Arriving from Floreana to the pier on Isla Isabela, I was told it was either a 15 to 20 minute walk or a $1 taxi into the main town Puerto Villamil . Given the heat of the day and the sun’s rays that shine with the force of a laser, it was an easy choice.

At the end of the pier was a man, perhaps 30, tall and slender, wearing a baseball cap, shorts, reflective sunglasses, and barefoot standing beside a, now for me, recognizable taxi-a white pick-up truck. “Taxi?” he asked. We confirmed the price and not knowing where I would be staying he offered to show me a place “clean and reasonable”. Two or three minutes later we arrived at a bland cement building painted pink. The owners came out and showed me a “clean and reasonable” charmless room for $30/night. I graciously declined. Carlos, the driver, was not discouraged and took me to another place with unfortunately an equal lack of appeal. He seemed genuinely content to take me to any number of places before I found what I was looking for. However, after another attempt, I thought it best to continue on my own. He let me off near a small cluster of hostals (small hotels). I gave him $1.50 for the fare and his time.

Planning to stay five nights I was hoping to find a sweet place, and with luck a balcony and view of the sea. It took me another few tries, but I found exactly what I was looking for. A top floor with large bedroom, wide windows with screens, balcony, large bathroom with a great shower, separate kitchen area-minus a stove, in a very pretty white stucco structure embellished with wood and full kitchen on the ground level. The view and sound of the sea, a few hundred feet away, was seen and heard from my balcony and a terrace just outside my door offered a view of a pond, on the other side, with flamingos. The room was $25/night.

Isabela is the largest island in the Galapagos and the population is roughly 1800 people, much more than Floreana’s roughly 150, yet Puerto Villamil remains peaceful and sleepy. Most of the hostals, shops, tourist agencies, and restaurants lie one block away and parallel to the beach-a gorgeous wide stretch of white sand and active surf.

The owners of “my home” were Edith and Beto. Beto’s favorite hangout was his eponymous bar on the beach where he lazed in a hammock when he wasn’t stocking the refrigerator with beer: Pilsner (an Ecuadorean Schlitz of sorts) and Club (a tad tastier). They’d been living on the island for 30 years and converted their first building, which housed the bar, from a church. The bar was mostly frequented by young foreign tourists who smoked, drank the beer, and spent most of the time gliding their fingers along their phones. The music was equally foreign: reggae, blues, and soul.

Although there was an assortment of guided activities designed for tourists I opted for only one: snorkeling at los tuneles. A forty-five minute boat ride to unusual land forms with cactus and pristine waters provided direct encounters with enormous (at least 5 feet long) sea turtles, white-tipped sharks of different sizes- fortunately not aggressive since I unknowingly wandered into their “den”-colorful tropical fish, one large seahorse (about 6 inches long) and more blue footed boobies.

I was happy to spend the rest of the time investigating on my own. I rented a bike and rode along a rough unpaved road, sometimes deep in sand, to a National Park with El Muro de Lagrimas (Wall of Tears) a remnant from the cruel conditions of the penal colony .  This massive stone wall, with no particular purpose,  was built by prisoners starved and worked to death. Just getting there during the heat of the day was challenge enough.

The park also offered natural wonders. I wandered and swam within the mangroves, watched giant tortoises wander too, and sat along the surf once again entertained by iguanas, colorful crabs, and pelicans.

A highlight of my stay was snorkeling at the nearby Concha de Perla with some very social penguins! When they weren’t diving for sardines they seemed delighted to swim with me-and the other humans.

In the evenings I explored the town.

A priest was holding mass in a large modern church, off the main street. Galapagos creatures were depicted in the stained glass. There was one worshiper in attendance. Yet, I passed a few homes where parents squeezed onto sofas with their children and listened to enthusiastic sermons. These preachers were likely hoping for a larger venue to attract their flock.

There is a complete sense of security on the islands and I walked alone at night virtually carefree.( Dangers do lie in unlit, uneven,  roads .)

Although greetings might me exchanged on the street, there was never any unwanted attention. I found the people overall very kind and helpful. My first evening I stepped into a shop to ask where the market was. The shop owner gave a worker $5. She told him to take me to the market and come back with some fruit. When we arrived, the man gave me a tour of the six stalls and their products although the offerings were few.

Blocks away from the main street and tourist shops the local life emerges: homes and shops are single story structures. Doors are left open to catch the sea breeze. Children ride bicycles or kick balls back and forth. Men and women sit outside quietly or socialize.  Barbecues are set up for personal use and business.

The eateries served the typical  fish, chicken with rice, lentils, french fries, salad, and fresh fruit juices/milkshakes of guanabana, maracuya, mora, guayaba, and the more familiar pineapple, coconut, and strawberry. All are delicious!

