Galápagos part 3 of 3 - Santa Cruz

This is part 3 of our Galápagos blog so if you haven't read parts one or two yet then stop!

Find them here (Part 1) and here (Part 2).

Day 5

George:

I stare at the horizon as the island of Santa Cruz lurches in and out of view. It has been two long hours on the boat already and both Ellen and I are feeling the effects. For the moment at least we want nothing more than to have solid stone under our feet again. When we dock and haul our belongings one bag at a time onto the pier we take the opportunity to have a short wander around and draw breath. Although it is not the largest island Santa Cruz has the highest population and the main town is by far the most developed we have seen. It has a bank (the only one), a supermarket, shops, restaurants and hotels. A few of the group take the opportunity to put laundry in to a local washing machine and then we are whisked off again to our accommodation for the last two nights, another well equipped campsite in another set of not so highlands.

After dropping off our bags in some significantly smaller tents, which actually we preferred due to the sense of it being a real campsite, it was straight off again for the afternoons activities, a viewpoint, a crater, and a visit to the largest set of lava tunnels on the Galápagos which are so big that you can actually walk through them. 

The lava tunnels on Santa Cruz are miles from the coast and are like mine shafts compared to the rabbit warren we snorkeled in off Isabella. We all don Wellington boots (although Alex insists they are rubber boots - we inform him of their proper name while simultaneously claiming them for England.) and trek single file through a small tract of forest before we stumble upon the tunnels. It is certainly strange to have the ground suddenly open up in front of you and dive into darkness. The owners of the land have handily installed a set of wooden steps as part of their drive to turn this relic of eruptions past into a moneymaking tourist attraction, and it seems to be working as when we all file down we are far from the only people on site. Alex leads the way as always and shouts back to us when we pass structures of interest. For once I am able to listen his explanations and judge them on their accuracy, partly because I have a geology degree, but mostly because i knew we were coming and took the time to do a little research of my own beforehand. (When other people know you have a geology degree it sometimes pays to be one step ahead, and I have learnt from my experience in Sucre.) 

"So George how did these form?" says Morten turning to look over his shoulder. I am able to answer efficiently.

"Alex is actually explaining everything extremely well." I add magnanimously.

Inside the tunnels the way is lit by a single row of white electric lamps that crouch at ankle height and give everyone a slightly spooky up-lit appearance as they pass. I cannot speak for everyone, but I cannot help but imagine the molten flow of rock filling this space, rushing downhill and literally creating its own landscape as is goes. Alex points out some marks made by the flow and where some of the stone has been polished smooth, but all too soon we are climbing up and out into the open again where the tunnel collapsed long ago. We follow where it would have been though, tracking through grass and past the odd tree or bit of scrub and after a short while, having cleared the collapsed section we are able to descend again into the next section of tunnel. This one is longer and Alex spots a couple of animals, a bat and an owl roosting on the darkness. At least he says he does, where he points the rest of us can only see a lump of rock.

"It's not lava!" he insists, "its an owl! It just looks a bit like lava because it is camouflaged." I remain unconvinced, it looks a lot like a rock to me no matter how long I stare and eventually we have to move on, and up, and out again.

As we climb up the final steep ascent out of the tunnels there is an unexpected tortoise. And then there are lots of tortoises everywhere, wallowing in mud pools, grazing under the trees, and we are left to wander amongst them with only the casual warning from Alex to "watch out for landmines." By which we think he means tortoise droppings. We're not totally sure but there is a collective decision to not worry about it and so we spend a happy half hour observing the wildlife.

Not far from the exit of the lava tunnels i spot a national geographic film crew camped out by a particularly large patch of mud filming the tortoises. I've thought about it and I'm not sure I can think of anything that is simultaneously so easy and so difficult to film. On the one hand you can walk right up to them and their not exactly going to sprint out of shot. But on the other hand they hardly ever do anything interesting. Ever. We count ourselves privileged when, as we walk around, one tortoise stands up to confront Ellen. Its only when it stretches to it's full height that we truly get a perspective on how big these animals really are. Big enough to be intimidating even though you know they can't move quick enough to ever get to you. But you definitely wouldn't want to get stuck underneath one as we found out later when we got to try life in their world for a bit.

As we climb onto the bus, another tortoise starts to stand up back next to the building as the owner comes outside to wave us off. When he sees the tortoise standing the owner starts to wave at us frantically.

"Its standing up!" he shouts, "Quick! Look! picture picture picture!" I can't help thinking that the guys from national geographic will have been disappointed to have missed it.

Ellen:

I am about to eat my first ever lobster. Alex has brought us to a street of tables and chairs where people are gathered tight together eating freshly grilled dishes caught that day. Alex has spoken to a waiter and arranged a deal for our group that we can get two lobsters for $25. I'm not familiar with normal lobster prices but  this seems a good deal. As we wait excitedly for our food, George and I teach the group the card game Chairman. The Australians seem to particularly enjoy it; that is, they seem to enjoy how often they manage to break one of the rules that you must not, at any time, swear. No matter how badly you are doing. (I shouldn't have just told you that. Penalty card.)

