Chapter 8: The Wrong Vine!!!

When the men came to they found themselves in some large underground chamber. Jim scrubbed at his eyes and grimaced at a bitter taste in the back of his mouth. His voice came out in a low, manly rasp.
"Men, all present and accounted for?"
The men began sounding off, which took a little while and gave them time to get over the effects of whatever drug or gas or poison dart had clouded their minds. When the roll call came to an end it appeared that, indeed, all the men were present and unharmed. The chamber they had awoken was warm and dry and decorated in an industrial motif, with pipes running along the ceiling and walls, a heavy steel door at the stop of a metal staircase and (frankly) an overuse of brick and concrete. Jim tore his thoughts away from interior design and got to the matter at hand.
"Alright men, what's the last thing you remember?"
The men considered for a moment.
"Monkeys!!"
"Prison!"
"Mummy!" cried Heiroglyph Hank.
Jim leapt on this. "AHA! We were rescued by a band of vigilante mummies!"
"No, sir. Not those kind of mummies. My mother. "
"We were rescued by your mom?" All the men looked around nervously. You didn't want to cross Hank's mom.
"No sir, that's the last thing I remember."
Jim sighed, he'd tried earlier in the year to get the men on ginko-biloba supplements to improve their memories but Hank had some sort of immunity to memory-improving herbs.*
"Alright, men. Does anybody remember how we got out of the police station?"
The door at the top of the stairs flew open and voice rang out in the darkness.
"I believe I can answer that question.....brother!"
The men whirled around to see a large man leap off the metal stairs and grab on to a chain hanging from the ceiling. The man wore a black duster that billowed magnificently as the swung down from the ceiling. His steel tipped cowboy boots sparked as the landed on the concrete.
Then man was massive. His sable curls seemed almost to touch the very heavens...or brick.
Anyway.
The enormous man strode forward and the heels of his boots beat out a slow rhythm on the concrete. From somewhere in the room a skirl of guitar music sounded.
The men sighed. What overwhelming bravado!
Jim sighed. What a bunch of bullshit.
The lower half of the man's face was covered in a bandana, but not one of those wimpy paisley pattern ones. No. This one had a geometrical motif.
The men sighed. They loved geometry!
Jim thought he recognized the table cloth from mom's house.
With hands capable of rending dictionaries limb from limb** the man tore the bandana from his face.
The men gasped. He looked exactly like JIM!!!
Jim gasped. "You got your teeth fixed!"
The man grinned even wider and the shadows fled from the brilliance of his mirth.
"Ha Ha! Jim you scallywag. Never going to let me live that down, eh?" Nigel, for it was undoubtedly he, turned the full luminescence of his smile on the men. Albino Al's tender eyes began to water mercilessly. "When we were young I had to bite through a cage that Jim had gotten himself locked in." Nigel snapped his teeth thunderously.
Jim jumped up and began to protest. Nigel looked him in the eye and mouthed the word "apricot".
Jim fell silent. Damn Nigel. Damn him to heck.
Nigel through one arm around Jim and the men stared in disbelief. Nigel was actually taller and larger than their magnificent leader. How could such a thing be?
"Well" boomed Nigel, "I'm glad to see that the gas has left you none the worse for wear. Sorry for the lack of gas masks. My brother's constant scrapes leave one so little time for adequate planning."
The men looked at each other nervously. While they didn't really want to naysay Jim, they had to admit: they knew exactly what Nigel meant. Plus they were a little disappointed that Nigel used something as gauche as gas instead of proper darts dipped into the backs of proper tree frogs. This was the city though, and one did have to lower one standards a bit.
The men loved good manners.
Jim spoke up "Rescue! Ha! We were doing absolutely fine without you. The only thing you were trying to rescue was your own anonymity. I saw the photo Nigel. Just what have you been up to in this city's libraries?"
The men were shocked. Improper library behavior? And no darts?
Nigel laughed (again) and slapped Jim on the back.
"All in good time Jimmy. First let me introduce you to my men. Men! Saddle up!"
The guitar music swelled and from every dark corner of the room men began drifting forward. Each had long dusters with promising looking toolbelts just visible. Many had bandanas stretched across their faces and one carried a well-worn guitar.
"Jim...Jim's Men. I give you...Los Eruditos!"
Dan sighed. Brothers.....


