June 10th: Turtles 0 (0) - Stokes Valley 2 (1)
Expedition diary: Day One, Morning
Woke up to a confusion of feelings, ranging from excitement to fear. This was to be the day of the trek to the unknown.
It had all started several weeks ago, when dear old Dickie Attenborough rang me late one evening. His breathless enthusiasm was, as always, infectious. "Wonderful news", he started, "helicopters have taken aerial photos of Snakes Gully, and there are signs of inhabitation".
My crew and I were on the plane out six days later, and the good old BBC were going all out for this one. Three OB Units and support from several of the top brass from the Natural History Unit, including the eminent sociologist Dr Hilary Thick-Rimmed-Glasses. We made our first camp at the quaint fishing village of Enotep, and after endless stories of past successes and failures from similar expeditions, spent a restless night. The morning dawned fine, but dark clouds were threatening. We set off in good spirits, travelling in convoy for safety. To get to the gully, we had to pass through some charted but still dangerous areas. The armour plating on our jeeps was some comfort, but there was the ever present fear of getting stopped at a ford or coming across a crude road block of fallen trees. We sped past the remains of the Belgium TV documentary team of '98. They had stopped at the lights at Melling and died horribly. We made it to the entrance to the gully, and had lunch, a charming antipasto platter dominated by a quite naughty little salami.
Expedition diary: Day One, Afternoon
We took our first steps into the gully, and all went well for the first mile. Then the first signs of civilisation - a dairy. Heated discussion took place as to our next move, but typically our junior grip Weasel took a gung-ho approach and rushed headlong through the open door. A minute later he emerged, sweating profusely, but safe, and clutching a Powerade. He pronounced the local shopkeeper to be a pleasant lady in her mid forties with her hair tied in a bun. This information was processed by our socio-analysts while we headed on. A fork in the road brought glee to Professor Panama-hat, our history expert. He was carrying a copy of the chart found with the remains of Dr Stone-buns, the 19th century explorer who was said to have been this way. The Prof now claimed the chart to be genuine, and on his advice we took the left fork. After passing a rudimentary trading site, we came across a dilapidated sign. On scraping away the moss, the sign was pointing us to Delaney Park. The Prof shrieked, and we gathered around the Stone-buns chart. Delaney Park was clearly marked, with the foreboding notation "got a jolly good thrashing here, April 7, 1846".
A short time later we arrived at this "Delaney Park", a large clearing surrounded by basic housing with shopping trolleys in the front yards. All over the clearing, the males of Snakes Gully were running around shouting at each other. We hesitantly approached one of these males, and contact was made. It was all very pleasant, and then the local communicated that the traditional way of establishing relationships in the gully was through games, and suggested that we put up a team of our own against one of theirs in a game of "footy". Not wanting to risk damaging our new found contact, we hastily organised a team, and took the field. Prior to the start was a fitting time to remember Richard, brother of Simon and cousin of Nick, a much loved member of our crew who had passed away last week, and we had a minute of silence for him. As the minute ended, the rain that had been threatening arrived.
We started the match well, but within five minutes things started to go wrong. Weasel's dodgy hammy went, and GT was rushed in. Then Gordie, our video operator and striker, started to find out the hard way that this was not just a game for the locals. He was kicked and elbowed regularly, even once when he had the ball. It seemed that to really cement the respect of his new "friends" he would have to have a fist fight, but Gordie is Scottish aristocracy and detests all vulgarity. As the rain intensified, so the passion of the locals seemed to grow with it. Each time one of our number was upended with a flying boot, the locals whooped with delight. Don, our technical guru and one who is always struggling to suppress his violent side, tried a similar tackle on one of the locals and was abused and threatened. The rain was now torrential, and the locals in a frenzy. They scored a "goal", when a cross to the far post found two of theirs against one of ours. The first headed goalwards, but it deflected off the arm of Steve, left midfield and clapper board operator, back out to the second, who smashed it in from close range, giving Snouter, accounts clerk and goalie, no chance.
Ten minutes later, the rain just got silly, and the ground was unplayable. We assumed that, as it wasn't exactly a matter of life and death, we might as well call it off and go and have a nice hot cup of tea. The local captain regarded this as the act of homosexuals, a comment that Dr Hilary Thick-Rimmed-Glasses found fascinating, and quickly wrote a paper on the sexual identity problems evident in Snakes Gully. We had no choice but to play on. The game became more like water polo, but the locals were enjoying themselves. On one side of the ground there was a stream that the rain had turned into a torrent. The ball often went in it, and at one stage Steve dived in to get it, missed, and with the assistance of GT had to chase it four miles to get it just before it was lost out to sea.
At halftime, Spratty, our money lender and most experienced "footy" player, declined to join the game as it would have been unhealthy for his gouty legs. The rest of us carried on. Nicko, Si G and Si L tried manfully to get the lads going, but it was all a bit flat, even with the oppo a man down after their right half went off with cramp. We hacked around in the puddles to no avail. Gordie had lost interest, and even Tel, centre back and presenter, couldn't make any headway. We got near their goal a couple of times, and at one stage the ball went through their keepers legs, but a puddle stopped it. Si G, junior cleaner and striker, had a couple of close attempts, but never hit the target. The locals got another goal when Tony, sweeper and sound man, tried to take a goal kick out of a pond, and scuffed it to a local forward. He had two shots. The first hit Tony in the throat, making his voice even more husky. The second skidded across in front of Snout and into the far corner, an excellent finish in the conditions really. Both teams then mucked around aimlessly until the end. After ten minutes thawing out under hot showers, we decided to take up the locals' offer to join them in their "clubrooms". It was an opportunity to witness first hand their social gatherings.
Expedition diary: Day One, Evening
Got back to camp late. The expedition has been dissected in detail and report prepared for the UN. Tapes edited and sent back via pigeon to the BBC in Shepherds Bush. Crew members finished the day "tired and emotional". Rang Dickie Attenborough at midnight:
Me : "Well, we completed the expedition parameters and got out again in one day".
Dickie : "My dear old thing, how was it"?
Me : "The next time one of these comes up, you can go your fucken self, Dickie old bean".