I'VE never seen so many lizards in my life. Startled by my footsteps, dozens of rusty brown, light green and bright green reptiles had scampered out of the forest undergrowth and across the muddy path I'd been ambling along.
My heart is still pounding whenI come to an opening, where half-a-dozen teenagers are fighting, light-heartedly, it seems, over a football. Trying to keep them in order is a tall American, who introduces himself as Michael.
We're on Ometepe, a tropical island in Lake Nicaragua. Michael, a recent graduate of Boston University, is part of a project that aims to help street children who've moved here from the country's crime-riddled capital Managua. Sunday is excursion day for the kids who have been well behaved that week.
"Do you want to join us?" Michael asks.
"Yeah, sure." It was my first day on the island and I'd just gone for a hike. Nothing hardcore - I was wearing thongs, for starters.
We skirt along a beach and then into more forest. I'm so intrigued by Michael's plans and ambitions that I don't really watch where we're going. I follow him and the boys on autopilot.
One of them points out a monkey hiding in the tree, then more lizards. After 20 minutes of walking, we find a beach big enough for a game of football. It starts to drizzle, so, while Michael and the boys play, I seek refuge in a little cafe, where I read more about Ometepe.
The "fairytale island", as a tourist office pamphlet calls it, was formed by two volcanoes that rose out of Central America's largest lake.
One volcano, Concepcion, is active and erupted last year. I can see it, shrouded in cloud, from where I'm sitting. When I finish my coffee, I look for Michael and his group but it appears they have gone.
For the next four hours, I'm back in the forest, going around in circles, climbing non-signposted paths, skidding down them (my thongs aren't made for this), cursing myself and wondering how on earth I could get so lost. It pelts down, heavily, throughout. The sky darkens by the minute. Against this backdrop, the Concepcion volcano looks particularly sinister, while the birdsong, rather than being full of sweet tweets, sounds like a group of hogs snorting. Even the lizards are hiding now.
I recall a line in the pamphlet - "hikers have perished regularly on the island" - and gulp as I see hawks circling above.
After what seems like an age, I somehow find my way back to the cafe. Sodden, tired and frustrated, but more hopeful now, I ask for directions to my hotel.
"That way - about 500 metres," the waiter says, pointing in the opposite direction to where I'd been wandering.
It's a lesson learnt; when in a strange place, always try to watch where you're going.
