Brian sometimes wondered why he’d been blessed with such a sunny disposition. Maybe, he thought, it was to deal with hot, sticky, noisy, rather unrewarding situations such as this visit to the Charles Darwin Foundation. It was, after all, very clear that, on this occasion, his knowledge of the saintly work being undertaken by this saintly set-up would not be enough on its own, and no matter how successful they were in breeding more tortoises and reintroducing them into the wild, he’d still have found this visit rather uninspiring and… well, just a bit of a trial. So, it was a bloody good job that he was just such a naturally happy – and undemanding – sort of chap. That said, there was nothing he’d like to do more – now – than to demand a glass of cold beer and preferably somewhere shady to drink it.
It was just as well then that it was now time to leave the Charles Darwin Foundation and for the Nature-seekers to make their way back to the jetty and to their awaiting pangas. But not before a pit stop at one of the hostelries on Avenida Charles Darwin, where Brian and Sandra were able to drink a toast to that great scientist from the past and to all those who are now helping to keep his name alive in the Galápagos with all their sterling work – at that less than captivating institution down the road.
Anyway, the Beluga felt more inviting than ever when Brian and Sandra made it back there for lunch, and the shower felt pretty inviting too. So, suitably reinvigorated – and more than adequately fed – they, like all the other Nature-seekers, were more than ready for a return to Puerto Ayora – and for a bus ride to who-knew-where.
Well, they all knew where really, in that Darwin had told them that they would be making an excursion to a farm in the centre of Santa Cruz – to see ‘wild’ giant tortoises. And that’s not ‘wild’ as in incensed or ‘wild’ as in truly wild – but just ‘wild’ as in free to waddle around a ruddy great farm and to go more or less where they pleased. Which didn’t sound like the genuine pristine Galápagos experience, but it was probably a darn sight better than being fried in a worthy institution whilst, at the same time, being assaulted by self-amplified Americans. Brian was certainly prepared to be impressed. Just as he was prepared to be less than impressed with the sprawl that was Puerto Ayora…
In short, it was worse than Puerto Baquerizo Moreno, the town on San Cristóbal about which he had been so scathing. As soon as the bus left that almost pretty seafront of the town, that same lack of care and that same lack of anything to do with pride or with a sense of responsibility for the environment came into view. It was garbageville, the standard mix of substandard and no-standards buildings, initially cheek by jowl but then petering out into an untidy landscape of ‘structures’, some lived in, some once lived in and some looking unlikely ever to be finished let alone ever lived in. And this general air of scruffiness and almost wanton neglect persisted even into the countryside. Because, as on San Cristóbal, the locals on Santa Cruz have made inroads into the interior – to farm, to scratch a living – and to degrade the local environment to the point that it looks tired and abused. Hell, Brian’s naturally sunny disposition was really being put to the test now, and he could barely wait to be off this bus and instead lost in the depths of that tortoise haven which he and his friends had been promised.
Eventually, they did arrive there, and there were tortoises around; quite a few of them actually, either sharing fields with cattle on the way in to the ‘haven’ or dotted around the cattle-free grounds that surrounded the hacienda. That is to say, the barn-like café that had been constructed by the farm’s owners to accommodate the drinking, feeding and relieving requirements of their tortoise-demanding guests.
This barn-like structure also housed a huge empty tortoise shell, the bony home of a long-gone monster of a tortoise, which could now be used for the purpose of instruction or, if preferred, for the purpose of tortoise impersonation. Darwin, of course, first of all used it for instruction. But he then switched into impersonation/entertainment/partial-instruction mode by crawling into the shell and then lifting himself up on all fours and so creating the vision of a not quite normal giant tortoise, but one with an awful etiolated-limbs condition together with an oversized head. Not to be outdone, Josh followed Darwin into the shell (after Darwin had withdrawn – obviously). And then Shane wriggled his way in. It was at this stage that Brian thought it was all becoming a little like an initiation ceremony for some sort of Masonic splinter group, and he decided (immediately) that he would remain outside the shell – and uninitiated. He did, after all, have an appointment with some other shells, and these shells contained very much living giant tortoises – all with regular-sized limbs and normal-sized heads.
