This story appeared in the Spring 2020 Letters & Science magazine.
In the summer of 2012, the eulogies rang out. “There will never be another like him,” reported the New York Times. The most famous tortoise to have ever lived—Lonesome George—was dead.
Lonesome George became a global sensation when he was discovered on the Galápagos Island of Pinta in 1971, the last known member of his species. He was a fitting symbol for the islands named by the Spanish after the giant tortoises that call them home. The heroic efforts to have George sire a new generation, and his ultimate failure to do so, seemed only to confirm humankind’s destructive tendencies and the further need to restore the Galápagos Islands to a time before people, to construct a “new Eden.”
But it’s time to turn the page on that view of a spoiled paradise, says Elizabeth Hennessy, assistant professor of history and environmental studies. Hennessy has studied the Galápagos and the relationships among conservationists, tourists and residents there since 2007. In her research, which combines science studies, environmental history and political ecology, Hennessy argues for making people integral to conservation work, not antithetical to it. And she wants to dispel persistent myths about conservation work on the islands and elsewhere.
“For several decades, the rhetoric of conservation focused on preserving the Galápagos as a nearly untouched natural laboratory,” she says. “But people are part of the ecosystem. The challenge for conservation is how to best interact with both residents and tourists.”
In the 20th century, conservationists and biologists made the Galápagos Islands the poster child of what Hennessy calls the “pristine model” of conservation. The islands seemed a perfect choice. Not only did they help inspire Charles Darwin’s theory of evolution, but they also lacked an indigenous population, which meant that humans were relative newcomers to the islands over the past 500 years.
“To build a conservation of living together and sharing the planet, you have to have a sense of history,” says Hennessy. “This idea of the pristine is a false reading of history.”
The reality is the islands were anything but pristine by the time Darwin arrived on the Beagle. Pirates and whalers had let goats and rats loose and hunted animals, including giant tortoises, for food. Darwin himself dined on tortoises. But the idea of restoring the islands to an evolutionary paradise secured funding and won the hearts of visitors. Tortoises began adorning conservation institution logos and tourist souvenirs alike as a symbol of nature in need of protection. The tortoises themselves, like Lonesome George, attracted thousands.
Today, some 30,000 people live on the islands. Clashes between residents and conservationists over resources and regulations have shown the limits of a conservation strategy that ignores people or, worse, demonizes them. That’s a mistake, Hennessy says.
“I want people to understand the history of Galápagos in a way that makes space for people there—conservation needs to look forward, not back toward restoring the past,” says Hennessy.