Galápagos

Where my birth took place

My parents loved each other in the Atlantic but I was born in the Pacific. The cruise ship rounded Cape Horn, and in two and a half months dropped its anchor at Isabella Island in the Galápagos.

To celebrate my birth my parents decided to stay on the island for a year. They assigned me to keep track of the days but I didn’t know how to draw a line until I was two. They built a hut on the hill of Isabella Island and carried me there. I was fresh new and didn’t know how to walk until five days young.

They made a marriage contract which basically said that my mom is responsible for cleaning the hut and washing my dad’s unmentionables and my dad is responsible for bringing fresh coconuts and hunting the last five surviving goats on the island. A seagull, flying above my dad’s head as he was holding the document, pooped on the paper and thus it was signed.

The contract was sealed inside of a coconut, which was buried under the third from the left mangrove tree at the lagoon of Puerto Villamil. They sent our pet parrot Gogi to their parents to spread the news. Luckily their parents lived in the same state of the same country.

When I was six months young my parents took me to the sea to teach me how to swim. When I turned one year old we went scuba diving together. When I turned two, I decided to climb a coconut tree for the first time in my life and my parents decided to get a divorce.

My mom, Isabella, stayed in our hut on Isabella Island and my dad, Santiago, took his dinghy and moved to a neighbouring island called Santiago. But before they did, they made a divorce contract which basically said that they wouldn’t remain friends and even though they wouldn’t remain friends they promise not to get too angry if one of them, looking through binoculars when birdwatching, spots the other one being particularly happy on the beach of the neighbouring island. A seagull, flying above my dad’s head as he was holding the document, pooped on the paper and thus it was signed.

The contract was sealed inside of a coconut, which was buried under the third from the left mangrove tree at the lagoon of Puerto Villamil. They sent our pet parrot Gogi to their parents to spread the news. Luckily their parents still lived in the same state of the same country.

At that point everybody called me Pinzón (because I lived in between the two islands, occasionally visiting Pinzón Island) and Gogi was my best friend. I wasn’t too happy about the decision of sending Gogi away but I was years younger than my parents and couldn’t do much about it.

Gogi had waited for my dad’s dad for eight days, and when my dad’s dad pulled his old school maroon jeep, covered in mud and sand, next to his house, he saw Gogi lying on a garden table on top of the obituary section of a local newspaper gasping for air. My dad’s dad treated him with a Mexican style grilled octopus. Gogi felt an abysmal burning inside of his mouth and jerked to the pack of milk he saw left on a table. The milk was sour as it had been left on the table for two weeks by now.

Gogi was drunk for the whole next day and whilst being drunk he sang Russian songs. My dad’s dad’s neighbours heard him singing and were seriously frightened this was terrorists. So he decided to take Gogi to mom’s dad as soon as possible. He pulled his old school maroon jeep, covered in mud and sand, next to my mom’s dad’s house and rang the doorbell. My mom’s dad opened the door, he looked closely at the parrot.

‘You must be Gogi, my granddaughter’s best friend,’ he exclaimed, ‘I recognised you from the photos. How is she doing? I have never seen her but miss her terribly!’

‘She’s doing fine,’ said Gogi. ‘She lives in between the two islands in the Galápagos and every day we practise Portuguese together.’

‘You must be a very well educated bird, Gogi,’ said my mom’s dad. ‘Come on in, guys. I have some milk for you.’

‘No, please, not milk,’ said Gogi, ‘Last time I had milk in this state of this country I got seriously drunk and sang Russian songs so loud that neighbours thought I was a terrorist.’

They all entered the house. My dad’s dad sat on a couch and Gogi sat on his shoulder.

‘Which Russian songs do you know, Gogi?’ asked my mom’s dad.

‘I know all of the Kirkorov repertoire. He’s very popular in the Galápagos islands.’

‘My wife and I went to Best Foods yesterday and now our fridge is full of food.’

‘Oh wow! This is the first time I see people keep food in such a thing!’ said Gogi. ‘If you please, sir, I would like to try some of your sea cucumber toasts.’

‘And what would you like to try, sir?’ my mom’s dad asked my dad’s dad.

‘Unfortunately it is time for me to go. Thank you for the warm welcome.’ said my dad’s dad.

After that he sat in his old school maroon jeep, covered in mud and sand, started the engine and disappeared.

‘You have excellent bread, sir, but sea cucumber is much better in the Galápagos,’ said Gogi, ‘Unfortunately I must go now too. Até a proxima vez!’

Meanwhile I didn’t lose any time and decided that my parents must live on the same island, in the same hut, on the same hill, like normal parents do. Once a month a cruise ship would drop its anchor at Isabella island where my mom lived. I would send graceless and irritable women to Santiago Island where my dad lived. At the same time, whenever I would meet a charming man, I would tell him that in a hut on the hill he can find the best coconut soup in the whole world.

My mom grew lovelier and lovelier and in four months my dad saw her through the binoculars and was surprised by her grace and beauty. He took his dinghy and ventured to return back to Isabella Island.

He picked me up as I was swimming in between the islands, and started teaching me how to dress properly and how to behave oneself in society. To which I said, ‘Where were you a year ago when Gogi and I read all about it in the New York Times?’

‘Where did you get this newspaper from?’ my dad asked.

‘Aircrafts flying above the island lose a few editions from time to time,’ I said.

My dad sighed as if saying he was tired of listening to my lies but wasn’t going to bicker over it now.

When we reached Isabella island my dad went searching for my mom and found her climbing a coconut tree, — her back arched, her feet against the sides of the tree. He told her in his whole life he hadn’t met a woman more graceful and beautiful than herself. My mom was so spoiled by the attention she was getting these past months — she wasn’t gonna give up that easy, which meant that my dad had to run after her across the whole island, which could barely be called running since most of the island’s ground is sandy.

In the end, mom gave up. So they went to the third from the left mangrove tree at the lagoon of Puerto Villamil, dug up the coconut containing the divorce contract and burnt it.

And that’s how by the age of three I lost and refound my parents.