (which, I believe, is still there, outstaying its welcome by well over two months) but I could do with being somewhere warmer for a while. Bouncing from 7°C in Santiago to 37°C in Athens on Friday will be a proper shock to the system, but I’ll have my hands full with this Greek wedding for the ages, so I suppose I’ll manage.
I want to remember this soundscape though. The pitter-patter of dog feet on the laminate flooring. The distant whine of one of Tomás’ sisters blowdrying their hair. The whirring radiator in my room, doing its best to heat up the place. The alarm call of an austral thrush. The faraway engine of one of the many micros plying Avenida Las Condes. Otherwise, the remarkable quiet of Chile’s capital city. Santiago is a very special place.
Popping back into school one last time tomorrow to say a few farewells I didn’t get the chance to make last Friday and to wrap things up with a neat little bow, insofar as I can. And then – home! I could do with a rest. BB x
What an incredible week it’s been! But like all good things, it’s finally come to an end. I’ve made it back to Baltra, not too far from where I was yesterday, and I have a good few hours until my flight departs – the last one of the day. I could have dawdled in Puerto Ayora, but if there’s one thing solo travel has taught me, it’s not to chance the final day, especially when you’re navigating to a place you haven’t been.
Getting to the airport was a cinch. The flat rate for a taxi to the Itabaca Channel is $30, which is per cab, not per head, but as I’m traveling solo, there wasn’t much of a chance of splitting it – and it’s not too much of a price to pay in any event. After that, a single dollar pays your fare across the channel (just get in line under the shelter) and then it’s another $5 for the bus to the airport (which seems non-negotiable – I don’t think you’re allowed to walk it).
All-in, the journey takes about an hour. It’s a pretty small airport, but there are a few shops where you can buy last-minute souvenirs, some snacks for the journey, or grab some final photos of the finches and reptiles that live around the airport. There’s at least one land iguana prowling around that you might see if you’re lucky.
While I’m waiting, I thought I’d run down my ranking for the things I’ve done on this trip, in case you ever consider the same:
✩✩✩✩✩ Punta Pitt ($240)
Easily the best trip on this tour and a very good substitute for Española’s Punta Suarez. Incredible views of all three species of booby, shearwaters, petrels and storm-petrels galore and a superb guide in Samuel Quiroz.
✩✩✩✩ Puerto Baquerizo Moreno (Free)
San Cristobal’s only town is genuinely one of the best places for close encounters with animals of all kinds. Mockingbirds, sea lions, finches, lava herons, noddies, pelicans, iguanas and crabs abound, and I’ve seen both turtles and sharks without even having to leave town. I can’t think of anywhere quite like it.
✩✩✩ North Seymour ($260)
The best destination for observing frigatebirds and land iguanas in the Galapagos for sure. They also chuck in a visit to Playa Las Bachas for flamingoes, turtles and ghost crabs. The only reason it’s not higher on my list was because of the timing. It would probably be near the top spot if we hadn’t gone in the middle of the day.
✩✩ Galapagos Frontier ($35)
A superb spot for seeing the famous giant tortoises, so close to Puerto Ayora that you could get there on foot if you wanted to. The $35 tour doesn’t include the taxi fare there and back ($25) which is worth considering, and holds this back a spot or two.
✩ Kicker Rock ($150)
One of the best diving spots in the world – but perhaps not as legendary for snorkeling. $150 seems a bit steep to see a few fish that you could find just as easily by snorkelling off Cerro Tijeretas, but there are tropicbirds to be seen here, and the turtles at Playa Manglecito more than made up for the snorkeling at the rock itself.
Pouring one out for the trip that never was: Punta Suarez on Isla Española. I’d have sacrificed both Punta Pitt and North Seymour to make that trip happen, but thanks to a malfunction with my tour operator’s onboard motor, it was not to be. At least I got my refund. When I think about it, $260 is a bit steep to see an albatross I’ve already seen, a third species of mockingbird and a shiny version of the marine iguanas – but then, none of the tours on the Galapagos are cheap. It’s set up to be a once-in-a-lifetime sort of destination, so people come here with cash to burn.
I’ll have to find some other way and some other place to see nesting albatrosses. This can’t be the only place in the world. I’m sure we’ll meet again somewhere, someday.
Readjusting to life at home is going to take some time after all of this. It’s been one wildlife spectacular after another this year in an almost unbroken line since my spontaneous trip to Peru in March. It’s been incredible falling back in love with the wild again. I don’t feel so lonely anymore and my general sense of happiness has gone through the roof. How can you be anything but happy when you’re surrounded by nature? I can’t recommend it enough. It’s the perfect antidote to the political and technological nightmare within which we find ourselves these days.
Whatever the problem, you will always find the answer in nature. I firmly believe that.
In total, I’ve spent just shy of $700 on trips and tours. That’s significantly less than I expected, and ridiculously cheaper than taking the liveaboard cruise option which starts at around $3.000. Traveling the Galapagos by yourself absolutely can be done, but if you’re giving it some thought, here’s my advice:
Do inquire about timings of trips and tours if you can, as these do somewhat dictate the success of your tours. Morning hikes are better than afternoon hikes.
Keep an eye out for guides with a III insignia under their badges on their left sleeves – these are park scientists and will be genuine fountains of information.
Be patient with the weather in August. The garúa rain can be disheartening in the morning, but it invariably clears by midday.
Always carry single dollars in paper or coin – you’ll need these more than you think for ferries, launches and helping restaurant staff to break down larger bills.
