Agricultural Imaginaries and Contested Pathways to Sustainability in Galapagos

Abstract

Vulnerabilities in local food systems revealed by the COVID-19 pandemic were especially evident in highly tourism-dependent islands. This underscores the crucial role of agriculture in ensuring socio-ecological resilience, food security, and livelihood options in these contexts. Yet despite renewed policy attention, sustaining local farming in remote island settings continues to face numerous challenges. Amid growing recognition of the ways in which collective imagination shapes (and constrains) sustainability transformations, this paper applies the conceptual lens of imaginaries to examine agricultural futures in the Galápagos Islands and to explore the question of why agriculture remains marginal, despite widespread acknowledgement that supporting sustainable farming is central to the archipelago’s long-term sustainability. Through reflexive thematic analysis of policy documents, grey literature, and semi-structured interviews, the paper shows how imaginative spaces of possibility around food futures in Galápagos are conditioned by the powerful entanglement of hegemonic conservationist imaginaries with touristic imaginaries of an uninhabited wilderness. Within this contested terrain, five overlapping and co-constituting imaginaries of agriculture are distinguished, oriented variously around conservation priorities, technocratic planning, entrepreneurial growth, traditional livelihoods, and agroecological transformation. The analysis highlights how these imaginaries mobilize contrasting logics of support and mechanisms of change and illustrates how they complicate simplistic binaries, for example, between pristine and human-managed ecosystems, or between technological and holistic approaches to farming. The paper underscores the importance of paying critical attention to imaginaries of agriculture in order to navigate pathways toward more sustainable and resilient food systems in ecologically fragile island contexts.

1. Introduction

In debates about agricultural futures, collective imagination has increasingly been recognized as a crucial political sphere through which possibilities for transformation are articulated and contested [1]. Scholarship on imaginaries shows how they shape collective spaces of possibility [2] and determine the ‘thought space of decision making’ [3], making their creation and contestation inherently political [4], and making the analysis of imaginaries increasingly central in transdisciplinary sustainability transformations research. Critical attention to imaginaries helps illuminate ‘how systems come to be legitimized and what comes to be perceived as possible’ [5], structuring contested questions of what should be transformed, in what ways, and for whom [6,7,8,9].

Within agri-food scholarship, the lens of sociotechnical imaginaries [10] has been applied to examine ‘promissory futures’ [11] across a variety of domains, illuminating how particular imaginaries, such as those around ‘smart’ or ‘precision’ agriculture [12], gene editing [13], or the ‘datafication’ of agriculture [14], have emerged and become institutionalized, often at the expense of alternative imaginaries and associated pathways. Scholarship in this vein has demonstrated the ways in which particular agricultural imaginaries frame understandings of growth, progress and the meanings of national development in particular contexts [15], and examined how particular agri-food imaginaries ‘gain traction through practices characterized by particular ways of knowing and anticipating the future’ (for example, the dominance in policy domains of particular forms of quantitative crop modelling [16]). Such work highlights how imaginaries of the future are performative [17], meaning that currently shared expectations or visions of the future guide sociotechnical developments, decision-making, and governance [16,18]. In this way, sociotechnical imaginaries are co-produced with institutions, technologies, and material worlds, shaping which agricultural pathways are rendered visible, desirable, or attainable [19].

In small island contexts, sociotechnical imaginaries of agricultural transformation often coexist uneasily with globally circulating ‘island imaginaries’ [20] that have been profoundly shaped by colonial and imperialist logics [21,22]. As Gugganig observes, ‘imaginations of islands as enclosed, remote, and pristine (paradisiacal) spaces both channel and are channeled by colonial and technoscientific visions and theories of islands’ [23]. The depiction and production of islands primarily as biodiversity ‘hotspots’ or tourist destinations, or as sites for civic, natural, and military experimentation, have often dominated and constrained alternative locally rooted imaginaries of agricultural self-sufficiency or food sovereignty. In diverse island contexts, the COVID-19 pandemic brought the stakes of these tensions into sharp relief, highlighting the centrality of sustainable food systems to broader notions of island sustainability and catalysing renewed political and academic attention to agriculture and food system transformation.

In the Pacific region, the need to reduce reliance on imported foods to build island resilience to shocks was framed as a ‘critical issue’ in the post-pandemic period [24]. Since the pandemic, a growing body of work has focused on the substantial material constraints to strengthening regional agricultural production [25], including challenges of water scarcity, limited arable land, constrained access to finance and inputs, and persistent bottlenecks in processing, storage, and transport [26,27,28]. However, relatively less attention has been paid to the discursive aspect of these debates, namely to the role of imaginaries in shaping or constraining agricultural futures in islands.

This paper addresses this gap by exploring agricultural imaginaries in the Galápagos Islands, examining how they interact with globally circulating island imaginaries and what this reveals about the possibilities for sustainable agricultural transformation in the archipelago. Agricultural imaginaries can be understood as one element within a wider constellation of imaginaries that structure debates about sustainability; they are not reducible to ‘island imaginaries’ or ‘conservationist imaginaries’, but neither are they independent of them. Rather, agricultural imaginaries emerge and evolve in dialogue with these more established frames, reflecting how policymakers, farmers, NGOs, and others imagine the role of agriculture within an archipelago that is simultaneously a UNESCO World Heritage Site, a tourism-dependent economy, and a lived social–ecological and agricultural system. Through mapping and contrasting the different imaginaries of agricultural futures that circulate in the archipelago, the paper highlights the distinct values, priorities, and mechanisms of change they mobilize. In doing so, it offers a more nuanced understanding of sustainability in island contexts—one that keeps material constraints in view while foregrounding the imaginative and normative work through which futures are rendered possible or foreclosed.

Imagining Food Futures in Galapagos

As the site of extraordinary levels of scientific interest and global sustainability and conservation concern [29], and a key ‘node’ in transnational networks of conservation [30], the Galapagos Islands provide rich empirical material for an analysis of the contested terrain of imaginaries of sustainability. Lived realities for the Galapagos population of ~30,000 people are shaped to an extraordinary degree by the archipelago’s place in globally circulating island imaginaries of science (Galapagos as ‘natural laboratory’ [31,32], and nature (Galapagos as ‘pristine wilderness’ [33]), as well as being subject to a ‘tourist gaze’ [34], which produces an endless stream of representations of the islands ‘spectacular nature’ [35,36], in the form of photos shared and circulated on social media by individuals and institutions.

Over the past 50 years, agriculture has tended to occupy an ambivalent place in these international island imaginaries, often being understood by international conservationists as being fundamentally at odds with conservation of the islands. Imaginaries of the land, particularly a perennial global imaginary of the Galapagos Islands as being actually (or ideally) uninhabited, and their ‘ideal’ ecological state being that of the pre-settlement sixteenth century [37], have historically been crucial in shaping agricultural development pathways in Galapagos. These narratives remain influential in conservationist understandings of what is possible and desirable in terms of agricultural production. As a result, despite the existence of a historically important network of farms in the highlands of the archipelago, agriculture has played a minimal role in dominant discourses of sustainability on the islands, featuring primarily as an activity that should be limited in order to minimize changes to terrestrial ecosystems (e.g., via the introduction of non-native species). Typifying this view, the proceedings of a workshop held at the Charles Darwin Research Station in the late 1980s described agriculture in Galapagos as being ‘more destructive than productive’ and referred to the Galapagos as being ‘eminently unsuited for agriculture’ [38].

