Jungle English Gone Bad

Father James had spent nearly a decade as a missionary deep in the jungle, working with a remote tribe that had never spoken a word of English. As his mission drew to a close, a nagging thought kept him awake at night: he had never taught them even the simplest words. Determined to leave something other than his preaching behind, he decided to start small, just a handful of basics for the chief.

One warm morning, Father James invited the chief to join him on a walk through the dense forest. “This is a tree,” he said, pointing to a towering ceiba. The chief studied it carefully, then repeated, “Tree.”

Encouraged, the priest pointed to a large boulder beside the path. “This is a rock.”

“Rock,” the chief echoed, his tone steady and serious.

Father James felt a surge of satisfaction. Maybe, just maybe, his years in the jungle had planted a seed.

As they continued through the undergrowth, the distant rustle of leaves caught their attention. Curiosity pulled them closer, and soon they stumbled upon something entirely unexpected: two of the tribe in the middle of a rather… intimate and private moment.

Panicked, Father James stammered, “That’s… that’s a man riding a bike!”

The chief studied the scene for a quick moment, then calmly reached for his blowgun. Before Father James could stop him, two sharp thwack sounded, and the couple was instantly struck.

Horrified, the priest threw up his hands. “What have you done? I’ve spent years teaching you about kindness, patience, and compassion, and this is how you repay me?”

The chief turned to him, expression perfectly neutral, and said, “My bike.”