Cruising Galápagos, marveling at the mysteries of life on Earth

The Galápagos have served as a laboratory for life ever since they bubbled up above the ocean's surface more than five million years ago.

Today there are 13 main islands, and the newest are still being created by volcanic activity. The most recent eruption occurred in 2005. All species on the islands arrived through some extraordinary luck or toughness: seeds blown by the wind or carried in the stomachs of birds; small land tortoises that drifted for months on ocean currents, or on rafts of vegetation that blindly bumped up against the new land. Those that survived the harsh environment gave rise to an astonishing array of endemic species: marine iguanas, tool-using finches, giant tortoises that weigh almost 320 kilograms, or 700 pounds. Life evolved in quiet isolation, unaffected by the outside world.

No longer a lonesome outpost of life untouched by humans, today the Galápagos are a laboratory of conservation, where humans' fraught relationship with the natural world can be studied and, hopefully, repaired. In 1959, the centenary of the publication of Darwin's "Origin of Species," the Ecuadorean government declared the archipelago a national park. Today, 97 percent of the archipelago is preserved, along with 103,600 square kilometers, or 40,000 square miles, of the surrounding ocean.

Working with the Ecuadorean National Park Service, organizations like the Charles Darwin Foundation finance conservation programs, education and scientific research.

A nascent "voluntourism" movement in the Galápagos allows for deeper connection with the place than that afforded from a cruise ship anchored off the coast. I encountered several travelers who had come to spend their vacations helping to eradicate invasive plant species (like raspberry) with an organization called Jatun Sacha. Perhaps not the most relaxing or glamorous vacation, but one that can have a real effect on a unique and fragile part of world heritage.

But everyone, volunteers and package tourists alike, is really here for the charismatic megafauna. We visit the excellent interpretive center on the edge of town, with exhibits explaining the island's history, flora and fauna, and current conservation issues. Armed with a head full of scientific trivia and an amateurish grasp of taxonomy, we set out to gawk at the island's indifferent native inhabitants.

The Galápagos are, in this regard, not so different from Manhattan, where the commoners breathlessly tally their sightings of aloof celebrities. But on San Cristóbal, the animals are the real celebrities.

In the following days we cavort with baby sea lions at their colony on the tiny island of Isla Lobos. We snorkel with hammerhead sharks and sea turtles and eagle rays off of Leon Dormido. Above forests of candelabra cactus and saltbrush, we watch male frigate birds puff out their bright-red neck pouches like balloons in hopes of finding a mate. From the deck of our boat we spot blue-footed boobies dive-bombing for fish.

As the rest of the crew haul their boards to a nearby point break (the Galápagos have excellent surfing), I crouch in the lava rocks along the shoreline, getting within a meter of a sluggish, enormous pair of marine iguanas, their mottled black skin a perfect camouflage on the basaltic rock. On encountering the creatures, the young Darwin, caught up in the spirit of scientific inquiry, flung one repeatedly into the surf to see how well it could swim.

On our last day on San Cristóbal, before my cohort Rhys Hayes, an Australian Internet entrepreneur, and I fly back to the mainland and the rest of the crew sets sail for the 5,600-kilometer crossing to the Marquesas, we pay a visit to the most famous inhabitants of the Galápagos: the giant tortoises. The tortoises are the undisputed kings here; the islands themselves are named for them (galapago is an archaic Spanish word for "saddle," so called for the shape of their shells). Surviving as long as two centuries, there are still Galápagos tortoises that lived here when Darwin explored the islands.

Rhys and I take one of the island's few paved roads to the national park's tortoise breeding center. Following a path through a parched and stunted forest of native manzanillo trees, we come across a dozen giant tortoises settling into a lunch of fresh leaves. They are between 50 and 100 years old, and move at a pace that befits their longevity. They bump one another as they feed, their shells making a sound like coconuts being knocked together.

The tortoises had it rough in the early years of human intrusion into their world. Their population, once as high as 100,000, was nearly wiped out, many slaughtered for their fat, which was rendered into lamp oil. Thousands more were captured and stacked upside down in the holds of ships, where they would stay alive for years without food or water, providing a source of fresh meat. Even Darwin notes in his journals that not only did he attempt to ride atop their shells, but that "the young tortoises make excellent soup."

Today, an active breeding program has been undertaken, and the 11 remaining subspecies of giant tortoises are being brought back from the brink. In May, scientists claimed they may even have found a genetic relative of Lonesome George, long thought to be the last Pinta tortoise on earth. Rhys and I peer into a tortoise nursery at perfectly formed baby tortoises the size of golf balls. The hatchlings will spend years here before being released into the wild. With a little luck and help, these babies will be plodding through the underbrush a century from now.

I crouch down, watching as they slowly extend their long wrinkled necks to strip leaves from branches, their black eyes glimmering with awareness behind the dusty green-gray of their faces. It is an astonishing, unmediated view of the natural world, though I am certain I am anthropomorphizing when I detect a hint of both sadness and hope in their eyes. It is more likely a reflection of my own sadness at the damage we have done, and hope that humans can turn things around in time to save this unique corner of the world.

What I discovered in our crossing and exploration of the Galápagos is hard to pinpoint: as with any such travels the epiphanies come later. Darwin explored these islands for five weeks, out of a sea journey of five years. When he returned to England he never left again, and did not publish "The Origin of Species" for 23 more years. But there is a tantalizing moment in his journals from the Galápagos (later published as "The Voyage of the Beagle") that indicates all he was on the cusp of understanding: "Both in space and time, we seem to be brought somewhat near to that great fact - that mystery of mysteries - the first appearance of life on earth."

In an age of the disappearance of life on earth, I felt at least closer to understanding the significance of its diversity, and of its fragility.

(πηγή: www.iht.com, 27/12/2007)