Don’t trust the prices on the packaging in the mini markets – stuff invariably costs more than what it says because of the cost of importing goods onto the islands.
Share and share alike! Not everybody brings a camera to the islands, so offer to share any photos you take with people on your trip so they can take away some magical memories! I’ve been asked at least three times so there’s clearly a demand for it.
You really don’t need to speak Spanish here as these islands live off the tourist trade, but if you can, please do – it goes such a long way with the locals.
Not too much longer to wait now. I might go and find something to eat. It’s going to be a long and probably rather sleepless night! BB x
My final Galápagos expedition answered a question that’s been bugging me since I landed in Puerto Ayora two days ago: why is it perpetually cloudy here? San Cristobal had its fair share of cloudy days, but – with the exception of a few hours on Wednesday afternoon – Puerto Ayora has been shrouded in a mantle of grey and white from the moment I arrived. Well, I have my answer: rain shadow.
It’s not that the entire island of Santa Cruz gets more cloud than its eastern neighbour. It’s simply that all the cloud cover gets trapped behind the highlands, forcing it to build up over the south side of the island, like Tenerife in reverse. I was worried when we left Puerto Ayora that today would be a washout, but as soon as we cleared the Gemelas sinkholes, we stepped into a shining world of clear skies and tropical sun.
It’s a good thing I brought my sun lotion today.
One thing I’ve learned in my time in the Galápagos is that all of the tours are something of a lottery. You can pay whatever you like, but ultimately it’s the park rangers who dictate who has access and when. Sometimes you get lucky and get the best light of the day (before 11am) – and sometimes you don’t. Today was the latter. Beach first, hike last. It’s definitely the inferior of the two options, for at least three good reasons:
Animals are a lot more active in the earlier hours of the day. As the midday heat approaches, both birds and reptiles become a lot more reclusive to get out of the heat
Taking a dip in the Pacific feels a lot nicer (and a lot more earned) after stomping around for an hour or two under the sun
The midday lighting with the sun dead overhead isn’t exactly the optimal condition for photography, especially for dark subjects like frigatebirds
In short, I was a bit miffed when we were allocated a visit to Las Bachas first – not least of all because North Seymour is one of the more expensive day trips on offer (at around $260-300 at the cheaper end). In most other parts of the world, when you’re paying that much for a day trip, you usually get some kind of say as to how to work the itinerary.
The Galápagos are different – and I suspect that the tourism explosion of the last ten years or so has had a lot to do with that. The upside is that the system has the animals’ welfare at its heart – or so I’d like to believe anyway. Controlling the daily tourist visits allows the park rangers to set limits on disturbance to the native fauna, which can only be a good thing.
Rant over. Let’s get back to some good old-fashioned awe, wonder and nature writing.
First off, whether you’re visiting in the morning of the afternoon, Playa Las Bachas is a genuine haven. After days of choppy seas, finding a calm white sand beach like El Manglecito was a major treat. Once occupied by US troops to control access to the Panama Canal during WWII, the only patrols you’ll find there now are the ghost crabs that race up and down the beach, forming enormous collections of tiny spitballs as they sift through the sand for microscopic food washed up by the tide.
I’ve only seen Sally Lightfoots since I got here (and one crab that liked a lot more like the ones we have back home), so seeing so many of these beautiful ghost crabs was a major highlight.
One species I was nearly prepared to cough up another $150 to seek out was hanging around a small lagoon behind the sand dunes. The American flamingo is the fourth and final flamingo species in the Americas, meaning the only flamingo in the world that I have yet to see is the lesser flamingo of sub-Saharan Africa and west India. I thought you’d have to go all the way to neighbouring Isabela, the largest of the Galápagos Islands, to be in with a chance of finding one of these colourful creatures, but there’s a small colony here at Las Bachas that regularly puts in an appearance.
Bypassing Isabella means I leave without seeing two iconic Galápagos species: the penguin and the flightless cormorant. However, to even have a chance at seeing the latter, you need to skip the day trips and take a cruise that explores the westernmost islands, where the elusive flightless cormorant can be found – and that can cost upwards of $4,000 before factoring in the enormous financial handicap that applies to all single travellers.
On that note, seriously, what gives? Since touchdown last Saturday I’ve met just two other solo travelers here. The rest are couples, families or groups of retirees. If you get to talking with them, a great many of them are lawyers, bankers, hedge fund managers and businessmen. I feel very out of place as a teacher here. Whatever it might once have been, the Galápagos does seem to have become a rich man’s playground.
Thank goodness the only riches in this world that matter are the ones that were living and breathing on these islands long before people came here.
I saw another two turtles at Las Bachas before we got back on the zodiac and returned to our boat, the Galapagos Shark. The crossing to North Seymour is substantially shorter than, say, the journey to Punta Pitt, but you have to go it slow in these waters, as there are so many turtles about. While the other passengers stretched out on the forecastle, I stayed up on deck watching the shearwaters and storm-petrels dancing across the surface of the water behind us.
North Seymour Island is a strange place. Under the right conditions, I would go so far as to say that it might even be eerie. A forest of dead-looking trees. Golden grass on a slab of sun-scorched rock, where the boulders come to life before your eyes and take the shape of gigantic land iguanas, lumbering across the path like miniature dinosaurs, while pterodactyl-esque frigatebirds cast enormous shadows as they hang in the wind. It’s worth coming to this place if only because it’s so different to everywhere else.
The big draw of North Seymour is its huge colony of frigatebirds. These aerial pirates can be found all over the Galápagos Islands, but they have their primary stronghold here off the coast of Baltra. More than a thousand pairs breed here each year, accompanied by thousands more juveniles, making North Seymour probably the best place in the world to see these magnificent creatures up close.