This view of agriculture as an activity that does not belong in Galapagos, and a historical narrative that even alternative forms of agriculture (such as regenerative agriculture or agroecology) are simply ‘not possible in Galapagos’, has been compounded by the received wisdom that the least ecologically impactful economic activity on the islands is tourism. However, the severity of the direct and indirect impacts of decades of growth in tourism [39] and associated population growth since the 1990s [40] has called into question this vision of tourism as ecologically benign [31]. The boom in tourism throughout the 1990s exacerbated ongoing processes of farmland abandonment [41,42], and the combination of high levels of tourism (with accompanying demands for particular kinds of food and other products from continental Ecuador) and a shrinking agricultural sector has resulted in the creation of a highly import-dependent economy. Estimates vary, but Sampedro et al. suggest that Galapagos now imports around 75% of its food, which they argue may rise to 95% by 2037 unless effective changes are made to food policy that increase local agricultural productivity [43].

As the problems associated with tourism and the vulnerabilities associated with tourism dependence have become increasingly apparent, there has been a shift in the broader discourse around food and farming on the islands. While the negative environmental impacts of farming are still the subject of conservationist attention and concern—including, for example, concerns around the uncontrolled use of herbicides and pesticides [44], or farming-induced habitat changes on bird populations [45] or tortoise movements [46]—it has become increasingly common to hear arguments emanating from within conservationist and policy circles over the past two decades that increasing local food production and sustainable forms of agriculture, and diversifying livelihood strategies [47] are key to the sustainability and resilience of the archipelago [48,49]. Discursively this shift has been supported by a recognition of the conservation value of so-called ‘novel ecosystems’ [50], including agricultural landscapes, and there have been calls to recognise this ‘agrobiodiversity’ as an important component of the biodiversity present in the four inhabited islands of Galapagos [51].

As a result, various policy measures aiming to support farmers and stimulate the consumption of local produce have been implemented in recent years, as outlined in the Bioagriculture plan for Galapagos (published by the Ministry of Agriculture, Livestock, Aquaculture, and Fisheries (MAGAP—Spanish acronym) in 2013) which had the ambitious aim to ‘transform agriculture into the primary human activity in Galapagos in such a way that it contributes to the conservation of the natural heritage of Galapagos’ [42]. Policies in support of local agriculture have included: the implementation of import bans and tariffs on certain locally produced goods, such as coffee, tomatoes and mozzarella cheese [52], and a ‘denominación de origen’ certification [53] (a protected ‘designation of origin’ certification scheme) for locally grown coffee, ‘Café de Galapagos’ [54]. Various international NGOs (including Conservation International and Heifer International) have also been active in Galapagos, providing grants, equipment, training and skills workshops to farmers.

However, despite renewed policy interest, sustaining local farming in Galápagos has continued to face well-documented structural challenges. At present, there are around 650 farms in the highlands of the four inhabited islands (Santa Cruz, San Cristobal, Isabela and Floreana), growing a range of crops including coffee, banana, plantain, cassava, papaya, and tomatoes, and keeping livestock such as poultry, pigs, cattle, and goats [55]. However, agriculture struggles to compete with the economic opportunities offered by tourism, fuelling rural depopulation and labour shortages [42]. Restrictions on immigration under the Special Law for Galápagos (LOREG) [56] further complicate the hiring of workers from the continent, giving rise to an invisible class of undocumented farm labourers, who are ‘clandestine by necessity’ [57]. Farmers also contend with costly inputs, scarce freshwater, poor soils, and high transport costs, all of which make local produce less competitive than imports [58,59].

These longstanding vulnerabilities were thrown into sharp relief during the COVID-19 pandemic. The complete lockdown of the islands, which halted all tourism for four months from March–July 2020, precipitated what has been described as the ‘most severe economic crisis in the history of the Galápagos’ [60]. The crisis highlighted the precarity of an economic system dependent on tourist spending, and a food supply system dependent on imports [61,62]. Throughout the local economy, people were exposed to sudden revenue loss and debt, and farmers were similarly affected as demand for local produce collapsed with the tourism sector [63]. At the same time, the crisis also generated new solidarities: producers donated fish and vegetables to local families in need [64], small-scale food growing proliferated [65] and various grassroots initiatives emerged, including a Community Food Alliance (ACÁ) and an online ‘Trueque Galápagos’ barter network [66] for the money-free exchange of goods and services.

As elsewhere, the pandemic renewed attention to food security and sovereignty and amplified calls for policy reforms to promote agriculture [43,67,68]. The provincial government’s COVID recovery plan published in 2020 called for a fundamental rethinking of Galapagos’ (over)dependence on tourism [69], emphasizing the need to work toward a more diversified model of economic development and stressing the importance of supporting local agriculture. Much of the subsequent discussion around agriculture has focused on overcoming structural and ecological constraints to farming in order to promote local agricultural growth. Without diminishing the importance of these challenges, this paper argues that navigating pathways toward a more sustainable agricultural future also requires attention to the role of imaginaries in shaping which futures are seen as possible or desirable, and whose interests and power relations they serve. As Bocci has argued, ‘[d]reams are also historical agents: their interventions in the Galapagos help us understand the politics of conservation today’ [70]. In this vein, some scholars have already suggested that the long-term sustainability of the islands hinges on a ‘radical reimagining of the relationship between agriculture, conservation, and tourism’ [71]. The present paper aims to contribute to this process of reimagining, through mapping the imaginative landscape of agriculture in Galápagos, highlighting tensions and divergences between imaginaries and the normative assumptions and power dynamics that animate visions of agricultural futures. It is hoped that such an approach might contribute to the ‘opening-up’ of spaces of possibility [72], by exposing rather than eliding competing values and orientations. In turn, this may enable more transparent and ethically accountable dialogues about desired agricultural futures and foster the emergence of radical imaginaries—collective visions that break from prevailing assumptions and open new pathways for transformative change [73,74].

