Servicing the Tourist Industry (M+F interr) There is a tribe in Kenya called the Masai who are reputed to have the most enormous dicks. Reputed, hell: they have pictures of them in anthropology textbooks and National Geographic and so forth, standing with one leg wrapped around a spear, staring with impassive eyes into the camera. But it's not their eyes that your eyes are drawn to. There's something about this that particularly appeals to Scandinavian girls. Maybe it's the long, cold winters but when they're huddled, shivering, in the libraries of Copenhagen and Oslo, the sight of these pictures is enough to drive an endless stream of them to book passage on the next cruise ship down the east coast of Africa with but one thing on their minds. The Masai are available when the boat gets to Mombasa but I see these Nordic goddesses disembarking at Durban where my friends and I are waiting to keep the end up, so to speak, for the Zulu nation. We pull rickshas. You may have seen them in movies about Singapore. There's a seat for two, sitting side by side, above a single axle and two wheels. The yoke out front in Singapore-style rickshas is typically filled with an exhausted looking fellow in a conical hat. Nowadays, he might be riding a cut down, modified scooter. In Durban, we do it differently. Your ricksha is pulled by an enormous Zulu warrior in full, traditional, tribal war gear featuring a bonnet with bobbing ostrich plumes, a sort of kilt made from lots of furry monkey tails and something similar, on a smaller scale, around each well-muscled calf and elbow. That's about it, really. Plenty of space left to show off rippled stomach, well-muscled torso, thighs, et cetera. We also have assegais and big cowhide war shields. These tend to come and go because the cops keep trying to shut down on carrying lethal instruments in the street and then the tribal elders kick up a fuss in Parliament about our right to carry traditional weapons and so it goes around and around. Personally, I prefer being without: it's enough trouble handling a ricksha in traffic without having to worry about a big shield that catches the wind and a spear that'll have someone's eye out if you're not careful. We tend to store them in odd corners, like the newsagent's cubicle and with the attendant of the public lavatory. After the tourists have had their ride, we rush off and get them for the photograph so they can go away thinking that they've had their share of savage, untamed Africa amidst the concrete and glass of Marine Parade, Durban's answer to Atlantic City. You can see us like that on all the postcards, looking very fierce. There's one other thing. The Chamber of Commerce makes us wear non-traditional, non-tribal, non-ethnic running shorts. This is because the sort-of-a-kilt is just that and no more. It's just a curtain of furry monkey tails. When we're running along Marine Parade with our rickshas, every so often we give our nervous, disoriented, foreign passengers a little extra thrill by yelling "Jee!" and leaping high into the air in the yoke, tipping them backwards and using their weight to gain height. This increases the tips which is a good enough reason for doing it. At these times an extra, non-furry, monkey tail is occasionally seen coming out for a look at the hot, African sun. This leads to letters to the papers, denunciations from the pulpit and, most importantly, complaints to the Chamber of Commerce. Hence the running shorts. We had meetings about it with the Chamber, trying to talk them out of it. "Think of the postcards," we said. "It'll really put Durban on the international tourist map." We even tried playing the traditional weapons card but the Chamber of Commerce decided that Durban was quite far enough onto the international tourist map already, thank you very much, and so the running shorts stayed. Word leaks out somehow, though, which brings us back to all those young Scandinavian girls who, as usual, were well represented among the latest bunch of passengers trooping down the gang plank of the latest cruise ship one late afternoon. There was only one thing on their mind and they were eyeing out, for Masai-like characteristics, the semi-circle of ricksha attendants. There we were--the pick of young Zulu manhood competing to thrust on them services of one or another kind. There were two things on our mind and sex was the other one. The first thing was commercial advantage, exploitation of the exchange rate for foreign currencies and anything else Jake can think up for us. Currently, it was periodic shucking of Westernised upward mobility and returning to our exploitable roots. When I was new at this game I made the mistake of introducing myself for what I am--an Eng. Lit. graduate enrolled for a teacher's diploma at the Durban campus of the University of Zululand. I found this didn't press the expected "Out of Africa", fresh-from-the-savage-untamed-jungle button so