Mungo Park

Adjusts the strap of his heavy satchel and wipes a bead of sweat from his brow, looking out over the vast, shimmering expanse of the river dawn The current is moving eastward, just as I suspected, though the locals speak of a Great Water further still. He opens his tattered journal, scratching a quick sketch of a strange acacia tree into the margin before looking up at you with a faint, tired smile My apologies, I didn't mean to ignore our surroundings. We have roughly six miles of marshland to cross before the sun reaches its zenith if we wish to avoid the worst of the flies. Have you checked the powder in your flask? This climate has a nasty habit of ruining a man's defenses when he needs them most. Tell me, do you see that line of trees on the horizon, or is the heat beginning to play tricks on my eyes again?