text: [Themes: family friendly, historical]
  
  As the boat chugs sluggishly up the river, you gaze around in wonder. It's exactly how you imagined it, ever since you read that letter...
  
  You are a pure-bred Englishman, and... not very proud of it. Growing up in a grand manor, with enormous chambers and vast grounds, you loathed the idea of becoming a "proper gentleman": surviving solely on black tea, wearing a stiff, unyielding suit, and spending several hours a day discussing the dull intricacies of politics.
  
  The Earl and the Countess of Coventry had five children, of which you are the second. Your father was strict, but never unfair, and he liked to stress the importance of doing one's duty. And as for your mother, she was obsessed with finding the perfect match for each of her children, a perfect match being somebody who was rich (but never richer than you), pretty (in a way that highlighted your attributes) and not a little feather-brained (all the easier to manipulate).
  
  Under a strict regime, your brothers and sisters flourished into true Brits. Etiquette and manners, school work, and horse riding were all part of an average day at the manor. And of course, that's without mentioning the many social gatherings. Your childhood wasn't that bad, you were never neglected or abused, you just... couldn't seem to fit in. You were constantly chastised for greeting the servants- once, a maid called Edith was sacked when she'd been caught chatting with you multiple times, generally conversations which you'd started. Guilt following this then began to weigh heavily on your mind, and you began to do worse in your lessons- this didn't bother you very much though, seeing as they bored you half to death already. And you simply couldn't bear the cocktail parties, where you were forced to wear a ridiculous suit with ruffles -ruffles!- , and smile sweetly at stuck-up gentlemen, who discussed your merits and faults as if discussing cattle.
  
  The only thing that kept you from running away was the grounds. Seven hundred and fifty acres of secrets. At first, the land directly around the manor was very artificial, with grass measured by the gardener to make sure it was perfectly even, and unnaturally spherical rosebushes. This was your only knowledge of "nature", until one day you decided to explore a little further. Setting off into the forest bordering the garden, you soon discovered a world so unlike the one you were accustomed to, one with mushrooms and moss, badgers and berries, magpies and, best of all, mud! You smile, remembering the shock your mother had when a grubby child with twigs in his hair ran into the manor, unknowingly leaving a trail of dirt behind him. It was to be the first time of many...
  
  Years slipped by, while you acquainted yourself with all the inhabitants of the forest. This wouldn't have been possible without Gabriel, the gruff gamekeeper who kept the forest free from any poachers; he also happened to have an extensive knowledge of plants and animals. Thanks to him, you could soon distinguish the goldfinch from the chiffchaff, or a Jack O'Lantern from a Chanterelle. You took to carrying a battered notebook around with you, where anything living in the forest was sketched and annotated.
  
  All too soon, your eighteenth birthday came round. Suitable jobs and suitable partners became the main basis for discussion at the dinner table- you managed to put it off, deciding to spend a year travelling around Britain instead. During your voyages, you met several people who were as enthusiastic about the wild as you were, and they encouraged you to take it up as a profession- in other words, become a naturalist. You had never even considered this idea before, since your parents disapproved of any frivolous careers.
  
  Something else that came up a lot that year was talk of the skeleton of Gigantopithecus, a giant ape, in India. This species, the largest ape ever seen, had supposedly been extinct for three thousand years, if their fossils were anything to go by, but if the rumours were true, then the creature couldn't have been dead for more than twenty years. Most naturalists scorned the thought, discarding it as a fanciful fairy-tale, and you did too. It was most likely just a few bones, that somebody had made full use of to hold an audience captive around a campfire.
  
  Then, something happened a couple of weeks later to change your opinion. You'd arrived at home for a few weeks' holiday before finding a job, when a letter arrived from your uncle Robert. Uncle Robert was a shrewd man in his fifties, and he and his wife wrote regularly from his bungalow in India, where he has become quite a successful businessman. On this occasion, he reported the discovery of the bones of a leg. It undoubtedly belonged to the Gigantopithecus. Uncle Robert happened to know the man who had discovered it, Thomas Milton, and so you were informed of this long before anyone else in England would be. It was the perfect opportunity to escape the dull life that you had resigned yourself to, and unearth the secrets of the Indian jungle. You wouldn't mind a little fame and glory, either.
  
