Someone took a huge dump-in the shellscrapes

Like an animal turning away from a stream, quenched by the endless outpouring from the sky, the soil turns under our boots to skirt from our weight and we stand on the empty banks, sinking into the dense mud that is slobbering into our half dug holes. 

It is past the point of freshness where the rain sends worms writhing to the surface unleashing the scent of moisture and clean air – it is so beyond that point even the worms must have drowned – and instead of cleansing, the downpour cast a foul smelling dampness in the jungle as though the ground had binged and lay back like putty and burped rudely.

The stench of mud clung to us and our clothes and our vests and our boots like vengeful spirits until we became statues with all the drying clay, lifting our steps stiffly as though the gunk had even seeped into our joints, making boots thrice as heavy and big, soaking our feet till they hurt where each pickled groove cuts in as deep as the ridges of a brain.

Whatever remained of our shellscrapes became a literal watery grave gaping back at us with its mouth full of the seductive colour of milk tea, challenging us to plunge back and dig again to find the black boba pearls – though most of us were forced to our knees to scoop mugfuls of water out to salvage the sinking boat.

The only thing we wished for then was the luxury of hygiene and to lay within that snug hole – to finally rest and become a dry corpse.