*Sorry we can't remember what this one was about.
** Nigel is actually a 5th degree blackbelt in book violation.

Chapter 7: King of the Zombie People!!!

Detective Harry Gomez was having a crappy morning. His sister was visiting, which in and of itself was not really a bad thing. But his sister was one of those people that simply had to travel with their pets. Which in and of itself is also not always a bad thing.
But she loved cats.
Which in and of themselves are psychotic little bastards.
Especially these ones.
Especially when Harry was asleep.
And when his face evidently looked like the perfect place to sleep/sharpen claws.
So, two days into the visit, Harry slouched out of the door of his apartment avoiding the looks of people who were having trouble hiding their horror. They were big cats.
Then, as he winced his way into the first bite of a morning bagel (doughnuts are so 1980's) he saw a type 4 criminal* yank a purse from the hands of a woman and take off down the street. At first Harry was shocked. Type 4's were a little rare these days due to a prevailing fear of interfering superheroes. But, unable to resist a chance to live out his childhood dreams, Harry dropped the bagel and hauled ass after number four.
Unfortunately, Harry was living out the childhood dreams of the purse thief** so after about 10 steps he plunged into a manhole that was conveniently missing its cover.
So, after convincing the doctors that most of the damage was from cats and could they just stitch his chin please, Harry finally made it into the precinct.
Which was chaos.
Normally Khaki is not considered a jarring color, but that's cause it's so often seen in watered down chino form or in appropriate settings, like deserts or ancient tunnels. When faced with a horde of chattering khaki clad men crammed in a cell the effect was unsettling. This was coupled by the wildly abrasive tones of the 5 cigar a day sergeant bawling out a uniform.
"Well WHERE the HELL did they get FIREWOOD!?!?!"
"Honestly, sarge, we took all their packs."
"Did you check their POCKETS?"
"Well...sarge..did you look at.."
The sergeant fell silent as he looked at the dense herd of mulitpocketed khaki smiling helpfully at him.
"Damn it. We're going to need more men."
Harry was deeply thankful that this was not his problem and headed for his office.
Waiting in the office as an eager young officer, fairly bouncing up and down on his feet.
"Detective DETECTIVE!!! I GOT HIM!"
Harry considered the current trend of his day and formed severe doubts that the officer had actually gotten this mysterious "HIM".
"Who are we talking about officer?"
"The leader of Los Eruditos sir!"
Harry collapsed into his chair and gazed upward at an unkind god.
Los Eruditos was Harry's current least favorite ( and only) project. I mean, you accidentally shoot a couple of old women and it's like you're not allowed to do real police work anymore? THEY HAD HANDBAGS!!! But that's neither here nor there.
Los Eruditos was a street gang that was seemingly comprised of nothing but type 32 criminals***. They had been terrorizing the city for the last 6 months. Or, at least, they had been terrorizing the city libraries. These jokers had some kind of beef with the Dewey Decimal system. They were breaking into city libraries and reorganizing the library according to the library of congress heading system.
Obviously this was not a life threatening series of events, but it was proving wildly upsetting to the city's librarians, a surprising amount of whom were related city officials. And so, the job of arresting these heinous book reorganizers had fallen into the lap of disgraced detective Harry Gomez.
As it turned out, these guys were fairly sophisticated and had eluded capture for quite some time. But a couple of weeks ago, they had a breakthrough. A terrified librarian cowering in the bathroom described how the band's leader had spent an inordinate amount of time checking himself out in the mirror. Inspired, Harry had cameras and two way mirrors installed in several unscathed libraries. The image they got was of a large brawny man in a duster with a complicated toolbelt and a bandanna stretched across the lower half of his face. He had glossy black hair, strong eyebrows and extremely blue eyes. But that was about it. This lack of truly identifiable features was one of the leading causes that Harry doubted the officer's GOTHIMness.
"Alright officer, let's see your suspect."
"Sure thing detective!" Then the officer surreptitiously placed a tube of antibiotic ointment on Harry's desk and smiled sympathetically. As the officer left, Harry yanked open his gun/maalox/crayon drawer and raided his supply of antacid.
Harry's suspicions that the good lord hated him deepened as the officer led in a towering man in Khaki. The man sat down in the chair across from Harry's desk with an altogether un-prisoneresque air of contentment. Over his shoulder, Harry was could see some of the men assigned to searching pockets wrestling with several spider monkeys.

