The Forest , my friend

Galapagos - Santa Cruz, July 2025

It took me only 7 months to write the next blog post, but 46 years to return to the GaIapagos Islands.Here I stand at the start of the path, looking along it as it winds neatly between prickly opuntias. I take a deep breath. I have returned to where it all began.

Back in 1979, I was just a little girl, accompanied by my sister Deborah, my mother, and my Ecuadorian stepfather, Manolo. All we really wanted to do was take a short walk from Puerto Ayora harbour in Santa Cruz to Playa Tortuga. Simple enough. However, that walk turned into a two-day odyssey through an enchanted cactus forest that seemed to swallow us whole.

There were no signs or paths back then. Just huge cacti, endless vines, and gigantic tortoises that would lazily pull themselves up tree trunks to empty their intestines. I remember how Manolo, a black belt in kung fu, picked cactus fruit to quench our thirst. The fruit made us violently ill. All along the way, we could hear the sea, first in the distance and then getting closer. It felt like the beach was close enough to touch, but we never reached it. Instead, we spent two nights on sharp lava stones, with one girl lying on each adult's stomach to shelter from the inhospitable ground.

Now, the path is safe and clearly marked, flanked by dense scrubland and cacti of all kinds. No signs warning of danger, but a park ranger at the entrance points out that it is strictly forbidden to leave the path. The contrast is stark. This time, I actually make it to the beach. Standing in front of the waves, I feel a quiet satisfaction. Mission accomplished. I have completed what my mother and Manolo had started, but never finished.

Ignoring the red flag that forbids swimming, I dive briefly into the churning waves. The water that would once have been a lifesaver is now just a rebellious act against reason. Why not.

In my search for clues about our ordeal, I asked around for any contemporary witnesses. An older woman called Pupi vaguely remembered the story. Her sister, who was also called Pupi at the time, was born here, whereas Deborah was given the nickname 'Pupi' back in Quito. Confusing, but somehow it worked. At that time, there were only a few people on the island and everyone knew everything. The story of the young Ecuadorian from Ambato who got lost in the cactus forest with a woman and two blonde girls spread quickly. However, exact memories fade. Just like footprints in volcanic sand.

I search for the old path, which has long since been swallowed up by vegetation. The locals strongly advise me not to follow it. Too dangerous, they say. Overgrown and impassable. Reluctantly, I accept and continue along the safe path instead, watching tourists hurry past me as I take photos and videos, trying to capture the lost time.

As I walk back, darkness slowly falls. How had we survived for two days without food or water? I remember how Manolo tirelessly recited a mantra at night, and then suddenly ran off in the dark as if he had seen the path in a dream. We ran after him. At dawn, the path suddenly became visible. Even today, after so many years, I can still recite that mantra word for word.

Perhaps it was this experience that gave me an eternal longing for adventure. And the knowledge that I can always rely on nature, even when it tests me. The Galápagos didn't just show me giant tortoises and blue-footed boobies. It taught me that sometimes you have to get completely lost to find what you're really looking for.

Standing here now, surrounded by tourists in bikinis with their cameras and restless energy, I feel as though this forest belongs to me alone. The visitors are passing through a postcard. But I carry this place in my bones. The sharp lava stones, the taste of bitter cactus fruit, the sound of the sea that calls but remains just out of reach. I seem strange and a little out of place among them, with my searching restlessness and the weight of memory in my eyes.

In the end, I stop and look back at the forest that had almost swallowed us up. Forty-six years later, I finally made it to Tortuga Bay. But more importantly, I understand now that some journeys can only be completed by returning to where they began. This cactus forest didn't just test our survival. It planted the seeds of who I would become. A wanderer who knows that the most meaningful destinations are often the ones that first teach us we can get lost and still find our way home.