Lunes 26

After finishing a last bit of packing, we grab a final San Jose de Puembo breakfast, very much abuzz. We’re off to the airport, you see…for today is Galapagos day! Some would say that this, rather than the wedding, was the main draw of the entire Ecuadorean endeavour. Surely, they would be wrong…but not very wrong. Not very wrong at all. Almost entirely correct, in fact…

It’s all slightly manic at said airport, as there are multiple hoops for us all to jump through in order for the Ecuadoreans – natural and glacial bureaucrats, so it seems – to give us the ‘okay’ to head over to the islands. Many dollars change hands, none in what I’d call ‘the correct direction’. However, all things pass, and, despite everything, almost all of us get on the plane on time, sat down in the fabulous ‘extra legroom’ seats we’d been obliged to purchase at gunpoint.

A quick hop over a tiny fraction of that there Pacific Ocean later, we land. We’ve made it. The Galapagos. Incredible. Here we, of course, pay the tourist tax, have a hound jump all over our bags, happy in his work, then get the bus across the wild and arid landscape of Isla Baltra to the waiting water taxi to Santa Cruz. Immediately once aboard, we see some amazing birds, ducking and diving and swooping away, enough to make El Anciano, back home in Blighty, keel over with jealousy. After this mini-ferry there’s a (land) taxi to Los Ninfas hotel, organised in advance by the ever-diligent El Escocés. Here we unpack, mill around, hand over vast largesse to the grasping hoteliers, have a beer by the pool, and generally thank all of our lucky stars that we’re here.

Fabulosa and I, having itchy feet and hungry stomachs, split from the herd at this point to go grab a cerviche and cerveza at TJ’s by the seafront. We then go a-wandering through Puerto Ayora to the Charles Darwin Research Centre to get our passports stamped, as one does. We then accidentally stroll the wrong way around the Centre grounds, illicitly seeing giant tortoises or various stripes (more on these tomorrow) without securing the necessary (paid) guide. Guides, it seems, are somewhat indispensable on these islands, just in case you damage any wildlife, or go ten minutes without handing over some cash. ‘Off’ we are ‘told’ and ‘away’ we are ‘ushered’; but ’tis too late – we have seen everything.

After the ol’ CDRC, we head to the nearby playa and have a gander at all sorts of crabs, birds and iguanas, enjoying the surf with the rest of us, before skipping back to the hotel the long way round town, as a happy night falls. But where for dinner? Sol Y Luna is the place, or so our revived WhatsApp messages claim, on the bustling Charles Binford Street. Here, finding the gang, we share in some large, grilled fish and large, chilled beers. Some of us also get around an ice cream, as is the custom of the time and place. The last stop of the day is The Rock, along with some of the MBA cohort, for saxophone music, more beers and very slippery caipirinhas. A fine first Galapafternoon, for sure – but believe me, even better Galapadays are yet to come.

Martes 27

We breakfast early at the hotel, an idea very much instigated by Fabulosa, who enjoys such things and has been, so it seems, sent by God to punish those who might rather sleep in. That morning El Escocés, who has been doing some ‘desktop research’, suggests we go grab ourselves a Las Gritas tour. He’s a Scotsman who regularly knows his cebollas, so we readily agree to the notion.

This scheme starts with a short water taxi across the bay and then, once a guide has been bought-and-paid-for, winds us afoot through cactus forests and mangrove…groves. Our guide, Gandy (no relation), is a friendly, knowledgeable fella and this good walk was far from spoiled. We finish up with some snorkeling in great, collapsed lava tunnels at the very end of the route, the cool waters proving most pleasant, as are the large and iridescent fishies that flit about below us. A morning well-spent indeed, the only blemish being some rather unwise, high-UV beach fun following the tour, which pinkened me up right royal.

