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Under the shadows of the mist-covered mysterious Kilimanjaro, the safari was halted at a border checkpoint. It was deep in the jungles of the Congo somewhere in dark Africa. The African tribesman was tall, over six-feet-six even as his feet were bare save for boar's teeth anklets. His tattooed skin was shiny and sweaty ebony. His face was scarred with the slash marks of a leopard's claw. They were marks of courage. But most probably, they were also tribal decorations of cannibalism. Along with the twin cartridge belts that criss-crossed his chest, almost covering the necklace of bones, were gold teeth and a black garland of dried up bouquets curiously resembling human ears.
His English was formal, polite and impeccable. Probably as a result of the many Englishmen and Afrikaaners he had met. Or eaten.
"Good morning, Bhwana. May I see your papers please?"