2. Materials and Methods

Broadly situated within the ‘pathways to sustainability’ research framework [75,76], this study centres the agency and imaginative potential of local people in Galápagos, who are often rendered invisible in popular tourist imaginaries of uninhabited wilderness or reduced to statistical representations and ‘conservation challenges’ in dominant conservationist discourse. The analysis draws conceptually on the lens of sociotechnical imaginaries, defined as ‘collectively held, institutionally stabilised, and publicly performed visions of desirable futures, animated by shared understandings of forms of social life and social order attainable through, and supportive of, advances in science and technology’ [10]. As Jasanoff observes, ‘[m]ultiple imaginaries can coexist within a society in tension or in a productive dialectical relationship’ [10], and in this vein, the present study adopts the imaginaries framework as an analytical heuristic to map multiple, overlapping, and partially connected visions of agricultural futures in Galápagos. However, rather than restricting attention to imaginaries that are institutionally stabilised or explicitly technoscientific, it treats all discernible, collectively held visions of agricultural futures as empirically relevant—whether articulated through policy discourse, public discussion, or everyday practice. While related scholarship has distinguished between ‘vanguard visions’ [77] and dominant imaginaries [78,79], the approach taken here does not presume such categorical distinctions. Instead, it foregrounds the ecological relationships among imaginaries—how they overlap, interact, and co-constitute one another in shaping what futures are seen as possible or desirable [80]. This broader reading retains Jasanoff’s co-productionist ethos while extending it to imaginaries that are not necessarily technoscientific or institutionally anchored. This study set out to answer the following research question: What agricultural imaginaries are articulated in the Galápagos Islands, and how do these imaginaries shape—or limit—the perceived possibilities for sustainable agricultural transformation?

Methodologically, the study employs reflexive thematic analysis [81,82] to interpret a combination of documentary materials and interview transcripts. In contrast to more positivistic approaches to thematic analysis, which emphasize concepts such as coding reliability or accuracy, reflexive thematic analysis treats theme development as an interpretive process emerging at the intersection of ‘the dataset, the theoretical assumptions of the researcher, and the analytical skills and resources brought to the task’ [83]. The goal is not to uncover themes that ‘naturally’ reside in the data, but rather to construct a coherent narrative that is grounded in the data and informative in relation to the research focus.

The dataset included key policy documents and grey literature on food and farming in Galápagos from 2014 onward, spanning the years before, during, and after the COVID-19 pandemic (see Table 1). In addition, the study incorporated a series of 25 semi-structured interviews designed to supplement the analysis of these textual sources with situated perspectives from farmers and other relevant stakeholders (See Table 2). Interview participants were purposively selected for their involvement in food, farming and related activities, with particular attention to underrepresented voices, notably small-scale farmers, and with an aim to maximise the diversity of the participants. No claim is made that the selection of interviewees is representative of the wider population in a statistical sense, but rather these diverse voices were sought in order to enrich and provide counter-narratives to the dominant (insitutionalised) imaginaries that can be gleaned through analysis of the policy documents and grey literature. This reflects the study’s interpretive aim of illuminating the diversity of ways agricultural futures are imagined rather than estimating their distribution across a population. The final sample comprised 14 farmers, four individuals working in hospitality and tourism, two people involved in food retail, four participants affiliated with agricultural or research NGOs, and one former policymaker. Interviewees were based on the islands of Santa Cruz and San Cristobal. The interview guide included questions about farming practices, constraints, and experiences during the pandemic, as well as explicitly future-oriented prompts (e.g., imagining food self-sufficiency, describing an ideal agricultural system, identifying pathways toward sustainable futures). This structure was chosen to enable participants to articulate both lived experiences and prompt the imagination of possible futures. Interviews were conducted in Spanish or English, depending on participant preference, and typically lasted between 45 and 90 min. All interviewees provided informed consent to participate (anonymously) in the interviews, and the research protocol received ethical approval from the Social Sciences & Arts Cross-Schools Research Ethics Committee (C-REC) of the University of Sussex. Fieldwork was conducted between September 2024 and May 2025 and the task of interpretation was supported by farm visits, attendance at food, farming, and conservation-related events, and numerous informal conversations with local actors. Where interviews were conducted in Spanish, quoted material has been translated into English by the author.

Table 1. Key policy and planning documents and grey literature related to food and farming in Galapagos.

Title (Spanish/English)	Institution (Spanish/English)	Date
Plan de Manejo de las Áreas Protegidas de Galápagos para el Buen Vivir (Management Plan for the Protected Areas of Galápagos for Buen Vivir)	Dirección del Parque Nacional Galápagos (Galápagos National Park Directorate)	2014
Plan de Bioagricultura para Galápagos: Una oportunidad para el Buen Vivir insular (Bioagriculture Plan for Galápagos: An Opportunity for Island Buen Vivir)	Ministerio de Agricultura, Ganadería, Acuacultura y Pesca (Ministry of Agriculture, Livestock, Aquaculture and Fisheries)	2014
Plan-Galápagos. Plan de Desarrollo Sustentable y Ordenamiento Territorial del Régimen Especial de Galápagos 2015–2020 (Galapagos Plan for Sustainable Development and Land Use 2015–2020)	Consejo de Gobierno del Régimen Especial de Galápagos (Governing Council of the Special Regime of Galápagos)	2016
Plan de manejo de especies invasoras para Galápagos 2019–2029 (Invasive Species Management Plan for Galápagos 2019–2029)	Fondo de Inversión Ambiental Sostenible (Sustainable Environmental Investment Fund)	2018
Productividad y sostenibilidad de los sistemas de producción agropecuaria de las islas Galápagos—Ecuador (Productivity and sustainability of agricultural production systems in the Galápagos Islands—Ecuador)	Insitutio Nacional de Investigaciones Agropecuarias (National Institute of Agricultural Research)	2019
Plan de reactivación de la provincia de Galápagos (Reactivation Plan for the Province of Galápagos)	Consejo de Gobierno del Régimen Especial de Galápagos (Governing Council of the Special Regime of Galápagos)	2020
Plan Galápagos 2030. Plan de desarrollo sustentable y ordenamiento territorial del régimen especial de Galápagos (Galápagos 2030 Plan. Galápagos Islands Strategic Plan	Consejo de Gobierno del Régimen Especial de Galápagos (Governing Council of the Special Regime of Galápagos)	2020

Table 2. Semi-structured interview participants.

Sector	Gender	Age Bracket	Size of Farm (Ha)	Island of Residence	Years Resident in Galapagos
Farming	Female	>65	1–5	San Cristobal	>15 years
Farming	Male	35–50	16–20	San Cristobal	5–10 years
Farming	Male	35–50	1–5	Santa Cruz	>15 years
Farming	Female	>65	6–10	San Cristobal	>15 years
Farming	Male	35–50	41–60	San Cristobal	>15 years
Farming	Female	35–50	11–15	San Cristobal	>15 years
Farming	Male	>65	6–10	Santa Cruz	>15 years
Farming	Female	50–65	1–5	San Cristobal	>15 years
Farming	Female	50–65	1–5	San Cristobal	>15 years
Farming	Male	>65	61–80	Santa Cruz	>15 years
Farming	Female	35–50	1–5	San Cristobal	5–10 years
Farming	Female	>65	1–5	Santa Cruz	>15 years
Farming	Female	50–65	6–10	San Cristobal	>15 years
Farming	Male	35–50	1–5	San Cristobal	>15 years
Food retailer	Male	20–35	NA	San Cristobal	5–10 years
Food retailer	Female	35–50	1–5	San Cristobal	>15 years
NGO	Female	20–35	NA	San Cristobal	10–15 years
NGO	Female	35–50	NA	San Cristobal	5–10 years
NGO	Female	35–50	NA	San Cristobal	5–10 years
NGO	Male	20–35	NA	Santa Cruz	>15 years
Policy	Male	35–50	NA	Santa Cruz	10–15 years
Tourism and hospitality	Female	35–50	NA	San Cristobal	<5 years
Tourism and hospitality	Female	50–65	1–5	San Cristobal	5–10 years
Tourism and hospitality	Female	20–35	NA	San Cristobal	10–15 years
Tourism and hospitality	Male	35–50	NA	San Cristobal	>15 years

