Puerto Baquerizo Moreno, Galápagos Islands. 04.57.
I woke up to the sound of the waves this morning. Well, I suppose morning is a stretch, since the clock on my bedside table said ten past four. I must have passed out around eight last night, beaten down by the lack of sleep on the plane and lulled into a Pacific lullaby by the sea. I can think of worse ways to spend a summer.
The garúa rolled in off the mainland last night, bringing with it relieving cloud and gentle rain. A passing shower came and went a few minutes back, but now it’s just the tap-tap sound of the lingering raindrops falling onto the roof of my cabin from the giant daisy tree.
There’s no point going back to sleep now, so I’ll spend some time writing up yesterday’s account of my first day on San Cristóbal.
The magic begins as soon as you’ve left the airport. Technically before, I suppose, since I could see the sharp-angled silhouettes of the island’s frigatebirds well before we landed. Outside the terminal, it’s a ten minute walk to the centre of Puerto Baquerizo Moreno, the largest settlement on San Cristóbal.
Three of Darwin’s keys can be found right next to the terminal building: small and medium ground finches, of evolutionary fame, and one of the island’s endemic species, the San Cristóbal mockingbird. It’s this last that’s especially important, as Darwin didn’t realise the significance of the finches until after he’d departed from the islands, but he did notice that the mockingbirds on each island were different in some way.
Like so many creatures on these islands, they are completely unfazed by the presence of man. They have a funny way of walking, with their cocked tail wagging from side to side. If I were a scientist, I might have called them metronomebirds for this singularly odd gait.
Most of the other travellers piled into taxis outside the terminal, which seemed a bit ridiculous, given just how close the town is to the airport, but I guess some habits die hard. I was quite happy pottering about with the ground finches. It’s not often you get to spend time with a species that literally changed the way we think about our place in the world.
The first thing you notice is the sea lions. They are absolutely everywhere. If you can’t see them, you can certainly hear them: that cartoonist arf arf arf you associate with children’s TV carries for quite some distance.
They don’t stick to the beach, either. A large number of them seek out shadier spots on the seafront parade, dozing quite carelessly on roads, park benches and boardwalks. It’s pupping season, so there’s no shortage of pups in varying stages of development sticking close to their mothers. I’d suggest giving them a wide berth – you never know where the bull might be.
In this case, I did know where the bull was – because he was announcing his presence every minute or so with that barking call, as though to remind everyone in the vicinity that the harem on the beach was his and his alone. Which, I suppose, is close to the truth.
You can tell the bulls apart from their size – nearly a third larger than the females – and the significant boss on their heads. I also hadn’t noticed before the claws in their flippers, but you can get so close to the great sea beasts here on the islands that there’s hardly a detail that will pass you by.
I had to wait a little while before checking in to my cabin on the edge of town, just a stone’s throw from Playa Mann. At a glance, there seem to be a lot of people who come to these islands for the beaches. To a dyed-in-the-wool naturalist like me, that does somewhat feel like going to the Serengeti for a tan, but I’m far too happy to judge. Who could possibly turn away from a chance to see these spectacular islands, given the chance?
I took myself straight back down to the sea once I’d checked in and found two more Galápagos specialities almost immediately. I’ve been mad about Sally Lightfoot crabs since they turned up in a wildlife spotting book I won as a prize for a sunflower growing competition when I was a kid. We have crabs in the British isles, of course, but none nearly so colourful as the Sally Lightfoot. They’re everywhere here, ranging from dark green to sunset red, hugging the molten rocks along the surf line and leaping between boulders with surprising agility.
The other specialty is a real treasure of the Galápagos, arguably as iconic as the giant tortoises that gave the islands their name. Marine iguanas, a short-faced ocean-going variant of the green giants found on the mainland, are often described as “ugly”, perhaps on account of Darwin’s first description of the creatures. Certainly, their patchy salt-washed skin and snub faces make them strange-looking beasts, and they’re not nearly as active as the sea lions as they soak up the sun on the beachfront, but they are tremendously interesting creatures.
Around midday, it gets rather hot here on San Cristóbal. Not unbearably so, but the humidity doesn’t help. I found a night heron sheltering from the heat in the shadow of the rocks earlier, and when I returned, it was sunning itself in a posture I haven’t seen in herons before.
A smaller heron was lurking among the boulders nearby: a lava heron, an island variant of the striated heron that can be found all the way up and down the coasts of the Americas. It was mesmerised by the dragonflies hawking over the beach, tilting its sharp beak and golden eyes every time one came close. I didn’t stick around long enough to see if it caught one.
After sorting out my snorkel gear for tomorrow’s expedition to Punta Pitt, I made for Cerro Tijeretas, a promontory to the north of town known as Frigatebird Hill. I passed a large Dutch contingent and a couple of Germans looking for a mockingbird, but other than that, I had the trail pretty much to myself. The Galápagos aren’t like Manu – you aren’t going to be tripping over a new species every few steps – but the encounters you do have with the island natives are more than a match in their total lack of fear. I found a Galápagos flycatcher hunting by the boardwalk and spent most of the afternoon followed by warblers.
From the top of the hill, you get a spectacular view out across the island to the east, all the way to the cliffs of Punta Pitt. The bay beneath Cerro Tijeretas seems to be a popular snorkelling spot, and I can see why. One shape drifting in the water seemed to the naked eye to be too compact to be human, but too mobile to be a rock, so I turned my lens on it to confirm my suspicions: a green turtle, one of a number that can be found around these islands. I’ve brought my own snorkelling mask so I’ll have to check this place out sometime, when it’s quieter, maybe.
I didn’t make it as far as Playa Baquerizo, which really is a proper hike from town, across several kilometres of molten rock and daisy trees, so I’ll have to check it out later. Instead, I perched myself on a boulder and watched the sunset in a beach I had to myself. Noddies dancing across the surface of the water. Boobies hunting offshore. Frigatebirds wheeling above the bay on those vast black wings. This really is a paradise like few others. I hope for the islands’ sake it remains that way.
It’s nearly seven o’clock. It’s light now, and the island is covered by a merciful blanket of cloud. There are birds called outside but Merlin is struggling to identify them. That may have something to do with the generator that keeps clicking and whirring noisily outside. I’d better have a quick shower and then head out. I’ve rented a GoPro for today’s snorkelling adventures, but there’s also likely to be a heck of a lot to see at Punta Pitt itself, so watch this space! BB x
The Book of Barnabas 