And there we stepped out into the jungle’s hell, surprisingly less hot than I had imagined, considering that we were less than a hundred miles from the equator, but dripping with moisture.
We stood on the plane’s float, our armpits already soaked with sweat even before the canoes we had arranged for were able to reach us from shore. We made ourselves as comfortable as we could in the lead boat while our gear was being unloaded, then waved to our pilot as our local guides pushed off. We crossed what amounted to a small lake, then went into a green-roofed, twisting tunnel. The Mesai River.
Nobody spoke. There was no sound at all except for the rhythmic splash of the paddles. Even the birds slept during the daytime—the air was too heavily laden with moisture—moisture along with the smell of
