Sewers carry their own special brand of danger. Decomposing waste — the sludge tugging at Christopher’s feet — removes oxygen from the air and replaces it with toxic gases like hydrogen sulphide, a substance even more dangerous than carbon monoxide. The first order of business for the firefighters was to test the air quality and measure oxygen levels. Then they determined what gear might be needed: self-contained breathing devices, tether ropes and other equipment that fit the rescue plan.
With testing complete, two firefighters climbed down the manhole, tethered by ropes and carrying portable air units. At the bottom they located an access tunnel and two horizontal sewer lines that joined into a single pipe. The pipe led to a small wall, then to an even smaller pipe no bigger than 40 centimetres in diameter.
Slippery sludge coated the sides of the pipe. There were no handles to grab, no edges to stop the flow. They realized that once he’d been sucked into the system, Christopher must have gone for a terrifying ride, shooting into dark oblivion, unable to help himself.
This kid is not coming out alive.
The pipes led into the main trunk of the sewer system, a cavernous space filled with sewage and toxic air. Was Christopher even still alive?
Chief Wayne Brownlee, one of the firefighters on the scene, assessed Christopher’s chances. “I figured we’re not going to get this guy,” he told a reporter from the Ottawa Citizen. Luc Dugal, the city’s superintendent of sewer maintenance, agreed. “When I first heard that there was a kid down there, I thought: This kid is not coming out alive.”
While firefighters followed the watery trail, a second rescue team climbed down another manhole at Sheffield Road, about 1800 metres from the one where Christopher had disappeared. The line was larger here, about 2.75 metres in diameter. The quick-thinking crew spread ladders across it, creating a makeshift “net.” If Christopher shot this way, he would at least have something to grab, some way to stop himself.
Above ground, municipal workers scanned sewer maps, reading them by the interior lights of a van. The maps told them little that they didn’t already know. If Christopher was in the main line, he would be standing in swiftly-flowing sewage, its temperature around 10° Celsius.
At 10:33 p.m. a call for help went out to Fire Station Number 2 on Preston Street, headquarters of a swift-water rescue team. The team had faced difficult situations before, usually in open water where victims required rescue from rivers, lakes or floodwaters. This situation was something quite different. Christopher, if he was alive, was trapped in total darkness somewhere underground, in a confined space — and possibly hundreds of metres from any access point the rescuers could use to reach him. Quite likely he was suffering from hypothermia, the enemy of clear thinking. The air he breathed would be a toxic mix.
“Stick your head in a toilet,” one of the crew told the Ottawa Citizen. “That was what it was like.”
The brown swill around Christopher carried harmful bacteria, too. He’d been immersed in the contaminants. Perhaps he’d even swallowed some. Who knew what infections they carried or dangers they posed to the swift-water rescue team.
Firefighters were dispatched to a spot about 600 metres from the maintenance cover where Christopher went down. The site was an access point, an entry into the main line. Factoring in curves and spillways, they decided that if the boy hadn’t already been swept farther away, this was likely close to where he — or his body — might be found.
Two large, metal trap doors covered the shaft. Already maintenance workers had unlocked the doors and thrown them open. From deep below they heard a thin sound. A faraway voice — or so they thought. Was it Christopher calling for help?
Roughly twenty minutes later, four specially trained swift-water rescuers from Fire Station Number 2 arrived, life jackets, helmets, waterproof radios and other gear in tow. They carried an oddly shaped inflatable boat called a Rapid Deployment Craft, designed for water-rescue operations. Large enough for two paddlers, it has a flat base that opens at each end into a large loop. The open-end design allows rescuers to position themselves directly over the heads and shoulders of victims trapped in water — an advantage when pulling them aboard.
The swift-water rescuers had used the craft before on open water sites. But below ground, in a dark sewer slippery with sludge and reeking of toxic gases? This would be the ultimate test of their skills.
The Rapid Deployment Craft’s looped ends allow rescuers to get very close to victims.
Dean Taylor and Barry Blondin, two of the swift-water rescuers, quickly pulled on their gear. Other rescuers rigged an improvised pulley system to the top of the shaft so the craft could be lowered into the water. They worked carefully, aware that the ropes might fray and break when rubbed against the rough concrete. To lose the vessel to the churning water now would cost precious minutes … and possibly Christopher’s life.
At 11:29 p.m., tethered by ropes to secure it, the boat hit the water. Wearing breathing devices, wetsuits and special footgear, Taylor and Blondin climbed aboard. A 100-metre rope tied to the craft led to rescuers stationed above. The rope was a lifeline, a precaution should the current be too strong or if the men encountered trouble and needed to be reeled back.
Taylor and Blondin paddled through the foul water, pointing two powerful headlamps ahead to light up the tunnel. The water flowed far faster than they expected, and in no time the rope reached its end. Another section of rope was knotted onto the first by the crew above. Then a third. A fourth.
They called Christopher’s name. Above the spill of water, they heard a muffled reply. “We’re coming,” the men called. “We’re coming.”
