I wasn´t too worried when I was called off the bus to undergo a customs check... but when I saw the officer pulling on a pair of rubber gloves, the panic definitely set in.
It was mid-way through the first of two days aboard an international bus from the Nicaraguan capital of Managua to Guatemala City when we pulled up at the El Salvador border.
We had already negotiated three customs checkpoints, having left Nicaragua to briefly cross into Honduras and then out again.
So we were well used to officers calling people at random to ask a few cursory questions about their luggage.
This tends to be something of a token effort among the tourists, whereas the natives of Central America seem to come in for a bit more scrutiny.
But when I stepped off the coach, I soon dropped my casual attitude as I realised from the tone of the officials´ voices that this wasn´t the routine.
They questioned me more aggressively than usual about my purpose of being in the country; we were only spending the night there before continuing to Guatemala the next day.
And when one guy asked my profession and I replied that I was a journalist, it aroused their suspicion further and they seemed to think I was planning to hang aroung to work.
I thought they were going to try to extract a bribe but instead I was led into an office and ordered to unpack my rucksack.
It is at such moments you realise just how daft your belongings look when they are laid out for all to see; dirty underpants sitting alongside a festering towel and an Asian shuttlecock football game.
Suddenly the little ceramic gifts I´d bought looked very suspicious, wrapped as they were in newspaper and then bound by sticky tape.
When a dog handler came in and started pulling on those medical gloves, I really began to get worried.
So I was thankful for having taken Spanish lessons, as I earwigged enough to figure out what was going on.
The dog had caught a scent in the bus´s luggage hold, evidently in the area where my pack - and that belonging to a young Aussie lad - had been stowed.
They obviously reckoned he´d got some drugs on him because while they didn´t examine my bag for long, they were really thorough with his.
One of the less stern guys came over for a chat and seemed fascinated by the little calculator-type gadget that banks send you to obtain internet banking codes.
Meanwhile, the poor Aussie lad´s panic increased when the dog pounced on a document folder that fell from the table onto the floor.
The official started searching - perhaps thinking something was folded up in the paper - and then reading each letter.
No doubt he could understand next to nothing but his eyes lit up when he noticed an Australian police letterhead.
It was only proof that the lad had no criminal record - a document he needed to allow him to work in Canada - and I did my best to convey this to the border guard.
In the end, they found nothing and sent us on our way. It took a good half-hour for my knees to stop knocking, though.
Read a guide book about capital cities in this part of the world and there is a recurring theme.
"They aren´t very nice. Stay near the bus terminal and get out of town as soon as you can," is the general consensus.
This presents the budget traveller with something of a difficulty because the accommodation choice is limited, to say the least.
The One With The Common Sense and I are probably among the easier to please customers to visit guest houses but even our hearts sank at the state of our room in Managua.
It´s the only place we´ve stayed in where there was no door between the toilet and bedroom, giving it a sort of prison cell atmosphere.
Not only was it infested with ants but the wall fan was caked in grime and stains lined the walls.
At least it had a telly, however, so we were able to take our minds off the potential dangers of the neighbourhood outside by watching a couple of films.
If anything, the room in San Salvador was worse.
As it´s probably the most dangerous city in the region, we decided to stay in the hotel at the back of the bus garage.
Our room was on the top floor of this warren of a place but it was hardly what you´d call a penthouse.
Not only was it so small that only one of use could move around at any one time, it also smelled faintly of wee.
We tried to combat the odour lighting a mosquito coil, preferring the chemical smell of fly killer to that of old man´s underpants.
But even after lights out things got worse. I was too tall for the bed and could only just wedge myself between the headboard and the bars at the bottom.
I was glad to be rising at 4.30am for the second leg of our journey because sleep was evading me anyway.
By the time we got to Guatemala City we had already made up our minds to avoid a third grim city centre.
Instead we headed straight for the beautiful colonial city of Antigua, only an hour away.
It´s colourful buildings and cobbled streets seemed a world away from our previous two nights´ bases, while the sheer volume of tourists ensures plenty of competition among accommodation providers in the town.
Sadly for us, it hasn´t resulted in quality across the board.
Our guest house looked okay at first sight and we quickly dumped our bags to go in search of food.
It was only arriving back that night that we realised what we were in for.
I don´t know what the bed was made of but it felt like occasional strips of concrete interspersed with foot-wide gaps where the pathetically thin mattress sank and disappeared.
I woke up after a fitful night with so many kinks in my back, I thought I´d never stand up.
It´s the first time we´ve found accommodation so bad we´ve had to leave after a night. Horrendous.
Sitting on a balcony, working our way through a bottle of rum while overlooking Lake Atitlan, we were able to put any hostel nightmares out of our minds.
With heavily-forested volcanos rising out of the water and boats criss-crossing to the various remote villages, San Pablo de la Laguna really is a beautiful place.
Out-of-season and so short on the hoardes of travellers who flock here, it was the perfect place to relax for a couple of days.
We had a real holiday feeling as we swam each morning, wandered the little lanes behind our hotel and did little else but try to paddle off the rum hangover in a kayak.
You could not have picked a better location for the hotel - it being right on the water - and because it was the furthest away from the pier (though still only five minutes walk) it was cheaper than its rivals.
The owner was friendly and we enjoyed chats with her mischievous three-year-old daughter. It was just the relaxation we needed.
Best of all, however, had to be the "traditional" Mayan bedspread, which featured the cast of Scooby-Doo.
What with that and the Pooh bear bedsheet, I felt a bit wrong going to sleep sandwiched between Shaggy and Tigger.
Getting to the village had been something of a mission. It had involved four local buses over three hours.
It was a great laugh watching people go about their busy lives, including one candy floss seller who sat in front of me with about 100 bags clipped to a huge pole, all bobbing around our heads.
We passed through the Mayan village of Sololá, where local women wear elegant and colourful traditional dress.
Meanwhile, the blokes wear woven skirts over trousers (also woven - as is seemingly all their clothing), topped with brilliant cowboy hats.
Mind you, the boat ride to the village was a bit traumatic.
The wind had whipped up big waves on the lake and I felt like my internal organs where being mushed together inside my rib cage as the little fibreglass motorboat smacked against the water.
I definitely needed that rum.
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