  A few letters later, the expedition was all arranged; Uncle Robert had kindly agreed to have you while you searched for the skeleton. You conveniently forgot to mention your plans to your parents until it was too late to prevent them. When they did eventually find out, they were furious. Your father felt that you were finding an excuse to shirk your duties as an upper class gentleman, and all your mother's hopes of a swift marriage were shattered. The discussions turned to arguments, which got more and more heated, until finally your father threatened to disinherit his "disgrace of a son", certain that that would dissuade you. You didn't budge. And your father, an extremely proud man, wouldn't back down, even though he'd never intended to actually carry out his threat.
  
  So here you are, a disinherited son who can fit all his possessions in a briefcase, on a mission to the Indian jungle which is full of uncertainty.
  
  [Author's Note: Set during the British Empire, you become a naturalist (not to be confused with naturist) and travel to India in search of the skeleton of an extinct animal. A literal take on the 'Welcome to the Jungle' competition. Many thanks to instruMinstrel for proofreading and giving suggestions! Disclaimer: Seeing as the author and characters are British, their exotic manner of spelling has been adhered to. Please do not tell me my spelling is 'wrong' - it is not 'wrong' but 'different'. (Unless I have actually spelt something wrong...)]
  
  > The Bungalow
  In fact, you aren't travelling to India's mainland at all, but to the Andaman Islands to the west of it. This is where your uncle has started his own palm plantation, and you should be arriving in just half an hour.
  
  It took you over two weeks to get to the Andamans by ship (you have decided solid ground is definitely your preferred terrain), and now you've boarded a little, dusty red boat that is steadily leading you down a calm, clear river. Vivid-green trees, quite unlike the reserved type you were used to back in England, are clamouring for front row seats at the spectacle in front of them. Because while your boat may be the only sign of life above water, below it's the opposite. Several times, you spot a flash of fins as a fish weaves through the water. And once, an Indian River dolphin appears, showing off in a fluid sequence of jumps, leaps, and spins! A few deft pencil strokes and the moment's captured in your notebook for ever.
  
  Eventually, the boat comes to a halt, bobbing gently on the river. You thank the boatman, give him a hundred rupees, and then clamber off. Then swiftly turning round, the tiny vessel chugs back down the river; you've arrived. In front of you, and parallel to the river is a pair of large, iron gates, strangely similar to the ones in England. You push them open and step inside. Uncle Robert always described his house as a pièce de résistance, and he was right: the stark, whitewashed bungalow literally looks as if it's resisting its surroundings. There are no trees inside the iron fence, or come to think of it, any plants at all, just grass drenched in pesticide. And despite being in a foreign country, a feeling of familiarity nags at you.
  
  Soon after knocking at the door, an unsmiling Indian servant greets you, explains in halting English that your uncle and aunt will be with you shortly, and then departs, leaving you to inspect the interior of the builging. This bungalow has an overpowering clinical smell, similar to what you might find at the dentist's. And the main colour theme inside is also white. Here and there, a picture brightens the place up, however you notice Queen Victoria, a landscape of the Cotswolds, and the books of George Eliot all have one thing in common: England.
  
  "Ah, William, you're finally with us." Your aunt Agnes, a prim woman who's always immaculately dressed, prowls in, and a few seconds later your uncle, a tall man with a severe parting, follows her.
  
  "Hello, Uncle Robert, Aunt Agnes, it's lovely to see you!" You smile and make to shake your uncle's hand, but something in their expression stops you.
  
  "Well," sniffs Robert, a look of disdain on his face. "I'm not sure I can say the same back. William, I'm sure I speak for both of us when I say I'm highly disappointed in you." Damn! You'd hoped you would arrive before the inevitable letter from your parents reached them, proclaiming your disinheritance, but it looks like luck isn't on your side. Well, might as well get it over with. You open your mouth to speak, but your aunt cuts in.
  
