Lost, somewhere in Burma. Its Christmas Day. We've been promised a Christmas surprise, and we're on our way there, afoot, and have just entered
"... a green-veined new world, a vibrant, single-hued world of wildlife that quivered and breathed. Everywhere the travellers looked, it was choked with creepers, vines, and liana hanging, winding, and snaking their way through, making it seem that the jungle ended only a few feet in front of them. It was disorienting to see so much green. The tree trunks were mossy and bedecked with epiphytes: ferns, bromeliads, and tiny pale orchids took root in the soil-rich nooks and crannies of trees. Birds called warning. Somewhere in the distance, a branch creaked with the weight of an unknown creature, possibly a monkey. With small intakes of breath, my friends registered their asonishment. "Amazing." "Heavenly." "Surreal." "
What a lot of misadventures on the road to Mandaly. It was more fun with Kipling. But he got here before the rush, I guess. But it is fun, sitting here and reading about it, without sharing the misery along the way. Wasn't that an unfortunate fire, just as they were beginning to enjoy others company.
How strange. In the East they found the English face inscrutable.
