It had become clear to me that I was being held prisoner.
I had made my way through the jungle/forest in search of the illustrious Prof. Wainwright when I had stopped to take some rest; all of a sudden a small man wearing what can only be described as clothes jumped out at me.
“Feenk yuuuv haad eenuf mayt!”, he screamed.
I was taken aback by this unusual language, and realised that I had much to learn from this unusual culture. I responded in the only way I knew how “I’m terribly sorry old chap but I don’t understand a word of what you just said!”
This seemed to make his very angry, clearly my words resembled some form of affront in his language. Nevertheless I approached him slowly, unsure of my footing and feeling groggy. Perhaps he had poisoned me with one of those funny darts. As I approached him I seemed to leave the jungle and there was some form of hut with natives crowding around it. All around were smaller huts with wheels, a people worth the attentions of Prof. Wainwright I thought. By the time I had reached the funny little man I had attracted the attentions of the whole tribe. They were beginning to crowd around me in a threatening manner, clearly a territorial people. I was desperately trying to think of what Father had told me before setting out on this adventure but my mind was not what it used to be. Instinct took over and my fists went flying in almost every direction known to man, and even once made contact with what could only have been a chin (although, by this stage it was more likely to have been an ankle).
When I came to I was in a small room, the tribe had evidently trussed me up and taken me to some ritualistic hut designed to be the waiting room for sacrifices. My head was pounding and my liver was not at its best. “Been poisoned by the little bastards, eh?”, I thought. I started examining the hut for an escape route when all of a sudden one of the little men threw the door open and grabbed me by the back of my collar.
“Eeere yuu gow! Besst nota ledd im dreenk sa mush necks tym” he said to some man I couldn’t quite see.
“Thank you my good man, here is the £10 we agreed on.”
At this I was thrown kicking and indeed screaming head first at The Intern.
“Good god man where did you get that kind of money, I can only assume the Foreign Office came to my rescue.”, I said.
The only thing my shock rattled memory can retain after that point is being bundled into a room with a bed and managing to get some precious sleep. The next day I asked the Intern about what we know of this tribe that help me hostage, all he said was “Rozzas!”
From that moment on I firmly resolved to keep my eyes on alert for this peculiar tribe of inbred pygmies so that they might never take me against my will again. Not on my watch.