An ancient ceiling fan creaks slowly overhead, chopping into the thick air with monotonous futility. Sweat is beading down my face, carving long rivers down the back of my drenched shirt, yet the man behind the counter looks impeccable. Dark hair neatly combed, a striped tie knotted elegantly around his collar. His white long-sleeve shirt remains immaculate despite the humidity that feels like you could wring it, wet and dripping, from the air.
“Not possible,” he says, unblinking.
“We’ll pay extra,” we plead desperately. “We’ll stand.”
“Not possible,” he replies blankly.
“Maybe Sunday.”
Sunday. Three days away. A swell is marching across the ocean towards a tiny speck of jungle that lies 12 hours away. We have already traversed thousands upon thousands of kilometres, days melting into departure lounges and…