"So. You have never been to our country before?" The Cameroonian immigration officer looked at me with suspicious eyes and flicked listlessly through my passport. Stains of perspiration, the shape of Africa, stretched down his shirt under the armpits, for this was Duala at the height of the hot, dry season. Each finger left a brown sweat stain on the pages.

"That's right." I had learned never to disagree with African officials. It always ended up taking more time and costing more effort than simple passive acquiescence. This was an expedient explained to me by an old French colonial as "adjusting the facts to fit the bureaucracy".

In reality, this was not my first visit but my second. Previously I had spent some eighteen months in a mountain village in the north studying a tribe of pagans as their resident anthropologist Since, however, my passport had been stolen by the enterprising rogues of Rome there was no incriminating evidence in the form of old visas to give me away. I congratulated myself on the bland uninformativeness of my nice new passport. This should all be rather easy. Should I confess to a prior visit, I would immediately be required to engage in an orgy of bureaucracy, giving dates of entry to and departure from the country, number of previous visa and so on. The sheer unreasonableness of requiring a mere traveller to carry all this in his head would serve as no defence.

"Wait here." I was gestured peremptorily to one side and my passport was taken away to disappear behind a screen. A face appeared over it and scrutinized me. I heard a rustling of pages. I imagined myself being sought in those thick volumes of prohibited persons I had seen at the Cameroonian Embassy in London.

The official returned and began a minute inspection of the travel documents of a Libyan of deeply shifty appearance. This gentleman claimed to be a "general entrepreneur" and possessed an implausible amount of luggage. With breathtaking shamelessness, he had given as the reason for his visit "the search for commercial possibilities to benefit the Cameroonian people". To my great surprise, he was waved through without further formality. There followed a whole string of wildly overblown people, a farcical collection of thieves, rogues, art-dealers -- all masquerading as tourists. All were accepted at face value. Then there was me.

The official shuffled his papers in a leisurely way. He was taking his time. Having established to his satisfaction his dominance in our relationship, he favoured me with a look heavy with supercilious shrewdness. "You, monsieur, will have to see the chief inspector."

I was led through a door and down a corridor clearly not for public consumption and given a hard seat in a bare room devoid of all comfort. The lino was scuffed and stained with a thousand sins. It was swelteringly hot.

We are all overdrawn at the moral bank. The slightest challenge by authority draws on deep wells of guilt. In the present case, my position was more than a little shaky.

In my first visit to the Dowayos, my mountain tribe, I had learned of the centrality of the circumcision ceremony to their whole culture. But, since it only takes place at six- or seven-year intervals, I had never been able to witness it. True, I had written down descriptions and photographed parts of the ceremony that are reproduced at other festivals, but the real thing had escaped me. Local contacts had tipped me off a month ago that the ceremony was imminent. Who knew when the ceremony would take place again -- if ever? It was a unique chance and one to be seized. I knew from previous experience that there was no chance of getting permission in time to do recognized fieldwork; I was therefore entering the country as a simple tourist. For myself, there was no inherent dishonesty in this; I would simply be doing what all tourists did -- take photographs. At the ceremony, there would certainly be other tourists, happily snapping away for the scrapbook. It seemed unreasonable that I, as an anthropologist, should not be allowed to do what a vacationing accountant could do.

But now it was clear that they had found out. How? I could not believe that anyone ever read all those pieces of paper I had filled in at the embassy and airport. I comforted myself with the thought that since I was still 1,000 miles away from Dowayoland I could not have committed anything but a trivial offence.

The waiting-room of the chief inspector is not the best of addresses. It would instil despair into those with the most cheery of dispositions. The long delay provided new food for paranoia. I began to fear for my luggage. (A vision of grinning customs men, hands dipping in, dividing up my raiment. "See. This luggage has not been claimed. We may take it for ourselves.")

At length. I was shown into a spartan office. Seated at the desk was a dapper man with a military moustache and a manner to match. He smoked a long cigarette, the smoke curling up towards a wobbly ceiling-fan set so low as to decapitate any Nordic miscreant who should enter.

I was unsure whether to adopt a pose of outraged innocence or French camaraderie. Not knowing the evidence against me, I thought "silly-arse Englishman" would be the best bet. The English are fortunate indeed that most peoples expect them to be a little odd and quite hopeless at documentation.

The dapper official waved my passport, already glaucous with cigarette ash.

"Monsieur, it is the problem of South Africa."

This really took me aback. What had happened? Was I to be expelled in revenge for some English cricket team's fraternizations? Was I being taken for a spy?

"But I have no link with South Africa. I have never even been there. I don't even have relatives there."

