‘Give me strength…’
‘Incidentally. Did you know that when they were first introduced into England, potatoes were considered to be so unhealthy and even potentially poisonous that the Society for the Prevention of Unwholesome Diets, otherwise known as SPUD (get it?), saw them as a real threat? In fact, they weren’t that welcome to start with anywhere in Europe, with some people choosing not to eat them just because they weren’t mentioned in the Bible…’
‘Is your second point possibly just a little more interesting?’ interrupted Sandra – with maybe only a hint of sarcasm creeping into her voice, and certainly not enough to be noticed by Brian, who happily ploughed on with point number two without further delay.
‘In Peru, when the clock strikes midnight on New Year’s Eve, you have to get out of your old underwear and into your new yellow pants without delay. And these will probably be pants that friends or relatives will have given you to ensure that you embark on the brand new year with all the good luck you will need.’
Sandra looked actually engaged – but suspicious.
‘You’re having me on?’
‘No,’ responded Brian emphatically. ‘Google it, and you will see images of Peruvian street vendors in the run-up to New Year selling almost nothing else but men’s and women’s pants in various shades of yellow. Unless, of course, they’re also trying to flog some red ones – for love – or some green ones – for money. But overwhelmingly it will be yellow.’
Sandra appeared at a loss as to how to respond to this alarming piece of trivia concerning the habits of pants-obsessed Peruvians. Brian, on the other hand, was pondering the fact that in 1968 not only did he know very little about the underwear preferences of anybody in South America – at New Year – but (sadly) he also knew bugger all about the underwear preferences of any of his contemporaries – at any time of the year at all.
Then they were soon both asleep – probably sooner than they would have been back in 1968…
14.
The Beluga spent the night in Tagus Cove, and Brian spent the night sleeping. But not all of it. At around midnight he awoke to discover that he had thoughts of underwear on his mind. Specifically, he came to – just about – and realised that he needed to brood about the colour of his own underwear – which was invariably black. And if yellow was for good luck, red was for love and green was for money, what could black be for other than… well, death?! This wasn’t a very welcome thought, and he desperately tried to think of something else that it might mean. However, he eventually gave up when all he could think of was total depression, total oblivion or… Guinness, none of which he was keen on at all. Instead, he decided that the colour of his underpants probably had about as much significance as the colour of his snorkel (which was black as well!) and he was finally able to drift back to sleep.
The next thing he knew was that it was the morning and that the Beluga was making a short journey west. Soon it had dropped anchor, and it was time for all the Nature-seekers to board their awaiting pangas and then to be taken to what was now the close-by island of Fernandina.
This is the most westerly island in the Galápagos archipelago, which means that it is the youngest and most volcanically active island of them all. In fact, it consists entirely of the uplifting and accumulated lava flows of the huge domed cone of Volcán La Cumbre, which have made it the third largest landmass in the Galápagos with a land area of some 248 square miles. Not surprisingly, for an island formed from a volcano that has erupted as recently as 2009, much of its surface area consists of only barren lava, and life here has only a tenuous foothold, mostly on its rocky coast and at places such as Punta Espinosa.
This was the Nature-seekers’ destination: an area of the island on its northern coast that in 1994 was raised by between fifty and ninety centimetres to leave its small landing dock inaccessible except at high tide. No great surprise then that everybody in the party was completely wide awake by the time they had negotiated what was a rather challenging disembarkation onto some slippery rocks. And no great surprise that soon after this they had all realised that they had come to a very special place.
To start with there were marine iguanas – quite a few of them and all of them waddling over the rocks and towards the sea. Then there were more of them – hundreds of them – and these guys were either not waddling at all or just waddling rather aimlessly through the middle of a veritable horde of their kind. It was a mass of grey-black creatures carpeting an expanse of grey-black rock, and these creatures were only a little more animated than the rock itself. It was primeval-land – in monochrome – and it was spellbinding. Brian was completely spellbound, and so spellbound that he had to make a conscious effort not to tread on the ‘wildlife’, wildlife that was so numerous, so indifferent to the presence of visitors and so ‘unwild’ in its movements, that it would have been particularly easy to have ‘put a foot wrong’ – with probably some very unfortunate consequences.
Well, this had been an opener like no other. But there was lots more to come, kicking off with the appearance of a snake! It was, according to Darwin, a Galápagos banded snake, and it wasn’t anything like as indifferent as its iguana neighbours. When it caught sight of its Nature-seeker observers, it was off like a shot – leaving the stage clear for a couple of sea lion pups and an octopus. The pups were eager to make it to a rock pool for a swim; the octopus to make it to a crevice in another rock pool, probably for the sake of its survival.
As the Nature-seekers then strolled further along the rocky shore, there were suckling sea lions, non-suckling pelicans, lots of Sally Lightfoot crabs, plenty of lizards, a few oystercatchers and blue-footed boobies – and a noticeable number of flies. If that was not enough, there was more than one lizard who was exploiting the rather inert characteristics of the iguanas by using their heads as a lookout point – and one iguana who had taken his inertness to the ultimate degree. He had clearly climbed up to the top of a piece of recumbent driftwood and there he had simply expired, his dried-out carcass now looking like a member of Lord’s, somehow overlooked at the end of the last game of the season and now turning into a pavilion-end mummy. It’s what they did, according to Darwin (the iguanas, not the members of that august club). Apparently, they couldn’t always derive enough nourishment from their undersea diet and they just ran out of fuel – sometimes at the top of a piece of driftwood.
