The Cuckoo Colloquium

21 - Windy

Wet and lost.

That's what all this questing for unanswerable answers had gotten him. Was that the purpose of this personal growthing adventure? - To get wet and lost-to the end?

He had survived the Noah's Ark-like flood, but where were they? Everything looked different now.

He had grabbed what he could, mostly his own personal gear, and followed Outback and Pinky Bell, who were heading for a hillock east of the river. The rain tapered off, but a fog continued to hang over the huge flood plain, blocking out the morning sunshine.

They left the grassy plain and were back under the canopy, trying to keep the swollen, snaking river to their right as they hiked. But the terrain was turning rugged, and before Windy knew it, Outback had let them to a steep cliff face, impossible to climb, disconnecting them from even the pretense of staying flush with the water.

Windy peered upwards-it was impossible to get a sure bearing from the sun through the tangled mesh of trees and canopy. Moss-colored boulders now greeted the three-some, and they tried to march around these impediments.

He didn't want to be negative, but he had little faith in his two companions: Outback and Pinky Bell, he figured, would find a way to get them even more lost.

They stumbled and added new scrapes to their legs on the rocky detour. They straddled deep gorges on both sides, and it really seemed to Windy like they had entered the most desperate, scariest terrain on the island.

Where did the river go? The jungle, in its sumptuousness river-lessness, undulated before them in its myriad shades of green.

The rain had stopped a couple of hours ago, but Windy could still see tiny droplets on almost everything; the moisture was everywhere. It seemed impossible to stay dry-yet he was always so thirsty.

He raised his sweaty arm and gave it a good, long lick, and Pinky Bell made a face, then dashed off like he had just passed wind again.

"It doesn't help," Windy called after her, "I'm still thirsty."

They were back on level ground, but the jungle shrubbery soon swallowed them again. Outback took out the machete and gave it a meaningful shake like it was some life-saving device. "You ought to thank old Pete."

The going was slow, but Outback's dogged swings of the machete forged them ahead, and Windy hiked in the rear, holding the headpiece from the sniper suit in his hand-it was just too hot to hike with the thing on. Yet the perspiration still poured from Windy's skin; the walking, the heat, the humidity-it was like every pore in his body had opened up into a reeking, salty stream into his boots.

The trek drained him, but he was wise enough not to lick any more of himself; it was like drinking seawater-you only died sooner.

They had to get back to the river. They had to get out of these lightless gorges and broken earth.

Borneo was so deceiving from the airplane-a smooth green carpet with as much variety in elevation as a bump in a rug; that's what the jungle looked like from 10,000 feet-some small bumps in a green rug.

When the late afternoon rain came, it was welcome-as long as it didn't stick around like the last one. Windy was soaked with perspiration, anyway, so he thought little of the steam-like droplets as he hiked.

"How 'bout some shrimps on the Barbie when we get back, eh, Pete?"

The Aussie didn't turn around. "They're prawns, not shrimps, Yank-Stop being a pest."