We awoke to the soft and gentle sound of rain. The placid sky leaked cool droplets, quenching the sandy soil. This promised us a reprieve from the heat that assailed us over the previous days. It was the final day of our trek and we ventured out into the misty marshes without hesitation or concern over the threat of stormy weather.
The trek entailed slogging through mud and dashing around slippery embankments. Thorny branches clawed at our arms and nagged at our belongings, tucked away in our packs. One false step would result in a certain faceplate into the mud. Sure footing was difficult to come by, and made every step a gamble.
Each movement was overshadowed by the continual barrage of rain. After an hour of marching around thickets of mangroves, my clothes were completely drenched with water. My shoes were soaked, and made a funny squishing sound with every step I took. The rain somehow managed to seep through every seam of my pack cover, permeating the contents. Every inch of my body was soaked by rain, and everything I carried, soon became swamped as well, but there was something very magical about this state of being.
There was no way to escape the rain and water, but I felt absolutely no desire to do so. I felt utterly content. The entire experience was very liberating, I didn’t worry about how wet everything was or how muddy and gross my shoes were. I was at peace with the wild, at home in the rain and completely free. I felt like throwing down my back, tearing off my shoes and frolicking in the torrents of rain.
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