The main line curved and followed a steady downward slope. Deep below the surface, their two-way radios stopped working. Normally this would end a rescue attempt. If the men were unable to communicate with crews above, it would be too dangerous to continue this way. But Taylor and Blondin had a backup plan. They carried whistles attached to their life jackets. Blowing sharply in short bursts, they sent messages to the others above. We’re all right. Keep paying out the rope.
The lights scanned the concrete pipe, offering shadowy glimpses ahead. Around midnight a figure appeared out of the dark — Christopher was up ahead.
At almost the same time, the rope tightened. The craft stopped. Just 15 metres from Christopher, the rope paid out and fell short of its target. Six ropes knotted together by now … and still another was needed. The surface crew tied on a seventh, then released the rope, paying it out gradually. When the craft reached Christopher, Taylor and Blondin blew a signal to stop. Positioning the open end of the boat over the boy, Taylor hauled him aboard. Then he strapped a life jacket on Christopher and secured him with rope to the rescue craft.
Christopher amid the rescuers who managed to reach him.
“He said he thought he was going to die,” Taylor reported. “He said it four or five times.”
The men signalled the crew above to begin hauling them back. Somehow the crew missed the signal. Taylor jumped into the water. While he pushed the Rapid Deployment Craft upstream, Blondin stayed on the boat and pulled the rope to reel it in and coil it on the floor. When it proved difficult, he asked Christopher to help.
Forty-one minutes after Taylor and Blondin had entered the sewer line, they were back at the starting point, their mission finally accomplished. Weak and shivering, Christopher climbed up the shaft.
Because he had been submerged in sewage, a hazardous waste unit skilled in decontamination took over. Christopher was hosed down with antibacterial solution, given a pair of emergency overalls and then shuttled to hospital for tests and observation. Given a clean bill of health, he was released a few days later, none the worse for his misadventure, but wiser from the experience.
News of his rescue circulated quickly. It could have turned out much worse, experts agreed. That evening the sewer’s main line had been only partly full. Had it been raining, had the sewers been running at maximum capacity, had the Rapid Deplo
yment Craft not worked as planned, Christopher would have drowned.
SURVIVING THE IMPOSSIBLE
November 2011 / Western Australia
When flames from a raging bushfire neared his home, Peter Fabrici did what he could to save his house. He donned non-combustible clothes and doused himself with water. Then he put sprinklers on the roof and stuffed rags into the downspouts to flood the eavestroughs with runoff.
Temperatures rose. The air filled with thick smoke. Wearing goggles and breathing oxygen through a mouthpiece rigged to a scuba tank on a small, wheeled trolley, Fabrici fought on. When the situation worsened, he was forced to retreat. Goggles on, mouthpiece in place, scuba gear by his side, he leaped into his neighbour’s pool and plunged to the bottom.
Fabrici’s quick-thinking action paid off. “It all worked beautifully.” he said. “The house is still there and I’m still alive.”
14.
FLYING LIKE SUPERMAN
In a panic, the lost boy searched the train, screaming his brother’s name.
Saroo Munshi Khan’s past haunted him. In dreams or in quiet moments, images from more than twenty years earlier floated into his head — a bridge, a train station, a dam overflowing with water. He saw himself as a young boy, running down dusty streets, over train tracks, to a mud hut that looked familiar. A family lived there — his family. Occasionally Saroo saw their faces … his mother … his brothers … his sister.
Much of Saroo’s past was a mystery. When he was five years old, he lived in India in a tiny mud hut with a tin roof. His family was poor. His father had abandoned them, and his mother, Kamala, spent most days hauling bricks and cement at construction sites.
Saroo was especially close to his nine-year-old brother, Guddu. Often Guddu took Saroo with him when he searched for fallen coins at the train station or gathered scraps of meat in the market or raided chicken coops for eggs.
Saroo couldn’t read or write. He didn’t know the name of his town or even his own surname, but he had a gift — a keen sense of direction. As they walked, Saroo kept track of familiar markers — a fountain on the left, a bridge on the right, a turn in the road ahead. If he became separated from Guddu, Saroo followed the mental map he had created, sometimes even beating his brother home.
One evening Guddu took Saroo to the train station to hunt for coins. They boarded a train bound for Burhanpur, a town two hours away, combing the floorboards for coins passengers had dropped. By the time the train arrived at Burhanpur, Saroo was exhausted. While they waited for the next train back, he rested on a bench.
“Stay here. Don’t go anywhere,” Guddu told him. “I’ll be back for you.”
Saroo fell asleep. When he woke up, it was dark and Guddu was nowhere to be seen. Groggily, Saroo boarded a train, figuring that his brother would be waiting inside. Again he fell into a deep sleep. When he awoke this time, it was morning. In panic he searched the train, screaming Guddu’s name, looking for the brother who wasn’t there.
At the next stop, Saroo left the train and wandered the station. It was a large and foreign place filled with strangers who spoke languages different from Saroo’s Hindi. He couldn’t read the signs, and when he asked for help no one understood him. Lost and far from home, he had no food, no money and no idea of just how far he had gone or the route he had taken. Bewildered and afraid, he scrambled aboard another train, hoping it would take him home. Instead he ended up at an even larger and busier station. Although he didn’t know it then, Saroo had reached Calcutta, the capital of the Indian province of West Bengal.