The analytical process of reflexive thematic analysis followed Braun and Clarke’s six recursive phases [81,82]: familiarisation with the data, generating initial codes, developing candidate themes, reviewing themes, defining and naming themes, and producing the final narrative. Analysis was carried out using NVivo 14 software (Release 14.23.4. Lumivero 2023, Denver, CO, USA). A hybrid coding approach [84] was adopted, combining a deductive framework grounded in the study’s theoretical interest in agricultural futures with inductive openness to emergent meanings. Deductive codes focused on statements about agricultural challenges, future-oriented visions, idealised pasts, and relationships among tourism, conservation, and farming.

Themes identified through this process included those related to imagined mechanisms of change, logics of support, technology, markets, control, and belonging. The distinct ways in which these themes were articulated across the dataset are what I interpret as agricultural imaginaries. While these imaginaries are dynamic and interwoven, I judged these groupings to be sufficiently distinctive from one another in ways that will be outlined below, that their description is illuminating for understanding the structure and dynamics of the imaginative landscape around agriculture in Galapagos and exploring how these might shape imaginative possibilities for the future.

3. Results and Discussion

Five imaginaries were identified through this process and have been labelled as follows: supporting sustainable agriculture in a World Heritage site; increasing agricultural production for island food security and Buen vivir; harnessing business to improve and/or support agriculture; preserving farming as a traditional way of life; and supporting agroecology and return to the land. The imaginaries will be briefly sketched out, before the differences between these—and the implications of these differences for debates around agriculture in Galápagos—will be explored. The discussion will focus on how the imaginaries offer distinct lenses to understand the question of why and how agriculture should be supported (logics of support and mechanisms of change). Finally, the discussion will reflect upon how these differences relate to divergent understandings of who and what belongs in Galapagos.

3.1. Imaginary 1: Supporting Sustainable Agriculture in a World Heritage Site (Conservationist Imaginary)

The primary concern of this imaginary is the protection of the unique biodiversity of this UNESCO World Heritage site, and specifically the vulnerable ecosystems of the humid highlands. An important rationale for supporting sustainable agriculture is to try to decrease reliance on imports with the associated risks of the introduction of invasive species. Agricultural production needs to be made more sustainable through science-led, and closely monitored technical and technological interventions, and widespread environmental education to raise awareness among farmers and the local community. Efforts to control people (to prevent further immigration to the islands) and species (to control, and ideally eradicate, invasive species where possible) are crucial. Educating farmers to minimize the use of agrochemicals such as synthetic fertilizers and pesticides is also key. International and national NGOs (and flows of funding) play a key role in this process, in partnership with local state institutions.

3.2. Imaginary 2: Increasing Agricultural Production for Island Food Security and Buen Vivir (State Imaginary)

Increasing local agricultural production in Galapagos is key to social and ecological resilience and to reducing the vulnerabilities revealed by the COVID pandemic. People in Galapagos have the constitutional right to Buen vivir, including the right to healthy, fresh food and a healthy environment. Farming needs to be supported and modernized in order to diversify the economy away from over-dependence on tourism with the economic vulnerabilities with which it is associated. Farmers are framed as crucial ‘allies of conservation’, carrying out actions (such as invasive species removal) that ultimately benefit the Galapagos National Park and the whole Galapagos ecosystem. Change needs to be carefully managed through inter-institutional coordination and planning. Technology transfer and innovation are key to improving the efficiency and productivity of agriculture.

3.3. Imaginary 3: Harnessing Business to Improve and/or Support Agriculture (Neoliberal Development Imaginary)

Farming in Galapagos should be made more productive and resilient through supporting local producers to grow their businesses and leveraging private sector capital through investments and grants. Farmers should be given the skills to become better entrepreneurs (e.g., through rural business schools) and supported to enable them to gain access to local and regional markets, create value-added products, as well as to tap into alternative streams of income (i.e., starting ‘agrotourism’ ventures). Harnessing the power of business with the expertise of governmental and academic research in the service of improving agriculture demonstrates the possibility of a win-win for the farming community and conservation, one that enables economic growth and conservation to go ‘hand in hand’.

3.4. Imaginary 4: Preserving Farming as a Traditional Way of Life and to Feed the People (Local Farming Imaginary)

Farming is the foundation of life on Galapagos, and farmers need greater recognition and support given their crucial role in feeding the people, as revealed by the COVID pandemic. Preservation of the agricultural knowledge and experience of the aging population of remaining farmers is crucial. Farmers are resourceful and independent but need structured ongoing support to deal with the challenges posed by a lack of labour, unreliable water supply, pest control, transport, and difficulty competing with cheap imports. Community solidarity is a crucial form of resilience, as shown by the importance of forms of trueque (bartering) and food gifting during the pandemic.

3.5. Imaginary 5: Supporting Agroecology and Return to the Land (International Agroecology Imaginary)

Farming is a ‘pathway’ toward a life in harmony with nature and in equitable community. In Galapagos, support needs to be given to people who seek social and ecological change through opening-up micro spaces of living differently, in connection with nature. Developing a deeper understanding of agroecology is crucial to encouraging and stimulating demand for organically produced food.

4. Diverse Logics of Support and Mechanisms of Change

4.1. Why Support Agriculture in Galapagos?

Despite a broad consensus across the five imaginaries, which identified that agriculture in Galapagos should be supported, the thematic analysis revealed divergent rationales for this support. These range from an instrumental view of support to local agriculture as a route to achieving conservation aims; support to local agriculture as a means of increasing social and economic resilience and achieving social benefits such as improved health outcomes; support to local agriculture as necessary in recognition of farming’s foundational role in providing vital sustenance for the people; and supporting sustainable farming as a means of deep socio-ecological transformation.

As described in the introduction, historically, farming has been at odds with traditional conservationist aims, but in recent years it has become increasingly common to hear conservation organisations working on projects to support sustainable agriculture. However, this still sits uncomfortably within a conservationist paradigm that has, until relatively recently, viewed the ‘untouched’ state of the islands prior to human settlement as ‘both a benchmark and the basis for the ultimate long-term aspiration for biodiversity conservation’ [37]. Hence, a report by Conservation International in collaboration with the Ecuadorian Ministry of Agriculture comes to the conclusion that farmers in Galapagos should be supported economically but recognizes that their readers may find it ‘absurd’ to be incentivizing agriculture in a place that is such a ‘global symbol of biodiversity conservation’ [49]. From within this imaginary, then, if farming is to be supported, it is because doing so is understood to benefit the conservation of the unique Galapagos ecosystems, for instance, by reducing the ecological risks associated with food imports, not (or not primarily) because the farmers warrant support in and of themselves.

