Galapagos- Part 2

Today… I cheated on Thelma.

It meant nothing. A one-time thing. No emotions. I didn’t even catch her name.

We hired bikes,rattly tourist ones, and headed off to explore Isabela Island. Our main mission: The Wall of Tears.

The road out there was a sandy 4x4 track skirting the sea, with mangroves, driftwood, and the occasional pelican giving us the side eye.

It was a cruisy ride, no traffic, no crowds, just the breeze and the crunch of tyres on dirt. Felt like we had the whole place to ourselves.

And then… there it was.

A tortoise.

It was just chilling on the roadside, shaded under the trees, munching grass like it had all the time in the world.

Maree and I slid off our bikes and just sat there. No words. In that moment, time folded back. Watching that slow-moving giant felt ancient, surreal, almost spiritual. We were in awe.

Back in the saddle, we detoured up Cerro Orchilla, a short steep hike to a viewpoint. The friendly Darwin finches flitted around our feet like they’d been sent in to entertain us.

At the top, the whole island spread out before us—lava rock, tangled green bush, lagoons, and ocean stretching forever. Wild beauty at its best.

Further down the trail, as Maree ducked off the path for a pee, I heard:

“Babe! Come look at this!”

I sighed! I was expecting something ridiculous

But nope.

Two tortoises, chilling in a muddy wollow, just off the path. What a find. Mud-slicked legends, barely blinking. Nature doesn’t perform on command, but today it put on a show.

Eventually we rolled up to the Wall of Tears. It's not just a wall. It's heavy with history. Built by prisoners between 1945 and 1959, many of whom died during its construction. A grim reminder of the darker side of paradise.

We hiked a bit further to Mirador de las Lagrimas, another stunner of a viewpoint. The island looked vast and wild from up there, like it could swallow you whole and you’d thank it for the honour.

By then, the heat was ramping up, so we turned back, pulling into El Estero for a dip. The tide was out, so more wade than swim, but it was worth it. Mangroves hugged the edges, roots twisting into the shallows.

Peaceful. Cool. Earthy.

Then came El Tunel—a little volcanic tunnel. Nothing huge, but fun to explore, with that earthy, ancient feel that makes you wonder what lava beasties once flowed through it.

Heading back through town, we had to fuel the engines. Empanadas, Maree’s officially obsessed. She’s even planning on one for dinner. Two, actually.

And because we hadn’t quite had our wildlife fill, we wrapped up the day back at Concha de Perla for another snorkel.

The water was clear and cool, and this time we were treated to swimming iguanas, a massive stingray that glided past like an underwater spaceship, and even a frigatebird perched in a tree, taking five.

Isabela has been a feast, for the soul, for the eyes, and let’s be honest, for my stomach too.

Wildlife, warmth, and wanderings.

And Thelma… I promise, it’ll never happen again.

We’d signed up for the tour today, Los Túneles. The one everyone reckoned was unmissable. We'd heard stories of lava tubes and underwater tunnels, of sea horses, turtles, and reef sharks lounging like bouncers at an exclusive underwater nightclub. Sounded like our vibe.

Our stoner mate Richard (remember him from the hotel?) had sorted it for us. Turns out, when he's not high, he’s a bloody anxiety tornado. “You’re on the 11am tour,” he’d said yesterday, chill as a cucumber in the freezer section.

So we were cruising this morning, sipping coffee and faffing about, when he came flying around the corner like a seagull on a pie mission. “Your pick-up is coming now!”

“Bro, it’s only 7:30?”

Turns out were on the morning tour!!!

Next thing we’re on the boat, bouncing over the ocean swell with our guide Glenda and a bunch of other wide-eyed tourists.

The boat cut through the deep blue, skimming behind a gnarly volcanic reef break. The waves were a chaos of whitewash and muscle, breaking heavy, messy, loud.

But we were well out past them, rolling easy.

Maree, sharp as ever, called out — “Look!”

She’d spotted our first manta ray, gliding beneath the surface like some kind of underwater spaceship. A big unit too.

Then the boat slowed, then turned toward the reef.

Wait. What?

No way we were going through that break?

Yup. We were.

Suddenly, WHUMP!! The boat slammed sideways, thrown hard like it’d copped a hiding. Another millimetre and we’d have had ocean over the sides. “NOBODY MOVE!” Glenda shouted.

The captain, cool as a cucumber under pressure, twisted us upright with a move that’d make Fast & Furious look like child’s play.

We slipped through the break and into the stillness of the volcanic lagoon, a hidden Eden.