The man glanced over his shoulder to see what Harry was looking back and then smiled indulgently at the detective.

"I try to keep the men from bringing too many personal effects, but what are you going to do, eh?"

Harry puzzled over that for a moment and then decided to push on.

"Alright, mister...uh."

"Call me Jim."

"oh, oka-"

"Jungle Jim, if you prefer."

"I really don't."

"Just Jim then is fine, though when we're in front of our respective subordinates, Jungle Jim is more appropriate."

This definitely needed to push on.

"Alright. Jim. The officer who brought you in seems to be under the impression that you are leader of a rogue band library vandals."

The man had leaned forward and was studying the detective intensely. Harry had to admit, the eyes and eyebrows were a dead match. Suddenly he spoke,

"You know, many tribes engage in ritual scarring, either as a beautification or as a right of passage. Scars should be be worn with honor and pride."

Harry stared in glassy eyed silence.

The man waved his massive hands around his face. "I mean, that many scars is a bit horrific but in the right light you could look quite the noble savage."

Harry felt a tightening in the veins in his temple.

"Cats. I was scratched by cats."

Surprisingly, the man nodded sympathetically. "Yes I surmised as much. A tabby and a two greys, all three rather large. You know I have some tips on how to deal with such things."

Harry leaned back, "What? Did my sister put you up to this?"

Jim raised his eyebrows, "My good man, I have not had the pleasure of meeting your sister. Not sure it would be appropriate, all things considered."

Harry shook his head, "Whatever, back to the point. Library vandals."

Jim nodded seriously, "Terrible that. And here I thought we had the Vandals all taken care of. I had always supposed that they had just sacked Rome and then gone extinct."

Harry looked down at his desk and wondered whether or not you could hear a gunshot in the next room. Instead he pulled out the picture from the library camera.

"I'd like to show you something, um, Jim."

Jim looked at the picture and then whirled about in his chair, holding a clenched fist up to his mouth.

"You fool!"

*Are you kidding me? We're not going to list all of the categories this detective has for criminals. He always wanted to be a botanist and after failing out university he was left with an obsessive need to classify. He has, like, 656 different types of criminals.

**Who made it home only to find that not only had his ex-girlfriend discovered that he was much better in bed than the aerobics instructor she'd left him for, but that the purse he had snatched was the work bag of the world's finest debutante, multimillionaire diamond thief and that he was now wealthy beyond his dreams and possessed several fine passports. And he never had to do the dishes again, not ever.

***Alright, we relent. Type 32 criminal is listed as "Pain in the Ass student activist."

Chapter 6: The Howling Tunnels of Ur-Kesh!