Finally our meal arrives. I look down at my butterfly lobster with excitement and a little trepidation. I don't really eat much seafood normally and have never touched a crustacean before. Luckily I don't need to break anything open as that has been done for me. My first bite is hot, tender and buttery. I am surprised at how sweet the meat tastes and although I can immediately tell it's not something I would think to order again, I can appreciate why it's considered a luxury food.

My goodness there's a lot of it though. I give up long before anyone else, but am happy to watch everyone munch happily and lick their fingers. Amy and Phoebe, having licked their shells clean and tugged the flesh from every leg (something I'm not sure I would ever be able to stomach comfortably), enthusiastically finish off mine.

Full bellied and greasy fingered, the time has come to pay the bill. But alas, there is a problem. Somewhere along the line there has been a mis-translation. The waiter had not in fact been offering a two for one on any number of lobsters, but as a one time only deal. This is quite hard to get across, or to understand once it's communicated. ONE set of two lobsters for $25 and the rest full price? That translates as "buy 14, get one free", which is not a deal any of us would have taken. The initial confusion has meant that far more of us have ordered and eaten lobster than we would have otherwise. What follows is a series of increasingly frowning faces coming to talk to Alex, who's tone and hand gestures get more and more emphatic, while the rest of us watch proceedings like spectators at a tennis match. Somewhere along the line someone whispers "lobster-gate".

Finally Alex comes to tell us that the owner of the restaurant is blaming the waiter for the issue and docking the difference in our bill from his pay. Suddenly, our mutual self-righteous, self-assured stances melt as we see the waiter crying inside the restaurant. Without having to discuss it we all delve back into our wallets and collect together a big enough tip to completely cancel out his deduction and rush to push it into his hands, feeling slightly embarrassed about the whole thing. Alex assures us it was a genuine mistake on the lad's part (one or two were wondering if they were crocodile tears) and we are sure he is right. It's a fair enough price to pay for a very memorable evening.

Day 6

George: 

Tortuga bay has a name that conjures up images all by itself. Golden sands and turquoise waters, rocky headlands and mangrove forest, even the fact that we have to hike for an hour across the island to get there seems somehow appropriate. This hike is the main activity for our last full day on the Galápagos and we are all excited to explore as much as we can.

The path slopes upwards out of the town and soon we pass beyond the buildings and onto a well kept paved path, clearly a well traveled route through the islands otherwise untouched and fragile wilderness. The path itself is made from volcanic stones of varying variety, cut into paving and slotted together. It is a symbol of the conservation efforts here that as well as being made from local materials it winds to avoid the foliage rather than cutting straight through it. As we round a corner I see a few finches fluttering between the cacti limbs and turn to look behind us to the town now far distant. It feels that we are in the wilds of the island properly now and i hang back from the rest of the group and let their chatter fade into the morning heat.

When I am alone I start to notice the world around me in more detail. The dry wood creaks as it turns and twists in the heat. The trees themselves groan as if they are parched to the point of pain, baked dry by the unrelenting sun. There is only the tiniest breath of wind here. Warm and full of salt it curls its way between the cactus needles and dead wood, over the sand and sharp basaltic boulders to flutter the brown paper thin leaves that still cling to the lower limbs of the gnarled and stunted trees. This is the arid vegetation zone on Santa Cruz, and it is well named. As I walk my feet scuff up dust and sand from the trail. Somewhere far ahead it runs down to the beach, but for now the path rolls over the hills like a boat might over a tempestuous sea, lurching from one crest to the next. It is fiercely hot in the troughs where even the breeze can't reach but it does not stop me taking the time to pause and peer into the sparse and spiny forest.

The volcano to the north casts  a long shadow of drought across this region, it can see no rainfall for months at a time and even the mists that periodically roll up the hills only occasionally come this far. Ellen spots something that looks almost like a snake skin lying by the side of the path, but on closer examination it is the dried out skeletal form of a cactus pad. You know an area is dry when the cacti shrivel up.

As the trail slopes downwards I get my first glimpse of the sea, white breakers visible in the distance beyond the trees and scrub. Beneath the occasional twittering of the finches there is now the repetitive roar of the ocean and for the first time the wind picks up with a hint of Antarctic cool. As I pick up my pace and descend towards the water the forest begins to change subtly. Cacti are less common and the trees have more green to them instead of yellow. The bushes become denser and more tangled, though further spaced and there is more sand under foot than dust and stone. Finally the path opens out and all of a sudden the forest is left behind completely as I step out onto a wide curving expanse of sand. 

Tortuga bay is a spectacular beach and instantly makes it into my top 3 beaches worldwide. The water is a bright sunlit turquoise punctuated by huge white rolling waves. The sand is fine and soft and flat all the way to the single line of dunes that mark the forest edge. At either end of the bay there is a rocky headland dotted with vibrant green mangrove trees and jet black boulders carved from ancient lava. As I stand and look out at the scene I notice something moving on the water, black and scaled dipping under the waves. As I walk closer it resolves itself into not one but two marine iguanas swimming in the shallows. And now that I'm looking for them I can see dozens, all along the shoreline, basking in the sun and shading under the mangrove boughs. There is almost nobody else here, even Ellen is well ahead of me so it is me, the iguanas, the finches, and the occasional brown pelican that floats effortlessly overhead.

