In how many movies has the hero, lost in fevered dreams, lain drenched and shaking in his tent while the natives bang their drums? In my movie the natives are the chanting Hindus of the temple below my window. The jungle, of course, is the maze of narrow twisting lanes (about 4 to 5 feet wide) crowded with Hindus rushing to or from a temple, school children, cow shit, and motorcycles. At 5am, when the devotees rush off to bathe in the Ganges River it's quiet, but I'm still shaking.
[I've moved to a room on the other side of the building. I'm able to sleep, but not to photograph much. I'll be going to the pharmacy today to resolve this. The one thing that has kept me going has been the positive comments about this blog that have been made here, in letters and dpreview. Even though the posts will be infrequent for awhile, I hope you will still follow along. If you submit your email address (and click the follow-up email you'll receive) then the posts will be emailed to you when they are published.
As I feared that coming back with such a slight post would do more harm than good I am also posting some, I believe, interesting comparisons, relevant to this adventure that I've been lying here thinking about.]