The Galapagos Islands

Update: 8

Stepping off the plane at San Cristobal (the capital island, but not the tourist centre) on to a little strip of tarmac and into what could best be described as a hut, the heat smacks you head-on and the abundance of oxygen after three weeks in the Andes means you only need to take a breath every seven minutes.

The last two weeks have been pretty laid back and, to be honest, I think I'm the most relaxed I've ever been. A week in a hammock near a perfect, empty beach on the Equator takes some beating. I almost had it sussed except for one problem: my wife has too much energy and was constantly dragging me around the islands to see things. I'm sure one day I'll be grateful that I saw two giant, mating tortoises but at the moment my gut feel is that time in a hammock beats tortoise sex two goals to nothing.

Cycling down a volcano (yes, another one) on 10 year old, $50 bike with the catchy brand name of "Taiwan Pasion" (sic) over a corrugated dirt road with neither rear breaks nor front shock absorbers with a slow puncture in searing heat so oppressive event the cacti were surrendering, is worse than cycling in the rain. But I have no one else to blame and I'm legally bound to do as I'm told for the rest of my life, so I'll have deal with it. Suggestions welcome.

Although we arrived in San Cristobal, we've visited two other islands: Santa Cruz and Isabela since then. Getting from one to the other is a third world experience worth recording:

• Tickets are bought the day before from an operator. They cost $25 plus El Cucaracha's fee of $5. El Cucuracha (The Cockroach) heads up the Galapagos Mafia. Everyone buys a ticket from him. This is done by buying a ticket from someone else and paying them his commission. You cannot get around it. Ever.
• Everyone has their bag searched for organic products by an official. A search so thorough they failed to spot a pillowcase of coca leaves in Lloyd's backpack which was the size of, well, a pillowcase. (Coca leaves, the key ingredient in cocaine, are legal in Peru and Bolivia but not in Ecuador. Lloyd is another story -  more about him later).
• Once all bags have been checked, passengers pile into a boat. Actually it's a floating piece of fibreglass with three 75hp outboard motors. No lifejackets.
• Finally El Capitan climbs in and fires the beast up. He then dons earmuffs and some pretty serious, mirrored ski goggles. The kind made popular in early eighties B-grade spy movies.
• For the next two hours, one finds religion and blocks thoughts of being in the  middle of the planet's largest ocean on a piece crap powered by two hundred and twenty five horses and lunatic in earmuffs from one's mind.

We did this trip three times: from San Cristobal to Santa Cruz, Santa Cruz to Isabela and Isabela back to Santa Cruz. I don't think our time's up yet.

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Isabela is by far our favourite of the islands. It's very laid back. No tarmac anywhere, not many people, no one trying to fleece tourists, the best hamburger joint south of Los Angeles and Hotel Las Gardenias. The only thing wrong with Hotel Las Gardenias is that the toilet doesn't have the strongest flush. That, coupled with three nights at the best hamburger joint south of Los Angeles highlights the need for emergency services on the Island.

Hotel Las Gardenias is run by Gardenia, a late thirties divorcee, her 80-something toothless aunt, Rosa America, and a bloke who's relationship with her we couldn't establish.

Rosa America, who I'm intending on legally adopting as my grandmother, is top class. She's not much more than 4 foot, has a croaky voice, a few teeth, laughs a lot and every night shared our vodka or (on some nights, and) wine with us. She  spoke no English but assured us that she could understand it because "yo haya trabajo con una italiana". (She worked with an Italian). So that clears that up then.

Gardenia's boyfriend/brother/helper/friend was interesting. He shouted a lot and didn't do much. On one afternoon I watched him, from my hammock, paint the outside wall. Being my father's son, I've seen a maestro paint. It involves cleaning the surface, sticking masking tape and newspaper everywhere you don't want paint - like window frames - selecting the right brush or roller, applying a base layer,  and evenly and patiently creating a masterpiece. In painting terms, the Renaissance passed this guy by. He came out with a bucket and an old roller, chucked some paint at the wall (and the windows, patio floor and door) and climbed into the second hammock next to me. There was a large sun and palm tree painted on the wall before he started and due to lack of masking tape and/or enthusiasm, the sun was now partly covered by a thin layer of yellow paint. He didn't laugh when I asked him if that was meant to be overcast, but Rosa America did, and that's good enough for me.

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Our visit to a second tortoise sanctuary sparked an interesting moral dilemma that I'm still mulling over. Firstly, you need to realise - if you don't already know - that the life of a tortoise is pretty dull. It consists of: eating cactus, moving very slowly over hot rocks, grinding already hideous feet into even more hideous calluses, hauling your house (which is a shell) around on your back all day, every day and trying to mate (if you're a male) with a female that is trying to avoid you. If you had to live like this for a week, you'd be pretty grumpy. Here's where I have a question. On hearing a guide proudly explain to a group of retired American tourists (unfortunately Darwin's Origin of Species was complete by the time these guys hit the Galapagos so certain theories of evolution may need to be revised) that Due to the work of the Charles Darwin Foundation, tortoises are now able to live to their full potential of 150 years. I had to bite my tongue from asking whether anyone had actually checked with a tortoise, because, if I was one, I'd be pretty grateful for introduced pests that shortened my misery.

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Some other interesting titbits before I sign off:

• All the taxis on Santa Cruz Island are 4x4 pickup trucks. Much like minibus taxis in Africa, these have been given names by their owners. Today I saw: "Wolf the Air", "Movil Kevin" which I'm guessing translates to something like "Mobile Kevin" and "Titanig" (yip, spelt with a G).
• There is a man walking around New Zealand who's job is - I'm not making this up - a Funeral Photographer. We've met him, and he's weird. I asked him if it was a bit like a wedding photographer but with one less picture. He said it wasn't because people were sadder and touched each other more. I'm interested to know what people do with the pictures. I'd also like to understand the logistics of commissioning such a photographer. Who asks for him? Clearly not the person who's funeral it is. Who pays him? So many questions....

Anyway, that's it for now. We're going on a four day cruise on Sunday to some even more remote islands, so I'll fill you in when we get back.

Take it easy and remember: if you're in a restaurant in Santa Cruz, and the chef starts using a hairdryer on the grill, don't be alarmed, she's just getting the flames going to brown the steaks. This is normal and happens all the time. My steak tonight was delicious.   

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As a treat for those of you who have read this far. You can read about Lloyd on his own page.