As the single engine Norseman flew over the treetops, Shirley gazed out of the window. Mary Ann was sitting beside her, and every so often exchanged a few words, but it was hard to talk above the noise of the engine.
The view was mostly of tree tops from the thick jungle below them. From time to time they caught sight of the winding Purus river, a tributary to the majestic Amazon. It was the 1960s and, on the five-hour flight from Manaus, there was plenty of time to reflect.
Her thoughts went back to particular moments of her own surrender to God. But what did the future hold for her now among the Paumari people? How would they react to two single white women? She had studied the survey reports and knew that the Paumari lived on the edge of Lake Maraha. The whole geography of the area, however, changed with the seasons. Over time, some of the loops of the Purus had become cut off from the main river as oxbow lakes. The village to which Shirley and Mary Ann were heading was on the furthest edge of an oxbow lake, about three miles from the river.
