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Check back tomorrow for the second installment. Lome sits on the ocean in the West African nation of Togo. Its main road is a long sweeping boulevard that abuts the oceanfront and is populated mostly by motorcycle taxis. The drivers drink heavily on weekends, and wrecks are prevalent. We charter four motorcycle taxis to the bar. The place is packed. The main attraction is dancing, and throngs of people clog the dirt street. Prostitutes, most of whom are well under age, dominate the dance floor.
Two or three of them wiggle into the center at a time and gyrate wildly. Their hips explode like cannons, from angles that seem inhuman, and with an unabashed sexuality—a fierce, wild lasciviousness that frenzies the bar. At one point, a fat hooker bends over and displays her massive ass while her companion slams her pelvis into it.
When they finish dancing, they collapse in adolescent laughter and mingle about, chatting. Other people are dancing, but no one dares to lay claim to the dirt road, which is acting as the main stage, until a fat man in grey sweat pants sidles by. His eyes are coal-black, vacant and wild—the eyes of a man barely clinging to his mind. The hookers clear a space and he swivels his hips and jiggles the fat of his gut beneath a stained white undershirt.
The crowd whoops and cheers. They approve. The most spectacular performance comes from a body contortionist, who suddenly appears next to me with both of his legs over his head.
He then hops, like a toad, across the road, holding this freakish posture. When he tries to hop back onto his chair, a security guard pulls it out from underneath him. Everyone laughs riotously and minutes later the fat man in the grey sweat pants is back jiggling his gut again by popular demand. Baba says we should leave and go to another bar, so we stand and walk toward the roadside, but on our way out chaos erupts.