COMPETITION

Giggling through

Jaspistos

n Competition No. 1548 you were asked to supply a passage from 'the new sort of travel book', which describes hardships and ordeals with insouciant hilarity.

No one has ever bettered Beachcom- ber's celebrated title Sideways through Borneo, but some of yours had a certain charm too — Two Birds in the Bush, Snow Way to Travel, Slightly Adrift in the Pacific, Chortling through the Chortens, Laughter 2n the Next Loo. . . Some of you made the mistake of setting the hardships and ordeals in Gatwick airport, but I believe that is a place from which it is impossible to extract a smile. Good efforts came from Noel Petty, Philip A. Nicholson and, nearest to a prize, Geoffrey Riley ('We could see Tim 3,000 feet below, apparently With a few broken bones, being hauled away on a ludicrously lame yak while he cracked jokes with the coolies, whose native sense of fun was clearly equally tickled'). The prizewinners printed below get £15 apiece (I have dispensed with the titles) and the bonus bottle of Château Cantemerle 1979, kindly donated by Asshetons, Solicitors, 99 Aldwych, Lon- don WC2, goes to D. A. Prince for his ex- tract from Jottings from a Jungle Jogger.

Poor old Maggie! She always wanted to press on, into the 90s, .100s, even 110°F. But mules don't live for ever, and she made a welcome change from boiled rat. Ku, our cook since piranhas had got Sulu as he was washing up, casseroled her with the hallucinatory fungus he's so fond of, and local fire-water. It was five days before we were fit to leave the cairn Stephen built over Maggie's bones. The cairn was occu- pational therapy: it took his mind off Ku's starting a fire with the notes and photographs intended for his PhD.

Training armadillos as pack-animals proved a waste of time, but gave more insights into animal behaviour than you get with David Attenborough. Stephen's language when two armadillos bit him was beyond Ku's grasp, and he misinterpreted Stephen's wild cavorting as Ororuwan puberty rites. Our first sight of ritual scarring was riveting, although Stephen . . . (D.A. Prince) The tribesmen were obviously performing a delicate operation on Robin, and his face was a study. We were in fits as we peered through the glasses. 'He looks as if he's not all there,' gurgled Meg.

'He won't be for much longer,' I said. 'What can we tell Betty? She's devoted to him.'

A carbine stuttered, and Meg lowered her glasses. 'The problem,' she announced, 'has ceased to exist.'

'But now what do we tell Betty?'

'We'll tell her the Afghans poisoned Rob's tea.'

We laughed so much we didn't see the Afghans creeping up the hill behind us.

As we were led away, Meg grinned. 'We can't lose,' she said. 'One way, we're rescued by our friends. . . 'And the other way?'

'The other way, someone else'll have to tell Betty.'

(Paul Griffin)

The infested swamp waters, taken with a feast of giant millipedes boiled in pawpaw wine, had undermined our constitutions. Both Jeremy and I contracted during the trek an especially viru- lent diarrhoea which nevertheless hardly im- peded us. Walking with wet legs (after our adventure in the Limpopo) proved to be no great hindrance. Our bearers (who thereafter nicknamed us the mbeti-gadnu — 'yellow- stockings') were, however, more fastidious and insisted on frequent ngava (crap-stops), where they would climb trees before relieving them- selves — squatting not being recommended on account of the ubiquitous tamabilu (a.k.a. anal leeches). The ribaldry which accompanied the ngava was a great morale-booster. We also discovered the origin of the native craft of fashioning umbrellas from leaves of the 'elephant' bushes — and indeed ourselves be- came adept, in sheer self-defence, as Charlie, our guide, was extraordinarily agile at swinging from branch to branch to surprise his compan- ions.

(Gerard Benson) On Tuesday Gayle discovered that by making an incision and squeezing blackhead fashion we could remove the larva in a trice. When I complained about the scarring this might leave she reminded me, quick as a flash, that it wouldn't matter since that strange tribe had ritually tattooed me from head to toe the previous Sunday. That soon shut me up!

To tell the truth, things in general have been going downhill since we lost the canoe over the falls in the first week. Besides the insects, food has been our main problem. I joked to Gayle the other day that we should solve both problems in one and eat the insects. It barely raised a titter. In fact Gayle has been doing rather a lot of crying lately. I must remember to give her a stern talking to — just as soon as I've worked out where we are!

(Peter Henry) The gorge rose before us, and mine likewise. Still, when your inner tubes have as many punctures as string vests have holes, and your bum's as malleable as textured soya bean, a proper chunder's just the job to impress the natives. Indiana Jones might have applauded.

Pongo looked less sanguine about the pre- cipice. He was for barter, but Jermyn Street doesn't ring bells with most Afghans, and the Mecca relics we'd nicked were poor swaps, really. They pointed the rocket-launcher jovially at us. I began to wish I'd never attempted the joke in the original Ukrainian. As we nerved ourselves for the leap, a crested ottomaran, magna borealis, somersaulted aero- batically above. It reminded me of Pongo's granny. Just then, the combined effects of right foot and metal fatigue snapped off an important portion of bicycle.

Tonga,' I announced solemnly, `I'm going to be up the creek without a pedal.'

(Nigel Blewrell)