the ferry ride is endless and the coffee still hasn't removed the remnants of our morning crank. the american rails against the guide, who repeats for the infinitesimal time that glaciers are made of compacted snow, that the colour depends on the density of the ice, that they are overspill from the icefield between the mountains, that the icebergs float with 80% of their size below the water level...
at the shore, we go off the beaten track, avoiding further repetition. he didn't believe there were wild cows until we found one, dead, bloated, legs up in the air, belly torn to display rotting innards, tongue lolling out, kingdom of flies...
i like that he doesn't look after me, he ploughs ahead through thorny bushes barely looking behind. he knows i'm there. this suits me fine...
later we have a 'double date' with other travellers. they don't turn up, but nonetheless more dead cows are surely eaten.
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