Touch: Getting down into the pothole the rocks shift beneath my feet. My skin feels dry against damp stone. Hot against it’s coldness. The rock is rough, solid, pockmarked with lichen. Moss grows here as well, soft and refreshing against my fingertips. Up to a rock to sit on inside, the stone is damp
Smell: On the surface is the smell of dry grass, yet beneath is a dampness. There is a sour damp smell when on the left side of the pothole or on the floor. I associate the smell with that of a swamp. This place is an interplay of hot and cold, dry and damp. The smell reflects that. Dry grass is most pogent yet beneath it lies damp moss, and the shadows beneath dark rocks.
Sight: In our area there are three potholes – The walls of the largest are jagged, but with an unmistakable pattern. Directly in front of me is a hexagonal cliff face where, if you look from above, you can see the way the rocks cracked, creating jutting angles of rock from below. In many areas the rock has crumbled creating slopes by which we can descend. Plants and trees come alive here, vibrant from the surrounding landscape in their greens yellows and reds.
Taste: The rock reminds me of Mayan temples, how I imagine they would taste against my tongue. Deep, dark, cold stone, like dark bitter gravy without the salt. The grass tastes like – well – grass, threads pressed lengthwise like dry straw.
Sound: Yesterday it was quiet, here resides silence. No sound permeates to the bottom of this pothole, and I find myself tapping just to make noise. My ears instinctively make their own sound, a high whine that might not be my own ears but rather the little bugs – gnats I think – common to this place. As we move in we bring our own sound. The clicking of cameras, voices calling across the circle, the shuffle of feet, a cough, a clap. At one point we heard a frog croaking from the marshes nearby.