Dining entertainment, in the form of a TV, was often ultra violent films where I heard, but did my best not to watch, actors in dubbed voices suffering from various means of torture. The local viewers appeared engrossed.

On my last afternoon I scheduled a haircut and color with Dany from Quito in a sparse salon. He complained about his lack of supplies, but I left very happy with his efforts.

I bought a ticket  for a lancha back to Santa Cruz for 3pm. My flight was leaving for Quito at 12:45pm the following day.

Twice a week a lancha (public speedboat) leaves Floreana for Santa Cruz. It takes two hours–too late to catch an on going boat to Isla Isabela the same day. Thus, getting to Isla Isabela, another two hours, requires sleeping in Santa Cruz (no doubt a happy circumstance for hotel owners in Santa Cruz).

At least that’s what I was told.

However, I learned that a captain of a tourist charter, if willing, could take me directly to Isabela-in an hour and half-for the same $30 fare.

A few inquiries later brought me to a pool hall, hidden in the back of my “go to” eatery in Floreana, to seek out a Capitain Gabriel. I found him smoking a cigarette, shooting pool with a buddy and was relieved to see he was drinking soda rather than alcohol. I explained my situation and he responded succinctly with the fare and when to be where. I showed up, as directed, on the pier at 3pm. The guide of the tourists I was to join did not seem pleased with my arrangement. Fortunately, the tourists were extremely gracious and welcomed me aboard. I later heard that some people are not so lucky and are refused such passage outright.

I spent part of the trip speaking to an Australian about politics, usually unadvisable in the best of circumstances– fortunately we shared a common view, before the boat’s movement lulled us into quiet reflection and dozing along with the other passengers. The ninety minutes passed pleasantly and quickly.

Arriving in the harbor at Isabela I was told to stay on board with the luggage while the other tourists boarded a ferry and were whisked off toward land. A few moments later a different ferry pulled up. I got in while they loaded all the bags. My passage did not include the VIP treatment, but I enjoyed the chance to see behind the scenes. Once the task was completed, the luggage, ferry driver and I made our way to shore. Meanwhile a police boat was pulling up to the speed boat I just left for an inspection.

Once on shore, without a word, my bag was magically separated from all the others and passed over to me. I arrived in Isabela a day earlier than expected.

I’ll discuss my time on Isabela in another post…

Boat travel in the Galapagos is virtually obligatory and from my experience, very well organized. The ferrys, 18-footers with a partial tarp roof and wooden seats around the sides, are used to transport passengers and their belongings from the lanchas (speed boats about 30 feet with roof and padded seats along the sides which travel between the islands) to shore. Pangas-sturdy inflatable rafts with seating on the edges-seem primarily used for the cruise ships.

The men who work the vessels vary in age and often wear hats, sunglasses, face masks, long-sleeved shirts and gloves to protect them from the sun, shorts and sandals are the exception. They do not flinch no matter how heavy the suitcases and graciously assist people getting in and out of their boats. It was a comfort to have a steady hand at the ready! (Hands grip wrists.)

Shopping around at any one of the numerous travel agencies (tourism accounts for roughly 80% of the employment- Floreana may be the exception.) isn’t common. The prices are generally fixed at $30. You are given a paper receipt, with the name of the boat, date and time of departure .

Showing up half an hour early at the muelle (pier) is enough time to have your bags inspected (no organic matter is allowed to be transported between islands without some official approval- although the “search” was often perfunctory at best. I suspect they rely mostly on the good faith of the tourists. The risk is real in transporting potentially devastating insects.

People in uniform and other official employees have a clipboard with the passengers names, nationalities, passport number and boat. Once I was “checked-in” I was given a plastic name tag to wear around my neck that identifies my boat amongst the several that leave at the same time according to need. When the boat’s name is called we (around 18 passengers) line up like obedient school children awaiting our turn to board.

Our bags are loaded in the front of the ferry and we take a seat. This trip is just a matter of minutes. Time enough to travel from the muelle to our lancha and pay the driver- the fare ranges from 50 cents to one dollar. The bags are loaded from ferry to lancha and we embark.

The name tags are collected and we head off into the open waters to our destination seeing an array of rays, dolphins, frigates, sea turtles, and pelicans along the way.

For most tourists, Floreana is a day or overnight visit and my decision to stay a week was outright discouraged. “Es muy tranquilo!” literally “It’s very quiet.”, but meaning, “There is nothing to do there!” Nonetheless, I was intrigued by an inhabited Galapagos island that has changed little in fifty years and the Wittmers, who settled here.

Heinz and Margret Wittmer, disillusioned with their lives in Germany, and inspired by Dr. Ritter (a vegetarian, nudist, dentist who published accounts of his Edenic life on Floreana), packed up their possessions and set off in 1932 to live on this speck of volcanic land, roughly 600 miles off the coast of Ecuador, (Floreana by Margret Wittmer offers her fascinating account.)