Calcutta’s busy streets are thronged with people and traffic.
Over the next few days Saroo rode trains in and out of Calcutta, desperately looking for one that would return him to his family. Finally he gave up. For a time the Calcutta train station, then the city’s slums, became his home. To survive, Saroo scrounged for food in trash cans or begged strangers for handouts. He slept in alleyways, curled up against buildings, homeless like so many others in Calcutta.
Could he find his way home? he wondered.
Thanks to a kind man who spoke a little Hindi, Saroo ended up under the care of the Indian Society for Sponsorship and Adoption (ISSA), a non-profit child-welfare group. He was adopted by an Australian couple who lived in Hobart, Tasmania. Even though the adjustment was difficult, Saroo fell into a new life there. He was given a new last name: Brierley. Sheltered and loved by his adoptive parents, he learned Australian ways. He was popular, excelled at sports and achieved decent grades at school. Eventually he went to college, moved into his own apartment and worked on the website of a company owned by his adoptive parents.
Fleeting glimpses from his past still appeared, however. Certain memories seemed especially vivid. The day wild dogs had chased him and he tripped, gashing his forehead on a rock, for example. Or the time he had cut his leg while climbing a fence near a fountain. And then there were dreams — the mud hut that had once been home, the family that had once been his.
Saroo filled the emptiness he sometimes felt with other things — work, parties, long hours on the Internet. Then in 2009, after a breakup with a girlfriend, memories came flooding back. He felt a need to know more about himself and his Indian family.
Saroo launched Google Earth on his laptop, using its satellite imagery and aerial photography to give overhead views of cities and streets. In minutes he was “zooming” over India — flying, as he put it, “just like Superman.” Could he find his home this way? he wondered.
India is a large, heavily populated country dotted with numerous cities and villages. Saroo didn’t know his town’s name, nor did he remember any of the Hindi he once spoke. He hadn’t been able to read when he was five years old, so when he tried to find the town where he had become separated from Guddu, there seemed to be countless choices that sounded or looked like the name he vaguely remembered. Many of the names were spelled in similar ways and sounded almost the same.
The Calcutta train station seemed a logical choice to begin. It had been his end point, the final stop of his journey. By working backward and retracing his route from there, Saroo thought he might find his starting point — the town where he once lived. Using Google Earth he zipped along the tracks, following them as they criss-crossed the country, into one town, out to the next.
Saroo continued his Google Earth search on and off for three years. With only a few leads to follow and so many routes available, locating his home seemed impossible. He found himself going over the same tracks again and again. There had to be a better way, but what was it?
One night in 2012 it came to him. Drawing on his memories, Saroo revisited the evening he had become separated from Guddu. He’d fallen asleep on the train. The next morning he had woken up in Calcutta. About twelve hours had elapsed. If he could find out how fast the train had been going, he could calculate how far it had travelled and narrow his search.
He contacted four Indian friends on Facebook and Myspace and asked if they could find out from their parents how fast trains travelled in India in the 1980s. By averaging their answers, Saroo arrived at a speed of 80 kilometres an hour. He multiplied that by twelve hours. His answer — the train had travelled about 960 kilometres.
On a Google Earth satellite image, he drew a circle with Calcutta at the centre and a radius of 960 kilometres. That circle defined his search area. Still, it was a large space with numerous possibilities. Was there a way of narrowing it down even more?
India is a complex country with many climate zones, cultures and languages. Saroo had been told that his facial structure resembled people who came from East India, so he concentrated his search on that portion of the circle. He also realized that he could eliminate places where Hindi wasn’t spoken and where the climate was different from what he remembered.
With the scope of the hunt narrowed, Saroo followed the tracks leading out of the Calcutta station, “flying” over them with Google Earth. He looked for markers from his youth, like the fountain where he once gas
hed his leg or the cafe he often passed on his way into town.
Late one night, after months of investigation, Saroo spotted a hazy image of a bridge. The bridge was next to a train station. The scene looked familiar. He zoomed closer. There was a sign posted on the station. Burhanpur — the place where he’d become separated from his brother — and a name he only vaguely knew.
“I had a shock,” Saroo said. This was it, the station where he and Guddu had lost one another. Home was just hours away.
Saroo flew along the tracks, skimming over trees and rooftops with Google Earth. He stopped at another station. There was a dam nearby with a river that flowed over it like a waterfall. It too seemed familiar.
Drawing on the mental map from his youth, Saroo moved the cursor away from the station and used it to travel the nearby streets. After a number of turns he seemed able to remember, he arrived at the centre of town, at the fountain where he’d scarred his leg climbing a fence all those years ago.
Saroo and his mother at their reunion.
The town’s name was Khandwa. Despite all of the familiar markers, Saroo still had doubts. Was this really the right place?
On Facebook he found a group called Khandwa My Home Town. “Can anyone help me?” he asked.
Saroo described the features he remembered from his youth. He mentioned that he vaguely recalled living in a suburb outside the main town, in a region that was predominately Hindu. “Can anyone tell me the name of this neighbourhood … I think it starts with a G.”
The answer came a few days later: Ganesh Talai.
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