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“Do you want to try iguana?” my friend translates, with a grin. Two big brown eyes stare up at me, smiling and excited. This little boy, who quit the playground swings to greet us, can’t wait to see whether the red-faced visitor enjoys his favourite food. There is one problem. Having just spent two months in Central America, photographing and admiring these creatures, I’ve become rather fond of them. The El Salvadoran version with their stocky frame and hardened eyes, the slim turquoise-hued Costa Rican lizards that wandered confidently onto my hotel balcony, and the island-dwelling Belizeans that bask peacefully in the Caribbean sun. Would I not be betraying my newfound scaly friends, by having one for dinner? And yet, how can I disappoint those eyes? Before I have the chance to answer, my friend gives a nod and off the boy goes – his skipping footsteps leaving a trail of dust along the empty road. It is the start of summer in Honduras. The day so humid that the thick heat feels heavy on my skin. Since arriving in Aramecina four hours earlier, we have barely moved from the shade of a hammock inside the town’s only comedor (a simple family-run café). Later, this heat will turn to a wild overnight windstorm whipping up dry leaves and pelting them through open windows. But, for now, the air is still and sweat sits dormant in every crevice of my body. This small town isn’t in any guidebook I could find. I could barely see it on the map. We arrived via a rickety white truck from the El Salvadoran border, bumping slowly along an arid road that seemed to lead to nowhere. Taupe, dry earth puffed out of potholes and the few trees sat still and bare, with only the hardiest leaves clinging to their branches. It couldn’t feel any further away from my home in London. I wanted to see the real Honduras. To discover what it’s really like away from the news reports of danger and violence. So, my El Salvadoran friend kindly suggested this visit to his family. Now, here we are, but a wave of doubt is creeping over me. Am I out of my depth on this remote trip? As we sit on a bench watching a skinny pig trot by, a frenzy of crunching footsteps approach. “Hola! Hola!” The boy is back. A paper plate full of food held carefully in front of him with both hands - his Dad, a pot-bellied man wearing a thin checked shirt, following close behind and carrying a black plastic bag. The boy is still beaming and hands me the plate with a white plastic fork. On it, a slop of lumpy red sauce smothers a pile of slippery, shiny meat, served with rice, salad and a slab of white cheese. “Iguana is a special food here” my El Salvadoran friend explains as I hesitate. As he grabs the fork to takes a big, eager mouthful, he tells me it’s considered quite a luxury. I smile, trying to hide any hint of revulsion. The boy takes my camera – keen to capture the moment. “Mmmm – gracias,” I say, holding up the plate for the picture. Then, the Dad steps forward shyly. He beckons me over and opens his bag. Inside, the pink flesh of a freshly skinned iguana is curled up – ripples of what were once spikes visible along its spine, and little tucked-in feet with the long toes removed. They caught it today and the boy insists we buy it. There is no way I can decline both offerings at once. So, I take a deep breath, silently apologising to all living reptiles, and pop a forkful into my mouth. Unlike everything else today, the flavour isn’t completely new. It reminds me of a casserole from a home-cooked family meal. They look at me – the boy, the Dad and my friend - three expecting faces, with eyes lit up and laughing. I giggle too. “Como pollo” I say. Just like chicken.