Murder, she wrote

Heat; that suffocating thing that wraps around you like a python. Squeezes the air out of you and fills your lungs with concrete. Your head feels like its about to erupt and explode, smearing everything within reach in brain matter. Sweat trickles down your back, down your stomach, down your legs... Your clothes stick to your body like you’ve just partaken in a wet t-shirt contest, only there is nothing refreshing or remotely sexy about it. Everything you touch has to be peeled off, even your own limbs stick together like Velcro.

Now add a good and unreasonable amount of humidity.

Add a car full of stuff.           

Then stick 4 (5) people in it.

For 6-9 hours.

At 120 km an hour the wind bashes your face through a small gap in the window, whips you with whatever hair it can grab a hold of. Part devil, part saviour, your window is your life support, your umbilical cord to the land of the living. As the sweat covers your body, the wind becomes the last stop between your sanity and the beyond as your struggle to remain conscious. Every sense of time and place is lost only to be replaced by aggression, confusion and suffering... (Yes, I choose to call it suffering.)

And murder will be plotted... 

Ben and Xenon incredibly hung over, hot and bothered as we leave Darwin. I've never heard you guys bitch like that before... Self-inflicted. Deal with it. :) 

Ben goes swimming in some lake in Darwin while Pete and I are left soaking in sweat watching.