Galapagos: The Natural Selection

A huddle of marine iguanas in a mangrove swamp is not the oddest thing you’ll see on a visit to the Galapagos Islands, but it is certainly one of the smelliest.

Decked out in shades of grey, topped by grubby yellow crests along their backs, these extraordinary reptiles lie around in higgledy-piggledy heaps and ask little more from life than to munch algae in the morning, then to be left to sunbathe gently among the roots and outcrops of lava. Occasionally one iguana will raise its head and sneeze salt water over some of its recumbent colleagues (who won’t mind a bit) or over a visitor taking photographs in the near vicinity (who might mind slightly more), but the general scene is one of utter indolence. The accompanying odour, meanwhile, is a ripe combination of fish and old seaweed.

I came across this pungent tableau on Fernandina, the westernmost island in the archipelago. Dominated by an active volcano, Fernandina neatly illustrates the paradox of Galapagos. The landscape feels ancient, wrapped in swathes of cracked black lava and stippled by pale green shrubs and dark mangrove forest. The animals, too, look primeval: stunted-looking flightless cormorants, bright red-and-blue Sally Lightfoot crabs, those sneezing iguanas. So it comes as a surprise to learn that the Galapagos Islands are amongst the newest bits of rock – geologically speaking – on the planet. And that Fernandina is the youngest of them all, dating back just 750,000 years.

It was rocks that brought Charles Darwin here on the HMS Beagle, in September 1835. A keen geologist, he was anxious to learn whether voguish new theories about the extreme age of the Earth were true. However, it was his discoveries about wildlife –in particular, the 13 species of finch he observed on the Galapagos Islands – that later formed the basis of On the Origin of Species, now the cornerstone of modern evolutionary theory. Next year marks the bicentenary of Darwin’s birth, so a trip to the islands that are indelibly linked to his name has rarely seemed so appropriate.

The Galapagos lie, tiny spots in the Pacific Ocean, 1,000km to the west of mainland Ecuador. My flight from the country’s chief port, Guayaquil, took me to the tiny atoll of Baltra, just off Santa Cruz, the archipelago’s main inhabited island. The airport terminal was suitably low-tech – a one-storey affair topped by a tin roof. Its surroundings, meanwhile, felt utterly alien, consisting of a low-lying plain of scrub broken only by splashes of dark-red soil and bleached-white wood. At the nearby harbour, I met the local sea lions (another olfactory treat) as they basked on a rickety jetty. Our guide urged us to maintain a respectful distance. A boat-trip round Galapagos is the perfect way to get a glimpse of the spectacular diversity these islands contain: the longer while you sleep, short hops taken care of while you eat lunch, and any downtime is usually filled relaxing with a cocktail as you contemplate your next trip ashore.

But don’t expect a lazy tropical cruise. We made at least two stops each day, reaching the shore aboard small motorboats known as pangas. These landings were either ‘wet’ – involving a paddle to the shore from the shallows – or ‘dry’, disembarking straight from the boat to land. Each panga was led by a registered guide – a legal requirement – who would outline what we were about to see, explain where we could walk and swim, and use their expertise to answer the nearconstant stream of questions emanating from our party.

All journeys into the interior of these – mostly uninhabited – islands are carefully regulated to minimise the impact on the local wildlife. Indeed, the whole archipelago is a Unesco World Heritage Site, which means it is subject to strict tourism controls. There’s an overwhelming sense of being a privileged visitor to this isolated world and its astonishing, fragile ecosystems.

There are 12 main islands in the group and around a dozen smaller ones. Each feels markedly different from the others: the red, iron-rich sand of Rabida contrasts with verdant Santiago; the lone spike of rock that’s Bartolome’s landmark is dwarfed by the five massive volcanoes forming the spine of Isabela, the largest island in the group.

The archipelago gets geologically older as you head east, and the ecosystems of the islands become correspondingly more complex. By the time you reach Hood and Cristobal, at the eastern extremity, the cliffs teem with birdlife, from red-chested frigate birds to blue-footed boobies (which are every bit as comical as their name suggests).

But wherever you are in the Galapagos, prepare to be dazzled. Within the space of a few hours I’d find myself gawping at the fiery colours of a land iguana, cooing over a dainty Galapagos penguin or watching a turtle laying her eggs in the sand. It soon seemed the most natural thing in the world to be photographing flamingos in a sulphur-yellow pool, or watching a giant tortoise chewing its way through a field of grass on Santa Cruz.

All the endemic animals – even the primitive-looking flightless cormorants – have occupied their evolutionary niches relatively recently. As they have never had to become wary of predators, they tolerate the attentions of tourists with complete aplomb. There’s nothing camera-shy about a Galapagos dove, even though it’s also extremely rare. Galapagos may be set slap-bang on the equator, but the waters around the islands are deep, relatively cold and bustling with marine life. On our regular snorkelling excursions I found myself swimming amongst turtles and rays, pufferfish and marine iguanas, penguins and reef sharks. But it was the sea lions which left the most lasting impression. Inquisitive and friendly, they would pause at eye level, as if inviting me to play, before darting away in a streak of brown fur and bubbles. My attempts to follow them were predictably futile – and anyway there was always a shoal of surgeon fish or a passing octopus to divert my attention.

Galapagos is like that: each close encounter leads to another, and then another. It’s worth remembering, though, that if your close encounter involves a bunch of marine iguanas lounging around the mangroves, it’s probably wise to hold your nose.

Ben Ross is the travel editor of The Independent. During the nine years that he has worked at the paper, he has written extensively about Europe, the US, the Caribbean, South America and Australia.

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