Montro and his grandson arrive and I throw my tiny bag in the canoe, sit in the bottom and am waving goodbye to my fellow travellers. I feel a bit superior as Montro and his grandson pole me around a bend in the river.

Hey, I'm like Cleopatra going down the Nile!

That was all for show for the people we left. I am handed a pole and expected to use those muscles he had felt. And then, when the river becomes shallower and we are grounded -- - a peremptory wave of Montro's hand, and I help portage the canoe. OK. So I get in my exercise and simply love this very special trip. I can't really say how long it took.

In this timeless world, days are compacted, hours feel like days and then again, like minutes. And years, well, how old is this person. 9, 15, 27 ? I've had this same feeling about time in other tropics. People have a whole different conception of time because they don't have specific times of the year for hoeing, planting and reaping. It's a matter of life and death in temperate zones, but it doesn't matter here in these languid climes. I think the trip was an hour or two - - or maybe more.

Who cares? It's all living, experiencing this shallow, clear river in its tunnel of trees. I didn't care if it went on forever.

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