No, that isn't right. It's like I'm running headlong into it. The decay.
Seu Paulo and I made our way to Brazil, to the place where the Juruá meets Brazil. There, we found a man I once knew. He is named Jorge Teixeira, and he is a good man.
Phineas Hannigan is the name of the man that brought us there. Paulo and I searched, on foot, for five days before we came upon his home. We knew immediately that we'd found him when we entered his village, a small group of adobe houses gathered near a spring; it is called Cacuero, and the only remarkable thing about it was the shabby car parked in the decaying leaves.
We found him inside his home, and we asked him to help us. He was happy to, but I do not know why. I suspect only that our talk of the yeti sparked something inside him.
Phineas and I took turns driving; we drove nine hours each every day. He is an aging white man, but his endurance is surpring. There is something very curious about him, this white man who chooses to live in a village so small and primitive that it appears on no map.
Having arrived in Brazil, we parted ways. I will miss his company; I bid him farewell, but he only met my eyes and smiled.
His absence has widened the rift between Seu Paulo and I, or at least called attention to it. Over the past few weeks, we have spoken barely a hundred words to one another.
We arrived last night at Jorge Teixeira's home. He welcomed us with warmth, and we brought our sparse belongings into seperate rooms. It feels so strange to be in this house, elegant, air conditioned, wired. It practically glows.
He is arranging our voyage to Mexico, presently.