I first visited the Galápagos 14 years ago. I was 18 and fresh off my first ever flight. Part of my trip to Ecuador included two weeks volunteering for a conservation project in the highlands of San Cristóbal, one of the archipelago’s main islands.
In between days spent removing invasive lantana, we slept in corrugated-iron shelters. There was no electricity. The eyes of huntsman spiders lit up in the glow of my torch; my Australian roommate would chuckle at me shaking out my sleeping bag. In the evenings, we’d take a heart-pumping hike before braving the ice-cold showers.
This might sound awful to some, but it was all thrilling to me. I took a tour of the islands on a little fishing boat with…
This article was originally published by Telegraph.co.uk. Read the original article here.