  "Oh, Robert, don't go too hard on him, the journey must have been hard to calculate. But next time, William, we won't be so lenient- arriving twelve minutes late is quite unacceptable."
  
  Following this remark, you do an excellent impression of a goldfish.
  
  > What to do?
  Your uncle and aunt take your mute disbelief as shame-facedness, and soon forgive your tardiness. They then give you a tour of the house, which is made up of your uncle's study, three bedrooms, a living room with a piano, and a dining room.
  
  "Right, and this is where you'll be sleeping." Your uncle shows you a room, which is just as plain as the others. "Any questions?"
  
  "Yes, a few... You mentioned in your letters that you were good friends with the man who discovered the ape limb- do you know if he's still in India?"
  
  "Oh yes, Thomas Milton, reliable chap, though I'm afraid to say he went back to England not a week ago. Got a nasty bite from a python, apparently some pillock he was with decided to rile it. No, you won't get any information that way; however Milton did send us a copy of his notes before, in case some accident of that nature occurred. I believe I left them in the room you're staying in."
  
  "Thank you Uncle, although it's unlucky for Milton. Oh, and would it be all right if I brought in one or two plants, just into my room of course, to inspect them more closely?"
  
  A vein begins to throb on your uncle's temple. "Good Lord, boy! Plants in the house! Certainly not- never trust those strange, Indian plants myself. Goodnight."
  
  "...Uh, goodnight."
  
  The next day, you wake up early, to the sound of somebody muttering. Sticking your head out of the door, you see an extremely odd sight. Aunt Agnes, clad in gardening overalls and a gas mask, is kneeling on the floor and repeatedly spraying something on the floor. You squint your eyes, and see it's a poor little beetle, drowning in pesticide. When it's dead, Agnes lets out a crow of triumph, picks it up with tweezers and carries it outside. You retreat, praying she didn't see you.
  
  A few hours pass until you decide it's safe to venture out of your room. During that time, you find the notes Milton left and flick through them curiously; there's a section on snakes, and several interesting plants are described in detail, for example the Piper anduncum, also known as the Cordoncillo, an antiseptic green shrub with large leaves that can even stop bleeding! And then you come to the page on the Gigantopithecus. A diagram of the bones, together and seperately, shows that, if the whole body was found, it would stand up to roughly ten feet tall. Milton has scribbled down some calculations, and at the bottom you can just make out a few words: Estimated weight, 305 kgs. You whistle in amazement- it would take four fully grown men to match this ape's weight! And you imagine most trees wouldn't be able to support its weight.
  
  Reluctantly, you put the notes away and find your uncle and aunt merrily eating breakfast, your aunt now in a respectable dress and cardigan. You take a seat and select a scone, all the while exchanging pleasantries. Then Robert asks what your plans for the day are.
  
  "I know you were planning to explore the jungle," (both your aunt and your uncle wrinkle their noses), "However there are many other interesting activities you should consider beforehand. There's a town just a few minutes down the river, which I'm told is delightful. Otherwise, the Collins' palm plantation is a fascinating project, and I have prepared, ahem, a little presentation should it intrigue you."
  
  You think carefully. On one hand, it would be foolish to just wander into the forest without any prior knowledge, and somebody in town is bound to know something- they might even agree to be your guide. However, your uncle is the reason you know about the Gigantopithecus in the first place, and he agreed to have you- maybe it's your duty, as your father would put it, to listen to this presentation first. And what about your parent's letter? That's likely to arrive soon, maybe even today- and if Robert and Agnes found your "tardiness" unacceptable, when they find out you've been disinherited, they'll pack you back to England. You'll need to either win them over, or find the ape skeleton quickly.
  
  > visit the town
  You are now working to a deadline, and although heading straight to the jungle may seem like the more efficient option, you determine that the locals' knowledge could prove invaluable.
  
  "Thank you very much for that advice, Uncle Robert, I think visiting this town, and immersing myself in local culture, sounds like an excellent idea!" Your uncle looks a little deflated that you didn't choose to listen to his presentation, but nonetheless cheered that his suggestions were useful.
  