New York! The Big Apple! The City that Never Sleeps!
Ha! Who could sleep in a place like this? A place where nature had been beaten into submission. Where the very earth herself had been wormed into with cold fingers of steel and clad in an icy shroud of concrete. Where the streets were choked with the anonymous hordes of the disinterested.
Where Nigel lived.
These were the thoughts that Jim brooded over as he slouched over the rail. The men stared nervously at his broad back. Ever since they had left Camp Discovery! Jungle Jim had been a different man. Usually he spent the evenings by the fire with the men, swapping stories, sharpening machete, darning khaki. Of course the captain of the cruise ship they had booked passage on was a bit upset when the men had lit a fire on the deck so that had put an end to that.... but even so! Jim could have at least joined them for the 1st class/3rd class shuffleboard competition! What a fiasco that had been.
No. Jim spent his time muttering to himself, wandering about the ship, glaring out at the ocean. If the men tried to approach him he would utter dark, incomprehensible declarations.* He was like AQ, except darker and infinately more capable of tearing you limb from limb. Now as they pulled into the Harbor and the men all posed for a picture as they passed the Statue of Liberty, Jim hunched over the rail, steely blue eyes riveted on the oncoming press of buildings.
The problem, of course, was Nigel.
Nigel was the Second-in-Command's brother. The two had once been thick as thieves but some trauma in the past had sundered their relationship forever. Whenever Nigel came up, Jim was sure to spend days sulking about the canopy, hacking away at whatever came in within machete's reach.** This mysterious rift between Jim and Nigel was at the heart of every harsh word in Jim's life. The men were just dying to meet him.
Once the ship had pulled into New York and the men were all assembled on the pier, Jim straightened his shoulders and turned to address his men.
"Men, I want you all to know that we're not in the Jungle anymore."
The men looked around at the urban sprawl all around them and felt pretty sure that this was true.
"I understand that some of you may never have left the jungle and seen the big city. So I've drawn up a list of things you might see here in the city and equated them to things we've seen on our travels. " With that, Jim distributed a stack of papers. They said:
taxi cab = vine
cabbie = native guide
manhole = scary doorway
streetwalker = panther woman
streetgangs, mafia = cannibals
junkies = zombies (note: do not behead, police will be angry)
and so on. It was bizarrely comprehensive.
All the men folded the lists carefully and put them into the quick-access shoulder-folder pockets they had, for quick access. They then set about unloading the cargo and getting themselves kitted. Not long into the process, an odd piebald car pulled up and a man dressed all in dark blue got out. The men looked critically at his attire. He had very functional boots, rough and ready cotton pants with cargo pockets on the thigh (though only two, I mean, what are you going to do with only two?), a really cool walkie-talking looking thing clipped to his shoulder and, as a piece de resistance an absolutely fantastic toolbet, with guns and mace and nightsticks and ammo. Almost as good as their toolbets. Which, as it turned out, was why the man was there.
"Excuse me gentlemen, NYPD. I'd like to talk to you about your equipment."
Jim looked confused (some of the men noted this with relief), "I'm sorry, in why pee dee?"
The man pulled up short and gave Jim a confused look.
"Yeah, the police."
The "police"man tried to keep talking but was drowned out by the distinctive noise of a large group of men extracting lists from quick-access shoulder-folder pockets.
Police = Soldiers of local British Garrison ( not the drunk womanizing ones, the good ones)
The men all turned helpful eyes on the policeman.
Jim said "How can we help you officer?"
The police man pointed at Jim's toolbelt.
"What's that?"
"Toolbelt."
"I see that. I meant that there on the toolbelt."
"You mean the compass?"
"No, that."
"Ah, my canteen."
"No. That."
"Voodoo fetish wanga?"
"Oh my god. No. That."
"Ah, blowtorch."
"WHAT? THAT! THE MACHETE!"
Jim looked irritated. Maybe this man was thick.
"Well, officer. It's a machete. But if you already knew what it was, why did you ask?"
The officer pursed his mouth. It wasn't a good look.
"I wanted to see if you knew what it was, lunchbox breath. You are aware that machetes are illegal to carry on the streets of New York, right?'
All the men looked shocked. Chopper Charlie spoke up.
"But what if you need to clear your way?"
This didn't seem to make the officer happy, he muttered something into his shoulder mic.
Some of the other men piped up.
"Well, Charlie, we can always blast our way through with these handy elephant guns."
"Or this dynamite!"
"OR WITH SCIENCE."
Jim sighed as more pinto cars pulled up. He knew they should have gotten a native guide.

*e.g. "You ever dance with the devil in the pale moonlight?"
** A fact stumpy Stu knew all too well.

Chapter 5: Knife Dance on Irian Jaya!

