Chapter 1: Famous Since 1971

Chapter 1: Famous Since 1971

“Why do I hate you?  I hate your yappy little dog.  I hate the fact that you are staring at me with that high and almighty grin again.  I hate the fact that you have no control over your child.  I mean seriously lady, are you even paying attention to what your kid just did or do I have to come over there and say something?” 

“Excuse me!  Who are you to tell me how to raise my sweet darling?  It is good for him to have the freedom to express himself and…” she replied.

“Express himself?  Your kid just threw a rock at me and laughed.  You think allowing your little monster to hurl rocks at me is funny and freedom of expression!?  Why don’t you come over here and let me express myself!  I’ll just add your lack of parenting skills to the reasons I despise you!”  I retorted. 

 “But you don’t even know me. How can you say you hate me?  Who do you think you are?” 

“I know your type.  I don’t have to know you to know you.  You people are all the same in the end.  I don’t even know why I bother talking to you people. You’re lucky I don’t have thumbs, or I’d come over there and grab hold of you and…”

That was how the conversation would play out in my mind with those people who stared at me every day.   But when I screamed at them at the top of my lungs, all that came out was, “Hssss! Hssss! Hss! Hss!” The people thought that was so cute, which only made me angrier.  

Who am I? ‘Lonesome George’ they called me.  The “most endangered animal” and “rarest reptile” as deemed by the people from the Guinness Book of World Records for the past 40 years.  They said I was “effectively extinct while still alive”.   That title pretty much explained my plight.  One is the loneliest number that might seem cliché to say, but knowing I was all alone, totally alone, made depression part of daily life.  

Sure, if I was a tourist basking on the deck of some cruise ship sailing the Pacific, I might love my life here in the Galapagos, but I was simply a tortoise, a slow-moving behemoth.  Until 1971, people would stop by Pinta Island, like the rest of the Galapagos Islands, to see the tame creatures like us tortoises. “Pinties” they used to call us.  Being a tortoise, I couldn’t tell anyone that all the Pinties were disappearing.  I also couldn’t explain how angry I got when I would see a tuft of grass, start moving toward it, only to have some hippity hoppity goat beat me there first. I never understood why people put those goats on our island in the first place.   There was nothing I could do but wallow in self-pity (and my mudhole) waiting for some person to turn me into soup, like the rest of my family and friends.   

People were supposed to be so smart, but I had yet to see evidence of that.   I mean seriously, it took a little girl stopping by Pinta Island to point out to her tour guide that I seemed lonely.  Well, of course, I was lonely!  I had not seen another Pintie in years!  Soon after that, some scientists showed up, talking about how excited they were to find me.  At first, the feeling was mutual.  Finally, someone could get rid of all of these goats and leave me alone.  That dream was short-lived though, as they gathered around my shell and took measurements while flashing their toothy smiles.  

Those scientists finished measuring me, and before I knew what was happening, they hoisted up my left side, slid some kind of rope under me and tied me up.  They were making me leave, not the goats! I knew I was supposed to be a tame, pleasant-tempered Galapagos tortoise, but that day I was hissing mad. I didn’t know what was happening at first, but I was lifted off of the ground by some sort of log with ropes and carried off by a bunch of people.  I must admit that that experience itself was a bit exhilarating, until they dropped me in some crate, slammed the lid shut, and left me peering through six small holes as we ventured out to sea. In that one day, I had flown like a frigate bird and sailed through the water like a marine iguana, but that would be the last exciting thing I’d ever do.  

I was taken to a concrete enclosure at the Charles Darwin Research Station.  I was there to be studied, measured, tested and talked about.  They really made a big deal out of me.  I had overheard them talking about a 150-year-old female Galapagos tortoise somewhere in Australia. At first, I was still optimistic that one of my relatives had survived being made into turtle soup.  I wondered what it’d be like dating a tortoise that old, but she turned out to be a different subspecies.  If nothing more I could wait at the research station in peace and quiet, away from those obnoxious goats.

The scientists of the CDRS scoured the earth; all of the world’s zoos and private animal collections for a female Pinta Island tortoise, but their efforts were fruitless.  Realizing I was actually the last of my species was a real low point for me.  I would never have an awkward first date, have turtlings of my own, or even get to talk to another Pintie again in my life.  I regretted not dating when I was in my forties or fifties.  I thought I had a good hundred years to meet someone.  I figured I was too young to settle down back then, but now I knew for sure I’d never get a chance.  The people at the CDRS even posted a $10,000 reward for anyone who could find another Pinta Island Tortoise.  They might as well have made it a billion dollars because it wasn’t going to happen.  

