When we left I had been up most of the night vomiting after eating empanadas and morrocho (a creamy corn-based drink that is probably one of my favorite foods here!) and getting some kind of stomach bug. The morning of the flight I felt okay, so I decided not to cancel my trip and just see how things went. The plane we took was certainly the smallest I’ve ever had the pleasure of flying in- your knees are literally pressed up against the seat in front of you, you ride two across, and you make sure that the luggage is equally balanced, so that the plane doesn’t lilt to one side. On the way we talked to some nice Galapagueños who explained to us that the word for small boy or small little thing—chiquito—actually means butt on these crazy islands, though nowhere else (and here I thought they were all laughing with me).
Our plane landed smoothly, and the first day in Isabella we decided to walk to the Centro de Crianza (center of creation), where tortugas (giant turtles) are bred, sheltered, and eventually reintroduced into the wild—all in order to help stave off extinction for the 6 separate, endangered species of land turtles on the island. The turtles are a pretty hilarious tourist attraction, all things considered, as they don´t really do all that much and they certainly aren´t in a hurry to do the little that they do do. (see pic of 3 tortugas) Of course, it was cool to see them all together and in all stages of life (the young ones were enclosed in a mesh zoo to keep rats and other introduced species like boar and goats from eating them, with their tender shells), but being there made me wonder what the island might have been like when these giants were actually running (well, moseying) around the volcanic rocks and ferns in large numbers, without a care or predator in their world…
The sendero (trail) to the Centro was lined with mineral-deposit-laden bogs and lagoons, and, in the middle of the sendero was the occasional, disgruntled, spitting marine iguana with its spiky back and wrinkled skin. The striated colors of the mineral deposits (pinks and salmons, yellows, greens) reminded me of Yellowstone and its geyser pools, but thankfully without the rotten-egg-sulfur smell. Birds we hadn’t seen before on San Cristobal (of course, all of the Cristobaleña giant pelicans and boobies are also present on Isabela in inflated numbers, which makes for an amazing afternoon of bird-watching) were feeding and perching on driftwood, some with half-black, half-white bodies and long, ridiculously thin orange legs The absurdly long-legged, wannabe-flamingoes were having fun scaring the crap out of smaller ducks and birds also feeding in the lagoon—charging at them at full speed and making hilarious squawking noises.
After returning to the town and catching a glimpse of the famed flamingoes at dusk (this is when they come to one of the local lagoons to feed), we had a nice merrienda (dinner) and chilled in the hammocks at the hostel where we were staying. I wasn’t feeling all that hot the next morning, but we had already chartered a trip up to the world´s second largest crater (Sierra Negra) and a small volcano (Volcán Chico) on horseback, with a naturalist guide. So, with my stomach rumbling and protesting, we took the rainy taxi ride up to where the ranch was, where our horse-mules were waiting and munching on grass (we passed through at least three climates that day, the first of which, at the coast, is generally warm and sunny during the day. The second of which, in the highlands, is more like a lush, rainy forest- chilly and usually overcast, and the third of which can be quite sunny and hot again during the day, as you are on top of black volcanic rock (think of pumice stones) and lava tubes and very close to an extremely strong, equatorial sun).
Having not been horseback riding since my middle school days (and the little riding I did thanks to Erin Beltran-now-Mitchelson!!), I was a bit rusty and awkward in the saddle of those trotting half-horse-half-mules (I don’t know where those horses evolved, but they were stubborn). The riding was an adventure in itself, and I was shocked that all the jangling and jiggling actually didn’t make my stomach hurt (maybe cause I was more worried about my horse charging into the other horses, skidding in the mud, and possibly falling off the trail into the second largest crater in the world). In fact, it turned out that all the jangling and being scared out of my gourd of falling off the horse was the best thing I could have done for my stomach, since as soon as we dismounted my stomach went right back to its churning and gassing and generally being a pain in my chiquito.
We dismounted next to a beautiful tree, where we left all of our belongings except for sunblock and water and efectivo (cash), and where our well-intentioned German friend asked Vicente if black people tan, hehehe. Our naturalist guide, Richard, then took us on an extensive tour of lava tubes and colorful volcanic minerals and showed us places where the tubes had caved in due to pressure or what have you (yikes). We saw Volcán Chico, and it was good. From the top of the volcanic area, we could see the contour of much of the coast of Isabella, and it was breathtakingly good. We went back to our narnial tree and ate sandwiches and plantain chips and maracuña, which is passion fruit, which is very, very good, but my stomach continued to rumble and protest and annoy me.
Happily, my volcanic churning subsided, and I was able to enjoy the rest of our trip in relative abdominal peace, swimming with white-tipped reef sharks (which look a lot like some of the large blue fish here until you see the white-striped fin and ask yourself why en el mundo you thought it would be a good idea to go swimming with sharks in the first place- but don’t worry, it’s safe, say all), walking to a wall of tears (volcanic stone piled up by prisoners held on the island after the second world war, during the building of which many died), being led through several mangrove forests (the roots of which tangle and subsist in impossible ways, stretching toward the semi-sweet water, as they say), and finally going on a wonderful fishing trip (during which Vicente caught 3 huge fish) with our friend Andrés, whose nickname means octopus, whom we had met during our evenings in the town. To celebrate Isabella and the fishing trip, we had a barbeque with the large silver-white fish we’d caught, maduros (ripe plantains), potatoes, and caña, which is like rum, mixed with juice from a freshly stolen coconut- a drink our friend Andrés calls crazy water).
The only downfall of the trip was our brush with not being able to leave the island on time, supposedly due to a shortage of gasoline for the avionetas (airplanes). Suffice it to say, transportation between the islands can be a real headache, since you never quite know when you are being ripped off because you are a tourist and when there is a legitimate problem. You have to stand your ground as long as possible, but in the end, be willing to make a complete chiquito out of yourself, which, of course, is what we did, details aside.
After a horrific five our boat ride, during which my stomach threatened to devolver the few crackers that I had managed to consume that morning before embarking at 5 am, we woozily stepped back onto blessed tierra, our home-for-now, Puerto Baquerizo Moreno, on San Cristóbal Island. We were never so happy to go home and make oatmeal with guineos (bananas) and leche en polvo (powdered milk) and speak to our lovely adopted abuelita in Spanish and take a slight siesta before planning our classes, before returning to the daily question, do we have enough time to run to the beach before class?
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