The next day we went in search of the icon of PNG tourism, the bird of paradise. We left just before 6am, George, Johannes and me, interlopers in a monochrome world. It was as still as a print. A bleary moon peered through a skein of shifting cloud, silhouetting the canoe. There was the smell of wood smoke. The air, not quite chilled from yesterday, had that delicious coolness that augurs the heat of the tropical day. The river lay in slabs, shiny as ice. Our speeding canoe was the only thing moving on earth. Around us, all was etched in high-resolution clarity. Trees stood up to their knees in floodwater, nothing ruffling their reflections; curds of mist lay motionless across the face of the Hunsteins. It was a morning to live for and one I never expect to see again.