Barnes. Pdf

Letter 3 
Hey Good Looking! 
Sorry about that whingeing on at the end of the last letter. Everything much better now. For one thing we've all started 
peeing in the river again. We were asking Fish Sparks as we call him how he knew about the fish that swims up your pee and 
he said he'd seen some fat explorer fellow on the box going on about it, which sounded likely enough. But then we asked him a 
bit more about it and he made his fatal mistake. He said this explorer had said he'd had some special underpants made so that 
he could pee in the river safely. He got a cricket protector, the 
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sparks says, and cut the front bit out and stuck a tea-strainer down it. Well I ask you. If you're telling fibs, keep them simple, 
that's the rule, isn't it? Never over-egg the pudding. So we all had a good laugh at the sparks and all of us unzipped our flies 
and peed in the river whether we wanted to or not. The only person that didn't was Fish, who had to save face and went on 
claiming it was true. 
So that cheered us up a bit as you can imagine but what really cheered us up was making contact with the Indians. I mean, 
if the bandits on the way here were anything to go by (`here', if you want to look it up in your schoolgirl atlas, is somewhere 
near the Mocapra) why should the Indians keep their word? Matt said afterwards he'd half expected the whole thing would turn 
out to be a wild goose chase and I told him I thought the same. But there they were, four of them, just where they said they'd 
be, in a clearing on a bend in the river, naked as nature intended, standing very upright which still didn't make them very tall 
and looking at us without any fear. Without any curiosity either, in a funny sort of way, which was odd. You expect they'll 
want to prod you or something. But they just stood there as if we were the odd ones not them, which when you come to think 
about it is dead right. They watched us unpack everything and then we set off. Didn't offer to help carry anything which was a 
bit of a surprise but then I suppose they're not Sherpas are they? It's about two days march apparently to the rest of the tribe 
and the river we're looking for. We couldn't see the track they were following at all - amazing sense of direction they must 
have in the Jungle. You'd be lost here I can tell you angel, especially given you don't know how to get from Shepherd's Bush to 
Hammersmith without a police escort.* We marched for about two hours then stopped for the night and ate fish the Indians had 
caught in the river while they were waiting for us. Very tired, but quite a day. Kiss you. 
*Joke (not serious) 
Later. A whole day on the move. Glad I did all that training in the gym. Some of the crew puffing after only half an hour or 
so, which isn't surprising as the only exercise they take in the 
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normal run of things is putting their legs under a table and aiming their snouts at the trough. Oh yes and putting their hands up 
to order another bottle. Matt's pretty fit from all those outdoor movies where they put olive oil on his pectorals (though not as 
fit as he ought to be) and the two of us gave the crew a bit of a hard time, said union rules didn't apply in the Jungle, and so on. 
They certainly didn't want to get left behind! Fish Sparks, who's been a bit down in the mouth since we rumbled his story, 
thought it was terrifically funny to start calling the Indians things like Sitting Bull and Tonto, but of course they didn't 
understand and anyway the rest of us sort of froze him out. It just wasn't funny, anyway. They're incredible, these Indians. 
Walking starkers through the forest, incredibly agile, never get tired, killed a monkey in a tree with a blowpipe. Had it for 
dinner, well some of us did, the squeamish ones had a tin of corned beef. I had the monkey. Tasted a bit like oxtail only much 
redder. A bit stringy but delicious. 
Tuesday. God knows how the post system's going to work. At the moment we just give it to Rojas - he's the fourth assistant 
and a local and he's been appointed postman. All that means is that he puts the letters into a plastic bag so they won't get eaten 
by beetles or woodworm or whatever. Then when we meet up with the copter he'll take the mail out. So God knows when 
you'll get this. 

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J
ULIAN 
B
ARNES
: A History of the World in 10 ½