  "Wonderful, I'm sure you'll enjoy yourself at Kartara- that's the name of the town. Right, how to get there? Well, let's see, you'll need to go along the river for twenty minutes, turn left onto the track, and..."
  
  One hour later, you find yourself at the entrance to a small town bordered by the jungle, weighed down by several sandwiches prepared by the servant (who returned your thanks with a small grin this time).
  
  You walk through, gazing around in wonder. In England, the rectangle and the square are favoured- rectangular houses, rectangular, regimented streets, and market squares. However, in this town, everything derives from the circle. The circular-walled clay houses circle around a large circular meeting place, where you imagine children might play, and elderly ladies might group together and gossip. Currently, there are lots of stalls filled with all sorts of colourful produce: fruit and veg, fish, sweetmeats, crockery and rugs. However apart from a few wary stall-owners, it's deserted, and yet it's the middle of the morning- where can everyone be?
  
  Then you become aware of the bungalows, the preferred home of the British Empire, in the background; these dark shapes seem completely out of place, almost like intruders. And in front of them, a large crowd has gathered. They are completely silent. Hurrying through the houses, you reach the crowd and settle back in the shadows of a house. A few white soldiers, carrying slim, deadly guns, stand in the centre of the group, everybody keeping a respectful –or fearful- distance from them. Beside him an Indian hangs from his hands on a wooden frame, wearing nothing but a red loincloth, and defiantly trying to hide his fear. Then, you realise one of the soldiers is casually holding something in his hand: a cat' o nine tails, a whip which owes its name to its nine viciously barbed "tails". A numbing horror spreads across your mind, and you listen helplessly to the white man's speech.
  
  "Residents of Kartara, today a great injustice has occurred. I visited the supposedly great jungle tribe of Jaroha, asking politely for the tenth of all they harvest that belongs, quite rightly, to the British Empire." At this, the Indian snarls, and the speaker's face distorts into a sneer. "Then can you guess what this piece of filth did? Can you?" The crowd remains fearfully silent. "This scumbag tried to attack me! Of course, he was no match for us (or rather, you suspect, no match for their guns), and in five minutes or so, I reckon he'll very much regret his actions." He laughs loudly, and the crowd begins to become agitated, murmuring in their distress.
  
  You are desperate to intervene, and it's clear everybody else is too afraid to do anything. But can you? Can you face down four men, all at once? Maybe there is some other solution, or maybe the crowd will join you. Your mind races. You have to decide quickly.
  
  > intervene after the beating
  Although your instinct is telling you to act right now, you know that anything so heroically foolish will probably end in tears- or rather, more screams. No, much better to wait until less people are around, and the soldiers are off their guard.
  
  Although this means you have to sit through the beating. You do nothing when the first cry rings out, nor the second nor the third. They weaken gradually, until the Indian merely convulses each time the whip tears into his fragile flesh; the show now over, the spectators drift back to the market place. The Indian is left hanging, while the soldiers start to mill around, playing cards or smoking tobacco. You settle back to wait for a good opportunity.
  
  That opportunity comes an hour later. A little boy, after having stolen a few sweetmeats from a stall, ran away and bumped into a soldier, accidentally showering him with sugar syrup. Infuriated, the soldier grabbed his shirt, intending to beat him, however the other Indians protested. By now, a small mob has formed, and the other soldiers, who, finally catching on, run to help and in the process, leave the hanging Indian unguarded. Shouts and screams come from the scene, providing the perfect cover.
  
  Slipping through the shadows as close to the wooden frame as you can, you pause, deliberating. Is it better to go slower and stealthier, or faster yet more obvious? You decide on the first option, since if you're spotted, those bullets will get to you in no time at all. Mustering your courage, you creep to the hanging Indian. He is looking dully ahead, swivelling slowly round; you wince to see the raw skin on his wrists that the rope has rubbed away, and, much worse, his mutilated back, with flaps of skin hanging free. Suddenly, you wonder whether he'll even be able to walk, let alone run.
  
