Speaking of crocodiles ...
Deep in the jungle of Ankarana, in northern Madagascar, Blaid and I were on the way back to our tents. It had been a long hike, followed by some hairy clambering over knife-sharp tsingy, a sort of plateau made of spires of limestone. I was filthy and exhausted, so when Blaid suggested a bath, I jumped at the idea. Or sort of weakly staggered at the idea.
We slithered down a long mudbank into a cave. I mean long. It took a good 20 minutes of slithering, most of it on our behinds. The light vanished rapidly as we went deeper. It was pitch dark when we heard water. Finally, we had reached the underground stream that ran through the cave
I stripped and fell gratefully into the water. Blaid too.
At least, I think that was Blaid splashing around near me. The doubt arose on our way out, as we clambered up the mudslope and got grimy once more. Blaid chose that moment to inform me that such caves were home to crocodiles.
A fact he had neglected to mention before our swim.
Harmless crocodiles, said Blaid. Blind crocodiles, said Blaid.