If Tortuga bay has one drawback that might keep it from the top spot it is the strong riptide a that run its length. So strong in fact that ever since a tourist got in trouble here a couple of years ago it has been forbidden to swim off the bay. Forbidden, but not enforced very well by anybody I can see. But thankfully there is no need as the Galápagos has evolved a solution. At the far end of the beach, over the virtually flat headland and around the corner (a total walk of about 15 minutes for the beach and two around the rocks) is another pristine stretch. The water here is ripple still and lapping oh so gently and oh so invitingly onto the gentle sloping sand. Which may go some way to explaining why Ellen is already long gone by the time I set down my bag in the shade of the mangrove trees. 

Ellen:

I am long gone. Having lengthened and lengthened my stride as I walked past the deliciously tempting waters that I'm not allowed to swim in, I arrived at the smaller, more sheltered bay hot, sweaty and ready to snorkel. The marine iguanas bundled on top of each other like stoned students look at me lazily as I frantically shove my feet into flippers and my face into a mask. Finally we are in the deliciously cool water and paddling out into deeper water in search of animals. About 500 meters off shore the group of us bob upright.

"Can you see anything" someone asks

"Not a thing" I reply.

Perhaps something about the bay being lined with mangroves means the sand is more silty, but the water, despite being a wonderful temperature, perfectly still and a pretty turquoise, is almost completely cloudy. We were never told that this was a snorkeling destination I guess.

"Maybe if we swim a bit further the water will clear?" I suggest. So, heads back down we paddle industriously along the mangrove edge and further out of the bay.

"See anything?"

"Nope!"

"I saw a shark in the mangroves!" Says Amy the Australian marine biologist

"Really??"

"...I think so."

In the end we decide that this beach might be best for sunbathing and paddling rather than snorkeling, so we head back to shore. We have ended up quite far out and by the time we pass Katrine and Morten going the other way we don't have enough breath to tell them not to bother before they swim enthusiastically past us. They will find out for themselves!

Ellen:

I try to sunbathe for a while, but it's frankly just too hot. On sitting up I discover that the trees we are sitting under are covered in finches. They are on every available twig. And, actually, they are on our bags. And our shoes. And on our towels, and poking their beaks into everything. They are brazen and will not be shoo-ed away.  It's sort of cute, but also a bit Hitchcock.

Morten has decided to make a sandcastle. This seems like an excellent idea and George and I quickly form a team with Amy (the Australian marine biologist). Then Stephanie also starts one and it has become a competition. With George's knowledge of physics, my experience of making things and Amy's familiarity with sand, we are confident.

Our level of success is... debatable. Morten and Stine's construction may be very attractive. And have smooth domes. and spheres (!??). But it's not really a proper CASTLE. It's OK though - we British know far more about what a castle is supposed to look like than a pair of Danes. And 'The Ruined Castle of Cannibal Island' (complete with gift shop) surely ticks all the boxes. For a start we all know proper castles are in ruins. Secondly, it's modern day gift shop gives it modern context and appeal. And it has a skull! Or, at least, an old coconut shall that looks a bit like a skull! And most importantly it has a (only slightly collapsed) water-filled moat. With a bridge! That has an actual gap under it!

Matthew has taken it upon himself to be the judge. Unfortunately he is eyeing The Ruined Castle of Cannibal Island with some confusion. Some hasty back-story and pointing out of it's many features (look! Mangrove leaf doors!) however, and we have won the competition, if not the moral high-ground. 

We offer our castles to some small boys who gleefully stamp all over ours and gently pick up Morten's sand spheres like they are gifts from some kind of sandcastle God.

George:

Quite how we won that competition I have no idea, but perhaps this is evidence as to why students aren't allowed to explain their answers to the examiners, and why football players shouldn't be able to gather around the referee. Nevertheless a victory is a victory and during our final evening of sitting around a campfire we consoled the Danes that their castle was a very good second place and they shouldn't be too upset. The chat was merry, and we enjoyed telling stories of our other travels mixed with the odd ghost story (I managed to remember and recount one I heard in Edinburgh several years ago), and there was a definite sense that everyone was staying up because they didn't want to leave the islands tomorrow. But eventually even putting the last few branches on the fire can't keep away the evening chill, and everyone retires for the final time.

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The following day passes in a rush of transportation solutions, packing, snacking and filling out paperwork. We reach the airport via the same bus we arrived on, though there are no land iguanas in sight this time, and we cross paths with another group of tourists who have just landed. I envy them for the time they are going to have. We all organise ourselves to leave Alex a large tip in an envelope and sign it at the airport (I sign way down at the bottom of the envelope after everyone else). He gives us all a hug as we leave, checks that I am present at the back of the group and then waves us off as we pass through immigration. It is a swift end that comes too soon in such a remarkable place, but, we decide to ourselves, we will just have to come again.