The Moskito Coast

I don't know where to start.

There will be no more photos. My camera was stolen. Don't worry: I'm unhurt, as is my sister - whose camera was also stolen. And, in fact, there is a bottomless source of photos on this very computer, so it's not strictly true that there are no more photos. Here, for example, is a photo of my 26th birthday:

No new photos though, and worst of all, no photos from the Moskito Coast, from which I returned very recently. (The theft occurred in La Ceiba, by the way; that the name of la moskitia not be sullied)

I should like to summarise the Moskito Coast in very few words, as I have a salsa class to be getting to. So here goes:
Abandoned, Carribbean, enormous-skied-and-clouded. We went crocodile spotting at night. In a dugout canoe, with flashlights, the air alive with heavy stupid flying things. Often biting things. Not the crocodiles though: they were tiny - caymans, actually - so I swam in their river fearlessly. But the Rio Platano: enormous. Seen from the air, it's a geographer's wet dream, all exaggerated meanders and ox-bow lakes. Gah! My photos! We went white water rafting in a dugout canoe, though only Olwyn was rowing (I'm a woos). The pech people chew a particular twig as a contraceptive: a different length depending on how many years you want to be childless. "Tinki pale" is moskito for "thank you very much". I saw so many toucans I lost count. We ended up on a beach, dancing with miskitos (the people, not the buzzy biting things) and singing and losing the run of ourselves. You could just imagine the arrival of the conquistadores.

My photos... I guess I might as well tell people I was hanging out with jaguars and millions of monkeys, since I can never prove otherwise. The monkeys is true. Not the jaguars, though we did see a print.

It was stunning. I hope it lasts. It's a beautiful place.

Right, I should go now: must shower before salsa. I shall try to update soon on trip to Tocoa, Hurricane Dean, and the joys of living alone (again).