Yes, there was no getting away from it. This place shouted not only ‘primeval’ but also ‘a-bloody-hard-life-primeval’, and this characterisation of its essence was reinforced in spades by the sight of a turtle dragging itself ashore for a bit of a warm. It looked incredibly hard work and the turtle looked incredibly resentful. Maybe, thought Brian, he was resentful not just because of the energy he’d had to expend in hauling himself out of the water but also because a nearby lava heron had needed to expend no such energy in catching and swallowing a fish, one that was nearly as big as itself. The heron had obviously had in mind to eat something that would keep it going for days – and to reinforce even further that ‘bloody-hard-life-primeval’ nature of this patch of Fernandina. Yes, this place was very definitely all about primitive, primordial, perilous and pitiless, with maybe a soupçon of slightly alien thrown in for good measure. And it was certainly unique.
Brian was sorry to have to leave it. But after Darwin had rescued the octopus from its crevice in the rock pool – which had now drained completely – it was time to go. Shortly thereafter, when the Nature-seekers were back on the Beluga, it was then time to snorkel, with the object of observing some of those marine iguanas having their elevenses under the waves. However, none were observed, and the Nature-seekers had to make do with observing their companions feeding on another one of Pedro’s lunches. As they were doing this, the Beluga’s captain was taking his craft further north – past rafts of delightful phalaropes – to a place called Punta Vicente Roca.
This is on the ti
p of the Isabela seahorse’s nose (remember?) and it consists of some simply gigantic vertiginous rocks and a display of volcanic plumbing – in the shape of exposed volcanic pipes. It appears that at some point in the past there had been a rather sizable nasal collapse, and this failure in Isabela’s proboscis has produced the most dramatic of cliffscapes – and an intriguing place off which to moor and an intriguing place to be explored with the aid of a panga…
Accordingly, both pangas were soon in the water: one carrying a clutch of Nature-seekers kitted out with lifejackets, the other with Nature-seekers kitted out with just snorkelling equipment. Yes, for this latter clutch (which included Brian), this excursion was to end in the water. Even though, from Brian’s perspective, the water looked somewhat less than inviting. This was because it was rather opaque, rather turbulent and it had as a backdrop a towering rock face, the sort of backdrop that emphasised the piddling insignificance of the pangas’ passengers and the folly of any of those who were planning to take to the water. Nevertheless, that was for later. Right now there was a slow-speed navigation to undertake – close to those towering rocks and not that far from some of the local wildlife.
On the cliff face itself there were frigatebirds and blue-footed boobies. On rocks jutting out of the sea below the cliff face there were (more) marine iguanas. And in the sea itself there were both sea lions and fur seals. (Brian could now tell them apart.) These were all to be welcomed. Indeed, they were deserving of a much more enthusiastic reception than what appeared as Brian’s panga made it around a headland and what Darwin revealed would be their ultimate destination before they embarked on their snorkelling. Because what appeared was a ruddy great sea cave. And we are talking here about a Premier League-type sea cave, an enormous arched portal in the side of a cliff, with beyond it just darkness and beneath it… well, a rather worrying swell. Brian scrutinised it with interest and not without a good deal of trepidation.
No matter. Both pangas were soon approaching it. And, before he knew it, his was at the very mouth of the cave, and Darwin was pointing out boobies…
It was remarkable. Here he was, with eight other souls, bobbing about in a small rubber inflatable with rather too much animation – on the lip of a watery black hole – and it was time for a spot of impromptu birdwatching. And quite right too. The boobies (and they were blue-footed boobies, sharing some rock ledges with some brown noddies) were only a few feet above their observers and, as usual, completely unconcerned at their presence. That said, Brian did think that on this occasion they were showing a modicum of interest in their visitors, and he immediately put this down to their desire for just a little more ‘spice’ in their lives. After all, he speculated, if one was destined to spend one’s life sitting on a rock ledge, flying over the sea and occasionally diving into the sea, there must come a time when you crave just ‘something more’ in your life. Even if that something more is provided by a gang of flightless creatures that regularly drift past your ledge, totally ignoring your desire for privacy as well as your inherent booby rights for a peaceful and undisturbed existence.
This speculation then got the better of him, and he was soon considering whether these boobies – and the noddies – had their very own version of that childhood game of I Spy, involving, of course, the use of their very own I Spy Passing Bobbers book – complete with appropriate scoring. It wasn’t long before he was then trying to imagine what might earn them points, and the first idea he came up with was that any of the bobbers that weren’t middle aged – other than the recognisable guide and driver, of course – would allow them to clock up maybe five points apiece. Extensive tattooing of bobbers would also furnish them with five points, as would any display of extensive areas of sunburn. Then there would be an awkward display of cleavage – either at the front or the back – which would be worth fifteen points, and an adornment with a ginger moustache, which would be worth twenty. But to get that rare fifty-pointer, the boobies and noddies would have to clap eyes on either genuine dreadlocks or a genuine hijab, two sights that Brian suspected may never have been witnessed here ever. Then he stopped thinking about their I Spy game completely, because his panga was now on its way into the cave, and thoughts of potential perils and the potential for survival began to overtake him.