  When he sees you, the Indian's eyes widen, and he opens his mouth to scream. You hush him desperately, and luckily he understands. Working as quickly as you can, you untie the ropes and try your best to break his fall, bloodying your shirt in the process. A lot less noise is coming from the group now, and, when you look anxiously around, it seems the guards and the locals have come to an agreement; you need to get escape, now.
  
  The Indian hasn't managed to stand up yet, so you put his arm over shoulder and heave upwards. With your assistance, you both start hobbling to the nearest cover available, which happens to be the jungle. 50 metres... 30 metres... 2o... and then you hear a shout from far away. It's alright, you've nearly made it, they'll never reach you in time. That's when you remember their guns, and practically drag the Indian behind you as you dash for cover. Nearly there- a bullet flashes by- you reach the treeline- a crow of triumph- you pull the Indian to the floor, and you're safe! For a while, anyway...
  
  As you catch your breath, you wonder why somebody had shouted out in victory. Then you see the Indian isn't just bleeding from his back, but also from a perfectly circular wound in his calf. He grimaces when he inspects it; it must be deeply lodged in there.
  
  "Here, let me help." The Indian starts in surprise when you take off your shirt and begin to tie it round his wound. "How are you feeling?" He simply stares. Of course, he doesn't speak English. Deciding you should at least know this man's name, you point to yourself and say, "William." Then, pointing at him, "You?" He seems to understand, and replying in a melodic voice says,
  
  "Ulameato." He has to say it several times for you to hear all the vowels. It's said, Ul-a-me-a-to, except each syllable flows smoothly into the next. Once Ulameato seems ready to move on, you both get up, him leaning heavily on your shoulder. You look around the jungle, a sea of trees and plants, wondering where on earth to go. You have a sneaking suspicion that your uncle and aunt, if you even knew how to reach them from here, wouldn't be too happy with a heavily wounded Indian appearing on their doorstep. However, Ulameato seems to know this area, and points confidently to the left.
  
  And off you go. At first, the going is tough, with lots of brambles to be slashed through, and you begin to doubt the direction of a man who has lost a lot of blood recently. So when, a few minutes later, you reach a path which must be the only one around for miles, you silently rebuke yourself- and marvel at Ulameato's knowledge of the forest.
  
  Now, with no need to worry about trigger-happy guards or tripping into a bed of thorns, you finally begin to take in your surroundings. The leafy canopy protects you from the glare of the sun, creating a cool, peaceful atmosphere. And the birds provide pleasant background music with their lilting melodies. Interestingly, it's not as humid or wet as you expected- in fact, you would describe this jungle more like an exotic forest than anything else. From time to time, you come across an intruiging plant, for example a tree with purple berries, that you recall Milton describes as a Jamun tree; you long to record everything in sight down in your old notebook, but now is not the time.
  
  One hour passes, then two, and, having inspected every type of tree to your satisfaction, you turn your thoughts to Ulameato. If what that guard who whipped him said was true, then he comes from- what was it? The Jaroha jungle tribe! That's how he knew where to go, and how he avoided getting any scratches from those brambles, unlike you. You gaze at him as he limps in front of you (soon after arriving at the path, he insisted on walking unaided); he looks a little younger than you, maybe seventeen or so.
  
  On and on you go, right into the heart of the jungle; here, the sun cannot penetrate the trees at all, and the air seems to quiver with life. Eventually, your legs grow tired, and you long to arrive at this Jaroha tribe. And, not five minutes later, your wish is granted.
  
  > The Jaroha Tribe
  A sloping depression in the ground accommodates five or six large clay huts, thatched with wide green leaves. And walking among them are roughly forty Indians. The men, like Ulameato, wear red cloth around their waist, and the womens' clothing covers the upper half as well. They sit in groups of three or four, either weaving fishing nets, making bows and arrows, or some kind of chest guard. Tempting smells come from one group, who are working around a massive pot, suspended over a fire, and you realise how hungry you are. A few young children run about, stark naked. At first it seems like a lovely, pleasant scene, but an air of worry seems to hang forebodingly over this community.
  