They were, as already reported, dotted around the vicinity of the barn, and as the Nature-seekers wandered between them, Brian began to test his knowledge of these remarkable creatures. Because, unlikely as it might sound, he had not spent all his time at the Charles Darwin Foundation hiding from the sun and from the racket of loud Americans, but he had also taken in some of his guide’s enlightenment on the subject of these giant reptiles. He knew, for example, that the tortoises here were representatives of a total population of Galápagos tortoises of something like 20,000 individuals – and that this total population was made up of eleven separate extant species and that these eleven species could be split into two distinct groups. The first group comprised the saddleback tortoises, which were those that live on sparsely vegetated islands and have therefore evolved the sort of (saddle-like) shell that allows them to reach up to whatever vegetation exists. The second group comprised the dome-shaped tortoises, which live on the larger (higher) islands where they have always had access to plenty of suitable food at ground level and have therefore not needed to take the saddleback route of evolution. Santa Cruz falls into this latter category of islands, and consequently the giant tortoises on this farm were of the dome type (and specifically examples of Geochelone nigrita), and, as such, they could grow up to weigh as much as 250 kilograms and have a carapace that measured up to 1.5 metres.
Some of the guys here were that sort of size, and could only be described as genuinely splendid – if just a little bit… inanimate. Yes, as Brian was already well aware, he was never going to witness a giant tortoise sprinting through the bush, leaping from a rock or, indeed, swinging with ease through the trees. With their enormous weight, their conformation and their ponderous nature, that just wasn’t their bag. Instead they either just shuffled about or didn’t shuffle at all, in the sense that they became essentially inert. And only when they were having tortoise sex – which can apparently take several hours (i.e. not at all like us) and involve loud snoring and grunting noises from the male (i.e. exactly like us) – was there a bit of even half-lively movement.
So, for Brian at least, despite their genuine splendidness – and their rarity as a creature – they did have a bit of a problem in holding his attention for more than a few minutes. In fact, it did occur to him that no matter how giant they were, tortoises did have a bit of an image problem when compared to some of our more obviously animate animals, and therefore it was maybe time for a bit of inventive copywriting on their behalf – right now and in respect of the particular domed giants here. So he had a go, and in due course, he managed to compile: ‘an animal that is generally extremely stable (other than when [literally] upset), an animal that is easy to feed, an animal that is a doddle to groom, an animal that is generally very undemanding, an animal that is safe with children – and that will probably outlive them – and an animal that is very quiet or actually quite interesting to watch on those rare occasions when it isn’t’.
