Puerto Chico, the settlement of some 200 people at Wreck Bay, is the port of entry. It is a naval base (navy: 1 launch), and the center of population for all the Galápagos—an island group inhabited by fewer than 2,000 people. Water is the limiting factor, and only four of the islands provide enough water to sustain permanent colonies. The names of the various islands can be most confusing, as each boasts of at least two—Spanish and English—and usually more. Santa Cruz, for example, is also known as Chavez, but the English gave it the sturdy name of Indefatigable—a name which the people there obviously find tiresome, as it is never used (except in articles in the National Geographic).
We spent only a couple of days at Puerto Chico, long enough to get our breath, stretch our legs, and deliver a letter. The latter job took all one day. While in the Canal Zone we had been entrusted with a message to Mrs. Karin Cobos, who had come over as a child in a Norwegian colonizing expedition which eventually petered out. She had married and remained in the islands and was now, we were told, living “up in the hills.” Ted, Nick, and Barbara expressed their willingness to look her up.
They started walking early in the morning up the fine, broad road which leads from Puerto Chico to Progreso, a tiny settlement five miles up the mountain. This fine road lasted for two miles. Beyond that it was still under construction. Each working day the road is pushed forward a foot or so, and there is universal confidence in the islands that someday, within the lifetime of many now alive (the younger ones), a fine highway will run all the way to Progreso and a jeep will be imported to use it.
Just beyond the end of the completed section the party left the parched, sandy, cactus-strewn slopes and began to climb into the hills where low-lying clouds were constantly dropping moisture. The cleared track soon degenerated into a muddy path, but there were still plenty of rocks so that the travelers could step from one to another and so hope to keep their shoes reasonably clean. As they plodded on, however, the drizzle changed to a downpour, the rocks and lava hunks became fewer and the mud thicker. Soon the path was merely a trace winding through dense undergrowth and knee-deep in mud. Long before the gang reached Progreso, they were unrecognizable and hoping only to keep the mud out of their hair.
In Progreso, which is a cluster of tiny houses scattered about in a (muddy) clearing, they learned that (a) Karin Cobos—well known, of course, throughout the islands—lived somewhere up beyond the village, indicated by a vast and indeterminate sweep of the arm, and (b) not a soul in Progreso spoke a word of English.
They were ushered to the Catholic priest, a Franciscan, whose rope belt dangled behind him tied in two neat knots, as if he wanted to be sure not to forget some important commissions. They spoke to him in English, French, fumbling German, and fluent Japanese (courtesy of Nick), and he answered in Spanish, Italian, Portuguese, and—presumably—Latin. Anyway, he did understand their mission, and made a sortie through the village to return with Chico, a lad who would serve as guide and who was “bueno muchacho.”
Meanwhile they relaxed on the veranda of the priest’s house and sampled some very uplifting brandy and cups of Galápagos coffee—native grown and very strong and good, which is made by adding hot milk ad lib to thick coffee essence. There was also a basketful of fresh rolls, which made a great hit, being the first fresh bread they had eaten since Panama.
At last, in spite of the priest’s dubious warnings that the journey ahead would be “malo malo,” they pushed on, with their young guide loping barefooted ahead. They were confident that the going couldn’t possibly get worse—but they were soon disabused. As they struggled on, Barbara confesses to having cheered herself up with fantasies of their reception:
I conjured up the picture of a large and gracious hacienda with a big living room and deep, comfortable couches and cold drinks and efficient servants who would lead us off to bathe and provide us with clean dressing gowns while other servants, somewhere in the back of the house, set to work washing and pressing our miserable clothes. And then, after a civilized lunch of crisp, fresh salad and perhaps more hot rolls with our hostess, we would be sent back down the mountain on horses so we could keep clean and neat all the way home.
Barbara felt she had some foundation for her daydreams, for we had all read accounts of Karin Cobos, written by successive yachtsmen. We knew she had married the son of the most prosperous plantation owner of the Galápagos, who had later been killed by his own peons, and we had read descriptions of their huge ranch house, their riding horses, and the ease and luxurious living with which the family Cobos were surrounded.