The Hotel Wittmer run today by their daughter Ingebor a.k.a. Floreanita and granddaughter, Erika, is where I wished to stay and booked a room before my arrival. The reservation proved unnecessary. I was often the only guest.

My room for $25/night had a private balcony with hammock on playa negra (aptly named black beach), table and chairs, overhead fan, double bed, and dresser: simple, but comfortable. The sea lay barely a stone’s throw away and lulled me to sleep. I awoke to the sound of the surf and the kireee, kireee, kireee song of the birds who flitted amongst the coconut palms. Sea turtles, sea lions, and pelicans were often passing by and the iguanas, lizards, and finches were never far.

My arrival coincided with Floreanita’s eightieth birthday. I was invited for cake with the guest of honor, her three daughters, three grandchildren, and nephew, mostly visitors. Only she and Erika still reside on Floreana. The following day I took a boat trip with the family, but any questions I would have loved to pose regarding their lives on the island remained unasked. l sensed they were either tired of such inquiries or had never enjoyed discussing their unique circumstance with curious outsiders.

Modern life, despite the information I had received, has come to Floreana after all: cell phones and wifi are present, but service is intermittent and the very few motorized vehicles are rarely seen. The three chivas are used to transport the tourists to the highlands and the handful of pickup trucks and jeeps are used by locals to attend to their fincas (farms) a few miles away. There are no taxis but I and my two companions (a French couple- they had planned on staying four nights and left after two) were offered a ride back from a hike in the highlands.

The population is around 150. There is one school for the roughly 27 students ages 5 through 14. Older students must travel to Santa Cruz or the mainland to continue their studies. There are no shops per se (except for a tiny room connected to a home with a sparse supply of eggs, biscuits, papaya, cucumber, and yogurt when in stock). Most goods are grown organically on the island for personal use and/or exporting: coffee, pineapple, guavas, oranges, watermelon, papaya, corn, wheat, cows, pigs, chickens and burros. Once a month a ship comes from Guayaquil transporting goods or residents make the two-hour boat trip to Santa Cruz.

The dining options were limited to four eateries. The hotel offered decent meals, but little charm. It served as my breakfast spot. For lunch and dinner I went elsewhere. Perseverance was needed and advance notice was mandatory. If my reservation at an eatery was accepted, I would find a place setting awaiting my arrival. I was often the only diner.

After a delicious meal my first evening I was told the owner/cook would be leaving for a week. It was a tough break! The second best was open when the owner was up to it. She had been tuckered out by a large group of tourists the previous week and needed to rest. The last option, with the least talented cook, was usually open and the warm, engaging locals who congregated there made up for the lack of gastronomic pleasure.(Although the choice of meals:tuna-not out of a can-and chicken served with rice, potatoes and salad were the usual choices everywhere,the preparation made all the difference.)

Despite some adjusting to the pace and rhythm, my week went all too fast. I adapted quickly to this unique enclave.

What did I do in a place “with nothing to do”? I listened to the surf and birds, swam daily and snorkeled with sea turtles and sea lions, visited the caves that housed pirates and the Wittmers when they first arrived, saw grazing giant tortoises and the usual array of creatures, kayaked in a turquoise sea, hiked along a gorgeous rocky coast and to the top of a hill/volcano(?) with a magnificent view at sunset, read, wrote, and napped during the oppressive heat of the afternoons, walked the quiet empty road at night gazing at the stars, thwarted the bites of ravenous mosquitos, and chatted with those who call Floreana home.

To appreciate the Galapagos is easy. One need only use one’s senses, but to learn some of the history adds to the pleasure.

Unlike many lands, the Galapagos claims no indigenous people, at least not one with a trace. The islands are volcanic and were never connected to a land mass. Pirates and other seamen had visited the islands, nearly devouring all the tortoises that gave the islands their name, yet did not settle here. The Galapagos was eventually founded as a penal colony where prisoners were expected to fend for themselves. The residents today, if descendants of past generations, are likely related to these original prisoners. In the 20th century a few Europeans came seeking an Edenic life–very few remained. The Wittmers of Floreana are a noteworthy and fascinating exception.

Today the population is tightly controlled and permanent residency can only be obtained by being born here or marrying someone who has.

Santa Cruz is the most populated of the four inhabited islands and connected by bus and ferry to the tiny island of Baltra where an airport welcomes flights from Quito and Guayaquil. Foreigners come in droves with predominantly pale skin, wide-brimmed hats and variations of safari attire. Backpackers are less in attendance; a visit to the Islands does not come cheap.