Both great and magnificent frigatebirds can be found here. The difference between the two is only slight, but easily appreciated in the sunlight: male great frigatebirds have a green sheen on their shoulders, whereas magnificent frigatebirds’ shoulder feathers shine a glossy purple.
This is also a spectacular place to see the males inflating their famous throat sacs to attract the attention of passing females. We’re quite late into the breeding season, so this wasn’t as common a sight today as it was a month ago, but I did hear and see a few males displaying a fair distance from the path.
Frigatebirds are far and away my favourite birds of the Galápagos. They may be one of the easier creatures to spot – they were the first animals I saw as the plane came in to land and I am quite sure they will be the last I see, too – but that does not detract in the slightest from their magnificence.
I caught myself thinking more than once that if I ever got a tattoo (Ed.: I won’t), I would consider the silhouette of one of these beautiful creatures. I seem to be drawn to the vultures of the animal kingdom, even where there are no vultures. Or perhaps it’s the fact that these aerial pirates are effectively feathered bandits – and I have always had a thing for bandits. I very nearly wrote my undergraduate dissertation on bandits.
One of the best things about the Galapagos is that the animals’ lack of fear allows you to witness the kind of behaviour that normally goes unnoticed. This youngster called its mother to it and, after much high-pitched pleading, convinced her to disgorge her catch so that it could eat.
Frigatebirds aside, I finally managed to track down a Galápagos endemic: the Galapagos Dove. These tiny cousins of the Peruvian doves must have been blown onto these islands millions of years ago, adapting into the colourful, rock-patterned creatures you can see today. They avoid towns and cities, so to have a chance of finding them you have to search the more remote corners of the inhabited islands.
So far I’ve managed to neglect the other star of North Seymour: the land iguanas that have made this island their home since they were extirpated from Baltra. Only the males have the distinctive sandy-orange colouration – the females are a more uniform grey in colour.
Before we left, a scuffle in the rocks sent one of the females scurrying across the path and into the shadows of the cliff. Her spook, the alpha male, followed her only as far as the path before stopping to cast a languid and uncaring eye in our direction.
These land iguanas look a lot more like their green cousins back on the mainland than their hyperspecialised marine cousins with whom they share the island. A younger me would have come to the islands purely for the iguanas. I was hugely into reptiles back then. I eventually became more interested in birds, partly because the UK doesn’t exactly have a thriving population of reptiles. So it was nice to embrace my inner child today and binge on some spectacular reptiles.
I spent my last afternoon in Santa Cruz down by the mangrove-lined fisherman’s wharf watching the pelicans. There is always bycatch to be had and so both pelican and frigatebird gather at the right time of day to pick up the scraps left out for them by the fishermen.
Like so many gringos, I’m just a visitor to these islands: here to see one of nature’s greatest marvels before returning to my normal life far across the sea. But these galapagueños spend their entire lives surrounded by these beautiful creatures: pelicans, turtles, frigatebirds, mockingbirds, sea lions, marine iguanas, giant tortoises and Sally Lightfoot crabs are as much a part of their everyday as house sparrows and pigeons are for us. That’s absolutely mind-boggling for me, but it’s only a different reality. No wonder the rangers are so defensive of their greatest treasure.
Tomorrow, I have to make my way back up to Baltra to catch my flight back to Guayaquil, then on to Santiago via a layover in Lima. It’s a fairly long-winded flight, but the real question is how to get to the airport as a single traveler. I might end up taking a taxi to the Itabaca channel, as it’s set at $25 and I did just find a secret stash of dollars that I forgot I had (I’m very good at hiding my cash in different places for safety’s sake and then forgetting where I put it).
My adventures are nearly over. It’s been a long summer. It’s going to sound odd, but I could use a holiday. Traveling solo means being switched on all the time, even when you’re laid out on a tropical beach. The Galápagos is neutral territory, but there is no place like home. I’m looking forward to a little peace of mind – but that is still some ten days away. The journey continues! BB x
Coming all the way to the Galápagos Islands and leaving without seeing the giant tortoises would be like going to Jordan and skipping out on Petra, or bypassing any kind of safari whatsoever on a visit to Kenya or Tanzania. You could do it, but you’d be missing out on something truly special.
As luck would have it, you don’t have to go too far to find them. Though they may not be as numerous as they once were long ago (an astonishing 350,000 were carried off the islands by sailors and scientists as a source of food and oil), there are still thousands of them to be found even on the populated islands of San Cristóbal and Santa Cruz. The ranches in the interior will give you your best chance at seeing them, but don’t get it confused: they’re not open-air zoos built to accommodate the surviving giant tortoises. They’re functioning orchards and pastoral plots that happen to sit right on the tortoises’ migration route to and from the clouded highlands. The fact that they provide a ready supply of fruit is simply one of the reasons they can often be found lurching around the ranches.
I was picked up from my hostal at about 8.42 by a slightly irascible taxi driver. On the way out of town, I couldn’t help noticing a dollar store selling all sorts of cheap plastic tat: brainrot bracelets, a K-Pop Demon Hunters make-up kit, imitation night goggles from Lilo and Stitch and a plastic figurine of Haaland. For an island that makes such a big deal about not importing single-use plastics, there’s a lot of single-use plastic junk on sale here for locals and tourists alike. I hope one day we learn to stop mass-producing stuff like this and give capitalism one almighty sock in the jaw, though I doubt that will happen in my lifetime.