  When you approach them with Ulameato in the lead, some people look up, cry out in relief, and come running to greet him. One woman in particular fusses over him, rejoicing in a different tongue. When she sees the damage done to his back, she gasps and tries to hurry him inside to be treated, but he shakes his head and points at you, speaking clearly to the whole group, although of course you don't understand any of it.
  
  While all this was happening, you'd been hanging back, unsure what to do, but everyones' focus is on you, and you shift from one foot to the other uncomfortably. Then, Ulameato stops speaking, and there is a second or two of silence. The woman who you assume is Ulameato's mother faces you, gets down on one knee and bows her head. Everybody else follows suit, until there are forty people all surrounding you. Feeling bewildered, you stand there awkwardly for a minute or two until Ulameato's mother gets up, approaches you, and hugs you fiercely, murmuring words of thanks all the while. It seems that, seeing as it was her son who got whipped, she decides how to deal the situation.
  
  Slowly, everybody goes back to their jobs, and a man comes forward and leads you into a hut, where all sorts of herbs and pastes are stored, and where an elderly man, who you register with surprise, is white, seems to be waiting. He steps forward and shakes your hand firmly.
  
  "By God, another Englishman! I don't believe it! And you saved a Jarawa life; I must say, you've certainly got off to a good start." You are speechless. "But oh - dear me- I seem to be forgetting my manners. My name is Isaac Evans."
  
  "Um, William Collins. Nice to meet you." Isaac laughs at the expression on your face.
  
  "Yes, I felt a little overwhelmed too when I first arrived here- it's very different to life in England, isn't it?" Talking casually with somebody who actually speaks the same language as you, you begin to relax. Then, the man who lead you in here steps out from the shadows and smiles. "Ah, this is Faorame, our leader." Faorame begins to speak in a low, melodious voice, and Isaac translates.
  
  "Faorame says: welcome to our tribe, William. We are very grateful to you for freeing Ulameato, and tonight a feast shall take place in your name! You are welcome to stay here as long as you wish, although, be warned, we shall expect you to join in with the work as well as the feasting. However long you are with us, Isaac here will guide you, and translate for you as well. Now, there is time to wash and rest before the feast. Thank you again for the brave task you undertook!"
  
  After thanking him for his generous offer, Faorame exits, and Isaac Evans turns to you.
  
  "There's a stream somewhere nearby; it's a little chilly, but would you like to go and wash there before eating?"
  
  "Oh, yes please! Is it far?"
  
  "Maybe a mile away... Tell you what, on the way there, you tell me your story of you ended up here, then on the way back, I'll tell you mine. Sound fair?" And so the two of you set off, through all the huts and when anybody sees you, they smile and shout a greeting, to which Isaac always replies, and vice versa. You notice that while the greeting and response always sound the same, the younger person generally greets the older person.
  
  Once you're out of the village, Isaac takes another path, the opposite way to which you came in, where the trees grow thickly. And, as promised, you recount your tale to Isaac, who listens attentively to every detail, and sighs at your description of the whipping.
  
  "Yes, those guards who work for the British Empire are very cruel. Occasionally, they come here and ask, as you heard, for a tenth of all we own, but we can't spare anything, and we don't want to pay people just so they can torture others. Last week, they came, and kept on persisting for payment, and when we refused they struck Ulameato's mother. He became enraged and charged at them, however they turned their guns of him. Then they grabbed him and hauled him back to the town, where we thought he had been killed."
  
  "That's terrible! Do you think they'll come back?"
  
  "Oh yes," Isaac replies grimly. "But this time we'll be ready, and hopefully our knowledge of the forest will neutralise the advantage they have with their arms."
  
  You walk on in silence for a few more minutes, until you reach the stream. Here, Isaac leaves you to strip off and wash yourself in the ice cold water. Once you're done, you put your clothes back on and Isaac joins you to walk back.
  