Well, it probably wouldn’t have sold many, thought Brian, but his copywriting was a lot less harmful than ignoring Darwin’s instructions not to stand right next to the tortoises (and so cause them stress), which is exactly what one person was doing, a person who had an American accent, an American wife and a cabin back on board the Beluga. Really! And after we gave them their independence
as well. Brian was not impressed. Although he was with the lava tunnel…
As Brian had learnt, lava tunnels are cylindrical-shaped caves formed when a low-viscosity lava flow develops a hard crust, and the crust then thickens to form a roof over a still-flowing stream of lava – which eventually flows all the way out and leaves a void beneath the crust. Some of these tunnels can be just inches in diameter. The one on this farm, through which the Nature-seekers gingerly made their way, varied between ten feet and twenty feet in diameter, and would, thought Brian, have accommodated all 3,000 specimens of Santa Cruz’s Geochelone nigtita tortoises. At which point he also thought that this probably meant that despite that sterling bit of copywriting, he was completely tortoised out and would now like to be back on the Beluga. Eventually he was, having first endured the ride back to Puerto Ayora and then a further encounter with its dreadful squalor. It hadn’t got any better while he’d been away, just as Pedro’s portion sizes hadn’t got any smaller…
Yes, it was soon eating time again, and that meant time to deal with another generous helping of calories – and, for the other Nature-seekers at Brian’s table, time to deal with a handful of his random opinions. They seemed to cope quite well with his assertion that the problem of excessive net migration into the UK would soon be solved – by more and more of its indigenous population deciding that, as it was no longer their country, they should simply choose to emigrate and so make the net migration figure a sizable negative. They even managed, with a bit of coaxing, to accept that he had a point when he insisted that torture is still rife in the UK – in the form of keeping hundreds of thousands of very old people alive, when all they really want is a painless and dignified death. But then, when he tried to maintain that extra-judicial killings had a certain merit – because, as their name implied, they must involve an ‘extra bit of justice administration’ – they just wouldn’t buy it. Neither would Sandra, who made this known to Brian in no uncertain terms – and suggested that he should now offer no further opinions and that he should even remain silent during the post-dinner listing session. This he did, only imposing any of his views again when he was back in his cabin, when it was then time to impose them on Sandra. And these would be his views on Argentina…
‘Sandra,’ he started imaginatively, ‘I think it’s time that I filled in a few blanks in your knowledge of Argentina…’
Sandra gave Brian a look, which in their current nautical situation could only be described as ‘mutinous’. However, she failed to follow through with anything like a real act of mutiny or even with any words, and Captain Bligh was away once again.
‘You see, not many people know this, but Argentina, at the beginning of the twentieth century, was a very wealthy place. By 1908, with all its beef and wheat exports, its per capita income was the seventh highest in the world – after… errh us, the US, Australia, New Zealand, Switzerland and… errh, Belgium. In fact, that made its income per capita 70% higher than that of Italy, 90% higher than that of Spain, and a whopping 180% higher than that of Japan…’
‘Brian,’ interrupted Sandra, ‘there isn’t going to be a test on all this stuff in the morning, is there? Because I…’
‘No,’ reinterrupted Brian. ‘I’m just trying to point out that Argentina, just one hundred years ago, was in the Premier League. Whereas now, as we all know, it couldn’t even make it in a temperance league…’
‘But why would it want…?’
‘I mean that since about the 1930s, despite all its natural resources and all its national potential, it has gone so far backwards that it has ended up as just an upper-middle-income country – at best. It’s had a history of Peronism, state terrorism, repeated economic crises, bouts of hyperinflation, flights of capital, and some of the biggest debt defaults on the planet. And that’s going some, particularly when you’ve had such a flying start.’
‘But why?’ asked a not entirely engaged Sandra.
‘Search me. Maybe it’s the… you know, the hand of God. I mean, for some reason, he dealt them a shit hand as regards their economy and their culture, and then he gave them a hand so that they could beat England back in 1986…’
‘Soccer balls!’
‘Well, I don’t know. But I do know why they’ve so abused the Falklands…’
‘You mean with their rather persistent claim?’
‘Ah well, it hasn’t been persistent historically. I mean, as far back as 1860, Argentina indicated that it had no problem with our ownership of the Falklands, and even its own maps of that period didn’t reflect those islands as being Argentine. OK, it had made the odd complaint about our presence, but it wasn’t until 1941 – when things had begun to fall apart economically – that it raised the issue of Falklands’ sovereignty in its own congress. And, of course, ever since then it’s been making an absolute meal of it – and an absolute mess of it when it tried to take them by force. And it’s all such a load of bollocks…’
Here Brian paused in order to adopt his ‘most affronted’ expression, and then he continued.