now, inspired by John Barth, I call myself Giles Goat-Boy instead. Nobody's seen the joke yet, as far as I can tell. We used to be called "ricksha boys" in the bad old days when the term "boy" was indiscriminately used for any black male, even grizzled grandfathers. That's all behind us now--or, at least, we're finally mellowing out about it to the point where some of we youngsters, at least, can either laugh about it or extract commercial advantage rather than getting all bent out of shape and wanting to start a riot. Old habits die hard though, and, every so often, somebody says "ricksha boys" by mistake and then there's nervous throat-clearing and no-one catches anyone's eye for a while. It has its uses, though. Some tourists, who didn't know better, once said to Kenny, "You ricksha boy?" and he laid the whole white guilt trip on them, threatened to demonstrate the manhood under the monkey tail kilt, the works. Out came the wallet in shaking hand and enough greenbacks got sprayed around to buy a cow back home in the village. Kenny, who was only pretending to be bugged to start with, spent the money on a hugely expensive biochemistry text book he'd been wanting--thanks to import duties and the exchange rate, textbooks cost a bomb here--and had enough change for a memorable dirty weekend. So that was all right, and a good enough reason for doing it. The tourists were Korean so he wasn't being entirely fair but life isn't fair. That's one of Jake's favourite sayings. Whatever they call you, you have to be pretty damned fit to cut it pulling a ricksha. Long up-hills with a pair of fat foreigners in the seat are a killer. Not only for this reason, I try and specialise in those young, slim, single Nordic beauties. Kenny goes for fun-loving couples who look as if they have spending money. He takes them off to a beer hall where he has a deal with the owner. Together, they introduce his tourists to the dubious pleasures of traditional African beer. It's brewed from millet, it's opaque, dirty milk in colour and tastes ammoniac. It reminds me of that Noel Coward song about "Yams and hams and human hands and vintage coconut wine/The taste of which was filthy but the after-effects divine." The divine after-effects include a pleasing relaxation of any inhibitions in young female tourists. But I'll get back to that. Jake specialises in finding out what tourists want and getting them to it. Bars, brothels, plastic-ethnic tourist-trap native villages, beadwork, whatever. Kenny and Jake are my friends and partners in profit. We're from the same village up country and have been through school, university and a number of tourists together. Kenny's doing his Honours in biochemistry. Jake graduated last year in Business Science and his day job is assistant manager in one of the beachfront hotels. Jake's always on about "servicing the tourist industry". He's fixated about it. And that's what we do. And that's what we were doing at the bottom of that gang plank, spying out the talent. A group of three young girls came down together. They were all most acceptable. "One each for Kenny, Jake and me," I thought, always the optimist. I trotted forward, plumes bobbing and monkey tails swinging. They halted and I waited a few seconds. Just as someone was going to have to speak, I yelled "Jee!" and leaped high in the yoke. As I landed, I went down on one knee. "Greetings, beautiful foreign princesses," I said, "Welcome to Zululand. What can I show you lovely ladies of my country?" There was some nervous laughter and backing away. Too hard a sell, I cursed myself. "We're booked on a coach tour," muttered one and scuttled away, dragging her friend. It was a pity to see them go. "I'm not booked on anything," said the remaining one, eyeing me appraisingly. I eyed her right back. She had long, straight, fair hair; legs right up to her bum; a jolly bouncing bosom under a tight, dark blue tank-top; a shortish white skirt; sensible leather sandals, a speculative grin and obviously had more spirit of adventure than her friends. I tried again. "What can I show you of my country, beautiful foreign princess?" She rolled her eyes. He bullshit detector was obviously in perfect working order. "A good time?" she asked, amused. She gasped as I immediately rose to my feet, lifting her by the waist on the way and, with an authentic tribal yell, dumping her into the ricksha seat. Here's a tip for you: lift first, then yell, otherwise you lose customers. I learned that by experience. I jumped into the yoke, leaped high again and again heard her gasp as she was swung backwards. I trotted off immediately, denying her the chance to have second thoughts and get off. I hoped she wouldn't be too upset when she discovered the cost of the ride. All around us, other rickshas were filling up. I took an unexplained trotting detour along the wharf and back. That was to give Kenny a chance to pick up a fare and start out of the dock gate