I pulled the front of my shirt away from where it was sticking to my chest. A swarm of bugs flitted past my face, one of them flying into my mouth.

I coughed and spit.

Now would probably be a good time to mention that I hate bugs.

For most of my life, it had been a strong annoyance, but after spending a summer in Missouri and dealing with flies the size of small bats and beetles that had personalities, I’d come to detest them.

I stopped everyone so I could apply a second round of DEET, but once we resumed our trek, the insects continued to hum around my face, buzz in my ears, and bite into my delicious white flesh. If I didn’t know better, I would think someone had swapped my DEET out for a can of PAM.

As we moved farther into the jungle, the canopy overhead grew into a tight green curtain that blocked nearly all sunlight and produced a dusk-like haze. The underbrush thinned, and we trudged through the relative darkness for fifteen minutes. Finally Diego said, “Tibióno is just up ahead.”

Five minutes later, the path widened, and a glow of vanishing sunlight was visible. Slowly the moderate foliage disappeared, and the sights and sounds of a community materialized.

Fifteen thatched huts were spread out in a fifty-meter radius. There was a giant fire pit, some small tables, lantern posts, and one structure I guessed was a commode. There were a handful of villagers visible, all dressed similarly to the Yanomina: lots of T-shirts and tattered shorts. Two chickens pecked their way across the forty feet of open common area.

A girl, no older than five or six, was the first to spot us, and she ran to a nearby hut and disappeared. A moment later, three villagers emerged, two of them holding bowls in their hands.

Looks like we’d interrupted dinner.

Within a short minute, the little girl had dipped her head into nearly every hut and over fifty Tibióno were speaking among themselves and gawking at us warily. A few men, elders I assumed by their heavily wrinkled brown skin, stepped forward. One of them said something, and although it sounded like Spanish to me, from the look on Diego, Carlos, and Juan Pablo’s faces, I knew it must have been in their native Tibióno.

Diego said something in Spanish, and I made out the words “Gina” and “médica.”

A younger man in a black T-shirt stepped forward and began to converse with Diego in Spanish. After a few exchanges, he turned to the assembled villagers and translated. At finding out we were there to help find their beloved doctor who’d lived with them on and off for five years, the villagers rushed forward and welcomed us.