She sits upright, pulls off her damp t-shirt and slips into a clean cotton sweater.  She walks through the villa out on to the terrace basked in sun, the terracotta tiles cold on her bare feet.

I imagine the cotton sweater, crisp with cleanliness, so starchy it's rough to touch and as dry as a grain of rice.  I have to imagine it because the girl is fictitious, as is the villa and the sun, I'm cooped up in the tent, reading again while the rain pounds the tent like falling gravel.  Damp after a week of rain, how I imagine that sweater.

I'd heard a few bad things of Honduras before I entered; crooked cops, unfriendly people, a difficult border, poverty, danger, drug gangs and too, of travellers who passed through in a single day to get through and even one who took a boat to Nicaragua from Guatemala to avoid it entirely!  But no one said anything about rain!