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Predicting the weather during the wet season is like guessing when a child will have a tantrum. Heavy troughs of rain are guaranteed to make several appearances each day, but their schedule remains a mystery until it’s too late. There is always a shift in atmosphere as the air gets thick and the winds pick up, and by noticing these warning signs, you give yourself just enough time to look to the clouds as the first drops hit your skin. The showers in the jungles of Agonda last anywhere between five minutes and two hours. Most of the time an umbrella is enough protection to allow me to press on with whatever activity I’m in the middle of, but occasionally a downpower requires the taking of shelter. It’s impossible to count the number of palms, ferns, vines and climbers engaged in a constant battle for the limited space in the jungle canopy, and there are no shortage of spots to rest while the rains pass. But I’m sure I’m not the only one seeking refuge. Torrential rain and thick foliage makes it tough to guess how far I can see into the jungle. The feeling reminds me of opening my eyes after jumping from a boat or jetty, and staring into endless blue water. I always try and gauge how much time I would have to react if a shark was to enter my field of vision; the answer in most cases was probably not enough. Standing stationary and listening to a chorus of unfamiliar sounds, I’m filled with that same sense of wonder and helplessness. In some ways just another part of the ecosystem, in others an intruder in an unfamiliar territory. It’s hard to know where the humans’ natural pasture lies anymore. It’s certainly not the ocean, but most of us are equally out of our depths in forests, mountains and deserts. Whatever the case, I always get moving before the rain completely stops. It’s difficult to know how dangerous this part of the world is. Every time the subject comes up with people that live here, I’m told to carry a big stick and be wary of leopards and king cobras. I hear stories about dogs and livestock being taken, and one man shows me a photo of animal tracks he is sure belong to a tiger, but it’s hardly conclusive. A step above a shadowy image of a yeti, and no reason to stay indoors. Things with deadly venom and claws and fangs get all the headlines, but based on sheer weight of number, insects are the biggest threat here. I can’t work out why they all must produce a sound, or why those sounds must be so annoying, but around the clock there is a creature I kind of recognise buzzing near my face. They are definitely insects, but the wealth of food in this environment has made them twice the size as what I expect. They are big and slow and noisy, almost to the point of arrogance. Killing one mosquito among millions is hardly going to put a dent in their plans, whatever they are. And they know it. Every sensation must be checked to see if I’m being bitten. Most of the time it’s a fly or a drop of sweat rolling down my leg, but every fourth or fifth inspection uncovers some sort of creature swelling up with blood. The tropical insect repellent I brought from home has clearly not been tested in this part of the world, and serves the dual purpose of being both ineffective and irritating. It would be a crime to retreat to the safety of the mosquito net rather than spending evenings on the veranda, listening to the final calls of macaques and peacocks that are rarely seen but always heard. So I lather up with deet, burn lavender incense and swat incoming insects in a lazy, rhythmic manner, almost like a dance. Maybe that’s why we’re having so much rain.