Meet the Galapagueños who are trying to save paradise

Why did the giant tortoise cross the road? To hold up a busload of tourists, it seems. This one is standing in the middle of the barely gravelled track, casting a slow, menacing side-eye that suggests we must wait as long as it takes. I loop my camera around my neck and rush to the front of the bus — though this isn’t exactly a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it situation.

“Ah, Galápagos traffic,” says our naturalist, Adrián Vásquez, the self-proclaimed ‘handsome one’. Our minibus sits stationary in the lush, rain-soaked highlands of Santa Cruz — the second largest and most populated island in the Galápagos. The gentle sun dapples through the gargantuan banana leaves lining the roadside, a single ray spotlighting the black and brown whorls of the tortoise’s shell. Eventually, it disappears into the undergrowth, and we trundle on.

“I’m amazed by their resilience,” says Adrián, who lives on the island of San Cristóbal. “Most people think of tortoises as slow,” he says, “but they can walk such long distances — sometimes up to 10 miles — from the highlands, where food is abundant, all the way down to the coastal areas to lay their eggs and then come all the way back.”

It’s a calm, mid-August morning. We’re halfway through a seven-day cruise with National Geographic-Lindblad Expeditions, sailing to five of the 13 major islands of the Galápagos, in the eastern and southern reaches of the archipelago: setting sail from San Cristóbal and continuing onto Española, Floreana, Santa Cruz, Bartolomé and Genovesa. Taking us to these islands is the intimate, 96-passenger National Geographic Endeavour II: nimble, fully-equipped and the perfect vessel for exploring somewhere Charles Darwin described as “a little world within itself”. And it definitely feels otherworldly: so far, we’ve circumnavigated the mighty volcanic rock León Dormido, in search of albatrosses; snorkelled with reef sharks; admired the iconic blue-footed boobies on the rocky shores of Espanola; and swam with a raft of curious baby sea lions over on Floreana.

But this morning isn’t about the wildlife, it’s about the humans — the Galápagueños who work tirelessly to protect and preserve this paradise, as Adrián calls it. A small group of us are on our way to meet a local hydroponic farmer, Romer Ochoa, whose forward-thinking, water-conscious methods have reinvented how produce can be grown here. He’s one of roughly 32,000 people — farmers, artisans, musicians, fisherfolk, park guards, naturalists — who call the Galápagos home. It’s a number that catches me, and many of my fellow passengers, off-guard — I knew that people lived here, I just didn’t realise how many. But life on an island 621 miles from mainland Ecuador isn’t easy, says Adrián, yet the Galápagueños are always finding creative and meaningful ways to make it work.

Coffee & community

As we pull up to the entrance of Granja Integral Ochoa, Romer — dressed in a raincoat, wellies and jeans — greets us with a tray of just-plucked bananas. Chickens skitter and cluck around his feet as he welcomes us to his farm: a jungle-like labyrinth where he grows coffee and fruits and vegetables that, unbeknown to me until now, I’d been enjoying in the ship’s restaurant.

“There’s no fresh water in Santa Cruz, so I collect rainwater to grow my crops,” says Romer, gesturing proudly to the neat rows of lettuce growing inside irrigation pipes. Originally from Loja — an Andean region in mainland Ecuador — he’s been living in the Galápagos for the past 18 years. When he first bought this plot six years ago, it was dominated by introduced plants, so he started planting more than 600 endemic species to do his bit to restore the island’s fragile ecosystem. His method of farming — growing crops in nutrient-rich water instead of soil — is both space- and time-efficient. Through regular workshops, he wants to teach others in the community, especially the younger generation, about sustainable farming and working with this unique land, not against it.

“For me, being a Galápagueño means this: working with conservation and supporting the community,” Romer says, wrestling with overhanging foliage as he leads us up to his house. We pass pineapple trees and corn plants and eventually reach a small area where he prepares and tests the quality of his coffee beans. He produces roughly 2,200lb a year, with notes ranging from citrus and red fruits to chocolate and nuts. Every single bean gets used, he tells me, and “nothing goes to waste”.

At the cafe attached to his house, he filters the coffee using a special method passed down from his great-great-grandfather, and pours me a cup. “For now, I only distribute my coffee locally and on excursions like this,” he says, handing me a plate of empanadas, sponge cake and a dollop of homemade guava jam. “I want to work in agriculture for the rest of my life, and to show the rest of the world my work.”

Romer is just one of thousands of Galápagueños who have learned to live in harmony with the land. These islands are world-famous for their unique flora and fauna, and, undoubtedly, that’s the main reason why visitors come here. But, according to Adrián, “the local communities themselves have not always been given the visibility they deserve”.

The communities Adrián speaks of are scattered high and low across the four inhabited islands of San Cristóbal, Isabela, Floreana and Santa Cruz. The blissful co-existence of humans and wildlife is demonstrated beautifully in Puerto Ayora, the capital of Santa Cruz and home to the crucially important Charles Darwin Research Station, a scientific research and conservation campus.

