The Brazilian border is only 25 miles to the west, on the other side of the Ireng River. Down we go onto a narrow strip, dropping like a carnival ride. As soon as we screech to a stop, there is much shouting. A Canadian photographer and I, the only passengers at this destination, are urged to pick up our bags and quickly exit through the rear. The pilot keeps his motor revved, and as soon as we are clear of the plane, it shoots away from us, leaving us in the prop wash with Colin Edwards, an expat Brit.
Breakfast is ready.
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