Cue another clump on the head, this time not so hard as before.
A gun butt rapped across the back of my skull the moment I tried to mutter a reply, but frankly he'd already summed the situation up perfectly – if with spectacular understatement.
Only seconds later, we sped off again, charging across the coarse, gravelly tracks that pass for roads in Boosaaso's shanty town hinterland, two gunmen wedged in either side of Jose and I in the back seat, the others crammed in the open-topped rear, yelling at each other in Somali over the engine's roar.
Heading from our hotel in the Somali port of Boosaaso to the airport for our flight home, the pickup truck carrying our armed escort of eight Kalashnikov-toting gunmen suddenly pulled ahead of us, one of them cocking his weapon and flashing a vicious snarl in the direction of the driver of our own car.
Then, as his companions leapt out of the pickup and surrounded us, forcing open the doors of our car and pointing their guns in our faces, came the awful realisation that this time, we'd backed the wrong side altogether.
We had come to Somalia to write a story about the pirate hostage takers who had wreaked havoc along the coast, seizing ships and sailors by the score.