The thermometer reads 90 degrees in the shade. As I stroll around the ramshackle village of Bambo, on the east coast of Belize, the humidity must be even higher. It clings to me like a steam bath, only I can't see the steam. But I can damn well FEEL it! This menacing presence is the signature of the tropics, the oppressive yoke that possesses every tortured thought. It chokes the frail frame, like being stuck between floors on a crowded elevator. Claustrophobia! Suddently 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 the New Orleans and should be accustomed to this. Then I remembered, that's why I moved.

The soggy dampness permeates everything. Clothes are ever wet. Even the plants seem to sweat. Wood rots in real time, and everything is made of wood, including bridges. The inescapable smell is mildew, unless you're in a crowd, then it's body odor. More sweat. The pervasive color is green, dozens of hues, like Ireland but more trees. Thus the "variegated" jungle, so it's anything but monotonous. It has a subtle beauty that can be hard to appreciate without a breeze. Better yet air conditioning. What a wimp!