  This time it's his turn to talk. Twenty years ago, he stowed away on a ship bound to Indonesia, where he had planned to meet an old friend. However, he was caught while the ship had stopped to collect some goods on the Andaman Islands, and the crew left him to fend for himself in the jungle. One day, Isaac was wandering through the trees, when he collapsed, partly because of some bad fruit that he ate, partly because of exhaustion- the Jarawa tribe found him in time and nursed him back to health. Since, he's had no desire to leave their community, and has been part of it for twenty years. During that time, he has learnt to speak their language almost as well as he speaks English.
  
  "Unfortunately, it's an incredibly hard language to learn, so I'm afraid you'll have to put up with me as your translator for the time being. And as for greetings, just copy me." He then proceeds to explain about the hierarchy of the Jaroha: although the leader makes all the decisions, he relies heavily on the wisdom of the eldest members of the tribe, and it's considered offensive if he ignores what they have to say. Otherwise, mothers and fathers who have brought up many children are also highly respected, and the responsibility of each child is shared by everyone, not just their own biological parents. You try in vain to bear this all in mind as you arrive back at the huts.
  
  > Dinner
  By the time you arrive back at the huts, dinner is ready: a wonderful blend of vegetables, herbs and spices, starchy roots, and tender meat. Everybody lines up, a rough wooden bowl in hand, and when everybody is served, they sing a cheery song, before tucking in. Many times, an adult comes up, to greet you properly, and several children start plucking at your leg and asking questions, Isaac acting the translator. And at the end of the meal, a boy of about fifteen years presents you with a sticky ball of... something, and says eagerly.
  
  "Would you like to try this? It's a new recipe my cousin's trying out, and we had a couple left over."
  
  "Yes please, thank you very much!" You pop it in your mouth, and a perfectly spherical ball of succulent meat you haven't tasted before, brushed with honey, fills your mouth. You bites down, it bursts pleasantly like a cherry tomato, and all sorts of flavours - meaty, mild, fresh – fill your mouth. "Mm, this is delicious!" You say with a full mouth, rubbing your tummy to show your delight. "What is it?" Isaac has no need to ask the boy, and replies with a smothered laugh,
  
  "A pig eyeball!"
  
  > spit it out
  Urgh! Acting on instinct, you spew it all out, bits flying everywhere- and some over the boy, who is now shaking with laughter. You realise it was a practical joke and ruefully shake your head.
  
  "That was an excellent trick, young sir, albeit a slightly disgusting one!" A man comes up, apologises profusely, and drags the boy off to the side to reprimand him. Everybody else enjoys the joke; however they do seem a little surprised by your explosive reaction. Later Isaac explains to you that, similarly to England, it is exceptionally rude to spit food out of your mouth, even if it's something as repulsive as an eyeball.
  
  > Spending time with the Jaroha
  You spend a few days with the Jaroha, slowly learning their customs, and their day-to-day life. Each morning, you go in groups down to the river to wash, and then after a hearty breakfast, Faorame organises everybody into groups for the day. There is always much to be done: hunting (with bows and arrows) for pigs and fish, fetching chooi wood, with which the bows and arrows are made, foraging for plants, making fishing nets and household items, fixing the huts, cooking, and finally teaching the children to do all of these tasks. After having tried out all of these jobs, you decide weaving fishing nets and foraging for plants are your favourite; the former because you can let your mind wander or try and understand some of what your fellow Jarohas are saying, and the latter because you have a keen eye, and can marvel at the knowledge of the Jarohas. For example, honey is highly-prized, but the bees defend their produce ferociously; so, the Jaroha chew the sap of a bee-repelling plant, Ooyekwalin, then spray it out at the bees to get at the honeycomb. You hear several clever tricks like this with wonder, and your little notebook certainly profits from these expeditions as well.
  
  One person without whom you wouldn't have able to survive is Isaac. He provides you with detailed explanations of what is happening all the time, so you never feel isolated or cut off. And with his help, you begin to understand some basic words in the Jarohan tongue, such as thank you, look, river and sleep. In the evening, you always love to hear some of their stories, which are always based around jungle animals, or listen to their rich, floating songs. When you don't know how to say something, you act it out, and the Jaroha love to try and guess what you mean. After the second day, when you come back from hunting with your walking trousers drenched in sweat, you consent to wearing the red loincloth. You're beginning to feel like a true Jaroha man.
  
