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 idea is to use them like monstrous chopsticks and pluck my wallet out of the mire as one might a rice grain from a bowl of curry.
Paul, our guide, is up now, and I explain my predicament. I expect him to double over laughing, but he just shakes his head and apologises. Paul rouses Philoman, one of our hosts, and acquaints him with the situation. Having peered down the hole, Philoman fetches his bush knife and disappears in the forest. He returns holding a long stick with a fork in the end. He goes fishing and then I do, but it is no good: the turtle is not game. Does Philoman have a net to attach to the hook perhaps? He scratches his beard and shakes his head. Will I have to lower myself through the hole then? The image in Slumdog Millionaire of the hero as a little boy dropping through the floor of an Indian outhouse and getting tarred from head to foot comes to mind.
Philoman goes back to the hut and returns with a small plastic bucket, handle-less and cracked down one side. He pierces it near the rim with his knife and attaches it to the end of the slimed stick with sugarcane fibres. But the bucket is too fat to go down the hole. I help him dig out the logs forming the floor of the latrine. Down goes the bucket. Gently, gently. Under the rogue turtle.
Dawn arrives, and I descend to the creek, holding my wallet at arm's length. It is fortunate that bills these days are made of plastic. I wonder as I rinse and rinse and rinse whether, when I return to Canada, the Immigration officer will slip on a pair of rubber gloves before handling my passport. Philoman gets 50 kina ($20) for coming to the rescue. The villagers are stunned when they hear the story from Paul. What? He can't leave Papua without his little book?
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 idea is to use them like monstrous chopsticks and pluck my wallet out of the mire as one might a rice grain from a bowl of curry.
Paul, our guide, is up now, and I explain my predicament. I expect him to double over laughing, but he just shakes his head and apologises. Paul rouses Philoman, one of our hosts, and acquaints him with the situation. Having peered down the hole, Philoman fetches his bush knife and disappears in the forest. He returns holding a long stick with a fork in the end. He goes fishing and then I do, but it is no good: the turtle is not game. Does Philoman have a net to attach to the hook perhaps? He scratches his beard and shakes his head. Will I have to lower myself through the hole then? The image in Slumdog Millionaire of the hero as a little boy dropping through the floor of an Indian outhouse and getting tarred from head to foot comes to mind.
Philoman goes back to the hut and returns with a small plastic bucket, handle-less and cracked down one side. He pierces it near the rim with his knife and attaches it to the end of the slimed stick with sugarcane fibres. But the bucket is too fat to go down the hole. I help him dig out the logs forming the floor of the latrine. Down goes the bucket. Gently, gently. Under the rogue turtle.
Dawn arrives, and I descend to the creek, holding my wallet at arm's length. It is fortunate that bills these days are made of plastic. I wonder as I rinse and rinse and rinse whether, when I return to Canada, the Immigration officer will slip on a pair of rubber gloves before handling my passport. Philoman gets 50 kina ($20) for coming to the rescue. The villagers are stunned when they hear the story from Paul. What? He can't leave Papua without his little book?
Comments
Post a Comment