We disembarked, feet crunching on black rock, and Glenda launched into guide-mode. Turns out she’s an absolute fountain of knowledge lava flow timelines, bird calls, ecological systems, she had it all. We wandered in the weird and wonderful silence of this ancient place

Back on board, Glenda explained we’d only hit one snorkel spot due to today’s wild currents. Fair enough — fewer surf break rodeos sounded fine by me.

Until...

Next minute — we’re heading back through the reef break! Honestly, I don’t know what’s scarier — the thought of capsizing or Richard being in charge of logistics.

Safely back in open water, we motored down the coastline, taking in the jagged beauty of the island — black volcanic cliffs, sunlit coves, and the shimmer of mangroves hugging the shore.

We ducked into a second lagoon, smaller break this time, more cruisy.

This place? Absolute magic. Snorkelling here was like diving into a National Geographic special. Lava rocks pierced the surface like ancient fangs, and tunnels twisted beneath them.

We spotted white-tip reef sharks snoozing in a cave like lazy teenagers. A tiny sea horse bobbed around the mangroves like it had nowhere to be. Turtles munched on sea grasses with meditative calm. Fish , so many fishies, darted in colourful schools, weaving around us like we were just slow-moving driftwood.

I lost the group. Mentally and physically. Just drifted off in my own underwater bubble. Glenda didn’t seem too fussed. Either she clocked my snorkelling skills or decided I was a write-off. Either way, bliss.

After a floaty, dreamlike snorkel, we climbed back aboard for a solid feed, arroz con pollo, which tasted like heaven after all that ocean action.

The ride back was mellow, the sea glinting, the sun beginning its slow dive westward. Me and Maree slipped into a kind of contemplative silence. The good kind. Ocean-fatigued and soul-filled, we parked up at the hotel for a lazy afternoon.

Dinner? Beachside menú del día, followed by cheeky two-for-one margaritas. We toasted the sea, the sharks, and the sheer randomness of this whole adventure.

We wandered down the sand, tipsy and salty, popping into the corner cono shop to get a creamy icey treat to top off our day.

A day we’ll remember. For the manta rays. The near wipeouts. The underwater wonderland.

Babe! The tortoises are having sexy time!!”

That’s how our last day on Isabela kicked off. Nothing like a bit of prehistoric passion to start the morning.

With an afternoon ferry booked back to Santa Cruz, we decided to make the most of our final hours and head to the tortoise breeding centre. Thought we’d take the scenic route via Poza Puerta de Jelí, a wooden boardwalk weaving through wetlands and mangroves.

There was a plank of wood across the entrance, but stuff like that seems normal on the islands, so we stepped over and carried on.

What wasn’t normal was how skittish the iguanas were. Usually, they just give you a lazy stink-eye and refuse to budge. These ones actually moved. Suspicious!?!

About ten minutes in, the mystery was solved — the boardwalk had been completely ripped up. A dead end. Shame really, it was a idyllic meander.

We backtracked and took the road instead.

We found a dude sitting under a tarp on the roadside charging ten bucks each for the tortoise centre. I’d read it was free, but didn’t argue.

Turns out later the fee’s legit: guides are now mandatory after people started nicking the baby tortoises, probably to sell on the black market. I was more than happy to pay to keep these majestic creatures safe.

While waiting for our guide, we wandered over to the adult tortoise enclosure.

“Grunt.”

“Grunt…”

“Grunt.”

Yip. Live tortoise porn. A massive male was going at it, slooooowly, on a much smaller female. With every grunty thrust, he edged closer to his big finish, then...boom! Climax! And then slumped, full weight on top of her.

But wait as he slowly disembarked we noticed..... he’d been humping her head.

HER HEAD!!!

Romance is dead, folks.

Thankfully, our guide turned up before things got more graphic. He gently herded us away from the tortoise Kama Sutra corner and into the proper tour.

Thankfully, our guide turned up before things got more graphic. He gently herded us away from the tortoise Kama Sutra corner and into the proper tour.

It was pretty special seeing the full life cycle, from ping-pong-ball eggs to teenage torts, all the way up to the geriatric hornbags. The centre also rehabs injured tortoises and rewilds the teenagers once they’re old enough to handle themselves.

Finished up there and we strolled a bit further to Posada de Flamencos to see more of those ridiculously pink cany floss birds.

We’d seen mangroves, lava tunnels, reef breaks, sharks, rays, flamingos, tortoises, and two different types of mating (marine iguanas earlier, tortoises now). Felt like we’d had the full wild Isabela experience.

Then it was time to jump the ferry.

Two strange things happened on the ride:

1. I didn’t fall asleep.

2. Maree didn’t go green.

Miracles do happen.

Back on Santa Cruz, we wandered toward the Dove Hotel, where we had stayed before. On the way we kept our eyes out for non-tourist food joint. We reckoned we would find on closer to our accommodation. And we did, humble wee joint serving up pollo con papa y cerveza.