He sighed. "We do not permit people to enter our country who have been comforting the fascist, racist clique that terrorizes that land, resisting the just aspirations of oppressed peoples."

"But…" He held up a hand.

"Let me finish. To prevent our knowing who has and has not entered that unfortunate country, many regimes are misguided enough to issue their citizens with new passports after they have visited South Africa so that there are no incriminating visas in their documentation. You, monsieur, have just been issued with a brand-new passport though your previous one was still valid. It is clear to me that you have been to South Africa."

A lizard scuttled across the wall and fixed me accusingly with its beady eye.

"But I haven't."

"Can you prove it?"

"Of course I can't prove it."

We pushed back and forth the logical problem of proving a negative until -- quite suddenly -- the inspector wearied of our rough-hewn philosophy. With true bureaucratic flare, he proposed a compromise. I would verbally declare my readiness to make a written declaration that I had never been to South Africa. This would suffice. The lizard nodded its enthusiastic agreement.

Outside, my luggage lay in a heap, rejected and despised. As I stooped to carry it to the customs desk, my arm was seized by a man of huge girth. "Psst, patron," he breathed. "You are going on to the capital tomorrow?" I nodded.

"When you check in your luggage, or when you come back, you ask for me, Jacquo. No weight limit. You just buy me a beer." He sidled away.

The customs officer was petulant at my long delay with other officials. In pique, he refused even to consider my luggage and gestured me through to where I knew the taxi-drivers lurked.

Somewhere in Africa, there must be taxi-drivers who are kind, peaceable, knowledgeable, honest and courteous. Alas, I have never found this place. The newcomer may expect, with reasonable certainty, to be robbed, cheated and abused. On a previous visit to Duala, before I was acquainted with the geography of the town, I had taken a taxi to a place that was less than half a mile away. The driver had pretended it was a good ten miles distant, charged a huge fare and driven me around in circles until I lost all sense of direction, profiting from my hire to deliver newspapers to outlying districts. Only when I sought to make my way back, did I glimpse the unmistakeable shape of my hotel a mere ten minutes" walk away. Taking an African taxi is almost always hard work. Often, it is much easier to walk.

I took a deep breath and plunged in. Immediately, I was grabbed by two drivers who sought to wrest my luggage from me. In West Africa, luggage is usually treated as a hostage to be ransomed at huge cost.

"This way, patron, my taxi waits. Where you go?"

I held on firmly. Scenting an interesting scene, bystanders turned to watch. I was the last passenger for several hours, a prize not to be lightly let slip. An unseemly jostling ensued, myself a bone between two dogs. "Tell them both to clear off!" shouted a helpful spectator. Knowing this would unite them both against me, I approached a third driver. At once the first two fell to berating him. Profiting from their distraction, I doggedly made for the door, where lurked a fourth driver.

"Where you go?" I named the hotel.

"All right. I take you."

"First we agree the price."

"You give me your luggage. Then we talk."

"We talk first."

"I only charge 5,000 francs."

"The price is 1,200."

He looked crestfallen.

"You have been here before? 3,000."

"1,300."

He reeled back in a pantomime of shock. "Do you want me to starve? Am I not a man? 2,000."

"1,300. It's already too much."

"2,000. Less is impossible." Tears of sincerity started to his eyes. We had clearly reached a plateau where he would stick for some time. I felt strength and determination ebbing away. We settled on 1,800. As usual, it was too much.

The taxi had all necessities, a radio that blared music constantly, a device that simulated whistling canaries when the brakes were applied, a range of amulets that catered for all known forms of faith and despair. The handles that operated the windows had been removed. It seemed to have no clutch and gear changes were accompanied by an ominous grinding noise. Driving was, as usual, a series of wild accelerations and emergency stops.

There is a need in West Africa to test all relationships to destruction, an irresistible urge to see exactly how far one can go. Perhaps I had been inadequately tough in the price negotiations. I saw the driver's eyes home in on a huge woman beckoning to him from the roadside. He slammed on the brakes. There was a short discussion and he sought to embark this vast woman who bore an enormous enamel bowl filled with lettuce. I protested. The enormous lady pushed with bowl and thighs. Cold water slopped down my leg. "She's going almost the same way. It cost you no more." He looked hurt. The lady tried to sell me a lettuce. We all argued and shook our fists. The lady threatened to hit me. I threatened to withdraw my custom without payment. We screamed and raged. Finally, the woman withdrew and we drove on totally without rancour or ill-feeling, the driver even humming to himself.

I had arrived some hours ago, cool, relaxed, fattened on six months' convalescence in England. I was already haggard, fatigued, depressed and had not even reached the hotel.

