By now our party had been joined by two others: a small, oldish Portuguese diamond trader called Gouveia, and a big Pole called Golas.  We found we were celebrating not only our expedition but Golas’s achievement of a pilot’s license.  Golas had an interesting history.  He was driving his own cab in Toronto when one day a man hailed him and had Golas drive him around for the rest of the day. The man seemed well-heeled, so much so that Golas finally asked him where all his money came from.
     “Oh,” the man said.  “I was looking for diamonds in Guyana, and I struck it rich.”     That was enough for Golas.  He promptly sold his cab and bought an air ticket to Guyana.  Against all odds–for most pork-knockers, as diamond prospectors are called, oscillate between brief hauls worth a few hundred dollars and long periods with nothing–he found a “pipe” (a pothole in a creek-bed full of diamonds) and now only a couple of years later had his own plane and huge machines working the river, sucking sand and gravel from the bottom and sifting the diamonds from it

     We got going on the Scotch.  Eventually an argument developed. The District Commissioner’s walls were covered with Amerindian artefacts, including, of course, a blowpipe and the darts that went with it.  Someone claimed that a blowpipe was more accurate than a pistol.  Someone else said, no, that was ridiculous, citing the fact that every Amerindian who could afford it promptly bought a shotgun.  No, someone else said, that was just fashion, part of the craze for modernity that was sweeping the remotest corners of the world.  Well, said somebody else, we can easily test it.  There’s a blowpipe, the Swiss doctor has his .22, let’s do it.
     It was a dumb suggestion.  Obviously everything depends on how good one is with either weapon.  But by now no-one was sober enough to point this out, and it seemed like a fun idea.  Bleakley nailed a beer-mat to the wall and all of us took turns with the blowpipe and the automatic.  Fortunately the doctor had a good supply of ammunition.  But the results were, as you might expect, inconclusive.
     Around midnight I happened to look at my watch and was amazed to see that the electric light was still blazing.  I was amazed because in Kamerang the electricity was always turned off at ten sharp.  It was provided by a gas-powered generator, and promptly at ten a man came round and switched the generator off.  After that you could stay up if you wanted to burn candles or a Coleman, or you could just go to sleep.
     It wasn’t until the next day that we found out what had happened.
     We hadn’t realized that the wall Bleakley had nailed the beer-mat to was an exterior wall, and that since it was made of wood the bullets from the .22 would go right through it.  So when the guy came out to switch off the generator, a bullet whistled past his head. 

    Dumbfounded, he froze.  Immediately, another whipped past, real close this time, and he took off and didn’t show his nose again until daylight came.

      The conversation segued from shooting to sex, via the following story, which the old diamond dealer told.
     An Amerindian found a pipe of diamonds.  It was loaded.  He didn’t strip it, he just took out a handful, sold them to Gouveia and with the cash he headed downriver to Georgetown.  He had two goals in mind, to buy a shotgun and to have sex with a white woman, because he wanted to know what that was like.
     He bought his shotgun and fulfilled his second goal with a Portuguese prostitute in a Georgetown brothel.  Then he headed back to the bush.  He took no more diamonds from the pipe.  He went back to the life he had lived before.
     Gouveia asked him why he didn’t bring in the rest of the diamonds. They were high quality.  He would give a good price for them.
     The Amerindian said thanks, but he wasn’t interested.  He was content with the life he had.  He had achieved the only two things he wanted that his life lacked.  So what more could money buy for him?

      After that the stories got more ribald and more personal.  Until someone noticed that the Young Agronomist wasn’t contributing.
     He was accused of being a virgin.  He blushed and stammered and tried to evade the charge, but finally he confessed.
     We were outraged.  This could not be.  We were all macho men who had conquered the wilderness.   That one of us had not yet been initiated into full manhood somehow reduced the stature of all of us.  The situation had to be rectified.   At once, if possible.
    
     And it was possible.