My destination today was Galápagos Frontier, the closest accessible ranch to Puerto Ayora. I was going to walk there, but when the heavens opened shortly after seven o’clock, I decided to take up the ranch owner’s offer of a taxi shuttle and save myself the hour and a half’s hike. By the looks of things, it would have been a pretty straightforward route, as a separate cycle lane follows the highway right into the interior, but it did allow me to slow down and enjoy my breakfast, so I guess I was grateful.
The taxi driver dawdled a bit, so he made up for lost time by hurtling along the highway, narrowly missing a couple of chickens and a very fleeting glimpse of a pachay – the Galápagos crake, a rare and endemic cousin of the moorhen that came to these islands over a million years ago. It was some relief when he finally slowed down near the ranch gates, because I don’t like to think what would have happened if we’d met a giant tortoise around the bend.
Speaking of which, I counted at least three of the lumbering giants before we’d even arrived. At four feet tall by five feet across, they’re pretty hard to miss.
Our guide, Julio César (ave!), had a lot to tell us about the ranch and its flora and fauna, so he brought along a Canadian volunteer to translate for him, as the American mother and son on our trip didn’t speak any Spanish. We butted heads a bit over travel advice for Peru as the young American fella was headed there next. She recommended Paracas and Huacachina as her highlight. I told him I’d managed Paracas in a day and she said I was “fucking insane”, which seemed an odd sort of way to talk to a client, but… that’s North Americans for you. No filter. I gave them a wide berth for the rest of the tour and stuck close to Julio, bypassing the need to speak in English for the rest of the morning.
It’s only a small boundary of mine, but I don’t take kindly to being sworn at without uttermost provocation. Priggish, perhaps, but it’s a principle I try to stick to.
Anyway. I wasn’t here to hang out with tourists. I came up here to see the giant tortoises. And see them I did.
I’ve always known they’re incredibly long-lived creatures, but just how long has never really dawned on me. Some of these tortoises were well over a hundred years old, with at least one or two individuals over the one-hundred-and-fifty mark. Julio showed us the sun-bleached shell of a male he had found dead on the ranch at the start of the tour, adding that it was the only such cadaver he’d found in forty years working this corner of the island. That statistic alone hints at the ridiculous surviving power of these creatures, whose metabolism is so slow that they can go for as long as a year without food or drink.
Turtles may have been around since the Triassic in one form or another, but these giants really are reminiscent of the age of the dinosaurs in their almost miraculous longevity.
You can age a giant tortoise by their shells. Younger tortoises have more clearly defined grooves in their shells, which wear away with age. Ironically, the fewer the lines, the older they are. So it stands to reason that some of these tortoises individuals we saw – like the one below – were incredibly old. Old enough to have seen two world wars come and go. Old enough to remember a time before tourism on the islands. And with the record age in captivity pushing 174 years, it’s not beyond the realms of possibility that one or more tortoises on the islands remember a young Charles Darwin who came here in 1835.
I don’t know about you, but I found that absolutely mind-boggling.
Many of the tours on the ranches include a visit to the lava tunnels, a labyrinthine network of caves hollowed out of the mountain by ancient rivers of molten rock, long since cooled and emptied. Near the coast, these are the preferred burrows of the Galápagos penguin, but up here in the highlands, they’re more commonly used as roosts for barn owls and the three endemic bat species that call the islands home.
The most amazing thing about the lava tunnels – apart from the fact that they seem to go on forever – is the way their ceilings sparkle and gleam in the torchlight. Thousands of water droplets and bacteria scintillate in silver and gold, making the long dark of the tunnels alive with light.
Back up and out in the light, we were tailed for a short distance by a flock of anis. These cuckoo/crow-like birds aren’t native to the Galapagos but were brought here from the mainland in the 70s to deal with the horsefly problem blighting the highland ranches. Now they’re everywhere, attacking much of the native wildlife, so every few years the local community organises a major cull of the species to keep their numbers in line.
It doesn’t help that they’re actually a very endearing kind of bird. This sort of job is much easier when the culprit is small, faceless and preferably creepy-crawly.
Living and working in Santiago this summer has, at times, felt decidedly European. You’re never under any allusion that you’re in an entirely different hemisphere, but all the same, the roads and the streets are very western, very cosmopolitan. Up in the highlands of the Galápagos, there’s something very… equatorial about the place. One-storey houses at the roadside with chalkboards selling fruit. Red earth roads leading into the distance with thick green vegetation on either side. Tarmac roads without pavements or bollards. It almost feels like being back in Uganda.
With the vegetation so high at this time of year (following the daily rains), it can be hard to encounter a giant tortoise that isn’t buried up to its neck in greenery. So I was glad to find at least one by the roadside that was wandering out in the open. It can be hard to gauge their size when they’re on their own, but if I told you that their shells can reach a man’s waist or even abdomen in the very largest specimens, that may give you an idea.
It’s been quite a wild ride, this summer, and spending the last few days with the giant tortoises of the Galápagos seems like a nice way to wind down what has been a total blur of events since I left the UK to burn under the unforgiving summer sun of July 2026. It’s still burning now. In South America we’ve had rain almost every day here since I arrived. If only I could send some of it back to Europe ahead of my return. Folk might welcome it there.
A week from today, I will be in Athens, on what really will be the last of my labours for the summer. I had originally planned to make my own way home across Europe after that, but then the Galapagos happened, so I’m going to save both money and time and come back to the UK when the wedding festivities are over to edit my photos and rest. Lord knows I could do with the comfort of my own bed and books again.