We arrived. The driver turned, a smile on his face. "2,000."

"We agreed 1,800."

"But now you have seen how far it is. 2,000."

Once more, we went through the rituals of disagreement. Finally, I pulled out 1,800 francs and banged it down on the roof.

"You take this or nothing and I call the police."

He smiled sweetly and pocketed the money.

Soon I was installed in a small airless room with cool lino on the floor. The air-conditioner gave out a fearful clatter but did produce a gasp of cool air. Fitful sleep came with difficulty.

There came a knock on the door. Outside stood a stout, florid-faced figure in shorts of imperial cut. He introduced himself simply as Humphrey, from the room next door, and spoke in tones of unmistakeable Britishness. He adopted a pose that was not exactly annoyance but more the mien of one deeply wronged.

"It's your air-conditioner," he explained. "It makes so much noise that I can't sleep at night with it on. The last fellow was very reasonable about it and kept it turned off. Very reasonable, he was. especially for a Dutchman."

"Well, I'm very sorry if it bothers you, but I really can't sleep here with it turned off. The windows don't open. I'd boil to death. Why don't you complain to the manager?"

He gave me a look of withering pity.

"I've tried that of course. Did no good. Pretended he didn't speak English. Come to my room and we'll have a drink and talk about it."

After several drinks, there developed between us that rank, shortlasting growth of friendship experienced by compatriots abroad. He told me his life story. It seemed he was presently associated with some sort of aid project in the interior, a plan to produce canned fruit juice for export. The project had previously been funded by the Taiwanese but abandoned when Cameroon had recognized Communist China. Humphrey spent most of his time trying to find compatible spare parts for the Taiwanese tractors bequeathed him by the previous administration.

I told Humphrey of my time at the airport. He considered it rather tame. Laboriously, he explained that the man at the check-in desk did not really require a beer but a bribe of a 1,000 francs. I thanked him but I had been here before. Humphrey proposed dinner and led the way to the hotel restaurant. All red PVC and bare bulbs, it recalled something from a Czechoslovak luxury hotel of the 1950s. Lizards slalomed erratically between the light bulbs.

The huge, gleaming, head waiter approached us and pointed at Humphrey's bare knees. "Go and change!" he shouted. We paused and looked at each other. Humphrey bristled. I could see that he was really angry. Very quietly he said, "No. I've just come in from the bush. All my kit is being washed. This is all I have."

The head waiter was unmoved. "You will go and change or you will have no dinner." We were both little children before nanny.

Humphrey turned on his heel and stalked from the room with the dignity of a duchess. I was obliged to follow, a pale reflection of his high dudgeon.

In a surge of fraternal solidarity, he confided that he knew of a better place. He looked me up and down appraisingly. "I don't tell just anyone about this." I tried to look honoured.

He led the way through the front door to where the taxis waited -- and the ladies of the night. Different cultures' views of each other are always interesting. One sure guide is what they try to sell each other. With the confidence with which we expect Americans to want to take tea in a stately home, West Africans assume that all Europeans want to buy carvings and commercial sex. The currently fashionable facial expression in West African cities seems to be one of sultry truculence for ladies. These girls, built like basketball champions, had taken this to their hearts. They shambled around with exaggerated pouts and tosses of their heads. "Not today, thank you," said Humphrey firmly.

His taxi-hiring technique was certainly superior to my own. Negotiations were brisk and uncompromising. We embarked. Several of the ladies sought to embark with us. Humphrey repelled them with a paternal hand.

There followed a long drive down dirt roads fringed with jungle. Humphrey gave frequent directions. We crossed and recrossed railway lines that gleamed evilly in the moonlight. Strange odours of rich earth, human excrement and swamp rolled over us. Finally, we emerged on to tarmac near the docks where deserted ships loomed out of greasy water.

We came to a square, formed on three sides by buildings of French imperial style that must have begun to fall apart even before they were completed. Stucco peeled. Creeper had invaded the heavy cement fretwork of the balconies. Confidently, Humphrey led me to the fourth side where jungly plants waged a war against urban firewood collectors, the result being a messy tangle of straggly vines.

"Here we are," Humphrey breathed heavily.

Memory has a way of playing tricks with us, of intensifying and simplifying. Perhaps I was only seeing it through Humphrey's eyes. But I clearly remember it as the only fresh-painted building in the town. It gleamed in the moonlight. A silver jewel set in a green sea of vegetation. It was a Vietnamese restaurant.

