UNIT 11: Here I Am: Galápagos Log

Written by Alex Chen, Conservation Intern

Our team set up monitoring cameras on Española Island to study marine iguana hatchlings, vulnerable to hawks, feral dogs, and goats. The cameras, fixed on poles near the nesting grounds, gave us continuous data that no human observer could collect. One morning, I found an act of sheer vandalism: a camera smashed beyond repair, with nearby nests accidentally rent open, their fragile eggs crushed. The loss would clearly distort our results, so I rummaged through the debris with dogged persistence until I uncovered a carved wooden fish—not the ancient relic it resembled, but new. Determined to follow the lead, I knew I had to act like a sleuth. In the village, a shopkeeper linked the carving to a fisherman with the alias “El Martillo.” He was a burly man with an ingrained suspicion of outsiders. At the docks, I grilled him. There was to be no skimping on details; I needed the full story. He insisted our cameras, with their metallic glint and faint clicking, frightened fish away and warned that if the fish vanished, everyone living by the net would starve.

What he did not realize was that several neighbors overheard fragments of our exchange. By evening, the tale had passed through the marketplace and over shared meals, growing as it traveled. His complaint had become a mocking parody: that scientists cared more about reptiles than people and would cause the village to go hungry. I was nearly dumbfounded at how quickly such falsehoods could prevail, but I also knew it was inevitable that such fears would fester unless addressed. To replenish the shaken trust, I resolved to hold open gatherings where we could address the fears directly. We showed not only footage of the iguanas but also recordings of the surrounding waters, proving that fish swam undisturbed near the cameras. I explained that the devices had no flash and that the faint clicks were softer than the sound of waves. To strengthen confidence, I invited fishermen to place a camera by their own nets for a trial. When they saw fish still circling, their suspicion eased. It would take patience, cooperation, and above all, true grit, but I believed that only through openness and shared observation could we bridge the gap.

That evening, I took a slow amble along the shore. From the sand, a hatchling appeared and made a meteoric dash to the waves. Many perish; some lineages are already extinct. Watching it vanish into the surf, I reflected on the gulf between science and human fear. People resist what they do not understand, and rumors rush in where knowledge is absent. Yet this is why our efforts matter: even if mocked or doubted now, research turns the unknown into the known, ignorance into understanding. Protecting these creatures is not only about one species—it is about showing that people and wildlife can share the same islands, the same future. However misunderstood our mission may be, it is the only path toward a world where science, community, and nature live in harmony.