"Behold!" Cried Jungle Jim. Reaching deep into the voluminous folds of his khaki he drew forth an ancient clay jar.
"Within lies the clue that will lead us to Discovery!" and with the precise archaeological technique he was famed for, Jim reached high into the hair and hurled the jar to the ground. All the men rushed in to see. Quick-hands Quigley made it first (obviously) and pulled the delicate parchment from the shards. He frowned in concentration and began to read the words.
"1) Six Yards Khaki. 2) Sharpening stone. 3) Hair gel. 4) Native Gui-"
Jim hastily interrupted. "Whoa! Guess that's my shopping list. Sorry boys. After the incident in the Himalayas I took to carrying important notes in small clay jars. It's really neat and besides it makes a great sound when you wiggle your hips."
Jim shimmied his hips and the clinking sounds of ( many) clay jars came from the complicated network of his pockets.
All the men stared.
"Right. Anyway. Let me get the right jar." Jim dove back into one of his pockets and started rummaging around. Sometimes he got like this. All giddy before an expedition. It wasn't exactly in keeping with the virile, paragon of masculinity persona he usually tried to cultivate but the men loved him for his enthusiasm.
Suddenly vast swooping noises came from the sky above the canopy. The darkness of the jungle floor grew even darker as a round and hairy shape blotted out the sun for a moment.
"Chi! Chi!" it cried.
Some of the men clung to each other. Jim narrowed his steely blue eyes at the sky*.
"Yoga student. Stay still."
After a moment the vast shape winged westward in its fruitless search for Camp Discovery!
All the men breathed a sigh of relief. Jim shook his head. Those wacky yoga students!
"All right men. Here's the right jar. You can tell because it's definitely more ancient than the last one. Let's see what we g-Hey, you two in the back! Quit clinging to each other! There's a time and place for that sort of thing but not when I'm on the dais!**"
Two of the men reluctantly parted.
"Right, let's see what we got here." This time Jim decided to ease the lid open for a quick peek. He really did have a lot of jars in there and some of them contained some sensitive information so, while hurling the jar to the ground was certainly more in keeping with the whole ethos of the Explorista! he really felt that this was more sensible.
"AH HA!" he cried, "this is what we're looking for! Behold men! Our salvation!" And with a flourish, Jim unrolled a piece of ancient parchment.
All the men stared, and the dreaded throat cleared. Jim knew that, someday, he would kill this man.
"Um, Jim?"
"Yes. Daniel."
If this is really a secret document from a Himalayan holy man, why is it in pencil?"
"Oh for GOD'S SAKE DAN! The man had some kind of... thing about pens. They screwed with his chi or something. I don't know! We never really got into it.*** But this really is the document. Do you think I could draw all these wild-ass heiroglyphs?"
All the men nodded thoughtfully, their beloved second in command was many things, but draftsman he was not.
"Now all we have to do is translate these things and we'll be well on our way." Jim turned looked at the parchment thoughtfully.
"Okay, while I am an expert in cuneiform and Estrangelan Syriac****, this particular script is somewhat beyond me. Hank?"
Heiroglyph Hank stepped forward. Truth be told, some of the men didn't care for Hank all that much. He was kind of snobby. Wore a monocle. Wet the bed... that kind of thing. But he did live up to his name.
"Well this is most interesting. Some of it appears to be heiroglyphs from ancient mesoamerica and some appears to be some sort of Ethiopic script. Very hodgepodge sort of writing. Most likely a hoax."
Jim cranked up the steeliness in his steely blues and let them shine down on Hank.
"Or rather, it would be a hoax if it was from anyone other than your beloved guru, Jungle Jim. In this case I would say that we have a fine example of hithero unknown cultural intercourse."
Some of the men sniggered.
"But whatever it is, I'm not sure I can read it."
Jim sighed miserably. "Alright men, I think we all know what this means."
They nodded sympathetically.
Jim spat out the word.
"Nigel."