In contrast, the state imaginary emphasizes social resilience and constitutional rights, particularly the right to Buen vivir. Here, agriculture is framed as an essential public good, with fresh, healthy food and a sustainable environment positioned as state responsibilities. Policy documents such as the BioAgriculture Plan and Galápagos Plan 2030 cite the goal of placing ‘fresh, healthy produce on the tables of Galápagos families.’ The primary concerns here are distinct from those animating the conservationist imaginary: where the former focuses on the instrumental value for ecosystems of supporting agriculture, here, human wellbeing concerns such as health and food security are primary. The issue of the vulnerability (both in economic terms and food security terms) revealed by the pandemic lockdown is a crucial rationale for renewed interest in supporting agriculture, and increasing productivity emerges as a priority.

Where the conservationist discourse foregrounds the status of Galapagos as ‘World Heritage’, the state imaginary emphasizes the status of Galapagos as a province of Ecuador, with the rights this status confers in the language of Sumak Kawsay/buen vivir. However, despite these differences, there is notable crossover, particularly in efforts to align state support for agriculture within the dominant paradigm of conservation on Galapagos. For example, a trope of farmers as key ‘allies of conservation’ appears repeatedly across a range of governmental reports and policy documents [85,86]. Similarly, data demonstrating the amount of time and resources that farmers dedicate to invasive species removal [49] or those that have demonstrated a direct relationship between abandonment of agricultural land and the subsequent increase in area affected by invasive plant species [42] have been used in efforts to underscore this alignment of interests between conservation and farming.

The hegemony of the conservationist-tourist discourse can also be observed in the materials associated with development NGOs. Thus, agricultural NGO Heifer, working to support farmers, similarly makes efforts to align support to farmers within the dominant conservationist narrative. In a similar vein to the framing of farmers as ‘allies of conservation, the international touristic imaginary of the islands as ‘paradise’ is used, particularly in materials directed toward international supporters (or potential supporters) of the projects. Thus, for example, in one article, farmers are framed as working ‘to protect their paradise’, or quoted as saying that ‘the Galapagos belongs to the world’ [87].

A distinct rationale for support to agriculture emerges within the fourth imaginary, in which support to agriculture is framed in ethical terms, because of the fundamental role farmers play in society. This perspective gained renewed visibility during the COVID-19 pandemic, when farmers’ contributions to the local food supply were starkly evident. As one participant put it:

4.1.1. ‘Agriculture Is the Foundation of People’s Health and Life’

Within this imaginary, farmers need support because they effectively make life on the islands possible. Farmers work to provide for the people and as such deserve recognition and ongoing support. As one participant, an elderly farmer on San Cristobal, put it, reflecting on working through the pandemic:

‘Agriculture is tough, because you have to go out and work the land to supply the areas where there are people living, to feed them, because if we stopped planting, how would the towns feed themselves? There was no food, we had to plant, we had to work just the same, every day. We are—were—the engine that supported the people in the end, the ones who gave them food.’

Despite this, several farmers expressed frustration at the lack of lasting recognition or structural support, particularly after having ‘looked after’ the community during the pandemic, as one described it:

‘[Local farming] has no future—because the companies aren’t saying, ‘Ah, now we’re going to prioritize buying local production because they helped us a lot during the pandemic, now we’re going to support them.’ That’s not happening. They keep bringing everything from the mainland because they say tourists won’t eat anything other than caviar and champagne and that kind of stuff.’

Other farmers were similarly pessimistic about the future prospects of farming in Galapagos. As one farmer put it,

‘I believe that here in Galápagos, over time, I would say in about fifteen or twenty years, agriculture will disappear. Why? Because there are no young farmers coming in. Most of the farmers are already older, around seventy-seven or eighty years old, and now they are starting to abandon the fields.’

This offers a striking contrast to the ambitious policy discourses around achieving agricultural self-sufficiency in Galapagos, or ‘converting agriculture into the primary human activity on the islands’ [88], and suggests a profound disconnect between policy discourse and the lived realities of farmers.

Finally, a distinct vision surfaces within the agroecology imaginary, which frames agriculture as a pathway toward ecological harmony and collective wellbeing. This imaginary draws from international discourses around permaculture and agroecology but is shaped by the specific ecological and societal context of the islands. From this perspective, the rationale for supporting agriculture is not only material but also symbolic, envisioning farming as a micro-political act of resistance and world-making, a ‘beautiful rebellion’ as one participant put it. Although agroecology in continental Ecuador has a rich and varied history [89], having been closely associated with indigenous struggles and forms of popular resistance against agribusiness, on Galapagos it would appear to occupy a more ’middle class niche’ [90], and some participants were somewhat dismissive of these kinds of practices as being the preserve of what one referred to as ‘hippies aniñados’ (posh hippies), or ‘hobby farming’ without relevance to broader system change. While it is important to acknowledge the ways in which forms of privilege condition imaginaries and shape the choices that farmers are able to make, in the Galapagos context, dismissals of these approaches can also be seen to reflect the strength of a productivist paradigm, rooted in a high-input, agrochemical-based model of farming that dominates agricultural discourse in mainland Ecuador and globally.

Despite the rhetorical prominence of agroecology, sustainable agriculture, and the language of Buen Vivir in policy discourse, those interviewees pursuing organic, permacultural, or otherwise agroecological practices reported feeling routinely disregarded by local authorities. Increasingly, Buen Vivir—a concept rooted in Andean philosophies of relationality and collective wellbeing—seems to function less as a transformative political project and more as an aspirational slogan. This echoes broader critiques that, particularly in Ecuador, the concept has been co-opted ‘to legitimise neoliberal policies’ and consequently risks being drained of meaning [91]. This disjuncture was evident in the experiences of several interviewees who described encountering widespread skepticism towards organic methods, and routine expectations of synthetic inputs. As one put it: ‘there is zero support from the authorities.’

She went on:

‘The inspectors of the government, of the agricultural department, they are 65, 70 years old, they do not understand words like food forest…permaculture, other types of agriculture methods. When they came to visit us … the first thing he did was like, ‘where are the chemicals? where is the fertilizer, where is the pesticide?’

Another recounted being told directly by a Ministry official that organic farming is ‘nonsense’, underscoring the limitations of policy rhetoric when it comes to everyday agricultural governance.

4.1.2. How Should Agriculture in Galapagos Be Supported?

The preceding sections have explored how the different imaginaries construct distinct rationales for supporting agriculture. The following discussion turns to the question of how agriculture should be supported, highlighting contrasting understandings of change and of who should lead it. Across the five imaginaries, these range from expert-driven, project-based approaches to those centred on market linkages, individual initiative, or community-led transformation.