But before that, I have one final Galápagos adventure upon which I must embark: the frigatebird colony of North Seymour Island. I hope the weather is kind on this last expedition. BB x
This morning I said farewell to San Cristóbal. The easternmost island of the Galápagos chain has been a blissful retreat from the world, shrouded in stormclouds and sunshine. Having a cabin all to myself on the edge of town made a change from the usual hostel circuit. After several years of bunk beds of varying stages of comfort, I think I earned it.
I arrived a full forty-five minutes early at the harbour, as instructed, to be last in the queue. I should have known: the majority of the tourists on these islands at the moment are Dutch, Germans and Americans, who aren’t known for being slack when it comes to appointments. As such, when I finally did get onto the ferry, I was given a seat at the very front of the boat.
The Israeli sitting next to me was incensed. “Shit, man. This fucking sucks. These are the worst seats in the whole boat.” I smiled and shrugged it off – windowless or not, it was only a two hour boat trip across the open ocean – but he was seriously ticked off about what he saw as the rank injustice of the affair.
Fortunately, due to a mix-up involving the unexpected arrival of a family of four, the captain asked if we’d be so kind as to move up on deck so the family could sit together – so I effectively got an upgrade for free. So did the Israeli, whose response was a lot more vainglorious than mine, but I guess it takes all sorts to make a world. Up top, I had the refreshing breeze of the ocean wind, the occasional spray of saltwater and views all around – and, unlike a number of passengers, I wasn’t sick once. For somebody who isn’t exactly a sailor, I have always been surprised at my resistance to seasickness. Surprised – and very grateful!
The ferry between San Cristóbal and Santa Cruz takes about two hours, passing the uninhabited island of Santa Fé shortly before docking in Puerto Ayora, the largest town in the Galápagos. It was only shortly after nine, so I had a quick breakfast and then thought I might at least check in my luggage, but the lovely ladies at my hostal, the Flightless Cormorant, let me into my room right away. With my rucksack unpacked, I set out to explore and get my bearings of Puerto Ayora.
As they always are in the Americas, the fisherman’s wharf is a hive of activity. In Valparaiso, it draws gulls, terns, pelicans and the local sea lion population right up to the harbour. Here in the Galapagos, the frigatebirds add some local colour. They almost never seem to land, and the reason for that became clear when I saw one resting on the roof of a boat: their feet are tiny, almost vestigial in appearance. It seems that this was the sacrifice they made millions of years ago in order to become masters of the air, just like our swifts back home in Europe, only more than five times the size.
Here, as on San Cristóbal, you can find lava herons, with the added touch that the mangrove trees make for a slightly more interesting backdrop. The mangroves are easily my favourite thing about Santa Cruz – I’ve only ever seen them in books and documentaries, and they are every bit as spectacular as I always thought – even here, where they start right in the heart of Puerto Ayora itself.
Obviously my turtle encounter yesterday wasn’t enough, because a short burst of breath near the boats alerted my attention to a youngster drifting near the surface, less than a stone’s throw from the harbour. It was feeding on the algae growing on the bottom of the boats, particularly on the propellers raised just inches above the surface. The Galápagos Islands are famous for the close encounters you can have with the local wildlife, but I have to admit, I wasn’t expecting to see both sharks and turtles without even having to leave the larger towns.
One of the big draws in Puerto Ayora is the Charles Darwin Research Centre to the east of the city. Free to visit – except for the Fausto Llerena Giant Tortoise breeding centre, which is perilously easy to stumble into (and be politely removed from) as it has no fencing! – it is worth a look-around even if just for the passport stamp you can acquire here, the only legitimate way to obtain such a stamp (as they do not issue any stamps at the airport).
The walk there takes you into the wilder country around Puerto Ayora, and you have to watch your feet: there are reptiles everywhere. I lost count of the lava lizards and marine iguanas, and I’m almost certain I saw the looped body of a Galápagos snake disappear into the bushes as I turned a corner.
Follow the trail that leads east of the Charles Darwin Research Centre and you’ll reach Playa Ratonera, a wild and wave-battered volcanic shoreline. It has a few sandy stretches, but it’s hardly a pleasure beach, as it gets the full force of the Pacific. It’s mostly mangroves, carpet weed and black volcanic boulders, with the shattered white remnants of millions of years of coral taking the place of pebbles.
One huge draw is the local population of marine iguanas. There were always a few around the harbour on San Cristóbal, but Santa Cruz has hundreds of them.
The collective noun for marine iguanas is a mess, which is about right. They are absolutely everywhere, sprawling all over each other on the path, off the path, among the weeds and atop the rocks. You really do have to watch where you step, because they’re a lot more sluggish than the lava lizards and don’t tend to move even when they’re only inches away.
They were attended by a massive great blue heron, the American cousin of our grey herons. Herons of this size have a Catholic diet, so I imagine the smaller iguanas form a part of that, before they become too large for even the most ambitious herons. I’ve seen these birds swallow fish that are far too large for their long necks, but they probably do go down the hatch a lot more easily than a spiky, scaly adult iguana.
Time and again here I am bowled over by how unafraid the local wildlife is of us. Herons, iguanas, mockingbirds, finches, boobies and oystercatchers… none of them seem to mind one jot that they share their world with us. Only the whimbrels seem to have retained their wariness, though given their status as migrants in these islands, perhaps their behaviour may be excused.
