It’s 5:30am, someone’s alarm is chiming incessantly. No one stirs. I hear roosters—we have been sleeping through that too. The falling rain drums rhythmically on the tin roof. Despite being near the center of the pavilion, mist sprinkles my face—a refreshingly cool start to a morning I know will be a scorcher quite soon. Reluctantly I get up and pull on my soggy shoes which haven’t dried from yesterday’s river adventure.

The place we are staying is a creepy unfinished hotel owned by the mayor and offered for our use. Large cracks chase their way down the exterior walls and these have been filled with cement and patched over. How structurally sound it is I cannot say; we opt to stay outside under an open pavilion.

Sometime after 3am I slip out of bed and quietly make my way through the dark…past the kitchen…under the trees casting leafy shadows. My destination: the one flushing toilet on the premises. Navigating this path was not difficult as I made mental note of the turns the first time I was brought here (one tends to remember and prioritize such things). The alternative is an outhouse with posted instructions ending with “nobody likes typhoid”.

It’s my fault. I asked for summer to not leave me and now I’m missing the brief moment of beautiful autumn while returning to the heat of a Midwest summer and then some as I travel south to the island of Hispaniola.