Turtles dominate on the Aldabra Atoll

This story appears in the
June 2019 issue of
National Geographic magazine.

The first time a turtle went through my hut at the Middle Camp on Aldabra Atoll, I was amazed. I caught my camera and carefully positioned myself to capture this encounter with wildlife. The second time: same thing. The third time: I took my phone and took a snapshot. At the fourth or fifth time, I did not even watch when I felt something hit me. I knew what it was.

I was there to turn a story about the restoration of an island in the Seychelles, far from the east coast of Africa in the Indian Ocean. Until about the middle of the last century, the small island nation was showing signs of real environmental carnage: native vegetation cleared to make way for plantations of coconut and cinnamon, rats and mice invading frantically, sea turtles and giant turtles exploited. Biodiversity seemed doomed to failure.

But then the country has experienced a shift in conservation consciousness – and giant tortoises Aldabra are among its most visible signs. These massive reptiles lived in most islands of the Indian Ocean until the 17th century sailors discovered that they were the perfect source of fresh supplies for long journeys because they could survive for months without water or food. The sailors filled their holds with hundreds of turtles at a time, turning them on their backs to prevent them from wandering on deck. Little by little, turtles from the islands of the Indian Ocean were consumed to extinction, with the exception of Aldabra, which was the only island in the whole basin oceanic where a few thousand of these turtles have survived.

The isolation and hostile environment of Aldabra protected turtles, and still do. Located more than 700 km west of Mahé, the main island of Seychelles, the island is in the direct trajectory of no one. (To get there, I had to charter a propeller plane with an airstrip on the nearest island, then take a small boat.) And Aldabra, one of the world's largest coral atolls, is quite inhospitable to visitors. The shore is made up of sharp coral rocks. There is no permanent fresh water, but there are many mosquitoes and it is so hot that turtles cook in their shells if they do not find shade during the day. Yet, turtles thrive here because no one has been hard enough to fetch them – and because the atoll was designated in the 1980s as a special reserve by the government and as a UNESCO World Heritage Site. . Protected against human intervention, the population of tortoises returned to approximately 100,000 people.

For two weeks of my six-week stay at Aldabra, I was based in Middle Camp, a day-long trek in the mangrove swamps of the Seychelles Island Foundation-run research station. I lived in a hut with a dirt floor and a tin roof. At night, coconut crabs roamed the roof to the sound of the screeching metal.

Every morning while getting up and out of the cabin, I had to remember that I had not gone back in time. I could see Aldabra-free flight rails, dinner-sized coconut crabs and giant turtles – from about four feet long and weighing up to 550 pounds – strolling. The number of sharks in the bay was crazy. Frigates and fools nestled in the mangroves.

The turtles did not seem to be the difference between me – a National Geographic photographer – and a frigate, a coconut crab or a rail without flying. We were all part of the ecosystem and they treated humans as they treated all other creatures: they ignored us. When we left the door open, which we often did to let in the air, the turtles walked through. It did not matter if you cooked, slept or prepared photographic equipment. Our neighborhoods were part of the daily migration route. When we sat down to eat, behind the hut, on a small stretch of sand, the turtles tried to step on us, almost bulldozing us. That's how much they feared humans.

In the late afternoon or early evening, each time they finished grazing, the turtles would fall and fall asleep with their heads lying down. This made perilous night outings to the outside toilet. To get there, we must travel 200 feet in the mangroves, negotiating what I call the turtle slalom track. It was a path without a reason, because of course, they chose different places to sleep each night. It was important to avoid them: falling overboard of a turtle on a sharp coral rock could result in serious injury on an island away from medical facilities.

Aldabra is not easy, and most have been incredibly difficult. Yet living among the turtles in this prime location, in one of the last places where reptile reigns still reign, was one of the happiest moments of my life.

Photographer and marine biologist
Thomas Peschak shot nine reports for
National Geographic. He specializes in the documentation of the beauty and fragility of the oceans, islands and coasts of the world.