It took me seven years to get out of Nicaragua. They said I was a fool for going and a bigger fool for staying, and it's a wonder I survived even the first few days. It started and ended with gunsmoke in my nose. It was a good life, even if there were earthquakes, hungry jaguars, angry Indians, the CIA and revolution. I saw more in seven years than any ten men should be allowed to see. I saw how mankind lived and played, thought and died a thousand years ago. Saw it with my own eyes, first hand. Lived it, too, in the first year, before I got set up. The odd thing is, I didn't miss anything. I was more than a hundred miles from the nearest road, without electricity, running water or news of anything farther than a day's paddle from Karawala, and I didn't miss a damn thing. Then I got my little kingdom set up, and the world came to me. I'd probably still be there if it hadn't been for Byrdie. She tamed me, made me wear shoes, and took me back to civilization. I say I'd still be there. More likely my bones. It got ugly after I left. Hell, escaping was ugly enough. I hope that's the last me-or-them situation I ever see. Makes my heart beat too fast.