Chapter 2: Bosoms over Braazaville

Braazaville was just as I'd remembered it from those old Tarzan movies and French Foreign Legion recruiting posters. Devilishly hot, foul smelling, unbearably tedious, and teeming with several hundred thousand people having the exact same characteristics. Our luggage was torn open, inspected and finally passed by the Customs Officer, after he pocketed a pair of Tess's thong panties and rubbed one of Mariana's bras between his fingertips for several minutes. Leering at me from under eyebrows thick enough to hide a brace of pigeons, he chortled "Kwame abu maka logee, konga lagonga maka logee", which, if I remembered my Congolese, meant "I will trade you three goats and a chicken for the large breasted one". I demurred, threw a wad of 5 pound notes on his desk, and collected our belongings.

We were supposed to have been met by a local entrepreneur who promised he was a tour guide, interpreter, taxi driver and Professor of Natural History, all in one. I didn't believe the part about the taxi driver, as there was no one to be seen outside the terminal except the professional beggars, several dozen Pakistanis selling water ice to each other, and a family of goats breezily feeding on the grass growing up between the potholes. After about a quarter of an hour in the sweltering sun, a large bang and a noxious cloud of blue smoke signaled the imminent arrival of our transportation.

The driver careened around the corner in a Morris Minor that had not seen a garage since Churchill was in office, and as he rumbled to a stop, the left front fender came unhinged with a loud clang. Out jumped one of the smallest, ugliest men I have ever seen. He banged the rebellious fender back into place with his hand, and hopped up on the curb to corral us before we could turn around and head for another plane out of town.

"ahhhha Mister and Missy, how fine to be seen by you today, how is your trip, welcome to the marvelous city town of Braazaville, one of the most hysteric places in all of Africa it is my journey to help you with your trip and becoming one of the most useful mens you will ever know" he chattered, grabbing six suitcases, a steamer trunk, and Mariana's rump all without missing a beat. She whacked at him and he ignored her, reaching instead for the rest of the equipment, tossing it into the back seat of the Minor with all the care and delicacy of a longshoreman handling bags of cement. I looked at Tess and grinned.

"Local colour, eh?"

She smirked back and me, and pushing Mariana ahead of her, the two of them ducked into the front seat of the Morris. I hadn't noticed it before, but there was a very tattered, and mysteriously stained, old sofa in the front of the car, obviously truncated to about half it's former length and serving as the forward seating area.

"Mister wait here I be back before you know it we fit no more into car right now or it break down so I take Missy and Missy to hotel staying at where you are in very few hours and minutes then come right back for you ok ok ok?". Before I could protest, he had scampered around the front of the car, climbed in through the window, and, with a speed belying its age and obvious mechanical decrepitude, the car shuddered away from the curb and sped off into the brown haze. Just before it disappeared from sight, I swear I saw his arm reach over and pull Mariana's head down into his lap, but I couldn't be sure. Another explosion from the tail pipe, a cloud of bluish smoke, and the car was gone.