It would bother me so much when some kid would stand there with his family and say, “Mom, I don’t understand why he’s called Lonesome George when he’s in there with two other Galapagos tortoises.  They look the same to me.”

I thought they look the same to me?  They look the same to me!  We are completely different subspecies!  How’d you like me saying, yeah that little boy and that monkey look the same, why don’t they form one big happy family?

The conversation wasn’t any better in the enclosure with those two tortoises from Isabela Island.  

“I don’t know what your problem is Georgie,” Isa said. “You have a great life here with us.  We get fresh grass and vegetables every day.  We have beautiful weather and for whatever reason people line up every day to see you.”

My body tensed up every time Isa called me Georgie.  That was a name reserved only for family and close friends, which she was not.

“And don’t forget our watering hole.  It always has water in it, and you don’t have to walk over hot volcanic rubble to find it as you did back on your island,” Bella added.

“All you do is hiss, hiss, hiss.  You hiss at us, and you hiss at them.  We’re probably going to be in this enclosure together for the next fifty years, so can’t we make the best of it Georgie?”  Isa reasoned.   

Truth be told, I had stopped talking to Isa and Bella a few months after meeting them.  Even the scientists thought if you put two subspecies of Galapagos tortoises together and you’ll get more tortoises.  Obviously, that’s not what happened at all.  I couldn’t stand their thick Isabela Island accent or their cheery demeanor.  They didn’t understand how Georgie was feeling because there were still 2,000 of their kind left.  I tried explaining it to them once, but they are kind of…slow, even by tortoise standards.

I needed to find some space by myself, so I walked over to a corner of my enclosure, my backside pointing toward the two tortoises and the people. They always sighed disappointedly when I did this, but their disapproval gave me a momentary joy before I turned in for my midday nap.  

Sleep was never restful because with sleep came the nightmares. It was always one of two dreams; the Starving Time after the goats arrived, but the worst was always the Last Raid.  It always started out the same way, walking up to the lookout, with my bale to watch the sunset.  I could feel the air beginning to cool, and we looked out over the ocean from our favorite cliff.

“Georgie, it’s going to be a great sunset today,” my mom said joyfully.

“Mom, of course, it’s going to be a beautiful sunset. It’s pretty much always the same here. We are on an island you know,” I replied.

“Haha.  I guess you’re right, but I just love a good sunset.  I don’t know where you get your restless spirit, Georgie.  It must be from your father,” Mom joked.

I sarcastically replied, “How do I know you really are my mom?  I mean you just laid me in a pile of sand in the rubble and walked away.  Maybe I’m the son of someone else in our bale, like Aunt Brenda?  Did you ever think of that?”  

“Well as you love to point out all the time, we live on an island.  We’re all related here.  But Aunt Brenda is just that, Aunt Brenda.  But I know your smell.  You smell like your father,” she said.

“You mean like a tortoise?  Yeah, we all have the leafy, ashy smell,” I replied.

“Oh Georgie, you’re so stubborn sometimes.  I know you by your smell.  Some day when you are older you will understand,” she explained. “You should rest up Georgie.  It’s going to be another exciting day of eating prickly pear in the valley.”

“Good night, Mom.  I’m going to go for a little walk.  See you in the morning.” 

“Just be careful,” she said in that loving yet annoying way.

“Mom, we’re on an island, a Galapagos island.  I think I’m a little too old to be scooped up by a frigate bird,” I joked.

“I love you, Georgie,” she said.

“Yeah. Yeah.  See you, tomorrow Mom,” I said.

Then the dream always jumped from that last sunset when all the Pinties turned in for the night (meaning they simply fell asleep where they were) to the following morning.  Since I had been off by myself, I was late getting to the prickly pear cacti, and that’s when it happened. 

 I was heading down to the valley when I heard shouts of terror coming from my bale.  That’s when I saw them, the only real danger for us. It definitely wasn’t a flock of frigate birds.  From my vantage point on the hill, it looked like a group of whalers.   These men came every year during whaling season to stock up on food supplies, namely us tortoises.  They had, of course, stopped before and taken a few tortoises, but this time they seemed to be rounding up our entire bale.  I was terrified.  

I heard the whalers talking as they wrapped harnesses around my friends.  “Those other whalers were right. These tortoises are easy pickings.  We can just take them on board our ship and cook them in their shells later,” said the first whaler with a toothless smile.

The man holding the other end of the hoisting pole replied, “We might as well take as many as we can.  These things weigh 150 pounds easy.  That’s a LOT of good soup.”