The other beach worth visiting in Puerto Ayora’s immediate area is Playa Tortuga, a stretch of exposed white sand to the southwest. Getting there requires registering with a park ranger and a half hour’s trek through the opuntia cactus forest, but when you see the final destination, you’ll understand why so many people both local and foreign make this trek every day. It’s a paved route, so it’s not exactly arduous, and it does have the benefit of sending you through bird country. I finally saw the largest of the ground finches, with its impressively large nutcracker bill, as well as the local species of mockingbird, noticeably different in voice and appearance to the birds on San Cristóbal.
I believe Playa Tortuga is so named because it plays host to a breeding colony of green turtles at the right time of year, but to get there, you first have to cross Playa Brava, beaten savagely by the force of the ocean. When I got there the afternoon’s daytrippers were all heading back to town in a slow and sandy procession. The rangers close the beach at five, so as I arrived at twenty past four, I didn’t have an awful lot of time.
Time enough, though, to appreciate the strange beauty of the mangroves. On the far side of the red flag beach (where the waves are far too strong to allow for bathing) you’ll find the not-so-secret mangrove-lined bay of Playa Tortuga. It’s no hyperbole to say that it is by far the most beautiful beach in the Galapagos that I’ve seen so far: quiet, secluded and with views to die for all around.
I didn’t bring my swimming gear, and it would have been too late to pop in for a swim even if I had, but it was a hard-fought temptation not to dive right in. I confess I usually have more than a little contempt for those who travel the world just to lounge around on a beach without a care for the local wildlife or culture, but when the beaches are this good, I can begin to understand why somebody might be mad enough to empty their bank account to be in a place like this.
If you walk just a little bit further, you can see the entire bay with the mountains behind from a rocky peninsula, where the opuntia cactus grows. Tomorrow I’ll head up into those highlands in search of giant tortoises, but for now, it’s just me, the sea and the pufferfish swimming among the rocks below me.
I’ll close this post here – I had a lot more to report than I thought today. Maybe tomorrow will be a quieter one! BB x
Puerto Baquerizo Moreno, Galápagos Islands. 18.55.
I could have sworn that it crossed my mind when I was packing for Chile that I might want to take my GoPro. It would have very easily fit inside my suitcase. It’s not as though I overpacked, by any stretch of the imagination. If anything, I almost certainly underpacked. Well, it can’t be helped – how was I to know that my last South American adventure of the summer would take me snorkelling, when Chile was (and still is) in the grip of winter?
Long story short, I really, really, really wish I’d had it on me today. But I didn’t. So I’ve done my best to make up for it with the trusty Nikon. I hope you enjoy!
Today’s expedition took me out to León Dormido, more commonly known as Kicker Rock. I’ll be honest, of all the Galápagos day tours available, this one was not on my list. It probably should have been, as it’s one of the most spectacular places in the world to go snorkeling, or so they say. Knowing what I know now – which is that the discount I had from my guide was considerable, compared to the other guests – I’m glad I signed on for a last minute slot.
I rocked up early to the marina, as instructed, but sometimes I forget that this is South America. A 7.45am meet turned into a 9.15am departure, so I had plenty of time to photograph the sea lions, which never fail to disappoint, no matter how accustomed one becomes to their presence here.
We had an afternoon slot for León Dormido, so Samuel took us to a sanctuary beach within eyesight of the rock known as Playa El Manglecito. When we arrived, there was hardly any wind at all – just the waves lapping upon a white sand beach. The surface of the water was only broken once in the distance by a mobula ray leaping into the air and disappearing into the endless blue. With the possible exception of Finisterre, this is probably the first true white sand beach I’ve ever seen, and boy did it live up to the hype!
I considered snorkelling with the others, but it only took a few seconds in the water to realise that something was wrong. My mask filled with seawater almost immediately, stinging my eyes and forcing me to my feet early. A small tear where the straps met the rubber seal of the mask was the culprit – something I confess I hadn’t spotted when I checked the mask last night. So I shrugged, got back out and went for a walk along the beach.
There was plenty to keep me occupied. The molten scrub beyond the shore was alive with little things: finches, warblers and colourful lava lizards. Of course, there’s always a sea lion about too, and since it was so curious about us, I couldn’t help but indulge it as well.
Indigo and her mother, a couple of experienced divers from the UK, told me I had to go back in the water: they had seen as many as fourteen turtles in the bay. I told them about my mask and Indigo lent me hers. I’m past the stage of my life where I’d awkwardly turn such an offer down out of affected politeness – and I really did want to see a turtle.
It took me a little while to find them. I swam across half the bay at first, thinking they might be sheltering on the far side, only to nearly collide with one of the giants as I returned to the shore.
Oh, if only I’d had the GoPro – the things I could have shown you! Green turtles are simply enormous. So much bigger than I expected. I think I assumed all turtles but the giant leatherbacks were around the size of an Olive Ridley, but these green turtles can grow to five feet in length. The largest of the turtles in the bay must have been that size or close to: he was busy gnawing algae from the rocks and paid me no attention whatsoever, though I can only have been a metre or so away when the waves hurled me in his direction.
I didn’t linger as I didn’t want to cause them any undue stress. They didn’t seem at all bothered by my presence, but turtles are endangered enough as it is, so I spent a few minutes in total awe, watching them feed and fly through the water on those evolutionarily perfect flippers, before pushing off back toward the shore.
Our divemaster Jesús called the three divers back to the boat, but the rest of us – me, a Brazilian-American and a mother and son from Austria – had another half hour to enjoy the beach. Naturally, I’d surrendered the working snorkel back to Indigo, but I figured I could at least have a go at capturing the turtles on camera, albeit from above.
