Forest of the Pygmies by Isabel Allende Page A

was a downpour that drenched them as effectively as standing in a shower, then ended as suddenly as it had begun. Those cloudbursts kept them wringing wet, yet didn’t offer any relief from the heat; just the opposite, the humidity made things even more unbearable. The stranded travelers set up Angie’s tent, into which five of them could crowd as the sixth stood guard. At Brother Fernando’s suggestion, they looked for animal droppings to make a fire; it was the only way to keep the mosquitoes at bay and at the same time mask their scent, which might attract wild animals. The missionary warned them against bugs that lay their eggs under fingernails and toenails; those pockets become infected, making it necessary to pry up the nails with a knife and scrape out the larvae, a procedure akin to Chinese torture. To prevent that, they rubbed their hands and feet with gasoline. He also warned them not to leave any food in the open because the ants it attracted could be more dangerous than crocodiles. An invasion of termites was a terrifying sight; in their passing they wiped out every living thing, leaving nothing behind but bare earth. Alexander and Nadia had heard about those insects in the Amazon, but now they learned that the African species were even more voracious. As dusk fell they were set upon by a swarm of tiny bees, the insufferable mopani ; despite the smoke, the pests invaded the camp and swarmed over every inch of their skin, even their eyelids.
    “They don’t bite; they just drink your sweat. It’s better not to try to shoo them off,” the missionary told them. “You’ll get used to them.”
    “Look there!” called Joel.
    An ancient turtle with a shell more than three feet across was creeping along the shore at the water’s edge.
    “He’s probably more than a hundred years old,” Brother Fernando calculated.
    “I make a delicious turtle soup!” exclaimed Angie, picking up a machete. “You have to swing the minute they stick their head out—”
    “Don’t even think of killing it,” interrupted Alexander.
    “That shell’s worth a lot of money,” said Angie.
    “We can eat tinned sardines for supper,” Nadia reminded her. She, too, was opposed to the idea of eating the defenseless turtle.
    “It’s not a good idea to kill it. It has a strong odor, and that will attract dangerous predators,” added Brother Fernando.
    The centenarian ambled on along the riverbank at its calm pace, never suspecting how near it had come to ending its days in a pot.
    The sun went down, the shadows of the nearby trees lengthened, and finally it was cool.
    “Don’t look over this way, Brother Fernando, because I’m going to take a dip and I don’t want to entice you.” Angie laughed.
    “I would advise you, miss, not to go near the river. You never know what you might find in the water,” the missionary replied dryly, not looking at her.
    But Angie had already taken off her slacks and blouse and was running toward the riverbank in her underwear. She had sense enough not to go into water any deeper than to her knees, and she was watchful, ready to fly out of the river in case of danger. With the same tin cup she used to drink her coffee, she began emptying water over her head with obvious pleasure. The others followed her example, except for Borobá, who hated getting wet, and the missionary, who stood with his back to the river, concentrating on preparing a meager meal of beans and tinned sardines.
    Nadia was the first to see the hippopotamuses. In the shadows of dusk, they blended into the dark water, so the group became aware of their presence only when they were very near. There were two adults—smaller than those on Michael Mushaha’s preserve—enjoying the water a few feet away from where they were bathing. The third animal, their offspring, they saw only later, peering from between the monumental rear ends of its parents. Quietly, doing nothing to provoke them, the friends stepped out of the water and