In the conservationist imaginary, change is typically framed as a scientific and technical project. Change is managed through partnerships between NGOs, state agencies, and research institutions, often within time-limited projects. The flagship Charles Darwin Foundation Project, Galapagos Verde 2050, which has the dual aims of promoting the ecological restoration of Galapagos and the development of sustainable agricultural practices, exemplifies this model. The project aims to leverage ‘applied science’ to support and improve agriculture in Galapagos, specifically through the experimental testing of, and eventual dissemination of (proprietary) water-saving technologies to farmers. Community participation is seen as important, but primarily as a way of increasing project success, ultimately understood in ecological terms. As one project report states, the value of engaging with the local community lies in boosting their ‘ecological awareness’ and enhancing their cooperation [92]. For their part, the community is framed as beneficiaries of the knowledge shared by the project. Notably absent from such a framing is any sense that useful or relevant knowledge might flow in the opposite direction (from community to project). Perhaps inevitably, this causes some friction. One interviewee described his frustration, while he showed me around an experimental plot in his farm that had been set up by the project, and in which a number of the plants were not thriving:

‘They come with all their science and all their studies but…they didn’t talk to anybody from here. I could have told them that the trees wouldn’t do well there. I’m going to leave these plants just like this, all ugly, so I can compare with how well my other plants are doing!’

Closely tied to this model is the mechanism of grant-based support, a model that is prominent in the Galapagos context1. While grants have helped some, others described them as inaccessible to the majority of farmers:

‘It’s hard to get money…traditional grants are really competitive, it’s really hard. And I have the experience, and I speak English, but you ask the average farmer to do that? They’re not going to be able to do that.’

The state imaginary, by contrast, emphasizes planned investment in infrastructure and technological innovation. Support for agriculture is framed in terms of the need for ‘modernization’, increasing productivity and efficiency, through inter-institutional coordination. A report by the National Institute of Agricultural Research (INIAP) refers to a ‘productivity gap’, which is attributed to a ‘lack of sustainable technologies compatible with the conservation regime’ (INIAP 2021) [55]. However, this framing overlooks deeper structural issues, like the socio-cultural expectations and food preferences of tourists, which, as findings by Burke highlight, have fundamentally altered local food systems [68], or the lack of access to affordable land and labour, which shape both demand and production capacity.

The neoliberal development imaginary offers a distinct logic of change: agriculture is to be revitalised by making farmers more entrepreneurial. For example Heifer International works specifically to better integrate farmers in local and global food systems. They help farmers ‘transition to becoming entrepreneurs’ through creating ‘strong partnerships with government agencies, processors, food companies and others ensure they can better meet market demand for their products, find opportunities to access new markets and advance sustainable development’ (https://www.heifer.org/our-work/focus-areas/food-security.html, accessed on 15 April 2025). In Galapagos, Heifer Ecuador has been present since 2019 (primarily on the Island of San Cristobal), offering technical assistance and equipment to farmers, and training in both agroecology and ‘rural business’. Recently, the organization has signed an agreement to collaborate with the Universidad San Fransisco de Quito and the Royal Caribbean Group (a large luxury tour operator) in order, in the words of Donaldo Navarrete, Coordinator of the Heifer Ecuador Foundation in Galápagos, to ‘accelerate’ enterprises that require financing in order to add value to their products and ‘take the venture to the next level’ (REACCT project). Echoing a global ecomodernist discourse, a spokesperson for Royal Caribbean described the project as: ‘building a sustainable model, where economic development and conservation go hand in hand…’ (El proyecto Reactivando la Economía a través de la Ciencia, la Comunidad y el Trabajo (REACCT).

Although many of the small farmers interviewed were aware of, and grateful for the support being offered by Heifer, particularly on the island of San Cristobal (as one said, ‘it’s only Heifer that are helping us’), other interviewees were more critical of the idea of the farmer-as-entrepreneur. As one, a former policymaker, put it,

‘The farmer is not a merchant; the farmer knows how to do agriculture… the farmer doesn’t know how to sell, and it’s not their role; they have to work the land…. doing agriculture in Galápagos isn’t easy, and the ones who know how to do it well are the farmers.’

In general, the neoliberal development paradigm has been subject to a number of critiques, primarily the way in which it leaves intact the global capitalist system that is the driver of so much ecological destruction and social inequality. On Galapagos over the past 30 years as tourism has boomed, many observers have been highly critical of the ‘symbiotic relationship’ between the conservation sector and tourism industry, which has resulted in large tour operators having considerable political influence in the islands, which often translates into a degree of lenience with regard to governance (e.g., the granting of new operating permits, the building of new hotels, etc.) compared to other sectors. Various observers have been critical of both the material impacts of this alignment, as well as the symbolic impacts of the way that the ‘tourist gaze’ shapes conservation, what Vergara refers to as the ‘touristification of conservation’ [93], transforming the territory, generating gradual dispossession, and flattening or rendering invisible local identities. Partnerships between NGOs, universities and large luxury tour operators, and the associated narrative of a ‘win-win’ for business and environment, clearly run the risk of obscuring a deeper analysis of the role of these companies in driving the dynamics which generate these problems. Describing the ability of certain powerful actors within the conservation community on Galapagos to access large sums of money (often from the private sector), one participant commented: ‘they’re just conservation capitalists these guys’. The comment resonates with a critique that much wildlife conservation, rather than acting as a bulwark against the ills of capitalism, can be better understood as a particular kind of capitalist production, which, as Brockington and Scholfield put it, enables certain actors to turn the ‘natural capital of wildlife into symbolic capital and, ultimately, money’ [94].

Notwithstanding these critiques, local farmers are clearly concerned about their ability to generate sufficient income from farming, and injections of income from grants and links with tourism via contracts with cruise ships and restaurants are, on the whole, highly prized. As one farmer described the predictability and stability that resulted from her contract with a cruise ship: ‘now I can plant with confidence’. However, others described struggling to meet the exacting standards of quality, freshness and consistency demanded by the tourist market, indicating that access to tourist markets is not a panacea for farmers.

In the local farming imaginary, there was ambivalence around the role of state (or other) support to farming. On the one hand, the individual traits associated with the figure of the early settlers or ‘colonos’ (independence, resourcefulness/improvisation, frugality, survival against the odds) were highly valued. On the other hand, struggling farmers saw the need for active ongoing government support to ensure a future for farming. One farmer who was born in Galapagos in the early 1950s described the independent early settler mentality thus:

‘Coming from a difficult background, we adapted to a certain way of life. Since we didn’t rely on anything external—no outside means or resources—we had to make do with what we had.’

Another echoed this vision of the primacy of the individual in the construction of food security:

‘Food security doesn’t depend on industry, it doesn’t depend on the government, it doesn’t depend on NGOs, or on any project. If we rely only on them, future food security will fail. Food security depends on each person, on each citizen—on every individual who can learn, and cultivate their own fruits and vegetables.’