before us. When he had a good start I tore after him with much leaping and shouting macho-sounding challenges in Zulu. "U-Ndi luphakeme kakhulu!" I screamed threateningly. That means "The Drakensberg mountains are very high". No argument there. Kenny had on board a plump, middle-aged couple who, little did they know, were about to discover African beer. He looked back over his shoulder dramatically and made a big fuss of taking up the challenge. "Amanzi abilayo ashisa kabi!" he shouted at the top of his voice. That means "Boiling water is excessively hot". And so it is. The tourists were smiling nervously, hoping that being good sports was the right thing to do in the face of what could well have been tribal warfare brewing, fuelled by insults of the "Your mother wears Army boots" variety. Kenny made a great show of accelerating and I of challenging him. It's very recommended to do this soon as there's a convenient downhill slope and it helps a lot to have momentum before the up-hill comes. Kenny had the advantage of his tourists' weight on the downhill and I of my tourist's lightness up-hill. With much dramatic gasping and wheezing he maintained a lead. For some mysterious reason, I couldn't catch up. The mysterious reason was that we both knew that middle aged couples tip better than young, single girls. If he "won", they would tip him and buy him beer; whether I won or not, my young Nordic goddess would just think it silly. And so it is. But the tips are a good enough reason for doing it. We were both well started on Plan A which involves Kenny bringing back beer, my bringing back a girl and Jake bringing back a set of the traditional tribal women's garb of skirt, blanket and hat. I'll get back to that. I had now worked up a sweat and the Nordic goddess of the day was well placed to admire the muscles of my back and legs writhing under my glistening ebon pelt in a way fit to spark speculation in the most maidenly mind. Damn those running shorts. As Kenny turned off towards the beer hall, jeeringly calling out "Inkunzi iphunga izimpukane ngeshoba" as he went, I came to a dramatic halt and collapsed, rolling over, so she could admire my heaving, manly chest. Cheeky sod, Kenny--"The bull whisks off the flies with its tail", indeed. Maybe his mother wears Army boots after all. My Nordic goddess was sitting, composed and amused, looking down on me. "Am I supposed to offer buy you a drink now?" she asked. We understood each other. "Thought you'd never offer," I said, recovering rapidly. "By a bizarre coincidence..." "...we're right outside a bar. Yes, I saw that." Abandoning the ricksha, in front of a fire hydrant, we went in. The hum of chatter died away promptly as it always does when a Zulu warrior in war kit appears with a young Nordic goddess. It's worse when we have an assegai and shield: you get folk trying to hide under the table. I guided her to a corner booth, testing the water by familiarly squeezing leg and buttock in the process. This is the moment of truth when we discover whether or not she is truly a Masai-tourist. There was no problem at all with this one: she reciprocally ran a hand up my thigh and sat close on the bench. There was an immediate "Welcome to Zululand" response from within the running shorts. Encouraged, I put my arm around her waist and, starting with my palm on her leg, ran my middle finger up her inner thigh and under the hem of her skirt. That's my best turn-on: when my fingertip senses the change to the soft, private skin at the top of the thigh. I ran my finger along the pantie line bordering thigh and pelvis, up and down. Kirsten stirred in her seat, pressing back. Reaching as far forward and down as I could get, I slipped three fingertips under the panties and encountered a welcoming wetness. Using two finger to spread her folds, I coiled my middle finger back to sink inside her and then slide back out over her clit. She gasped and straightened up, gripping the table. The waitress chose that moment to appear, smirking knowingly. We played casual and fooled no-one. "Hi, Giles Goat-Boy!" chirruped the waitress familiarly. "The usual?" She almost sniggered. I must have a word with her about that. It's not supposed to appear so obviously planned and routine. Jake wants everything to appear spontaneous. It's a turnoff for tourists to feel that they're being herded through a process like cattle. They get that from the airlines. From us, they get individual care and attention. "Thanks, and...?" I looked at the Nordic goddess. "The same," she said, looking me straight in the eye. One hand went to my thigh and became aware of life within the running shorts. She moved her fingernails up and down and provoked further signs of vibrant, interested life. This was a no-nonsense creature, all right. Which was great. Saved time. "Hullo, Giles Goat-Boy from Zululand," she said, as the waitress departed. "I'm Kirsten from Uppsala, Sweden." "How do you