MY OTOSAN 500 ONLY stalls twice getting to the mountains. The Pick-up's over twenty, and I struggle to keep the rust from the door, but it's a tough little vehicle. The dirt roads south-east of Batman would slaughter Mustafa's Ford Mustang. In addition to field gear, I've packed my fishing rod and inflatable dinghy; if I sort this island nonsense fast enough, there'll be time to visit a freshwater lake or two. Holidays have come early.
I pull up outside the main street coffee-house. This is the nearest town to the upper Iluh: ground zero for the redirection project. I stuff my map into my pocket and hop out into the clear autumn afternoon. Across the street, a gang of shirtless youths kicks a football around. I'm tempted to ask them directions, but I'll do better at the coffee-house, wher
