After four fumey, fractious days bundled in the bowels of a fishing trawler, we were ready for a night on land and a cold beer on Santa Cruz island.

We had taken the serious budget option on our Galapagos tour, and while the head starts on the bigger boats, great beach access and friendly travelling companions were wonderful, the noise and diesel-smell of the accommodation had been proving a challenge.

We spluttered into Puerto Ayora’s busy harbour dodging pelicans and sea lions, and eagerly headed for the Galapagos’ main town’s parade of shops for fresh fruit and postcards home. Within minutes we’d abandoned the postcard-writing for a large margarita and an internet connection at the nearest bar, along with every other dusty traveller in town.

After a visit to the Darwin Research Station, which had lovely tortoises but honestly taught us less than our guide and books had already, we spruced ourselves up as best we could for a night on the town.

There aren’t many bars and clubs in tiny Puerto Ayora, but we located a few! Limon y Café’s giant inflatable beer bottle guided us in for a scarily-large Ecuadorian pour of rum. Warm and fuzzy from our first drink in ages, we followed the sound of Shakira around the harbourfront to what looked like a regular apartment block with a queue of scantily-clad Galapagos girls and guys in gold jewellery.

Figuring it was worth a shot, we paid our $2 and entered what appeared to be someone’s apartment with the walls knocked down and some high-school disco lights perched on PA speakers around the room.

Starting to feel like we were crashing a party, we were delighted to see Diego, our normally shy ship’s deckhand, snaking his groovy way across the room to us, tequilas in hand!

And so it was that my rudimentary merengue skills came into their own.

Completely accepted and not in the least harassed by the friendly local in-crowd, we danced for hours to a fabulously cheesy mix of Latin and Western music. After the electricity cut out at midnight (as it does every night), we stumbled out in the dark and jumped in the back of a new friend’s truck, heading to a club with a generator.

Inside the strip-club-style red bar, we found our nature guide Alberto boogying away solo in front of a mirrored wall, teeth flashing and brylcreem flying. Salsa was the order of the night here, and we rolled into our pokey cabins at sunrise, feet throbbing.

Three hours later, we were reminiscing over breakfast, while Alberto slept off what must have been a gallon of rum, and Diego smiled an inscrutable smile and said nothing.