The jungle along this section of the river is without empathy. It did not grieve for the explorers who anchored here and struggled into the labyrinth, the thicket of trees, vines, and who disappeared, the ones whom the roots came out of the ground and made prey of. Blind roots that searched by touch. The roots, which bored through the soil, came up, and seized the natives. It wrapped round legs, and then twisted up torsos, winding round them–and squeezed the life from them like pythons. Then the land was bound to the living men, and the land fed off their blood. Look at this place, just look at it. It is a plague of cold, fog, tempests, disease, exile, and death– skulking in the air, in the water, in the bush. These forgotten men died like flies here. And if we anchor here so shall we.