It was very disconcerting. The water in what was revealing itself to be a gigantic cave was not at rest. It was… undulating. Significantly. The swell outside appeared to be magnified within the confines of the cavern, and both pangas were now not just bobbing about but they were really heaving. Fortunately none of their passengers were, but this experience did put Brian in mind of a rubber duck. Not of a rubber duck in a bath, but of a rubber duck in a tank full of water, one that was being carried on the back of a poorly sprung truck over a poorly maintained track at an inappropriate speed. It was ‘interesting’, but not that interesting that Brian was sorry when it came to an end, and had only the prospect of snorkelling in cloudy, 100m-deep water to distract him…
He felt smaller – and more vulnerable – than ever. Especially when Darwin warned him and his fellow snorkelers that, as they would be swimming just below the vertiginous cliffs, it was quite possible that they might experience a torpedo. Not a submarine-launched torpedo, but a torpedo travelling at speed vertically in the shape of a diving booby. Oh, and then there were the jellyfish. And, of course, the lack of any worthwhile visibility.
So… it felt more like an element of SAS training than a regular snorkel, and Brian saw only the jellyfish (as well as feeling their sting). He was therefore fairly pleased when it was at an end and it was time to make it back to the Beluga, there to join Sandra and the other more sensible Nature-seekers who had all chosen to stay dry. Except, that is, for one…
Yes, as the Beluga came into view on the other side of the headland, two things became apparent. The first was that the Beluga was on the move – to collect Brian’s panga as it approached and to expedite their departure from Punta Vicente Roca – and the second was that aboard it Pedro and Abel were pointing to something in the water. Wow! It had to be a sunfish. It was so large. And Darwin had told them earlier that this was a good place to see them. Excitement mounted in the panga as it then made its way to where this huge beast was making a commotion in the swell. And this excitement built right up until it became apparent that it wasn’t a sunfish, but that it was Shane! Unbelievably, he had gone for an unscheduled swim, but had not told the crew, and the Beluga had weighed anchor and started to sail off without its overlooked and now marooned Californian. Well, a vote was taken on board the panga, and by a wafer-thin majority it was decided that it should proceed towards him and pluck him from the water. But only on the condition that its passengers were not required to stifle giggles or refrain from shaking their heads as they pulled him aboard. What a plonker. And what not a sunfish.
Anyway, the captain had made such a prompt start because he had before him a seven-hour trip. He was on his way to Santiago, and this meant a passage north and then east around the northern coast of Isabela and then south-east down towards his destination. It also meant, within just a very short time of setting off, yet another crossing of the equator – and more cocktails with eggs. Fortunately, things then got rather better. In the first place because a school of dolphins was found – and then another school – and then there was the Nature-seekers’ first ever sighting of a giant manta ray. It was almost inevitably at a distance, but it was definitely one of these spectacular creatures and it was relished by all those on board. And then the pièce de résistance: another marooned Californian! But no. It wasn’t a Californian; it was a Mola mola or, in other words, an ocean sunfish, known for its huge size and its frequent confusion with bathing Americans. Again, it was at quite a distance, and all one could see was its fin. But all the same. What a thing to behold. Brian had been reading up on these chaps only recently, and he was soon busy telling Sandra that the Mola mola is the heaviest bony fish in the world and it c
an weigh up to an enormous 1,000 kilograms – which is about the same as ten Shanes… Although, there again, it doesn’t look like ten Shanes; it looks more like a fishhead with a tail. And another interesting fact he had to impart to her was that the sunfish manages to achieve this huge size on a diet of mostly jellyfish – and wouldn’t it have been great if one of them had been around during Brian’s recent snorkelling expedition? If there had been, he would not now be nursing those itches on his legs. But anyway, there was one further fact that he felt Sandra had to know. And this was that the sunfish is fantastically fecund, in that the female of the species can produce more eggs than any other known vertebrate – up to 300,000,000 at a time. Which is more, pointed out Brian, than were used in those cocktails earlier on.
It was at this stage of his presentation that Sandra blocked its continuation by changing the subject from Mola molas to gin and tonics. Didn’t he think, she suggested to her husband, that now they were in the northern hemisphere again it might be about time for a couple of these northern hemisphere drinks before dinner? Well, this was a dastardly clever ploy, because she obviously knew that Brian would remind her that gin and tonic was a drink that originated in the British East India Company and it could therefore hardly be described as a northern hemisphere drink. However, he did concede it was a drink of the Tropics, and as they were still very near the equator and hence about as much in the Tropics as one can be, an investment in a couple of gin and tonics would not be out of place. So job done. Brian’s Mola mola dissertation terminated and the bonus of a nice G&T before dinner. Perfect. All she needed now was Brian to behave himself over dinner and then, after dinner, to forget that he had not yet lectured her on Paraguay…
Absolutely Galápagos Page 20