As the plane landed on the darkened airfield at Duala a unique smell invaded the cabin. It was musky and sultry, aromatic and coarse -- the smell of West Africa. Warm rain was falling; it felt like blood trickling down our sweaty faces as we hiked across the tarmac. Inside the airport was the most amazing chaos I have ever witnessed. Crowds of Europeans were huddled in desperate groups or screaming at Africans. Africans were screaming at Africans. A lone Arab was floating disconsolately from one desk to another. In front of each was the mad, jostling throng I recognized as a French queue. Here I had my second lesson in Cameroonian bureaucracy. It seemed that we had to collect three pieces of paper relating to our visas, health certificates and immigration arrangements. Numerous forms had to be filled in. There was a heavy trade in ballpoint pens. When the French had elbowed their way through to have the privilege of waiting in the rain for their luggage, the rest of us were attended to. Several of us made the mistake of being unable to supply exact addresses to which we were going and the names of business contacts. A large official sat at his desk reading the newspaper and ignoring us. Having established to his satisfaction our relative hierarchy, he interviewed us with an air of one not to be trifled with. Seeing the way things were going, I relented and supplied a wholly fictitious address, which was the recourse adopted by several others. In future I was always studiously precise in filling in all forms which were doubtless eaten by termites or thrown away unread. We all went back round the three desks again and through customs, where a drama was being enacted. A Frenchman's luggage had been opened and found to contain certain aromatic substances. In vain the man claimed that these were herbs to cook the sauces of French cuisine. The official was convinced he had captured a major trader in marijuana, even though it was common knowledge that a trade existed growing it inside Cameroon and smuggling it out. The French jostlers were back in operation and seemed to be doing quite well until the huge form of an immaculate African who had got on the first-class section at Nice sailed through. With a click of his gold-adorned fingers he indicated his luggage, which was promptly seized by porters. Luckily for me, my own luggage impeded the removal of his and so I was waved through and out into Africa.

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