February 27th, 1925
It feels so familiar, so nostalgic, even though it was only five years — the trees, the air, and all people around the city. I can close my eyes and picture each place so vividly, and yet I feel ecstatic when I think about the entrance to the jungle. I can’t wait to get past it. We had departed Corumbá two days ago, and soon we should arrive at Cuiabá. We’re getting closer, but the travel is dragging – it always did.
Let’s hope that Rimmel will come around and control his attitude. I want to avoid encounters like the one that we had when we got to the shore in Rio de Janeiro. It’s not surprising that people, especially Americans, tend to look down on others, but this might be dangerous when we face different tribes on our way. At least Jack took the initiative and handled the problem, but even so, I would prefer to avoid those situations at all costs.
I forgot how hard it was with all the mosquitos and bugs, the first time I came here. But I remember now as I look at both of my companions. This is the only part I wasn’t able to prepare them for – surely they’ve heard about it a dozen times, but there’s a difference between understanding it and experiencing it. We’re not even deep inside the jungle yet, and they are already complaining a lot. Hopefully, in one or two weeks, they will get used to it.
Even so, I must admit that I’ve missed it, the same way I’ve missed many other visceral parts of the adventures. I’ve faced problems, and met many people, and fought wild creatures. After the blood and tears, each location starts to feel like home, even if that home seems hostile. Once we get to Cuiabá and move towards the entrance, there’s no going back. I close my eyes. I can see it, this will be hell – but I can’t wait.