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my waist, and the rise was flooded. The pack was floating, and I rushed toward it before it could be carried away. I put my arm through one of the shoulder straps and grabbed hold of a tree. I could feel the water tugging me toward the river. If I lost my hold on the tree, I would drown. I started swimming away, kicking hard, and succeeded in grabbing onto the next tree. All of my muscles ached, and I was afraid that they would give out on me, but the palpable fear of death lent me new, unfamiliar stores of energy. I pushed myself away from the tree with a great thrust, reaching from tree to tree. Once I missed my grasp and was swept away, but the jungle was dense, and I was rammed into trees until I caught hold of one of them. There was no chance of my climbing a tree and, anyway, I might have been stuck up there forever. I would be better off trying to make it to higher ground.

For once I was oblivious to pain. I was quite simply fighting for my life: pushing away, grabbing, pulling, snatching instants to catch my breath. I went on like that for half an hour until I came upon a hill that wasn't flooded. I stood there panting, water pouring out of the holes in my pack, my clothing drenched and torn, rain beating down upon me mercilessly.

I got my socks and shoes out and pulled them onto my battered feet. The red rash was spreading, and I knew only too well what was in store for me. I was bitter, despondent, and furiously angry