In Time and Place: Galapagos I

Galapagos naturalist guides refer often to the Galapagos archipelago as “paradise.” This evokes the biblical garden, where, we are led to imagine, all was harmony. Except, of course, for the one prohibition, and the snake that tempted Eve to ignore the prohibition. Leaving aside for a moment all questions pertaining to the presence of that snake (which would involve a digression of major proportions!), let’s look at the tree of knowledge.

It seems particularly apropos that a tree grows in the Galapagos island paradise—elsewhere as well, but that’s another story—called the “poison apple tree” (manchineel or manzanilla de la muerte, little apple of death). It produces a little green apple-like fruit. The tree looks unremarkable, with rounded green leaves. However, you are warned to touch no part of it, not leaf, not branch, not fruit. The naturalists accord it great respect; in the highland mist, a guide steered us away from its deceptively attractive cover against falling drizzle. The mist could collect traces of the poisonous sap, he said, and carry it to fall on our susceptible human skin… It offers no harm to the non-human species that may alight in its branches or feed on its fruit.

If you think about that tree in that environment, it's a fairly clear case where, if you defy the prohibition, consequences will be swift and painful, and possibly, lethal.

Otherwise, the islands’ flora and fauna are mostly benign, with few exceptions. There is a venomous Galapagos Black Widow spider. According to the Galapagos Conservation Trust, there’s no record of a human being bitten, but the spider “is probably best avoided.” (It’s endemic to the archipelago, but there’s little information on line about it. The Galapagos Archipelago is home to 150 known spider species, 60% of which are found nowhere else. The Black Widow is the only one mentioned as possibly being harmful to humans.)

A different threat is the Darwin’s Goliath Centipede. It can be as large as 43 cm and is likely the most feared animal in the islands. It’s a nocturnal hunter, withdrawing into arid zone cracks and crevices during the day.  Insects, lizards and even small birds are its prey, taken by a poisonous bite from a large pair of jaws. Galapagos hawks, night herons and mockingbirds hunt it, in turn. The Conservancy says that its bite isn’t lethal to humans "but is very painful.”

Finally, there are the two species of Galapagos Scorpions. Both are relatively common but “neither has a particularly serious sting for humans.” They hunt at night, preying on other invertebrates which they seize in their claws and sting to death.

That’s it. The four snake species are dangerous for hatchling marine iguanas, but not for humans. They have a mild venom that helps to disable their prey so they can apply the constriction which is their primary weapon. (For an exciting illustration of this particular survival struggle, checking out  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Rv9hn4IGofM is worthwhile!)

All of which suggests that the locals’ characterization of the islands as paradise—or at least, a paradise—may not be too far off.  Especially if you replace “harmony,” with its romantic connotations, with the word “balance,” a more neutral concept.

A week in the archipelago isn’t nearly sufficient to claim knowledge of them; it’s no more than a taste, a passing whiff, a glimpse. But as the characteristic sands of each island’s shore endure your passing footstep for the moment they must, the rhythm of the place gradually takes hold. Sea lion pups frolic on the rocks, waiting for their mothers to come in from hunting off shore; little ones may come sniff at you, nudge a walking stick or a leg. Frigate birds, both Great and Magnificent, engage in courting, breeding, nesting, brooding, feeding young… and dying.

Once mature, there isn’t much to harm the denizens of the Galapagos in the way of natural predators. But every fledgling or immature creature won’t make it to maturity. Beside the trail on North Seymor, a young frigate bird lay motionless on its side. It was alive, but showed no interest in passing feet. For whatever reason, its survival was unlikely, lying there, though no vultures or gulls would finish it off. The crabs might come for its flesh, once it began to fester after death, but it might just slowly dry out and disintegrate in sun and wind. After the group moved on, it lifted its head and gazed around. It didn’t seem to be resisting its condition, just taking a last look before it again dropped its head to the ground and went on with its dying.

Live and let live; die and let die. All things in their time and place. Some hatchling iguanas make it to the rocks; others feed the snakes that converge to try to feed on them. Some frigates grow to breed; some die, unable to manage their great wings for effective flight. The gift of the Galapagos isn’t swimming with sea lions, or approaching tortoises to view their somehow grumpy faces up close and personal. It’s seeing how our world could be, if we allowed nature to take its course without harvesting more than we need, without poisoning the land and water we share with other creatures.

The islands are, in fact, an intimation of Paradise.