What If the World Was Like This?

It’s far from anywhere. A different world where wild creatures reign supreme. After all, humans arrived at the Galápagos like pirates, and even now, they remain visitors. As they ought to feel on the rest of the planet…

by Akis Temperidis
photography: Akis Temperidis & Vula Netou

When the plane touches down on the parched, volcanic surface of Baltra Island, it feels like you’ve landed on the edge of nowhere. The flight from Quito, Ecuador’s capital, takes two hours, mostly gliding above a gossamer blanket of clouds so sheer it could be silk. Through breaks in the mist, there’s nothing but the endless blue of the Pacific, until finally, a thousand kilometers off the South American coast, the archipelago emerges—127 islands and rocky islets, thrust from the sea by volcanic fury a mere five million years ago. Infants, by planetary standards.

The Seymour Airport, once a U.S. military base in WWII, now boasts the world’s first eco-friendly terminal, built in 2012 from recycled materials. Its columns? Reclaimed oil pipes from the Amazon basin. A second airport connects San Cristóbal to mainland Ecuador, but for most, the journey begins on Baltra.

$100 per person for entry to the national park, $5 for the bus to Itabaca Channel, $1 for the ferry crossing to Santa Cruz Island, and another $5 for a bus ride south to Puerto Ayora, the archipelago’s hub. Here, amidst cement blocks, asphalt streets, neon signs, tour agencies, motorbikes, and cars, civilization briefly asserts itself before the islands’ raw, untamed beauty swallows it whole.

Puerto Ayora is one of three urban outposts we’ll visit during our twelve days here—the others being the rustic, almost African-feeling Puerto Villamil on the sprawling Isabela Island, and Puerto Baquerizo on San Cristóbal, where our flight home awaits. Together, these towns occupy a scant 3% of the islands’ landmass, home to about 35,000 souls today—a staggering leap from just 5,000 in 1970. The rest? True wilderness.

This, in crude strokes, is the Galápagos.

A Distant Planet

The Galápagos isn’t just unique for its flora, fauna, and underwater riches. It’s the rare harmony between humanity and wild nature that makes it unparalleled. Here, there are no land predators to fear—no lions or leopards like in Africa. Only sea lions, lizards, iguanas, giant tortoises, and wondrous birds. Even the sharks, including hammerheads, glide through the waters with a serenity that belies their reputation.

Homo sapiens first set foot here just 500 years ago, in 1535. Permanent settlers arrived in the 19th century, and by 1959, the islands were declared a national park. The result? Wildlife here either trusts humans or, more likely, ignores us entirely. Iguanas bask on sidewalks; pelicans watch you eat lunch; sea lions nap on benches.

Charles Darwin saw this for himself in 1835 during the Beagle expedition, and it’s the first thing you notice as a visitor today, even among the quarter-million tourists who now arrive annually. The interaction feels magical, but it’s a fragile magic. Humans pose a threat to animals here, never the other way around.

This delicate dance between man and beast happens nowhere else on Earth. It’s a spectacle of awkward tourists in sun hats snapping selfies while marine iguanas gaze on, unimpressed. These moments, while amusing, carry weight. Tourists, whether they realize it or not, are ambassadors for the Galápagos’ fragile ecosystem. The very act of stepping foot here demands responsibility.

Local authorities have instilled a culture of respect, making the Galápagos a model for conservation worldwide. Strict rules govern the national park, and every visitor arrives prepped—whether they’re nature enthusiasts from North America, Europe, Japan, or China, or Ecuadorians on a pilgrimage to their country’s greatest natural treasure.

What if the world respected wildlife as they do here? No hunting lions or elephants. No slaughtering sharks or whales. Imagine.

Life Among the Islands

Tourism fuels the Galápagos economy. Fishing comes second, agriculture barely registers. Life here isn’t just geographically removed from mainland Ecuador—it’s economically distinct. Minimum wages on the islands are twice as high as the mainland, but so are prices. A kilo of lobster might be a bargain at $15–$17, but everything else—groceries, accommodation, fuel—costs a fortune, thanks to three-day ship journeys from the mainland and rigorous inspections to keep invasive species at bay.

The islands don’t expand. Construction is capped within the limits of the three towns, so space is tight, costs are high, and tourists pay for the privilege. Half opt for land-based stays; the rest, with deeper pockets, cruise the archipelago aboard yachts ranging from repurposed fishing boats to luxury vessels. Rates begin at $350–400 per night and climb to $1,200 or more.

After the pandemic shuttered tourism and the islands fell back on barter systems, the resurgence in visitors this year has been staggering. Officials may soon impose stricter visitor caps and raise entry fees to $200–300 to curb the flood.

Is it worth it? Cynics might call the Galápagos a pricey tourist trap. But swimming with sharks, dancing with sea lions, and gazing into the eyes of a hundred-year-old tortoise in a prehistoric landscape? Those moments defy cynicism.

Darwin spent weeks here and emerged with the framework for his theory of evolution. Stay a few days, and you might leave with your own epiphany: What if we treated the whole planet like a national park?