do, Kirsten? May I help you to see some of the sights of Zululand? How long do you have?" "The boat leaves at ten in the morning tomorrow. What sights can you offer?" "Well," I said, going for broke, "that's one of the great sights of Zululand that you're playing with right there." She laughed. "That's good to hear. I should maybe ask how long _you_ have." "You'll have to see for yourself." "I look forward to it. What's his name, this great sight of Zululand?" I never got that question before. "Ummm, I call him Young Africa," I improvised. "And hullo to you, too, Young Africa," she said, running a fingernail down his dorsal side. He strained against the cloth. I wasn't going to be able to walk. Maybe that's why they're called running shorts, I thought crazily. The waitress reappeared with two pints of ale and we toasted each other's health and future happiness. "Not too far in the future," I thought. "Why do you wear those ridiculous shorts?" she asked. That question, I was used to and ready for. "It's the missionaries," I said, without batting an eyelid. "The missionaries?" She didn't know whether to laugh or be aghast. It's the usual reaction. "'Fraid so. The first noose of colonialism is also the last to be cut free." Her bullshit detector was obviously sending out warning signals (as well it might) but she decided not to risk offence and took it at face value. It's the usual reaction. And now it was time for business. "I run a conducted tour up into the hills to stay overnight in an authentic Zulu village. You can get back before the boat leaves." I nearly added, "Without running shorts" but decided not to over-do it. "Sounds good," said Kirsten, "when does it leave? And how much?" "When we get back to the dockside. They can't leave without me." And I named a shameful amount of money. She didn't seem to mind. There are advantages to being on the wrong end of an unfavourable exchange rate. I took care to relieve her of the cash amount before she had time for second thoughts, or saw the tour coach. Jake would have been proud of me. You may ask, "Where to we keep the money?" Answer: in the head-dress: it's the most elaborate garment we wear. To give Young Africa a chance to calm down to the point where I could walk around in public, we behaved ourselves while we sank the beer. When we left, I lifted Kirsten back into the seat and used the opportunity for an exploratory feel. Her immediate response was to wrap her arms around my neck, her legs around my waist, and kiss me very hard and deeply. Embarrassed, I struggled free. "The cops..." I muttered. She gave a "don't care, I'm a tourist, I'm out of here tomorrow" peal of laughter. "So, let's get out of here," she commanded, and I did. No theatrical jumping and shouting this time. It was straight back to the docks with business to do. When we got there, Jake and Kenny were already waiting by my minibus taxi. Jake had the skirt and blanket and the hat for later and Kenny had the latest consignment of beer from the beer hall. I made the introductions and left Kirsten with them while I took my ricksha to the lockup. When I got back, she was appraising their manly charms and seemed to like what she saw. "And now," I announced, "we're off." "Wait a minute," said Kirsten, uncertain for the first time. "This is it? This is the coach? This is the tour? One tourist and three guides?" It was the moment of truth. "_Bus_ tour," I emphasised. "Minibus tour, in fact. We're trying to fight high unemployment on a budget, here," I said, giving it my best roguish grin. "Also, we're offering a specialist, individual service here." I opened the door and gestured an invitation. There was an audible, and well deserved, "ping!" from the bullshit detector and then she seemed to decide "the hell with it" and grinned back and climbed in. The next step was for Kenny, Jake and me to take off our running shorts. The Chamber of Commerce rent-a-cop, who was wearily familiar with the ritual, resignedly started drifting across the car park to take issue. With joyous, juvenile cat-calls we climbed in and took off with a roar of exhaust into Durban's late afternoon traffic and to the road out of town. I drove and Kirsten was sitting beside me. Her hand appeared on my thigh before we cleared the city limits and re-awoke the interest of the untrammelled Young Africa. He rose to the occasion manfully. Kirsten gave an approving whistle. "Now that's what I call a real monkey tail," she said. She slid down and I felt her breath, alternating hot and cold as she first exhaled through open lips and then pursed and blew. Kenny and Jake's inconsequential chatter died away into an interested, and awed, silence. Young Africa really, really liked it and I felt my attention to courteous, considerate driving eroding rapidly. Kirsten's warm, wet mouth appeared round Young Africa's tip and she swirled her tongue around in a way that nearly caused an accident. Unwelcome memories