The trouble with turtles is that they are perfectly adapted to life underwater, and do not need to come up for air as readily as other animals. When inactive, such as when they need to sleep, they can submerge for an astonishing seven hours without needing to breathe. Even when they’re awake, they can still hold their breath for thirty minutes or more if they need to – and when they do pop up for a breath, it only lasts a couple of seconds until they dive back down again.
All this is to say that photographing a turtle out of the water is a very difficult challenge. But I had half an hour and nothing better to do, so I took a stakeout. It was almost impossible at first, but when a couple of them decided to cross the bay and swim out of the dark reef and over the white sand, the job was suddenly made a lot easier. All I had to do was to track the shadows.
The calm sea that carried us gently into the bay had been whipped up into a fierce swell by the wind, which made the job even harder, but I managed a few half decent photos as the first one made its way across the bay.
Looking at a turtle is beholding one of the greatest survivors on Earth. These incredible reptiles have been around since the time of the earliest dinosaurs in the early Triassic, some 230 million years ago, and two mass extinctions, as well as a host of other destructive factors – including our depraved taste for their meat and shells – have not been able to rid the planet of these mighty success stories. It was a real privilege to see them so close.
I’ll be honest. After that incredible encounter, the snorkelling at León Dormido was… a bit of a letdown. Kicker Rock is a world-famous diving location, where entire schools of hammerhead sharks, eagle rays and even mantas can be seen. Naturally, snorkelling is a bit more restrictive, doubling your time but limiting your exploration to the surface. I was lucky that they had a spare mask, so I could see underwater without any difficulty this time.
We saw parrotfish, triggerfish and rainbow wrasse and a few impressive sea stars clinging to the wall of the rock, but beyond that, the most memorable encounter was the enormous salp swarm we found ourselves in. Every single movement of my hands was surrounded by a swirling cloud of reddish gelatinous organisms that looked like drawings of cells from my old biology textbooks. The sun must have drawn them all up to the surface from deeper, darker waters below, beyond the deep blue beneath my feet where the blades of sunlight fail to penetrate.
I’ve never snorkelled in open water before, so I think I was much more accustomed to being able to stop and breathe normally more often than I feasibly could with the seafloor more than 130 feet below. It took me a while to master breathing through the snorkel, and even once I’d lost my nerves about breathing through a tube, seawater still managed to get into my nose and up and into my oesophagus. After about twenty minutes it felt as though my throat was on fire with all the ingested salt, which probably didn’t help with my state of mind. It was only when I was distracted by the playful antics of the attendant sea lions or a particularly interesting fish that I didn’t think of the discomfort I was in.
The divers said they’d seen it all: reef sharks, hammerheads, eagle rays and barracuda and all the rest. They were all much, much lower down. I didn’t begrudge them for it – that’s what they trained for, after all. It was a good reminder, however, that my gut was right all along: snorkeling isn’t really my cup of tea, compared to, say, a two-hour hike. In that sense, I haven’t changed much since my school years: I know what I’m good at and I do it often enough to consider it mastered. I’m open to new experiences, but given the choice between snorkeling and hiking some other time, I might think again next time.
Unless, of course, I’ve got my GoPro on me. Or I’ve shaved (which may or may not have had an impact on the water getting into my nose).
Fortunately, there was one resident of León Dormido which had eluded me so far, and it was a creature I’d been hoping to see since I got here: a tropicbird. These angelic creatures are shy seabirds, nesting deep within the cliffs in hard-to-reach places, and – at least here – usually fly in pairs. Bloody hell, but they’re hard to catch, moving tremendously fast in wide circles against a bright blue sky, but after much trial and effort I finally caught one.
The return journey was a very bumpy ride. We’d been sheltered from the wind and waves on the east side of Kicker Rock, but had to cross a raging sea to get back to port. In spite of myself, I caught myself dozing off, which you’d think would be hard in a boat that keeps landing with a jolt and a hard splash after cresting every wave, but there’s something about afternoon journeys after a long day’s expedition that renders you terribly susceptible to fatigue, whatever the circumstances. I wrapped the strap of my camera as tightly around my arms as it would allow, just in case.
Samuel’s contact did finally offer me a trip to Española, the Impossible Island, but for tomorrow. Sadly, I neither have the budget nor the time: Punta Pitt and Kicker Rock between them cost what Española would have been, and besides, I have an early departure tomorrow for Santa Cruz, the second of the two islands on my Galápagos adventure.
I’ve been on the islands for four days and I still haven’t seen the giant tortoises that they were named for. That will change on Santa Cruz. It’s time to bring this adventure to a close in style – and, hopefully, add a couple more species to the roster in the process. Santa Cruz, here we come! BB x
Puerto Baquerizo Moreno, Galápagos Islands. 20.40.
The days here on the islands are falling into a sort of rhythm. Morning brings a slow and dark sunrise through the garúa, followed by spells of gentle rain falling on the roof over my head. The clouds hug the island for most of the morning, until the sun burns through them all shortly after one o’clock, which allows for a spell of humid sunshine until the clouds swallow up the sun once again before sunset.
August is – it should be said – definitely not the sunniest time of the year here in the Galapagos. Come to think of it, nowhere in South America seems to be, whenever I’m passing through. In fact, of the fifty-six days I’ve spent in South America this year, just under half have been washed out with rain. That could just be bad luck – I have been to each destination in its “off season”, which does usually coincide with the rainy season – but it could equally be an anomaly. Chile, for one, does not usually get as much rain as it did this winter.
