Fletch, Too

“Hapana kitu.”

Barbara and Carr knelt on the ground watching the soil as it came up the screw to the surface. Sheila stood over them, arms akimbo, watching, saying nothing.

On the four sides of the earth screw’s frame, Juma, Fletch, Winston, and Raffles turned the wheels sending the screw into the ground. For the most part, the earth was soft. Forcing the screw slowly into the ground wasn’t very hard work.

Carr’s fingers crumbled a piece of rotten wood that surfaced. “Nothing,” he repeated.

An hour or so after Carr had left Fletch, the derelict-looking Jeep snorted up the trail Fletch had cleared. Looking huge and ridiculous, the aluminum corkscrew stuck far out of the back of the Jeep. Twelve meters behind the Jeep men carried the top of the shaft. Barbara, wearing her kanga, rode in the Jeep with Carr.

The rest, including Sheila, walked beside the Jeep.

It seemed an invasion of the solitude Fletch had enjoyed in the jungle.

It was fairly easy, tipping the corkscrew up and making it even on the ground.

The top of the screw shaft reached its lowest point. The wheels could turn no further.

“Right,” Carr said. “Bring it up.”

It was easier, unscrewing the earth.

They continued to watch what earth came up with the screw.

“Pity we’re not in the well-drilling business,” Carr said. “At least sometimes we find water.”

“Ever find oil?” Fletch asked.

“Not even hair grease.”

Wrestling the corkscrew around, they tried three other places in that clearing that afternoon. Fletch tried a few pleasantries until he realized they weren’t appreciated. They didn’t find a lost Roman city, but he had enjoyed the day.

“Hapana kitu,” Carr said. “Nothing. Let’s go back to camp. There’s always tomorrow.”