A great way to relax into our evening.

Today was a nothing day — but also, kinda, an everything day.

We’d packed a fair bit into our Galápagos stint: rays, reefs, reptiles, lava tunnels, and mating tortoises. So today, we stayed in our bubble.

No agenda. No hustle. Just us — lounging, laughing, sipping coffee, letting the rhythm of the island slow us down before tomorrow’s travel day, which we already knew would be a bit stressy. Travel days just have that vibe. Plus, we'd be back on the peddlies soon enough.

And not that I need to justify a day of doing bugger-all, but we did make two missions.

Mission One: A 25-minute stroll out of town to the bus station to suss out bus tickets and times to the port at Baltra.

Mission Two: Returning to our new fave pollo con papa joint — only this time, it was BBQ rib night. Charcoal-grilled, finger-lickin’ good. Locals know what’s up.

We’d thought it would be a day without a single wildlife sighting — no sharks, no iguanas, not even a stray booby.

Until…

“Babe! Snake!!” Maree shrieked, pointing at our doorway.

A long, skinny serpent was chilling right outside our room. The hotel proprietor arrived cool as a cucumber, broom in hand.

“No danger! No danger!” he said, gently coaxing the wee intruder back into the garden. Casual island snake relocation. Tick.

Now with bags semi-packed....Alarms set...Nerves prickling we climbed into bed.

Tomorrow we travel.

Back to town, back to Heckle Street, and a speachless-as dunch. Both of us sat there, silent. Not angry, not sad — just maxed out. Over-sensitised.

After days on the bikes with nothing but each other and the wind, the last few days of noise, people, activity, and interaction had finally caught up with us.

So we did the only logical thing — wandered back to our quiet corner of the island, curled up in our bubbles, and let the overwhelm melt away.

We decided to hoof it to Playa Tortuga Bay this morning. We left around 9-ish, early enough to dodge the heat but not so early that it ruined our coffee routine. We had to be on the ferry at 2 pm anyway, so it gave us time for a wander.

The walk out was surprisingly chill. Well-paved track, a few scattered tourists, and some of Darwin’s finches flitting about, which made up for the otherwise wildlife-less stroll. I reckon we’d been a bit spoilt back on San Cristóbal.

Eventually, the track spat us out onto a pristine white beach. Waves were hammering in, properly wild.

Oddly, there were two red flags planted at either end, and we were told not to swim between them. Everything I’ve ever been taught said the opposite.

As we paddled along the shore, Marie pointed excitedly.

“Babe, look at that!”

There, in the shallows, was a wee shark surfing the break. Then another. They weren’t just swimming—they were catching waves. I’m calling them the Hang-10 Sharks. Sure, maybe they were chasing bait fish, but I’m sticking with the surfing story.

At the far end of the beach we slipped through a shaded grove of mango trees to a quieter bay, supposedly good for a swim. Joke’s on us—it was packed. Wall-to-wall humans. Felt like a public pool on school holidays.

We tried snorkelling off the rocks around the mangroves, but the visibility was trash. Cloudy as a muddy puddle. So we headed back to the surf beach and found a massive blue rock pool, like nature’s answer to a spa. Crystal-clear water, baby fish darting about like toddlers on red cordial. Not exactly world-class snorkelling, but it had charm.

The walk back was chaos. The earlier trickle of people had turned into a full-blown herd. We got out of there just in time.

Back at the hotel, we swapped fins for backpacks and made our way into town for a feed before the ferry to Isabela Island.

Santa Cruz was loud, busy, and buzzing. A place where you booked tours more than you explored. Pretty, sure, but peopley. Way too peopley.

Now, word on the street was that if you sat at the back of the ferry, you’d get to spot manta rays. But all those seats were taken. We were ushered to the front—the dreaded “bang-bang” seats. The ones that bounce. The ones where people spew.

I did what I do—fell asleep. Woke up just as we were pulling into Isabela. Looked at Marie.

She was green.

“It was touch and go, babe,” she mumbled. “Touch and go.”

Getting off that boat was like stepping into paradise. Isabela was quiet, relaxed, and refreshingly heckle-free.

We strolled to our hotel in peace, washed away the chaos of Santa Cruz, and took a deep breath.

Later that night we met Richard, the son of the hotelier. Full stoner vibes. Lovely guy, just a little... baked. We told him we wanted to rent snorkel gear, a couple of bikes, and book a tunnels tour—one of the only guided trips we were keen on.

“Everything’s chill, man,” he kept saying. “Island time, yeah?”

It felt mildly concerning handing over $300 USD to someone who forgot what we said two minutes earlier. But hey—it’s the Galápagos. What could possibly go wrong?