‘I mean, in the first place, the UK claimed and settled the Falklands before Argentina even existed, and before we did, there was no indigenous or settled population there. The islands were empty of people. Anyway, since then, they have been continuously and peacefully occupied by us rather than by them – other than for the two months when they illegally grabbed them – and so much upset Mrs Thatcher. And when you then remember that self-determination is supposedly a universal right, enshrined in the UN Charter, it is extremely difficult to see how Argentina should not just be given the bum’s rush and told to sod off – and stay off. Quite simply, even the poorest paid lawyer will tell you that the sort of continuous, firm possession as exemplified by ‘us’ in the Falklands, especially if it’s been undisputed by force (for more than 150 years), is easily sufficient to create an indisputable sovereign title. And that lawyer might even tell you, without wanting an additional fee, that the only real reason that successive regimes in Argentina have insisted that the Falklands should be theirs is that they have had a repeated need to distract their supporters from the dire economic plight of their country. And, for no additional fee, I’ll tell you that this need is unlikely ever to go away – unless, of course, the hand of God intervenes once again, and Argentina starts to sort itself out. But I wouldn’t hold your breath…’
At this stage of the dissertation, Brian stood down his affronted expression and adopted another. It was one of sudden recollection. And then he spoke.
‘Oh, and if you want any more proof that Argentinians really do need to sort themselves out, then I can provide this in the form of a fact. And this fact is that Argentina has the highest number of psychiatrists per capita in the world. Even more per capita than in the States!’
Well, he was now wearing his ‘game, set and match’ expression – and Sandra was wearing a look of fatigue laced with hope, hope that her husband had concluded his didactic assault for the night. And it was OK. He had. In fact, he was already looking forward to another overnight trip in the company of Joan Baez – and another tussle with some of the world’s more intractable problems. Like, for example, how to convince all those doubters in the world that, despite their tearing and nipping tendencies, tortoises don’t have any teeth…
7.
In the event, Joan Baez failed to make an appearance and the problem of educating the world in the non-dental nature of tortoises was left unresolved. Instead, Brian slept like a baby as Captain José piloted the Beluga towards an island called Santiago.
This island is situated to the north-west of Santa Cruz, and whilst not quite as large as Santa Cruz, it is, unlike Santa Cruz, happily uninhabited. Furthermore, despite the severe problems cause by introduced species such as goats, pigs and rats, it does sustain its own complement of wildlife, and this complement even includes an endemic species of giant tortoise (which is apparently no more animate than
those observed back on Santa Cruz). Anyway, its tortoises were not on Darwin’s advertised itinerary for the day, as the Nature-seekers’ experience of this island would be very much restricted to its non-tortoise-inhabited shoreline, and starting with its rocky coast near a small offshore island called ‘Chinese Hat’.
It was no secret that ‘Sombrero Chino’ was so named because as well as being more or less round, it also has a profile that is apparently reminiscent of… a Chinese hat, as in the sort of headwear formerly seen on Chinese labourers and the like – although on this new sunny morning, through the window of Brian’s cabin, the island’s profile put him more in mind of some enormous fossilised flying saucer. There again, thought Brian, the term ‘flying saucer’ was probably not available when it was time to give this small island a name, whereas Chinese coolies – as they were then referred to – and their headwear, would probably be known worldwide. Well, that was all very well, but Brian did wonder whether, in retrospect, it had been the right name to choose. After all, China is currently busy hoovering up all the little islands it can get its hands on, such as those far-from-its-shores Spratly Islands in the South China Sea (on which other, rather closer countries may well have a better claim). So, with a name like ‘Chinese Hat’, isn’t there a real possibility, thought Brian, that one day China will just turn up, assert its ownership (over its own hat) and start building an airstrip and then a military base just like it’s done on so many of those Spratly Islands? And as Ecuador is already one of China’s client countries, would this current legal owner of Chinese Hat and the rest of the Galápagos archipelago do anything about it? Well, these and other questions were the sort that constantly plagued Brian’s life – and could sometimes make him late for breakfast if not forcefully reminded to get a move on by his wife. She, incidentally, when Brian verbalised his anxieties concerning Chinese expansionism into the Galápagos, informed him that she thought he was talking through his hat…
Absolutely Galápagos Page 9