Thundering water woke me before dawn. I wondered if I was hearing the Arataie River, swollen and charging under the carbet (and I wondered if it had taken all of the station’s tools with it). Eventually it dawned on me that I am at the Inselberg station where there is no river; the thundering sound was entirely rain-mass on roof.
I came to the Inselberg station a couple days ago to round up the pollination study that brought me back to French Guiana last October. The plan is to collect fruits that have developed from the flowers we treated back then.
The Inselberg station is technically closed. CNRS policy mandates that I cannot be here alone, so I can stay as long as Philippe does. On an as yet undetermined day (that Philippe says will be soon) a helicopter will arrive for him and so I am feeling a little pressed for time. Two more days of checking five trees a day would do it. I haven’t a clue if I have that much time.
This morning I pulled on my soggy pants so that I’d be good to go as soon as the rain lets up. My pack is already on the trail with a giant garbage bag snugged down over it. The wood floor of the kitchen carbet is circled with dark tracks where my restless pacing has peeled up the thick layer of dust.
Generously-sized Hoccos – black birds with gaudy pompadours - sit out in the rain humming like it’s a beautiful day.
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