RV is an enormous oasis of trees in an arid, boulder-strewn landscape. The sunset, refracted through gritty red dust, had turned the sky a primeval red; the crickets and birds had set up a howling that echoed through the valley; the trees loomed like unfriendly aliens.
Then a convoy of gigantic bats with the wingspan of pterodactyls came sailing across the sky, silent as murderers. As I watched, the faint glow from the auditorium suddenly seemed embryotic and helpless against the natural world; the music sounded tinny and forlorn, and even the flirtiest dancers looked like matchstick figures jerking about on strings.
The world had gone all primal. I had a sudden keen desire to find a safe cave, keep the fire going, and watch for predators. All at once, banding together in society seemed like a very good idea.
When you live, as I do, in a metropolis, growling about traffic and heat, overmuch noise and too little water, it's possible to become so used to the domesticated universe that you forget how wild and unforgiving the planet can be