  Five days after arriving, when everyone is sat around a steaming breakfast, you ask about the Gigantopithecus. Of course, you don't know the word for monkey yet, so you get up and jump around, chittering and looking alert. Immediately understanding, the Jarawas nod vigorously. Confused, you look around at Isaac, who is listening to Faorame.
  
  "Faorame says that the Jarawa community respect monkeys highly, for their swiftness, intelligence, and ease in the tree tops."
  
  "That's interesting- although I was talking about the bones of a giant ape, which I'm searching for. Would Faorame know anything about that?"
  
  "Oh, we saw a man come running through here a month ago, holding some bones, but not enough for a full skeleton. He came from a dangerous route, where many of our people have perished. Faorame urges you not to go, and he says that if you still want to, he cannot risk sending anyone with you. He hopes this will dissuade you from going, as there is almost no chance of survival."
  
  You don't say anything for a long time. Your life here, with the Jarawa, is heavenly and you could quite happily forget about the Gigantopithecus, and stay here forever. Maybe it doesn't matter if you don't find it; your search brought you to this place, and maybe that's what counts.
  
  On the other hand, this is the reason you came to India, and you know that you'll always wonder what would have happened if you don't choose to go. Either way, after your head start over all the other naturalists, they must have caught up to you by now, so you need to decide quickly.
  
  > choose not to go
  Faorame is a very wise person, and his advice means that you can stay with the Jaroha, so you'll happily follow it. You turn to Faorame and incline your head in a gesture of submission.
  
  "Thank you, Faorame, for being honest with me. I will take your advice. I won't go." Faorame smiles in relief; you know that even if he wouldn't have sent anybody with you, he is a naturally caring person and would have worried for your safety. "I must also thank you, in fact all of the Jaroha tribe, for the kindness and hospitality you have shown me. I am very content here, and, if possible, I would like to stay."
  
  "We are delighted that you choose to remain with us, and indeed, I have noticed this way of life suits you well. I am also very relieved that you are not going down that dangerous path."
  
  Content with your future, over the next few days you try and forget about the Gigantopithecus. And it works, mainly. The following days and weeks just flow into one another, as the slow Jaroha rhythm of life goes on. You become more adept at several things. Firstly cooking, with all the spices and herbs available in the jungle, and after a successful dinner you prepare for everyone, it gets added to your list of favourite jobs. Another improved skill is your grasp of the Jaroha language, as you slowly manage to form full sentences, albeit simple ones. Soon, you don't need Isaac to explain every word or ritual, although you still remain good friends. And finally, now that you are able to communicate directly to Jaroha men and women, and laugh and sing with them, your bond with them increases.
  
  You become particularly good friends with Namata, a woman about the same age as you, whose husband died when she was nineteen (Jaroha men and women tend to marry at adolescence). She is particularly good at finding the fun in every situation, and often cheers you up if you make a mistake, for example when hunting, something she is very good at. However, Namata's speciality is telling stories, and her thrilling tales pass the time when you are assigned a slightly more boring job.
  
  The months pass, the seasons change, and you become a respected member of the Jaroha tribe. Eventually, you marry Namata.
  
  One night, twenty two years after arriving here, when everybody else is sleeping, you suddenly remember your old sketchbook, which you haven't opened in years. Rummaging as quietly as you can in the hut, you find it, covered in dust, and with yellowed pages. You creep outside and sit, your back against a nearby tree. Leafing through it, you stop at the page you'd reserved for the glorious discovery of the Gigantopithecus.
  
  You've never sorrowed over your decision to stay with the Jaroha. Although it must have caused your parents, your aunt and uncle, and your old friends a lot of pain and worry, you knew the result was worth it. And until now, you've managed to convince yourself that you didn't fail, not really, seeing as you found out roughly where the bones were, you just didn't go and fetch them.
  
  But now, seeing that blank page in front of you, a tiny seed of regret begins to worm its way into your heart.