*Lately Jim had been thinking that while flinty blue was pretty good, steely blue just had to be better. I mean, with steel, you can make Fire!
**There is no place for homophobia on expeditions, where long cold nights spent in wild reaches or python infested ruins can catch up with any man. That being said, don't do that kind of thing when Jim is on the dais trying to talk to you.
*** Actually, Jim was one of those men with an odd fetish for pens, watches, pocket knives and other Man-Jewelry and his guru's steadfast refusal to use pens baffled him. Many a night Jim tried to prise the secret from the old man, and all he got was some crap out of a fortune cookie. The old man died with the secret that he was deathly afraid of ink ( nasty incident with a Himalayan Mountain Squid).
****As hard as it may be to believe, this is true.

Chapter Four: Footprints in the Underbrush!

Deep in the heart of an unnamed jungle, the men of Camp Discovery gathered together to hear their beloved second-in-command speak. Things had been tough over the last few days. Demoted from being the Her Majesty's Most Faithful and Daring Exploration Association, then promoted to Exploristas! the men of Camp Discovery had discovered that due to their outlandish and overwhelming fame and success, the Queen had decided to cut off their funding. Money is pulsing Khaki heart of a good expedition, no matter what people say about pushing back the frontiers of human ignorance. And so, the good men of the Exploristas! had set about trying to raise money. A few unorthodox and unsuccessful experiments later their second in command, Jungle Jim, had decided, all on his own, that they would scrape together their funds and hazard it all on one more expedition. The mind-boggling success of this expedition would lead to more funding and so on and so forth ad nauseum. Caught up? Good.
Jungle Jim stepped out the underbrush onto the raised dais* that served as the main podium of Camp Discovery! and cast his flinty blue gaze over the expectant faces of the men. They in turned gazed adoringly at him and he marvelled at the loyalty of these good men. The harrowing attempts to raise funds had strained the team to its very limits the but rock hard bedrock of loyalty that held these men together like glue. Or something like that. Maybe not glue. hmmmmm......
One of the men cleared his throat pointedly, startling Jim out his revelry.
"Oh sorry men, I got lost turning over appropriate metaphors and similes for this moment."
The men nodded. They loved grammar!
"Right. Here's the situation men. I've looked things over with Financial Fred" Jim pointed to an obsessive little man with a clipboard " and it seems that we have enough funds for one proper expedition. We need one expedition, so fabulous, so groundbreaking that we will either reap the proceeds of the expedition or the Queen will be forced to give us our funding back."
"But Jim, I thought you said that the Queen cut off our funding because we were already too successful."
"Yes, thank you Daniel. What I meant is that this expedition has to be so successful that she doesn't really see the point in squandering the crown's resources on any lesser band of explorers. Savvy?"
The men nodded. They loved crushing the competition!
"So men, any ideas?"
The men all started jumping up and down shouting out ideas.
"How about one with pyramids!"
"How about one with dinosaurs!"
"How about skulls!"
All the men groaned.**
Jim held up hands that had caressed a thousand ancient ruins and spoke.
"Good men! Good! You're all thinking. But I think I have the answer. Have I ever told you men about how I became one of the greatest explorers in history?"
All the men shook their heads and settled in for a good story. There was a slight rustling as several of the men opened delicious little cartons of milk.
"At one time I was not the paragon of exploration you see before you. I was a lowly archaeologist trapped in the mediocrity of his own position."
Archaeological Andy's face fell.
"Then one day I decided that I had had enough. I set out to find my true calling and soon I found myself wandering through the burning deserts of the Himalayas."
Cartographer Chris frowned and made a mental note to cross out all those pesky mountain marks from his map of Nepal.
"For days I strode through the burning sands until I came to the foothills of a vast mountain range."
Chris sighed.
"I began to climb the tallest mountain that I could see. It seemed as though I climbed for ages, enduring burning hot days and freezing nights. At one point I was forced to strangle a snow leopard for food."
All the men sniffled. They loved endangered animals!
"Finally I came to the top of the mountain and I found a wise and ancient explorer sitting in medication."
Some of the men frowned, maybe that was a typo.
"I prostrated myself before the man and cried out, 'How can I become the greatest expolorer the world has ever seen?' The old man looked down at my humbled but still mighty frame and said, 'It's not getting what you want. It's wanting what you've got.'"
All the men sighed. They loved wisdom!
"And I cried out, 'All I have is Khaki!' And at this, the old man smiled at me and gave me a blue flower to eat. It was not as delicious as the snow leopard but it had more fiber."
A few of the men smiled wryly. All to well did they understand the importance of staying regular while on an expedition.
"After that I studied with the man for several years. He taught me all I know about history, archaeology, swinging from vines, arcane languages and everything else that I know about exploration. But finally the day came when my great mentor was bowed with age and the winds of death blew coldy on his neck."
The men sighed. How poetic!
"With his last breath, he pressed a clay jar into my hand, claiming that it held the secret to one of the greatest secrets of mankind! This is where we'll find the expedition we need, men!"
And with that, Jim reached into one of his many, many pockets.

