The Unthinkable
The plan was to get up early and go birdwatching in the forest near the village. Perhaps we'd see Victoria's Astrapia, a rare bird of paradise known to frequent the Papuan Highlands at this altitude. The getting up early bit went according to plan. As I relieve myself in the outhouse, a square hole in the ground with a ten-foot pit beneath, my wallet (containing my passport, credit cards, cash in several currencies, travel insurance, and flight tickets) slides off my belt. I hear a resounding plop, then silence. Rapidly buckling up my shorts, I turn around, drop to my knees, and thrust my head into the hole. By the light of my head-lamp, I can see my wallet, floating like a baby turtle in a pond of slurry ten feet down. Shit. I get to my feet and scramble back up the mud steps to the hut where we're staying and hunt for a stick. There are sugar canes of suitable length, but these are bendy. I find a four-foot stick and reject that, too. I need two long, sturdy sticks. My