Humphrey was evidently well known here. The hostess, an oriental lady of ceramic beauty, greeted him with a delicate smile and a bow. The proprietor, her husband, was a French expatriate who had spent many years in Indo-China. Honey-coloured children were presented, smiling in a line of descending age, to Humphrey. They bowed and embraced him, referring to him as "Tonton Oom-fray". Humphrey became a little maudlin. I thought I saw him wipe away a manly tear. The patron sat with us, pouring cassis and white wine amid mutual reminiscence and discussion of family news. It was revealed that Humphrey had a wife in the north of England as well as what he termed "a standing arrangement" in the capital.

Over the next hour, we consumed a meal of delicacy and subtlety, flavours and textures exquisitely varied. A tape of gentle oriental music played in the background, a fine-spun filigree of flutes and gongs.

Humphrey waxed confidential over the fruit. "I feel the need to come here every so often," he explained. "I don't come here too often or it wouldn't work any more. It gets me away from the sheer gracelessness of Africa. It's the women that are worst -- the way they walk, splay-footed and slouching. Look at that!" he cried in awe.

Our hostess glided elegantly over to our table with bowls of lemon-water, setting them down before us in a single flowing movement. With a whisper of fine fabric, she was gone.

It took some coaxing to get Humphrey back to Africa at all. He emerged morose and depressed among the alien vines.

As we entered the square, he suddenly snapped out of it at the sight of a sharply dressed youth of gangling gait over on the other side.

"My word. That's precocious."

This mysterious sentence was clarified when he revealed that Precocious was the nickname of the youth.

"He's a character. Come on." Humphrey was off.

However clearly Humphrey recognized Precocious, it was clear that Precocious did not know Humphrey. Probably all white men looked the same to him. He bared white, even teeth. "You want womans?" he enquired with depressing inevitability.

"Certainly not," said Humphrey.

"Ganja?" He mimed inhalation and a deep ecstasy hardly of this world. He was obviously a man of limited repertoire.

"Cut it out, Precocious. It's me."

Precocious examined Humphrey somewhat blearily, even raising his fashionable mirror sunglasses. It was evident from his puzzled face that he still had not placed him.

"The white Peugeot."

"Ah."

It was clear that Precocious had him now but looked far from pleased. Humphrey, however, insistent upon their good relations, suffered no gainsaying and led us to a neighbouring bar where the story was told -- Precocious looking fashionably sultry the while.

Precocious had, in his short life, been much the plaything of Fortune's wheel, with many meteoric rises and dips. At the time of Humphrey's acquaintance with him, he had exulted in the possession of a white Peugeot car that was all his joy. It was not made plain how he had come by the car. This was rather glossed over. It seems that he and Humphrey had gone out to investigate the nightlife at a particularly seedy club called "The Swamp". An endearing habit of urban children throughout West Africa is to "guard" cars for their owners. In fact, it is an embryonic protection racket. In return for a small sum, the car is secure. Should the owner be unwilling to disburse a gratuity, he may well return to find the paintwork scratched, the tyres slashed, the door-locks inoperative.

Seeing Humphrey and Precocious emerge from the car, an innocent child had -- in its simplicity -- assumed that Humphrey was the owner, Precocious merely his driver. Humphrey had been approached for a "dash" and refused it. He had been extremely firm in his refusal -- some might say too firm.

When Precocious returned to his car, the headlights had been stolen. This, he held to be Humphrey's fault. Humphrey must buy him new headlights. Being both in drink, the discussion had been long and -- at the end -- heated. Humphrey had been abandoned. Precocious had attempted to drive his car home without headlights. There had been a crash. Embarrassing lapses in the documentation of the car had come to light. The car was no more.

Precocious wearied of reminiscence. He turned hopefully to me. I had only just arrived? It was indeed fortunate that I had found him. He was, it appeared, an artist, producing ivory pendants. He displayed some from inside his jacket, making it clear that they were available for immediate purchase. He did not make money by selling them, he emphasized. Indeed he barely covered his costs. For him, they were a means of expressing his artistic soul. They were not normally for sale.

I looked at them. It seemed that his artistic soul had led him to produce miniature ivory elephants, silhouettes of black ladies with complex hairdos -- all the normal tourist junk available in every tourist trap the length of the coast. He was forced to sell them, it appeared, to buy new and very expensive drills from Germany with which to continue his art.

Humphrey leant forward. His words dropped like lead.

"He's not going to buy them, Precocious. He's been here before." He winked at me. "But maybe he'll buy you a beer."

Humphrey and I returned to the hotel. The furtive shapes of ladies of the night still patrolled outside.

We retired to our rooms. Because Humphrey was now a friend, I sweated out a fitful night with the air-conditioner off.