However, while this particular participant was well positioned in local networks of conservation and research, having been the beneficiary of various grants, as well as having other sources of income from property ownership and tourism, other struggling farmers, saw things differently:

‘I wish the government truly cared about the farmers of Galápagos, because we don’t have a state policy that protects us … I would like to ask the Governing Council and the state to do everything they can to support us. We have an island with plenty of water, and yet we are still having to buy water to produce food. We really need them to lend us a hand and help us.’

Although the COVID pandemic prompted renewed policy and public attention to agriculture, interviews with farmers suggest that this has not necessarily translated to more sustained forms of support. Resonating with Bocci’s finding that farmers are subject to a political regime ‘that is absent and contradictory’ [57], other farmers similarly expressed a feeling of abandonment:

‘There’s so much help, but it never reaches us here. And if it does, it arrives too late. We had problems with droughts, and no help ever came. Now, with the heavy rains causing damage, again, no help has arrived.’

The apparent disconnect between policy discourse and the felt lack of support on the ground, seems consistent with what has been described as a contradictory policy context in Ecuador more broadly, whereby the terminology of agroecology and food sovereignty are widespread across policy discourse including in the constitution, but in practice the focus remains on a productivist paradigm (of high-input export-focused agribusiness) [95]. Although various interviewees reflected on the ways in which the pandemic prompted a resurgence of forms of community solidarity (such as the gifting of food, bartering and new or renewed forms of association), many of these appear to have been short-lived. On the other hand, the renewed focus on food security following the pandemic is associated with calls for ‘modernization’ of agriculture for increased productivity and may risk providing justification for the kinds of high-input approaches that dominate continental Ecuador. While it might thus be interpreted that the ‘window of opportunity’ of the pandemic appears not to have resulted in lasting change for farmers in Galapagos (as one interviewee put it, the interest in food and self-sufficiency during the pandemic ‘was just a trend’), the memory of an ‘otherwise’ remains strong, reflected in participant comments about enjoying aspects of the simplicity and solidarity that were experienced during pandemic, of experiencing life ‘like it was in our grandparents’ time’. This sense of an imagined—perhaps romanticized, but still powerful—past also resonated through some of the imagined futures. As one put:

‘When there’s another pandemic, we’ll realise that agriculture and fishing, the activities that were our way of life at the beginning, will continue to be humanity’s salvation.’

Finally, the agroecology imaginary envisions transformation through practice rather than time-limited projects or state planning. Support is needed not only to scale up production but to open space for different relationships between people, land, and food. Although this imaginary was the most critical of conventional forms of agriculture and agribusiness, among interviewees, there was still a sense of a need for farming to make sense economically. Resonating with broader literature on agroecology in Ecuador that highlights a lack of market for locally produced food, various participants described the difficulties they faced in selling organic food in the islands. Perhaps surprisingly, given the high concentration (particularly in Santa Cruz island) of people who work for conservation NGOs or carry out research on environmental topics, one farmer described her disappointment in finding that there was so little demand for organically produced food, as she put it: ‘we didn’t even have the conservationists buying our food.’

Technology occupied a distinct place within the various imaginaries. Within the conservationist imaginary, technology was often central (as illustrated by the focus on ‘water saving technologies’ in Galapagos Verde 2050). In both the state and the neoliberal development imaginary, technology-assisted approaches to agriculture such as hydroponic farming, as well as the distribution of machinery, greenhouses, and low-cost technologies such as pest traps, are also seen as key to improving productivity, competitiveness and efficiency of farming. Many local farmers also welcome these innovations, as one put it, ‘we shouldn’t be afraid of technology’.

However, others were skeptical about the focus on technological interventions which often tend to focus on ecological constraints or challenges (such as water), or on the potential of specific technologies (such as drones) but pay less attention to the deeper social, cultural and economic contexts in which technology is embedded, and which determine to a large extent the success or otherwise of a given intervention. One participant pointed to the imbalance in discussions around technology:

‘Every solution that mentions technology or, like AI, is taken seriously [but] I think that there’s not enough understanding of what sustainable agriculture is, or agroecology is.’

Both the imaginaries of applied science projects and the technology transfer imaginaries of change were critiqued by another interviewee, who highlighted sporadic, one-off nature of much of this kind of support, driven by donor priorities:

‘I think there are a lot of things in the Galápagos that are just marketing—like greenwashing, right? …it’s important to take a picture, because that’s the project, that’s the donor’s money, and the donor wants to see that. But in practice, it’s a lot of handouts, a lot of diplomas, a lot of certifications … But concrete actions, like ongoing support? That’s missing. I don’t think there’s real interest in developing the agricultural sector, because talking about development in the Galápagos is like—no!’

4.1.3. Who and What Belongs in Galapagos?

Many of the more contentious debates and disagreements around agriculture in Galapagos can be understood as expressions of divergent understandings of who and/or what belongs in the archipelago. The confluence of scientific/conservationist discourse, and the requirements of the Special Law for Galapagos (LOREG) mean that both humans and non-humans are officially categorized to an extraordinary extent in Galapagos: in the case of the human population, one is either a permanent resident, a temporary resident or a visitor. In the case of the non-human population, species are either endemic, native or introduced (with the designation of ‘invasive’ reserved for the most problematic introduced species). These distinctions influence access to land, livelihoods, and political participation. They also underpin a conservation logic that privileges the protection of ‘original’ biodiversity and restricts activities seen as introducing disturbance.

Various authors have commented on the ways in which these categories shape social dynamics on the islands. Idrovo, for example, has described the ways in which the Special Law cemented an insider/outsider division [96], in part fueled by dissatisfaction over the unequal distribution of benefits from tourism, and the ways that these have disproportionately benefited individuals and companies based on the Ecuadorian mainland, or further afield. This has given rise to a narrative of ‘Galapagos for the Galapagueños’ that continues to be politically and socially powerful in the islands.

Within the conservationist and state imaginaries, distinct categories of belonging tend to be taken as foundational. By contrast, among local farmers, there was often pushback against these rigid categories, with participants offering more fluid, relational understandings of human and ecological presence. Participants challenged official designations of species and people, and questioned the assumptions embedded in them. One common site of contestation was the notion of invasive species. In policy documents, invasive plants and animals are often depicted as principal drivers of land abandonment and biodiversity loss. For example, one report asserts: ‘The proliferation of invasive species leads to the abandonment of agricultural land’ [97]. But many farmers offered different accounts. Some rejected the invasive/native binary altogether. One explained, ‘God put these things here for a reason… there are no bad species.’

For others, some species deemed invasive, such as the guava tree (Psidium guajava), which is described on the Charles Darwin Foundation’s species database, as ‘one of the worst weeds in Galapagos’ (https://datazone.darwinfoundation.org/en/checklist/?species=631, accessed on 15 April 2025), was often referred to by farmers as being ecologically and economically valuable, and helpful in creating different forms of resilience (echoing findings from other contexts [98]). In the words of one farmer,

‘The guava tree, instead of being a problem for ranchers, is practically an ally. Why? Because when the guava grows and the fruit falls, the livestock eat it, and the tree also provides shade for the pasture, helping to maintain moisture during dry periods, right? In livestock farming, that’s really important. For example, in 2016 we had a drought that affected all of Galápagos, but the area that suffered the least was San Cristóbal’s ranching sector. Why? Because that sector preserves guava trees in their pastures.’

