The road had ceased being a road and it was now Mars after a bombing. Even when it was a road it still didn’t deserve being called one. It was as if the local authority had cleared the bush, dumped loads of rocks on it and said, “There, deal with it.”

Whatever holes were there, the morning rain enlarged them so they could, in theory, support a small reservoir for the nearby villages.

It’s no wonder the only car dealership in Mount Hagen, capital of the West Highland province in PNG, only sells four-wheel drive Toyota Land Cruisers.

We were returning to Hagen after an overnight trek up Mt. Giliwe, the second-highest peak in Papua New Guinea. We were tired from the eight-hour return hike, soggy from the rain, and still a bit frazzled from having slept in the middle of the jungle.

The Land Cruiser our guide was driving was admirably handling the terrain. In the car, his kids, wife, and nephews – who all climbed up the mountain with us, and none of whom spoke fluent English – were singing along to Abba with scary precision. Every time we went over a hole, our internal organs played a round of musical chairs.

But one hole was too formidable even for the mighty Japanese machine. It made the right half of the road rise far higher than the left. And as we heard that money must be funny in a rich man’s world, we felt the car tilt to the left.

We’ve all seen videos of cars flipping upside-down. I’ve always wondered was it was like to climb out of a capsized vehicle. Would it be through the window? The back door? Would the seat belt keep me glued to my seat?

Bianca, who was sitting between me and the driver on the front seat, was screaming as we realized that the car had tilted past the point of return and it was really about to flip over. But I was kind of excited as I squeezed the oh-shit bar on the passenger side.

But then, the car stopped. It stood at a perfect 45-degree angle to the imaginary horizon. Fearing it was just resting before completing its roll, I opened the door and slid out, taking Bianca with me.

It was a memorable sight, the big beige Japanese monster with its right-side wheels feebly in the air. The other passengers trickled out of the back door. Suddenly, we were surrounded by villagers who were pouring out of their huts.

It was like science fiction. An event set forth a reaction in its environment as though a collective consciousness was simply programmed to respond. One by one, villagers lined up against the car and began pushing it, an effort so natural and practiced, it reminded me of ants removing and obstruction in their hive.

Not one minute had passed since I escaped the car and it was back on four wheels, past the big hole.

After thanking the smiling villagers, we huddled back inside and off we went. The CD player was now on The Winner Takes it All and the children were singing along flawlessly.