It is cold, and when it’s cold, the world makes sense. When it’s hot, like tropical weather/climate, the world is still being made, like it’s still in the oven of God’s creation. That’s why things move quickly in tropical settings. That’s why life here is not as important. I guess people in cold places are more ‘preserved’ metaphysically speaking. They have their individuality. While in the death-rich tropics, the species, the race is far more significant than the individual. Here in the tropics, there’s death, there’s individual death to be exact. It is expected of course for an individual to die, but in the tropics it is also expected that the person die young. And then there are the racial/species death, but that’s less common than the first kind of death. Dying is not such a big deal here. Life is not such a big deal here. When you die, there are others that will take your place in the scheme of things. You are a cog in the machine. There is nothing unique and special about you. Up there, and down there, in the polar regions of the world, that must not be the case. I haven’t been there, can’t be certain though. But I’ve lived all my life here in the tropics. It rains, it is hot, it is humid, and there are lots of insects – mosquitoes, flies, cicadas, fireflies, cockroaches, wasps, winged ants, non-winged ants, termites. There are centipedes, millipedes, snails, earthworms, slugs. At night before you sleep you make sure you set up your netting, otherwise all sorts of insects could enter your mouth or your nose or some other parts of you. The mosquitoes are especially pervasive. These are huge mosquitoes, about two inches from front to end. You can hear them buzzing, they fly around in a dense cloud during the late afternoons, during the twilight hours. They are merciless, they bite everything. You can’t sleep without the netting. Preferably, the netting should be made of silk and is very fine.
There are places here that still do not have electricity. Or rather the electricity is used to power the machines – the processing machines, the separating machines, the cutting and dicing machines of the factories. The centers of energy are the factories. Along the road leading to the factory are shanties. This is where the workers live. They make do with candles and kerosene lamps. The kerosene lamps smell when they burn. The town is infused with this smell. It sticks in the lungs and the throats and the mouths and lips of the sleeping children. Beyond, behind the houses are the tree line, and beyond that the forest. Lush growth, thick canopy of leaves and vines and parasitic plants. The forest is not a silent place, daytime or nighttime. You hear the cawing and hooting of birds, the high-pitched chirping of crickets, the buzzing of cicadas and other insects. It is always wet. The damp soil is covered in a deep layer of decaying leaves and other dead or dying organic matter. The air smells faintly metallic, like that of a freshly-honed iron machete.