We luncheon well at Bahia Bar, enjoying beautiful views and, for those of us who chose correctly, some truly delicious fish in a coconut sauce. This provides the necessary energy for an excellent ‘Highlands tour’ – again sourced by the Scotch one – where we take in massive rainforested craters, exciting (and this time intact) lava tunnels and a truly wondrous giant tortoise sanctuary with innumerable ancient beasties just strolling all around, looking most Jurassic. An absolute highlight – I had no idea there were so many of these glacial giants knocking about! Attempts to explain the difference between tortoises and turtles – especially to those whose first language has but one word for the pair of ’em – are only middlingly successful.

Having hung around, rapt by the reptiles, Fabulosa, La Gata, El Escocés and I take the final taxi back to town, piloted by a fella who, after discovering we (almost) spoke Spanish, proved to be wildly talkative. He suggested that his mate ‘Dan’ could sort Fabulosa and me out with some ferry tickets for later in the week – but we (in our gentle ignorance) believed these might be easy to come by later, at cheaper prices. Ah hubris, it’s been too long, old friend…

Dinner that evening (with all the crew) was at Midori Sushi, which appeared the most happening joint in all of Puerto A; and rightly so – it was an A+ place and a genuine treat. We opted for the tuna taster menu, all of which was splendidly delectable, as were the cocktails and all those other good things coming to us. The matire d’, having already ingratiated himself with a reasonable bill and a handsome aspect, further rose in the esteem of all right-thinking people when he asked me, having clocked that I was English, whether Oasis were ever going to get back together. Proof, were it needed, that even those living their lives in paradise, still dream of unattainable heavens.

Miércoles 28

This fateful Wednesday morning saw the first of several Isabella Island Ferry Ticket Panics (IIFTPs), the very thought of which still brings a cold sweat to my brow as I type. Heading to the dock with the others to grab our tour boat to Santa Fe island, Fabulosa and I stopped at a ticket office to sort out our Thursday/Friday ferries to Isabella, the largest and most wild of the islands. To our dismay, the fella in the kiosk informed us that, while he had plenty of Thursday tickets to Isabella, there were none left to get us back the morning after. This was An Issue.

This all precipitated a mad panic around the other travel shops in the locale, all while our tour ferry pilot waited very, very impatiently for us. With mere seconds remaining, I managed to buy our way onto a likely return ferry, hopefully not at the expense of two other unfortunates whose names were crossed out (but in this cutthroat world of Galapagos ferries, you have the quick and you have the dead). Speaking of ‘quick’, I then sprinted back across the port and made our tour…just. There had been no need nor time to stop to purchase tomorrow’s outbound ticket: there were plenty of boletos left for that after all…or so yer man had suggested…

Our tour to Santa Fe began with me, for only the second time in my life, feeling very seasick indeed. The ‘ferries’ they have between islands out here are no larger than middlingly small fishing boats or a moderately wealthy American’s pleasure-craft, and when the Pacific waves hit them they stay properly hit. It took all my willpower and a lot of ocean spray to keep me from seeing my (thankfully, very small) breakfast again in short order. These salty agonies were well worth it, however, as before too long we were by the rocky shore of Santa Fe, and the snorkeling could begin!

And what snorkeling it was – first with shoals of beautiful fish and then up close and personal with several large and playful sea lions. One of the heftiest took exception to me hanging around their favourite rock and made straight for Old Tom, nipping my flipper as I beat a polite retreat. Other than that, everything was very pleasantly cordial between man and sea-beasts. After this, the next stop was a stunning reef-shielded bay, where we all completed a wonderful, leisurely lap, searching for turtles and finding them too. Truly the best snorkeling I’d ever enjoyed…albeit snorkeling that may or may not be eclipsed in only twenty-four hours’ time!

