I went to Central America with someone special and we stayed in a chic jungle house near a beachside town. At night, the howler monkeys in the trees sounded like monsters.
At a ramshackle zoo run by locals, a baby jaguar called Maya gnawed on my fingers.
Our favourite bar had sand for a floor and we laid in hammocks drinking fruit Daiquiris. Then we staggered to the open-air cafés and ate fried fish with rice and beans. It was heaven.
During the day, we sat on the beach under thatched-roof palapas and bought cooked lunch from vendors.
I wish Australian beaches would dirty up. Why must they be pristine? Why can’t there be thatched-roof huts with vendors serving you corn tortillas and Margaritas in a plastic cup? Can you imagine the happiness?