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Chapters 
63
Miss you (pause while I do my Circus Strongman howl). Today we should have met up with the rest of the tribe but we 
aren't as fit as we might be. I bet some of the crew thought there'd be wheels right into the Jungle and food trucks parked every 
few miles and they'd get burgers and chips served by girls wearing flower garlands round their necks. Fat Dick the sound man 
probably packed a Hawaiiiiiian shirt. 
You have to hand it to Vic in a way. Smallest crew-to-budget ratio in years. Me and Matt doing our own stunts (good old 
Norman really screwed the dollars up for me on that clause). Not even daily rushes either- the copter's only coming in every 
three days because Vic thinks it'll break our concentration or something no doubt posher intellectually than that. Lab report 
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over the radio-telephone, the rushes with the copter. And the studio went along with it all. Amazing, isn't it? 
No it isn't amazing, as you well know sweetie. The studio thinks Vic's a genius and gave him as much as they could until 
the insurance boys dug their heels in over big-name leads falling out of a canoe and then they went down the list and found a 
couple of guys the industry could afford to lose.* So I've been a bad boy at times but they reckon I can't walk out on a job if 
I'm in the Jungle and Matt's temperamental which means he doesn't normally work unless they give him a hamper full of white 
powder but he seems to have kicked it and there aren't too many dealers swinging through the trees like Tarzan out here. And 
we agree to Vic's conditions because we bloody need to and deep down we probably think Vic's a genius too. 
*Joke. Well, sort of. No real danger, I'm sure. 
Wondering if it was a mistake to have the monkey last night. It certainly slowed me down a bit today, and Matt was behind 
a bush a lot as well. 
Later. Sorry, Wednesday. Met the tribe. The greatest day of my life. Except for meeting you, babe, of course. They were 
just there, suddenly, as we came over a hill and saw a river below us. The lost river and the lost people side by side - amazing. 
They're quite short, and you'd think they were plump except it's all muscle, and they don't have a stitch on. The girls are pretty, 
too (don't worry, angel - riddled with diseases). The funny thing is there don't seem to be any old folks. Or maybe they've left 
them behind somewhere. But we did have this idea that the whole tribe went around together. Puzzling. Also, I've run out of 
mosquito stuff - the really powerful one anyway. Getting bitten quite a lot. Vic says not to worry - did I think Father Firmin 
had insect repellent all those years ago? I said authenticity was one thing but did my devoted fans really want to see me on the 
big screen with spots a foot across all over my face? Vic told me I had to suffer for my art. I told Vic to fuck off. Bloody 
Truthspiel. 
Thursday. We've set up camp now on the bank. A couple of camps actually, one for whites (most of whom are brown with 
[p. 199] 
red spots) and one for Indians. I said why didn't we have one big camp, for Christ's sake. Some of the crew were against this 
because they thought they'd get their watches stolen (I ask you) and some in favour so that they could get a closer look at the 
women (I ask you). Vic said he thought two camps were a good idea because there would have been two originally and it 
would psychologically prepare the Indians for playing their ancestors, which I said was just a rationalisaton of elitism. Anyway 
things got quite hot and eventually one of the guides was sent over to talk to the Indians and the word came back that they 
wouldn't share their camp with us anyway, which is quite funny I suppose.
Here comes the copter so I'll end now. 
Love Charlie 
Letter 4 
Dear Pips, 
First rendez-vous! They coptered in the genny and the rest of the equipment. Great excitement (except for the Indians who 
ignored it all). Food, ciggies. No mosquito stuff on board - can you believe it? Another thing - Vic wouldn't let them bring in 
newspapers, which pissed me off. I mean we're not kids are we? Reading a two-week-old copy of The Independent isn't likely 
to screw up my acting, is it? Or is it? I'm amazed Vic allowed us letters. None for Charlie. I know I told you not to write except 
in emergency but I didn't mean it. Hope you guessed. 
Friday. Look, I know you don't want to talk about it, but I think this spell of being apart will do us lots of good. In lots of 
ways. Really. I'm getting too old for hellraising anyway. `MY HELLRAISING DAYS ARE OVER' SAYS TV'S `BAD-BOY' 
CHARLIE. Love you. 
Pippa love, I really think it's the effect of the Indians (oh, 
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Saturday). They're so open, so direct. There they are, not a stitch on them, they say what they mean, do what they want, eat 
when they're hungry, make love as if it's the most natural thing in the world*, and lie down to die when they reach the end of 
their lives. It's really something. I don't mean I could do it myself, not straight away, I just mean I get a great sense of 
comradeship with these people. I almost feel I've been sent here so they can teach me a lesson about life. Does that make 
sense? It's all right, sweetie, I'm not coming back with a bone through my nose, but I might come back with a bit less of a bone 
in my head. All that business about Linda - I know we agreed not to talk about it - but I feel such a shit out here. Hurting you. 
Not telling the truth. Out here, with the lost river running past my feet, learning the names of birds I don't even know the 
names of in English, I feel good about us. 
*Not personal experience. Charlie's nose clean. 
Sunday. It's not just distance lends enchantment or whatever. It's something about being here. You remember the American 
astronauts, how they went to the moon and came back totally changed by looking at the earth and seeing it like just any old 
planet all small and a long way away? Some of them got religious or went barmy I seem to remember, but the point is they 

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