text: [Themes: family friendly]
  
  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 straight away
  You have to do something, and this is the only way. Mustering all the courage you possess, you charge through the crowd, as quietly as you can whilst running at top speed. The white man holding the whip is facing away from you as you barrel into him, and he falls to the ground, the cat o'nine tails flying into the air. There are shouts and cheers, and you dash to untie the ropes binding the Indian's hands together. It's hard. Then you loosen them, and he drops, but his hands are numb. He can't get up.
  
  Suddenly, a searing pain seizes you, as nines barbed points rip away your flesh. You scream, and try feebly to run away, but a sweaty hand grasps your shirt.
  
  "Aw, look, a hero came to save you, Mr Jaroha! Shame he's a blithering idiot, otherwise you might have actually got away." Then, thrusting his face close to yours, the man changes his voice to a harsh whisper. "You're a disgrace to our race, you dirty traitor. And I think Cat here would like to become friends with you." You can't see anything, just a throbbing red as you try not to whimper in pain. "Then you're going to leave in shame and you're never going to come back."
  
  In what feels like an eternity later, that is just what you're doing; hobbling back along the river, and wincing with every step. In hindsight, pitting yourself against four soldiers, one of them with a toturing instrument in his hand, was possibly a mistake. And the poor Indian was given twice as many lashings as you were; you have a feeling he won't just be allowed to stroll on home either.
  
  Arriving at the bungalow just after midday, you manage to conceal your injury from your aunt and uncle, however the servant is more perceptive; he knocks discreetly on your door, and carefully peels off your red stained shirt, which is now in ruins. After treating the wounds, he bandages it carefully, all the while talking and joking in stilted English to take your mind off the pain. Then the servant, who by now you have learned is called Hansraj, introduces you to his wife, Tanvi, and even shows you their cosy huts behind the bungalow, which you much prefer to the bleak bungalow, despite the difference in size. They have a sleek black dog called a Kanni, who dashes around, poking his nose into everything he can reach. With the permission of Tanvi and Hansraj, he goes down in your sketchbook, running triumphantly away from the kitchen with a chicken leg. However, this is the only thing you manage to record in there, because the next morning, a letter with all-too-familiar handwriting arrives in the post.
  
  You start packing before it's even been opened. When your aunt and uncle find out, they give you a lecture, painfully long and punctuated with "Really!" and "Absolutely disgraceful!", and then you're back where you started on the little red boat, chugging along the river, except this time you're going downstream, and wincing at every slight turn.
  
  Leafing through your sketchbook, you stop at the page you'd reserved for the glorious discovery of the Gigantopithecus. The blank page glares up at you, mocking your failure.
  
  Where did you go wrong?