style="overflow: hidden; color: #000000; background-color: #ffffff; text-align: left; text-decoration: none; border: medium none;">In 1990 I was struggling up a seemingly endless succession of steep ridges in New Guinea’s Arfak (it rhymes with “duck”) Mountains. With each slip my frustration increased, until I found myself repeating the name of the range at almost every step. Then something magical happened. In the middle of the wilderness I saw a hut. It was less than a metre high and had a mossy lawn in front, upon which exquisitely arranged bunches of fresh fruit, fungi and flowers had been laid. Inside, the structure contained just one object – a ballpoint pen, set at the perfect angle to the entrance, on an immaculate bed of fresh green vegetation.