I
remember standing in the emerald green jungle with screeching monkeys swinging
and dancing on tree limbs. Colorful parrots of reds, blues, greens and yellows
watched me silently, suspiciously, as if a gold toothed conquistador. Beautiful
flowers grew wild and free, like the ones in the hair of young girls on Sunday
mornings down there, with red dusty bare feet and honest smiles. The roar of
the gigantic falls reverberating across the gorge, thundered as a cranky old
lion bothered by flies. The chilly Brazilian night left us shivering under
llama wool blankets, warmed by dry red wine, sustained by thick bread and rich
cheese. On my strolls through the bush I must have been like Fawcett in search
of some place or something like Z.
Whatever that may have been?
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