talking.
“There are more than five thousand square miles of swamps and highland rainforest in eastern Honduras that remain completely unexplored. Parts of it are not even mapped by air.”
“I had no idea!”
Tom shoved the lemonade aside and looked around for the waiter.
“My book chronicles a journey I took along the length of the Mosquito Coast, through the maze of lagoons that mark where the jungle meets the sea. I was the first white man to make the trip.”
“Incredible. How on earth did you do it?”
“Motorized dugout. The only mode of transportation in those parts besides foot travel.”
“When did you make this amazing journey?”
“About eight years ago.”
“Eight years?”
“I’ve had a bit of publisher trouble. You can’t rush a good book, you know.” He polished off the drink and waved his hand for another round. “It’s tough country down there.”
“Really?”
Dunn seemed to take this as his cue. He leaned back. “For starters, there are the usual mosquitoes, chiggers, ticks, blackfly, and botfly. They don’t kill you, but they can make life a trifle nasty. I had a botfly bite once, on my forehead. Felt like a mosquito at first. It began to swell and turn red. Hurt like the devil. A month later it erupted, and inch-long botfly maggots started squirming out and dropping to the ground. Once you’re bitten, the best thing to do is let it run its course. If you try to dig ’em out you only make a muck of it.”
“I sincerely hope the experience didn’t affect your brain,” said Tom.
Dunn ignored him. “Then there’s Chagas disease.”
“Chagas disease?”
“Trypanosoma cruzi. An insect carrying the disease bites you and shits at the same time. The parasite lives in the shit, and when you scratch the bite you infect yourself. You aren’t aware anything is wrong—until ten or twenty years later. First you notice your belly swelling up. Then you become short of breath, can’t swallow. Finally your heart swells up—and bursts. No known cure.”
“Lovely,” said Tom. He had finally got the waiter’s attention. “Whiskey. Make it a double.”
Dunn continued looking at Tom, a smile playing about his lips. “Are you familiar with the fer-de-lance?”
“Can’t say that I am.” Gruesome stories of the jungle, it seemed, were Derek Dunn’s stock in trade.
“The most poisonous snake known to man. Brown and yellow bugger; the locals call it a barba amarilla. When young they live in trees and branches. Drop down on you when disturbed. The bite stops your heart in thirty seconds. Then there’s the bushmaster, the largest poisonous snake in the world. Twelve feet long and as thick as your thigh. Not nearly as deadly as the fer-de-lance—with a bushmaster bite, you might live, say, twenty minutes.”
Dunn chuckled and took another gulp.
Sally murmured something about how dreadful it sounded.
“Naturally you’ve heard of toothpick fish? This isn’t a story for the ladies.” Dunn glanced over at Tom, winked.
“Do tell,” said Tom. “Sally’s no stranger to crudity.”
Sally flashed him a look.
“Lives in the rivers around here. Let’s say you go for a nice morning dip. The toothpick fish swims right up your Johnson, then flares out a set of spines and anchors itself in your urethra.”
Tom’s drink paused halfway to his mouth.
“Blocks the urethra. If you don’t find a surgeon damn quick, your bladder bursts.”
“Surgeon?” Tom said weakly.
Dunn leaned back. “That’s right.”
Tom’s throat had gone dry. “What kind of surgery?”
“Amputation.”
The drink finally made it to Tom’s mouth, where he took a slug, and then another.
Dunn laughed loudly. “I’m sure you’ve heard all about the piranhas, leishmaniasis, electric eels, anacondas, and that sort of thing.” Dunn waved his hand disparagingly. “The dangers of those are greatly exaggerated. The piranhas only go after you if you’re bleeding, and anacondas are rare this far
“There are more than five thousand square miles of swamps and highland rainforest in eastern Honduras that remain completely unexplored. Parts of it are not even mapped by air.”
“I had no idea!”
Tom shoved the lemonade aside and looked around for the waiter.
“My book chronicles a journey I took along the length of the Mosquito Coast, through the maze of lagoons that mark where the jungle meets the sea. I was the first white man to make the trip.”
“Incredible. How on earth did you do it?”
“Motorized dugout. The only mode of transportation in those parts besides foot travel.”
“When did you make this amazing journey?”
“About eight years ago.”
“Eight years?”
“I’ve had a bit of publisher trouble. You can’t rush a good book, you know.” He polished off the drink and waved his hand for another round. “It’s tough country down there.”
“Really?”
Dunn seemed to take this as his cue. He leaned back. “For starters, there are the usual mosquitoes, chiggers, ticks, blackfly, and botfly. They don’t kill you, but they can make life a trifle nasty. I had a botfly bite once, on my forehead. Felt like a mosquito at first. It began to swell and turn red. Hurt like the devil. A month later it erupted, and inch-long botfly maggots started squirming out and dropping to the ground. Once you’re bitten, the best thing to do is let it run its course. If you try to dig ’em out you only make a muck of it.”
“I sincerely hope the experience didn’t affect your brain,” said Tom.
Dunn ignored him. “Then there’s Chagas disease.”
“Chagas disease?”
“Trypanosoma cruzi. An insect carrying the disease bites you and shits at the same time. The parasite lives in the shit, and when you scratch the bite you infect yourself. You aren’t aware anything is wrong—until ten or twenty years later. First you notice your belly swelling up. Then you become short of breath, can’t swallow. Finally your heart swells up—and bursts. No known cure.”
“Lovely,” said Tom. He had finally got the waiter’s attention. “Whiskey. Make it a double.”
Dunn continued looking at Tom, a smile playing about his lips. “Are you familiar with the fer-de-lance?”
“Can’t say that I am.” Gruesome stories of the jungle, it seemed, were Derek Dunn’s stock in trade.
“The most poisonous snake known to man. Brown and yellow bugger; the locals call it a barba amarilla. When young they live in trees and branches. Drop down on you when disturbed. The bite stops your heart in thirty seconds. Then there’s the bushmaster, the largest poisonous snake in the world. Twelve feet long and as thick as your thigh. Not nearly as deadly as the fer-de-lance—with a bushmaster bite, you might live, say, twenty minutes.”
Dunn chuckled and took another gulp.
Sally murmured something about how dreadful it sounded.
“Naturally you’ve heard of toothpick fish? This isn’t a story for the ladies.” Dunn glanced over at Tom, winked.
“Do tell,” said Tom. “Sally’s no stranger to crudity.”
Sally flashed him a look.
“Lives in the rivers around here. Let’s say you go for a nice morning dip. The toothpick fish swims right up your Johnson, then flares out a set of spines and anchors itself in your urethra.”
Tom’s drink paused halfway to his mouth.
“Blocks the urethra. If you don’t find a surgeon damn quick, your bladder bursts.”
“Surgeon?” Tom said weakly.
Dunn leaned back. “That’s right.”
Tom’s throat had gone dry. “What kind of surgery?”
“Amputation.”
The drink finally made it to Tom’s mouth, where he took a slug, and then another.
Dunn laughed loudly. “I’m sure you’ve heard all about the piranhas, leishmaniasis, electric eels, anacondas, and that sort of thing.” Dunn waved his hand disparagingly. “The dangers of those are greatly exaggerated. The piranhas only go after you if you’re bleeding, and anacondas are rare this far
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