Louisiana in September was like an obscene phone call from nature.
The air-moist, sultry, secretive, and far from fresh-felt as it were being exhaled into one's face.
Tom Robbins-"Jitterbug Perfume"

The thermometer reads 90 degrees in the shade. As I stroll around the ramshackle village of Bambo, in the jungle of Belize, the humidity clings to me and turns to sweat. This menacing presence is the signature of the tropics, the oppressive yoke that possesses every tortured thought. It's hard to find air in all the wet; I feel as if I'm being vacuum sealed. The stillness is oppressive. Claustrophobia! Suddenly I am short of breath. Slight panic, if there is such a thing. I sit down in a shady spot and try to calm myself. I'm from New Orleans and should be accustomed to this. Then I remembered, that's why I moved.

The prominent nasal sensation is the musty smell of decay, unless you're in a crowd. Then it's an earthy body odor. More sweat. The soggy dampness permeates everything. Clothes are ever wet. Even the plants seem to sweat. The boardwalks sway with rot. For that matter, so does the entire village. The pervasive color is green, dozens of hues of mildew and jungle, so it's anything but monotonous. There's even a subtle beauty, but it can be hard to see without a breeze- or better yet, air conditioning. What a wimp!