Conversely (and echoing findings described by Laso [99], highly symbolic species such as Darwin’s finches, widely celebrated in global conservation narratives, were described by a number of farmers as one of the worst crop pests. These tensions highlight how competing imaginaries value species differently depending on their role within lived agricultural systems.

Conflicting logics were also evident around agrochemicals. In conservation projects, the use of chemical herbicides and pesticides in order to (try to) control blackberry and other species labelled as invasive, is understood as necessary to support and protect endemic species. One farmer involved in a project to reforest his farm with endemic scalesia trees (Scalesia pedunculata) voiced this approach to blackberry removal: “You just have to put down the poison, then plant.”

From the agroecological perspective, however, such practices were seen as ecologically damaging and morally inconsistent. One participant described the contradiction she saw:

‘Spraying glyphosate is like stripping away the immunity of the land.’

This same participant described her surprise at what she perceived as the narrowness of a conservationist environmentalism involving the extensive use of agrochemicals to ‘protect nature’, and the exclusion of health. As she put it:

‘You’re OK with putting a lot of chemicals on the mora [blackberry], you know, and getting a lot of poison in Floreana to kill all the rats, and you don’t mind if you eat a tomato with 80 times more than normal level of these chemicals?’

Many farmers also reported the use of chemical herbicides, often just on the ‘monte’ (the uncultivated or overgrown areas of their farms), although many described doing so reluctantly, voicing concerns around the risks of overuse of chemicals degrading their land or affecting their health. As one commented on the heavy use of chemicals on the food imported from the continent:

‘I think it’s because of all the chemicals—when you buy things from outside, like potatoes and all that. Now young people, children, are born with illnesses: diabetes, high cholesterol, cancer. Children! That never used to happen, because everything was healthy before.’

Many farmers expressed a general belief that locally produced food was healthier than food imported from the continent that has been ‘bathed in chemicals’ to be able to make the journey in cargo ships. However, among many local farmers, the terms organic or agroecological were used very loosely, with farmers often describing their farming methods as organic or ‘natural’, but simultaneously describing the use of chemical herbicides ‘just on the weeds’ or some use of chemical pesticides.

The case of goats offers another lens on contested belonging. Still targeted for eradication in some islands due to their environmental impacts, goats remain symbolically associated with degradation, e.g., [100]. However, some farmers now advocate for goat farming as part of an integrated, chemical-free approach to land management. In the view of one farmer interviewed, goats have been ‘demonized’ in Galapagos but could be used as a means of clearing land of blackberries without the need for chemical herbicides. As he described,

‘They eat many species that cows don’t eat. […] They love the mora [blackberry]. They will eat all these thorny and climbing plants that cows don’t eat. So you can easily make a rotation system where the goats go after the cows, so slowly with the time the grass is dispersed more than these blackberries and lantana.’

Illustrating the ways in which the different aspects of belonging intersect, the topic of labour (particularly LOREG’s restrictions on immigration) is intimately connected with that of agrochemical use. In the absence of sufficient labour, farmers described turning to the use of chemical herbicides as they were unable to maintain their farms using more labour-intensive practices of land clearing. As one said, “if we can’t find anyone to work the farm, we don’t have any other option [but to use chemicals].”

5. Conclusions

This article has traced five distinct agricultural imaginaries in Galápagos, each offering different lenses on the questions of why and how farming should be supported. Analysis of these imaginaries reveals a plural and contested landscape—what scholars of the pluriverse describe as ‘world-making projects’ [101] that coexist without necessarily aligning. Imaginaries of agriculture in Galápagos are shaped by tensions among divergent normative visions of what island life should be and become, grounded in different assumptions about value, belonging, and change.

Imaginaries have material consequences: they are co-produced with particular social orders [102], shape policy priorities, and privilege certain actors and practices over others. For instance, imagining farmers as entrepreneurs channels investment into business training and market linkages, while sidelining forms of solidarity or low-input practices that may be equally crucial for resilience. Likewise, technocratic or conservationist framings can marginalize lived knowledge and the ethical claims made by farmers. And when agricultural challenges are cast as technical or biophysical problems—such as a lack of water to be solved through new technologies—structural drivers of vulnerability risk being depoliticised, while inequalities may be reinforced. By contrast, imaginaries grounded in agroecology or traditional livelihoods foreground temporalities and relational forms of change that sit uneasily with short project cycles and deliverable-driven policy regimes.

Surfacing these imaginaries can help policymakers reflect on the normative and epistemic commitments embedded in their own approaches and recognise how these shape what forms of support appear sensible or feasible. Such reflexivity also clarifies why particular interventions may encounter resistance or produce unintended consequences when they clash with locally grounded understandings of change. In this sense, imaginaries offer a diagnostic lens for understanding the social and political conditions under which policies gain traction—or fail to do so.

Attending to these divergences can support more transparent and ethically accountable planning processes, in which the assumptions underpinning proposed interventions are made explicit rather than treated as self-evident. Future research could build on this analysis through participatory approaches that help stakeholders explore and negotiate tensions among imaginaries. Methods such as co-creative scenario and visioning processes, deliberative mapping [103], Causal Layered Analysis [104], and Theory U [105] offer different ways of surfacing underlying assumptions, examining competing narratives, and fostering dialogue across divergent perspectives. Such approaches can enable policymakers and communities to reflect more transparently on the commitments informing their own positions, anticipate where interventions may encounter resistance or have unintended effects, and co-develop more context-attuned and socially legitimate pathways for agricultural transformation in the islands.

Limitations of the Research

Like all interpretive work, this study offers a necessarily partial account of a dynamic imaginative landscape. Although the analysis draws on a diverse dataset—policy documents, grey literature, and interviews—the perspectives represented here reflect particular sites of articulation. Interviews were conducted primarily on San Cristóbal and Santa Cruz and were intended to supplement, rather than representatively anchor, the textual analysis; imaginaries circulating on other islands or within other institutional spheres may take different forms. My positionality as a temporary, foreign researcher also shaped both the encounters and the interpretive lens through which the data were read—constraining some forms of disclosure while enabling analytic distance. In addition, the findings capture imaginaries at a specific post-pandemic moment. Although the introduction situates them within broader historical trajectories, a more extensive longitudinal or archival analysis would help illuminate how these visions of agriculture emerge, sediment, and shift over time. Finally, because the analysis privileges articulated discourse, more tacit, embodied, or practice-based forms of imaginative work may remain under-examined. These limitations do not undermine the study’s contribution; rather, they underscore the situated nature of research on imaginaries and point to promising directions for future participatory and historically attuned inquiry.