From 'The Double' Iv Poem by Morgan Michaels

'Ouch', yelped Langley, smacking a mosquito. 'Where are we'?
Steadily, the trees closed overhead into an arcade, screening out the light. The way became darker.
'You said you wanted to see the real Cuba' laughed Miggi, over his shoulder.
'I don't want to break my neck. Or, get eaten alive'.
'Sorry, there's no other way'.
There was nothing to say,

'Should we bend a few twigs- just to know the way back'? , joked Langley.
Miggi ignored him and walked on.

The road was a narrow stretch of busted-up concrete, crowded by jungle on either side and wide enough to let a single car pass. It was early November before the rains, hot and dry.Sweat dripped down their backs and dark stains appeared on their shirts like countries on maps.
The stretch of road ended. The ground ahead was covered with yellow dirt. A careless person could turn an ankle in the sharp, steep ruts.
'Where ARE we', cried Langley, swatting more mosquitoes. Mosquitoes seemed to like Langley.

'Don't they carry Dengue, Doctor'? Langley was terrified of disease.

'Si', replied Miggi, 'but not to worry. It doesn't kill you'.
'Never'? said Langley, not believing him.
'Not if you're healthy. I had it twice. It's not so bad the second time. The thing is to recover from the first'.

'Fine', challenged Langley. But how do you know if you're healthy'?
'By surviving'. Relax. You gringos worry about everything'.

This was a lot to take for an American-born cleric like Langley. Miggi exulted. He could tell he was annoyed and began to roll his R's, because he knew it would annoy him further.

Miggi's R-rolling DID annoy Langley, who felt he did it on purpose. He couldn't R-roll with the same vigor. It was a deficiency of his Spanish.

Abruptly the road delta-ed into a lot. Parked about in semi-orderly fashion, away from each other, were American cars of pre-1960 make, all kept mint proudly by their owners, though several showed signs of fender-benders and a few needed washing. Langley felt...