This is my job. I work in the pitch lake. I choose my spot carefully then walk out onto the pitch and stand on the place. Then I start to sink. It’s important to feel right as I sink, so usually I close my eyes so I can keep my bearings. I sink a long way. Sometimes it’s scary, with the pitch stopping my ears, blinding my eyes, filling my nose, almost suffocating me. But sometimes it’s a long, slow descent down a tight, lubricated tube; I put my arms above my head and enjoy the sensation.

At last I reach the bottom. I must be still. I must begin to sense. I’m looking for treasure. I move around, picking things up, not knowing what they are, relying on chance or intuition. When I’ve filled my basket, I think of the surface and rise up through the pitch and, once on the bank, I look at what I’ve got. I’m looking for gold and precious stones. What I find is glass and glittery gilt. I make them into pictures and sell them to the tourists. If I find a diamond, I’ll retire.