If one sticks to the main streets of the inhabited islands, a stream of travel agencies, t-shirt shops, and restaurants catering to tourists with highly inflated prices will be encountered. Tourism is the primary industry. But walking in the quieter back streets one discovers a life for locals where a full lunch with soup, main course and bottomless juice glass is $4 (the currency here is the American dollar converted from the sucre in 2000. Many Ecuadorians lost considerable sums in the sudden exchange. The “connected” took measures in exchanging their funds beforehand.).

My two-week boat trip passed far too quickly and exceeded all expectations.

Fortunately I have some time before my visa expires to explore Santa Cruz, Floreana (which I will be writing about next), and Isla Isabela before heading back to the Ecuador mainland on May 1.

An added bonus is that my Spanish is improving-very few locals speak English.

To be continued…

I look before sitting down on a public bench in town not wishing to sit on a sea lion. Few if any of the creatures here fear humans and mingle freely among us. They are well protected with strict laws and seemingly know it. The land, sea, and sky are havens for iguanas, dolphins, giant tortoises, whales, sharks, sea turtles, crabs, pelicans, finches, lizards, sea lions, fur seals, and hundreds of other species including the iconic blue and red footed boobies all flourishing in their natural habitats. The thrill never abates in seeing them all, many at nearly arm’s-length.

For two weeks I was on a 110 foot boat, with 12 to 15-mostly British and Australian passengers(they stayed for 8 or 5 days) exploring the islands:Santa Cruz, Isabela, Fernandina, Santiago, Santa Fe, Santa Maria, Española, San Cristobal, and Genovesa with an extremely knowledgable naturalist, gracious capitan and crew. It was a magical journey through stunning sea and scenery; an awe-inspiring encounter with the natural world.

Hikes and snorkeling, sometimes twice each day kept us fit, hungry for the three full meals and ready for bed at 8pm. It helped that the sun sets at 6pm. My nightlife consisted of moon and star-gazing, of the mostly Southern Hemisphere, while sitting on the bow of the ship, followed by the reading of Charles Darwin’s Voyage of the Beagle in bed.

Darwin traveled around the world (1831-1836) years before he would challenge age-old beliefs with his theories of evolution. His arduous travels reliant on ship, horseback and foot, and descriptions of “naked savages” tell of a world not yet 200 years ago which little resembles our own.

These last four days I’ve stayed in Santa Cruz, doing my best to keep cool. Days are sweltering.  So I ride a bike to Tortuga Bay for swimming, hop into the ubiquitous white pick-up truck taxis ($1.50 fixed price) when I’m feeling lazy-I’ll blame that on the heat, and take a water taxi to the beautiful Las Grietas across Finch Bay. Chatting with locals who are open and warm–in my error laden Spanish. I watch the sea lions sleep, flirt, snarl, play and caress each other.

Tomorrow I take a ferry back to Isla Floreana–an island with a colorful history of eccentrics and murderers–to stay for a week. It is described as a relatively primitive island: no cars, basic accommodations, one phone, no wifi.

To be continued…

When I discuss traveling on my own to far off places, particularly with people I do not know well, they are often very curious about the dangers I faced and what, if anything, went wrong. I cannot blame them.

We are bombarded with bad news and seem to forget that most of us go about our lives without warranting headlines.

“Did you hear about the woman who traveled alone to Turkey?” Yes, I did. A tragedy. But did we hear about the hundreds, thousands of women who travel alone without incident?

Good news rarely sells.

I asked the couple if I could be dropped off in the center of Putre. “Everything here is more or less the center,” they explained. “It’s a very small town.” We soon stopped on the main road–the only road that connected to the highway we left behind–to share some last words before saying goodbye. Low wooden buildings sparsely bordered each side.  A motley group of dogs sniffed along with no apparent destination. They provided the few signs of life.

I sought some shade and waited for Jose to ride up. In time, an old woman ambled by with a small herd of sheep, then a man rode by on horseback. I said “Buenas Tardes.”  He nodded in response. His dog easily kept up with the horse’s languid gait. The surroundings beckoned no urgency.

When Jose did arrive, he pressed on to check out the town. It was inevitable that our paths would cross again.

Some investigating led me to a hotel where I gratefully accepted a glass of water from the manager, the oppressive sun had urged my thirst. I unloaded my bags in the simple but comfortable accommodation that overlooked the same path the woman and her sheep had come down. Then I stepped back out to explore.

A couple I saw in the distance approached wearing large safari style hats and khaki travel attire–clearly tourists. We only exchanged hellos. Each of us seemed reluctant to further disrupt the still air with our foreign tongues or tales. I would see very few tourists here.

I could understand how the lack of activity might dissuade people from visiting Putre, but it did not deter me. The air was fresh and welcome after the abundant exhaust fumes in La Paz. A breeze picked up as I passed a local eatery I would return to that evening. The quiet was soothing. I stayed a few days before heading to the coast.