*This dais was leftover from a previous edition. Apart from the odd bloodstain, it was a perfectly serviceable 3 ton block of marble carved with skulls and demons. Jim thought that it was totally awesome to speak from the dais.
**This last came from Nasty Nick. He used to called just Nocturnal Nick until they found out what he was up to with the skull collection at night.

On Choosing Native Guides

Confession time. Have you ever been up to your neck in impenetrable, heart-of-darkness, Kurtz is going to eat me jungle, seemingly lost? Have you then confidently reached into your rucksack (or over-the-shoulder bag or man-purse or whatever you use, we don't judge) to pull out a map, then set about working the map over with compass and ruler, only to find that this map wasn't quite as accurate as you thought and you have moved quickly from seemingly lost to most definitely lost? Don't worry, so have we all! And most of us have made it out to tell the tale. We here at Exploristas! understand, and that's why today's column concerns the importance of carefully choosing your native guide.
Native guides, similar to machetes, blankies, compasses and canteens are an indispensable part of any Exploristas! equipment list. Without them you run the risk of not only getting lost but blundering past certain warning signs, glaringly obvious to the native but not so to you, telling of doom, destruction and/or dismemberment should anyone be so brash as to proceed (more on that later). This can result in all sorts of inconveniences. Not only might any of the aforementioned fates come to pass but you will be assured of unpleasant jokes from any Exploring Association once word of your little faux pas gets around. So obviously, Natives guides are a must-have.
However, not all native guides are equal and there are certain attributes that one should look out for. Follow the checklist below and you'll be hacking your way through dark continents with confidence.
1) Nativity. Be sure that your native guide is actually from the area you are exploring. In today's jetsetting age, it's quite easy to find transplants to an area that claim local lineage but are bound to blunder their (and your) way into some blood soaked gully somewhere that a true native would know to avoid. Certain areas are extremely difficult to explore for this reason. Most of the state of Arizona, for instance, is teeming with non Arizonites just frothing at the mouth to show you their 'favorite' box-canyon. If you have doubts of your native guide, check in with the local Exploristas! field office and we'll be happy to furnish you with either authenticated natives, or if you prefer to go it on your own, a set of test questions to pose your guide (e.g. "Arizona Native, if I should place some sort of belligerent insignia on a flag, one that might provoke some sort of physical retaliation, will I be in any trouble. " Answer: "Yes sir, that would constitute a class 2 misdemeanor, similar to allowing a donkey sleep in a bathtub." "Excellent, Arizona Native! Guide away!")
2) Local specialization. Some areas of the country are know for having several different environmental strata. One might think that nativity alone guarantees knowledge of the area that you're exploring. Not so! One must also find a native who understands the customs and environment of the precise area you're exploring. As an example, one Explorista! was interested in combing through the dark and uncharted alleys of New Haven, Connecticut. Thinking that an Ivy league education would carry a certain expertise with the local customs, they hired the services of a sophomore from Yale University and then confidently set out from the walled confines of that particular palace of learning. And that's the last we ever heard of them.
3) Loyalty. This and the next quality are really the gravy. These qualities are what distinguish the average native guide from the stalwart expedition companion. Loyalty is often hard to come by. Native guides generally have some sort of silly qualms about their countries being explored by Exploristas!, it seems that they have a fear that boatloads of Conqueristas are sure to follow. You and I know that this is silly but nonetheless it does pose a bit of a problem when finding guides. If you can try to find a cross breed between your people and the locals. This usually muddies the picture somewhat and allows you to use subtle psychological tricks to win them over to your side. You can also give them trinkets. Many natives are just crazy about shiny trinkets. We suggest making a few bottlecap necklaces. They are shiny, attractive, and come from beer, which is fun to drink while making bottlecap necklaces. Failing that you could always just cut them in on the glory by making them actual partners. This is bit radical, a bit new age and anti-establishment but what the hell, we're Exploristas! not lemmingistas.
4) Intrepidity. All too often Explorers have come across some foreboding doorway in the heart of the jungle only to find that their native guide flat-out refuses to cross the threshold. Usually this is due to some horrifying local legend about the consequences, which can range from a wasting disease to frequent tax audits. Finding a guide who is ready to spit in the face of their upbringing and leap headlong into the aforementioned doorway can be very difficult. Luckily, puberty tends to bring out this quality. So, for most areas finding a teenager with a rebellious sneer usually means you're set. In the developed world, puberty lasts (at least mentally) much longer and so with most college campuses can furnish a number of likely candidates. However be sure to refer to rule # 2.
Obviously there are a host of other qualities that you may or may not find important but we here find that those are generally just garnish. Find a guide with the four qualities above and you'll be all set. Until next time.

