The next morning - or midday … whenever it was, it was hot enough so that the tent, my sleeping-bag, and I became a sweaty bundle of sticky, humid surfaces. Like a fruit roll-up right out of the wrapper that still clings to the cellophane. Sort of. Whatever. The point is that we had been lazing in our tents, waiting for the rain to stop so we wouldn´t have to pack wet gear, and in the mean-time been caught by the soft-lit drowsiness of a warm tent, like Ulysses on a lotus binge… but, as I said, we got driven out of our tents when the vegetable-steamer of nylon became too much Sort of like luke-warm bathwater, except in this case it was Too hot to stay in, two crazy Argentineans to get out. Stretching in
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