The first man responded, “Let’s clear them out.  I hear they’ll be putting goats on this barren island next year anyway."

“I make a mighty tasty goat stew. That’s something to look forward to next whaling season.  But for now, these pathetic tortoises will have to do.  Let’s round them up and fill our cargo hold.  It’s gonna be a long whaling season this year,” the second man replied.

That’s when the nightmare always goes from bad to worse.  I knew that as a tortoise there was nothing I could do, but that’s when I saw her fleeing toward the rougher terrain.  I heard my mom screaming to Aunt Brenda and the others to run for it.  I saw she had a chance.  I willed her to crouch down behind a large rock, but she didn’t.  

“Go!” she screamed toward the others.  “I will divert them.”

“No!  Run, Mom! Run!” I pleaded from up on the hill.

She glanced up the hill at me and then back to the others before throwing herself between two rocks, blocking the path of the whalers.  I watched in horror as she flipped upside down, which I knew could be fatal in and of itself for a tortoise.  I saw the two whalers spot her flailing to right herself.

“Look, this old girl has herself wedged,” said the first man scanning the surrounding land. “Come help me with this one.  She looks to be the last one in the area.”

They took quite a while unwedging her from the rocks, but when they did I heard the second whaler say, “She’s a biggie.  We might as well take her straight to the fire.  Cook her right in her shell.”

“Easy pickings and easy cooking.  Tortoise soup even comes with its own decorative bowl,” the first whaler joked while running his hand along my mom’s shell.

I snapped awake with a jerk and looked around.  The two whalers were replaced by a crowd of smiling people outside of my enclosure.  I always woke up from those nightmares feeling great sorrow and extreme rage, but the people just ogled at me for being awake.  I hated going to sleep, but I hated waking up and seeing those people staring at me even more.  I hadn’t had a peaceful night’s sleep since the Last Raid, and that was just before the goats arrived in 1958 on our “barren” island.  Pinta Island was far from barren. It was statements like those that spawned my loathing of goats and the people who brought them.  

I knew I was a bitter old tortoise, but how could I forgive the people for not even trying to help me until I was alone?  Even after the Last Raid, people could have protected the remaining few Pinties from the Starving Time brought on by the goats. I saw no reason to be joyful or to wake up being grateful for anything.  I had seen a lot in the past century.  But even at 106, I was only middle-aged for a Galapagos tortoise or so the sign outside my enclosure said.  I still had a long time to go until my extinction came, but it couldn’t have come soon enough.

To be fair, there were a few people at the CDRS who had tried (in vain) to make my last days as positive as possible.  As Isa and Bella so often pointed out, the people did pamper us by adding lush greenery from Pinta Island as well as one of my favorite sunning rocks, which on the side they had engraved ‘Lonesome George’.  At night I would slowly pile rocks to block out the ‘Lonesome’ part.  Seeing that addition to my name was a constant reminder to me of my plight.

Fausto was one of the zookeepers who tried his best to make me happy.  He was the one who pushed to have some other types of giant tortoises in my enclosure. Although those two female tortoises talked too much and annoyed me to no end, I knew Fausto meant well.  

There were only two times when I was even remotely happy; one was when I dreamt about my youth when I was with my family back on Pinta Island watching the sunset over our favorite cliff before the Last Raid, and the other was late at night when Fausto returned to the research station to check on me, read me stories, or play songs for me on his guitar.   

Fausto walked over to the fence with some plants in his hand, patted my shell and whispered, “Are you ready for another song that I wrote just for you my friend?  You seemed extra unhappy all day today, and I just wanted to perk you up a little bit.  I also brought you some fruit from home that isn’t on your approved diet list inside the station.” This made me smile a little bit (on the inside at least, since I don’t have lips).  

“I can only imagine what you must be feeling,” he continued. “Even though you are one of the most famous animals on earth, loneliness is not a very pleasant thing to be famous for.  When I look at that rock over there with your name engraved on it, it makes me a little depressed.  ‘Lonesome George’ is just a dreary name.” I could only think about how much I agreed with all that he was saying. 

“George my friend,” Fausto said, laying his warm hand on my head.  “From now on you are just George to me.  How does that sound?” I raised my head off the ground and looked at Fausto.  “Well George, I will take that as your nod of approval.”  

Fausto read some stories to me and played a few songs on his guitar until I feigned sleep. Then he snuck off to his home and family on the other side of the island.  Once he was out of sight, I lifted my head from the dusty ground one last time to take in all that was to be my life for the next 100 years or so, before drifting off to sleep and another nightmare.