Chapter 3: The Bells of Great Zim!

Deep in the pulsing heart of the jungle, swanky techno throbbed as torches lit the bamboo catwalk. All the men gathered in the flickering light and watched expectantly. Just as the house music reached a crescendo, the bushes parted and one, well turned khaki clad calf peeked out. The men erupted into appluase as the calf was followed by the attending thigh and then prompty by the seductive form of Suspiciously Svelte "Sam". "Sam" sucked in his (always) clean shaven cheeks, silenced the crowed with a hooded gaze, paced out the end of the catwalk, gave a spin and struck a pose.
"Excellent! Excellent "Sam"!" cried Jim,"We just need a bit more naughty, a bit more predator. Your the big cat, we're the gazelles!" Jim made a note on his clipboard and then froze as a familiar throat cleared itself by his elbow.
"Yes, Daniel?"
"Um sir, not to question your creative genius, but what exactly is the plan here?"
"As I have explained before Daniel, we need to raise funds so that our little Exploristation outfit here can keep afloat."
"No no, I know that sir. But...what is the plan here?"
"Ah. This, Daniel, is a fashion show. Did you know that some of those so-called "Designers" out there make absolutely ridiculous profits? Hmm. That's a pie we need a slice of, Daniel, so I have put my very best creative juices into the blender and whipped us up a Fashion Frappe!" Jim wasn't completely convinced of the eloquence of his analogy but he decided to muscle through it anyway.
Doubting Daniel pursed his lips and looked thoughtfully as Suspiciously Svelte "Sam" paced down the runway flapping a large Khaki cape like gigantic pterodactyl wings.
"So what would you same the theme is for this show?"
"Urban Explorista: The Concrete Jungle! Genius isn't it?"
"Well sir, it is promising but don't you think we might, I don't know, just...try using another color besides Khaki? I'm just throwing it out there."
Jim turned a blank face to Dan and blinked.
"Daniel. What does that even mean?"
"Look, Daniel, where were your smart suggestions before? Huh? It's not like this is the first scheme we tried."
"Sir if you're referring to the bake-sale I specifically warned you to keep the Cook away from any zoos."
Jim sighed bitterly, it was really amazing how much black rhino didn't taste like chicken.
"And if you're talking about the machete throwing routine I definately told you that One-Eyed Wally was not the man to use, especially with volunteers."
"Alright fine Daniel!" Jim snarled, "What kind of ideas do you have?"
"Well I don't know Jim, what about some actual exploring?"
"Explorista-ing."
"Whatever."
Jim sighed, "Daniel, you may never fully understand how much it pains me to say this, but....you're right." Jim turned to the darkness and clenched his fist.
"Now is the time for Action!"
Dan rolled his eyes. Quietly.