We spend a couple of hours in Puerto Ayora after visiting Romer’s farm. It’s the sort of place where locals on scooters whizz past seemingly drunk sea lions snoozing beneath bus stops, while unruffled marine iguanas lounge under trees and pose for photos outside a boutique shop and a microbrewery. It’s a surreal existence, I think to myself. Choreographed, almost. The wildlife here isn’t very fazed by us (although we’re advised to always stay six feet away) and creatures seem just as curious about us as we are about them. Their survival and adaptation skills are a testament to the laws aimed to protect this ecosystem. Only 3% of the land in the Galápagos — declared a national park by the Ecuadorian government in 1959 — is built upon, while the remaining 97% is strictly protected. Cruise ships carrying more than 100 passengers can’t operate here, and a visit to each island is strictly controlled by permits and entrance fees. But behind every law, walking trail or happy little sea lion frolicking on a beach, there’s a Galápagueño working hard to make sure everything stays the way mother nature intended.

“It’s crucial to shine a light on how people live in the Galápagos, what they do, their hobbies, their culture — they are full of fascinating, and sometimes tragic, stories,” says Adrián.

Human history

“That scared the life out of me!” says Walter Perez, with his signature deadpan expression.It’s the next morning, and Walter — who’s been a naturalist in the Galápagos for 20 years — is guiding us through Cerro Dragón, a walking trail in the drier, rockier lowlands of northwestern Santa Cruz. We’ve been looking for the endemic land iguana when, suddenly, six bleating goats scuttle in front of us, stopping us in our tracks.

“The main threat to iguanas here are goats,” he says, stressing that it’s also important to talk about the struggles of the Galápagos. “They don’t eat the iguanas but they compete for vegetation, for food. Most of these threatening animals — goats, dogs, rats and chickens — were introduced by humans, and I don’t think they realised how severe the consequences would be.”

Over on the island of Santiago, the Galápagos National Park had to remove 80,000 goats to protect endemic species, he tells me. The goal isn’t eradication, simply control. The endemic giant tortoise has also suffered at the hands of humans. In the lawless days of the 16th century, sailors, pirates and colonisers hunted them as a source of protein. Now, thanks to ongoing restoration efforts and breeding centres, they’re “everywhere”, says Walter. “I wouldn’t be surprised if I saw one drinking a beer in Santa Cruz.”

As we continue, I see no sign of human life on Cerro Dragón — but the creatures prevail. We see a land iguana — its scales reminiscent of a Van Gogh painting with speckles of yellows, browns and rusty oranges — crossing our path with a slow, shuffling gait. Up ahead, there’s a solitary flamingo in the saltwater lagoon, while Darwin’s finches — famous for their evolutionary adaptations — flicker above.

“Think of this guy as Miss Universe being stripped of her crown,” says Walter, pointing to a lava heron perched on a nearby rock. Thanks to quirks in genetic classification, this bird has pinballed between native (also found elsewhere) and endemic (unique to this area) for a while, but was recently crowned endemic again. Taxonomy matters, but Walter thinks that teaching the average Ecuadorian why this place is so sacred is just as important. “We don’t know what we have, so many of us don’t know that we live in such a unique place,” he says, leading us back to the Zodiac.

Back on the ship, hiking shoes come off and flippers go on for a snorkelling session off the coast of Cerro Dragón, revealing a symphony of sea life: star fish, Mexican hawkfish and sea lions. After drying off, I grab a coffee sourced from Romer’s farm and head to the deck. Ruben Calderon, a Santa Cruz native and the youngest naturalist on board, joins me for a brew.

“You might think we get tired of finches, sea lions or marine iguanas, but we don’t,” says the 26-year-old. Gesturing to the landscape, he says the history of this place is not just about Darwin’s finches or the colonisers. “It’s about us, the people, and what we can do to heal and leave a positive footprint.” He loves sharing his knowledge, because if he can’t teach people about what’s going on, “then what’s it all for?”

Our chat is brief but promising, proof that for every veteran like Walter, there’s a Ruben following in his footsteps. His words linger in my mind as the ship glides through calm waters and turns north toward Genovesa: the final island on our expedition. Later that evening, expedition leader Gaby Bohórquez hosts a lecture about National Geographic and Lindblad Expeditions’ relationship with Galápagos National Park, which sees members of the local community joining the expedition, free of charge, allowing them to explore their homeland on a deeper level.

One of them is Daniel Guerrero, originally from Carchi on the mainland, who came to the Galápagos when he was 21 and has been working as a park guard for the past 38 years. “I came to the Galápagos in 1988,” he tells me. “Back then, the park was small, not like now, and it was easy to get permission to enter.”

There are around 300 employees who work for Galápagos National Park, of which 60, like Daniel, are based out in the field. An ordinary day for him starts before sunrise — opening trails, searching for animals, marking plants, looking for seeds — and ends after sunset, when he returns to the base camp for a well earned rest. “It’s 22 days on the field and six days at home,” he tells me. But despite having worked on these islands for most of his life, he’s only now exploring them like a visitor.

“This,” he says, pausing for a moment, “is extremely beautiful. I love how the naturalists tell the story of this place. The lizard lives in that hole, for what? The land looks like that, but why? I’m enjoying interpreting what this place means to me.” Suddenly, a group of frigatebirds appear above our heads, their deep red throat pouches exposed as they hover close to the mast. Daniel seems engrossed by them, although I assume that after all these years, there isn’t much he hasn’t seen. “Well, there’s only one island I’ve yet to step foot on”, he tells me, his eyes misting over slightly. “Genovesa.”