One of the paths we followed on our way to our exploration sites led past a number of Christian burials. These graves were burials like those found in European and American countries, with a headstone, often having a picture of the departed person. Some were defaced; one had what had been a small cross, but the top part of the cross had been broken off. Some had been removed, leaving an empty hole behind.
As we were returning from a day’s exploration, we walked down one of these paths. Suddenly, as I stepped down on my left foot, there was nothing solid underneath it. I was falling into an open grave.
At that moment, something grabbed my left arm, breaking my fall. My foot touched the bottom of the grave, lightly. I easily stepped out of the grave.
Then I looked around, thinking that one of the other workers had caught my arm, saving me from injury. No one was behind me; all the workers were ahead of me. I looked for a branch, limb of a tree, anything that my arm might have landed on, to break my fall. Nothing.
Yet, something broke my fall. I say no more.