Finally, a figure emerged from the front door of the mansion—another suit-clad samurai—and stopped a couple of meters from the front quarter of the car. As if that had been his signal—which it probably was, of course—Scott climbed out, came around, and held my door open for me. As I emerged from the air-conditioned comfort of the car, the heat and humidity—and the unmistakable smell of jungle—was like walking into a door.