It’s not so bad here, though. It doesn’t come down in buckets like it did in Chile and the Peruvian Amazon, and it does have the added perk of keeping the beaches and trails free of day-trippers, most of whom hole up in their hotels during the rain.
After a fake-out from the sun this morning (which was only briefly with us before the rain clouds returned) I set out up the Tijeretas trail to the cove I’d seen the other day. It was, predictably, almost deserted: just one other swimmer was there, the same one I saw when I scouted out the trail a few days ago, doing lengths of the bay.
I didn’t have a rental GoPro on me this time. Not that it really matters – some things are best remembered by memory alone. All the advice online had said the water would be much too cold to go in without a wetsuit. I suppose that advice was targeted at Americans, specifically the ones from Florida, where the daily temperature is a lot warmer. As an Englishman who has swum in the shores of the English Channel more than once, I found the water around San Cristóbal to be blissfully warm. I could have been in there for hours.
Here, as everywhere, I was joined in both land and sea by the sea lions. They really are everywhere on these islands, but they properly come into their own underwater, where their powerful flippers help them to fly through the water like birds in the air. At least twice during my swim I was nearly clipped by one that appeared out of nowhere, shimmering like gold in the grey water.
As for the rest of the world beneath the waves… where do I even begin? Butterflyfish and parrotfish, sergeant majors and surgeonfish, hogfish and hawkfish… all as wildly named and widely colourful as a Dr Seuss book. Like so many who come to the Galápagos, no doubt, I was especially captivated by the impressive king angelfish, one of the larger species you can find close to the shore, its dark body lined with an almost iridescent electric blue, complete with a smart shoulder stripe and a tail as yellow as a flame. What must Darwin and his men have thought when they saw these oceans full of living jewels on their voyage here, nearly two hundred years ago?
Speaking of Darwin, after I’d done a full length of the bay and dried off, I took my time heading back to my cabin so that I could linger in the forest. Mangrove warblers are just about everywhere, but it’s Darwin’s finches that are the real celebrities. Both species of ground finch are fairly easy to spot: small and medium. About as creatively named as a Starbucks order, they are at least easy to tell apart by the size of their bills.
I had lunch for $6 at a really lovely local joint in town, el Rincón de Sebas. I hadn’t eaten anything since lunch yesterday, so the bowl of steaming hot shrimp soup and the breaded fish were nothing short of heavenly. I’m not really the dieting type, but there is something to be said for delayed gratification.
I waited out the hottest part of the day in the cabin, wrestling unsuccessfully with the dry weeds that festooned one of my tops which gel from the balcony where it was drying into the rocks below. Whatever plant it was, it’s like no weed I’ve ever encountered before. Short of a professional roller, that burdock-like debris isn’t coming off easily, so I’ve had to admit defeat for the time being. Fortunately, it’s not exactly long-sleeved weather up here.
After negotiating tomorrow’s plan with Samuel, my guide from the other day, I opted for his discounted trip to León Dormido, also known as Kicker Rock. There was still a chance I could hold out for a possible opening on Española’s Punta Suárez, but that particular adventure has become synonymous with frustration on this trip, to the point where I have christened the place “Impossible Island”. Even if it were to appear now, I would be faced with paying double the price of the alternative – which, when you consider it would cost more than a one way flight to Peru from London, massively puts it into perspective.
Thanks, but no thanks. I’ll diversify my options and spend a day with the fish.
There’s always something to see in Puerto Baquerizo Moreno’s harbour, so I took my camera with me on my way into town to collect my snorkelling gear. Sure enough, the manglar and its connecting channel near the Ecuadorean naval base was a wildlife magnet, so there was much to see here. The local noddies were pestering a young pelican that was fishing in the bay. One of them continually tried to land on its head, doubtless hoping to snatch anything the giant caught before it went straight down the bird’s gullet.
A couple of boobies were drawing a small crowd – not the American family watching them (/their smartphones) but the flies around their heads. I’ve noticed that these gnats seem to pester the iguanas quite a bit, so naturally a larger and more warm-blooded creature such as a booby would make for a better target.
The oldest of the pelicans was avoiding the problem by simply burying its face between its wings. It kept one eye open, languidly watching the world go by. I didn’t get to see this particularly impressive specimen in full breeding plumage, because it took off and left while I was distracted by something else.
That something else was just a glimpse, but enough to be sure of what I was seeing: the tip of the dorsal fin of a shark. They don’t usually come this far into the shallows, so I was surprised to see the familiar Jaws-esque fin break the surface, putting the local sea lions on edge.
The channel that runs alongside the road is a heron magnet. All three species of San Cristóbal’s small herons can be found here: yellow-crowned night heron, striated heron and lava heron. The sunbathing night heron from the other day was here, but I was more intrigued by the scruffy-looking youngsters hanging around the rocks. Head-on, they are remarkably frog-like in their appearance.
The striated heron – the same one that can be found across the Americas – is a lot like the endemic lava heron, only a lot more patterned. I tested out the camera’s dynamic range options with this one as it hunted in the shallows. I’m still learning as a photographer, but if I can get to the stage where my photos aren’t so blurry anymore, I’ll be a happy man.
One photo I am particularly happy with is this one. The lava herons are really hard to shoot as they are fundamentally dark birds that haunt a dark and rocky background, making conditions difficult. Fortunately, they’re a lot less active than the finches or shearwaters who have been giving me the run-around, so I had time to frame this one nicely.
Tomorrow is a day in the water. I hope the weather is kinder. Who knows what we will find in the legendary depths of Kicker Rock? Another shark would be nice, but I’d settle for a turtle or ray. BB x
The Book of Barnabas 