Back on the bobbing boat we were presented with a tuna steak lunch – which I just about managed to stomach, but which the others wolfed down gratefully. There was then a longer boat ride back across to a hidden beach on the upper side of Isla Santa Cruz. Thankfully, by this point, I’m now bearing out much more manfully, and I even managed a postprandial kip. Once at this ‘hidden’ beach, tucked behind strings of mangroves and sharp looking rocks, we dodge the angry sand flies and spot ourselves a few fabulous marine iguanas, swimming about the surf and appearing as relaxed as they do upon their basking banks. After but a short frolic a la playa, alas, it was time to go home. And yes, I began to feel a wee bit queasy once again, as we hugged the dark shoreline and made our way back through the choppy swell to Puerto Ayora. And this queasiness, I’m afraid to say, was only about to increase…

You see, as was trailed oh-so-subtly above, the first ferry ticket slinger man had overstated the boundless nature of tomorrow’s tickets to Isabella. It was time for IIFTP #2, as we were now told by various glum travel agents that each and every ticket had now been taken for the next morning and that the pair of us were, in so many words, buggered. We eventually wandered, bereft, up in the vague direction of ‘Dan’ (the ‘mate’ of the talkative driver we had endured the previous day) to see if, by any chance, he had kept two tickets aside for us. We were, of course, unable to find his spot. Disaster had struck us, and continued to strike, even after the referee had finished his ten count and towels were flung endlessly from our corner. Our Isla Isabella sueño had died.

But then, a genuine miracle: Walking down the main shopping street, looking mighty forlorn, we’re hailed by a wonderful woman by the name of Marta, who asked us if she might help with anything. I sung our sad song and, would you believe it, she pointed to a gentleman (surely named Gabriel or Michael or perhaps Uriel) in her shop and said that he had just arranged another boat for tomorrow, due to exceptional demand. What is more, as luck (such luck!) would have it, he had three spots left! Two of these berths were swiftly bought and paid for, and my warm words echoed around her store, the weight of a two-hundred-year-old tortoise lifted from my soul. What a mujer, Marta; what an ángela!

Spirts thus immeasurably lightened, we opted to join the extended wedding party and our travelling companions up at Isla Grill, just offshore from the main town, for the final group meal of the trip. The sea-fare offered there was delicious, but verily I could barely manage more than a bite or two, such were the rigours, emotional and otherwise, of the day. Goodbyes were shared and water taxis sought, and then, at last, the quiet rest of some much, much needed slumber was achieved.

Jueves 29

We board our miracle ferry to Isabella Island (very) early the next morning, following a large number of queues, $1 and/or $10 charges, and the general feeling that the whole tourist population of Santa Cruz were off to some other island, but weren’t entirely sure how they’d be getting there. Once aboard, our crossing to Isla Isabella was lengthy, windy and exceedingly bumpy, sat as Fabulosa and I were, up at the top of the craft, right behind the captain. However, the gale in one’s hair and the relief in one’s heart held at bay the forces of nausea this time around – bumps or no bumps, truly, at the time, on this leg of the voyage, I knew not how lucky I was…

Once we landed on this vast, outpost island, laden with sea lions and grumpy iguanas and adventure, we find the Pahoehoe Tours building in the baking heat, almost collapsing across their wooden threshold. We nibble at our packed lunch like birds, then summon up the will and head off on Pahoehoe’s quite superb Los Tunneles tour (recommended to us previously in the strongest possible terms by the usually stoic El Scomarido). Throughout the remainder of this wonderful day, we go swimming with a whole bevvy of huge and ancient sea turtles, and seek out all manner of amazing wildlife, which surrounds these collapsed lava formations; be it sharks, rays or seahorses beneath the waves, or Galapagos penguins and blue-footed boobies above them on the curious and unforgettable rock formations. It was all really rather sublime – thank goodness (and thank Marta!) we were able to make it!

After another bumpy ol’ ride back to Puerto Villamil (damn these boats and damn those waves), we staggered happy but exhausted to Cartago Bay, our humble hostelry for the night. Dropping our tiny bags and (eventually) sourcing the keys to our room, we take a warm evening walk across to PV’s main drag. We eat (mostly drink) at El Velero and look across the square to where there’s a live band getting their act together upon a temporary stage – though one could not entirely tell whether they were rehearsing, performing, or merely sound-checking. We never found this out for certain, as our meal, such as it was, was fated to be followed by a phenomenally early night – chiefly because we were utterly knackered, but also because we knew, deep down, what would soon be in store…