of "The World According to Garp" flooded irresistibly to mind. I pulled over to the shoulder and stopped. Kirsten sat up and looked around. "Are we there already?" she asked. "No, and, unless you behave yourself, we'll never get there." She crowed her crow of laughter again. "Maybe I can play with Kenny and Jake in the meanwhile?" "Yes, yes!" said Kenny. Even Jake smiled. "I've got a better idea," I said, "Who wants to take over the driving?" No one did so I sulked and drove on. Kenny said, "The tour begins with a sample of traditional African beer." He produced his latest commission from the beer hall owner and, as we began the climb into the Valley of the Thousand Hills, we tested its inhibition-lowering properties on Nordic goddesses and Zulu warriors. Much expensive tourist scenery started going past and Kirsten had the grace to admire it. A few beadwork sellers waved their wares from the side of the road but I ignored them: Jake has no commission agreement with them. When we passed the sports club in the gathering twilight I announced, the way we always announce, "That is the site of the famous Battle of Isandhlwana where the proud Zulu nation threw off the colonial yoke". It wasn't and they didn't--although it was a damned good try--but Jake is very hot on sending the tourists away with a sense of achievement. Kirsten was politely interested briefly before returning to the beer. She was clearly more into anthropology than history. We turned off the main road and, as we bumped down the track to the village, we started to sing the homecoming chant in our manly basses. It's very authentic and the tourists love it. Kirsten was enthralled. In the last minutes of daylight, we drew to a halt outside the hut and we switched to a song sung as battle approaches. The next bit always embarrasses me but Jake insists on it. He says we have to give them something to write on their postcards home. We took up our shields and assegais and started a shuffling dance as we chanted and formed around the giggling, uncomprehending Kirsten. She found herself shepherded into the hut between me and Kenny as Jake darted ahead to light the paraffin lamp. It swayed as it hung on the pole and our crazily dancing shadows swooped and swirled around the walls after us as we circled around. We switched from shepherding Kirsten and Kenny moved between her and me, chanting a challenge and stamping. I thrust him aside and moved between him and Kirsten. He snarled and pushed back. It dawned on Kirsten that we were competing for her. Horrified, she backed, wide eyed, against the wall, with the back of her hand pressed to her mouth as we two virile exemplars of young Zulu manhood ran at each other, shouting challenges and slammed our shields together. We shoved at each other and competed to be between Kirsten and our opponent. It was clearly a competition for her sexual favours. The assegais thrust and weaved and tried and failed to find a path around the shields. It's all part of the act of course and the outcome is decided in advance. I was going to get first go at Kirsten, that was settled. After all, it's my minibus taxi. Nevertheless, the spectacle of muscular, half naked warriors working up a sweat fighting for her favours often has a memorably aphrodisiac effect on the Nordic goddess of the moment and that is a good enough reason for doing it. Jake intervened, as he always does, when he judged that there had been enough dangerous waving around of sharp steel. By some mysterious process, it appeared that my might had prevailed and, as I roared my triumph like a rooster on a dung hill, Kenny discarded his shield and assegai. He and Jake each seized Kirsten firmly by a wrist and led her towards the sleeping mat. She had a ready glitter in her eye which might have been lust or a commercial satisfaction that she was about to get her money's worth. She had more than demonstrated her willingness but, as they lowered her onto her back on the sleeping mat, they held her fast by wrist and knee anyway, because the next bit was tricky. They pulled her knees apart and I threw aside my shield and knelt between them, assegai in hand. That's the tricky bit: sometimes they think they're going to be sacrificed to the terrible war god, or something, which distracts them horribly. Kirsten had her moment of doubt, too, and she gasped and pulled back. Jake's hand flashed from her knee to her mouth and he held her firmly down. The assegai point came out, its honed edge a glittering, golden line in the yellow light of the paraffin lamp, and slipped under the bottom edge of her tank top. I held the blade flat against her belly and pushed it up towards her breasts. Her eyes were wide, she squeaked and writhed but Jake and Kenny held her fast. I turned the blade so the upper, rounded edge stretched the fabric up and away from her cringeing, twitching skin and thrust the point out the neck of the garment. I wrenched and it cut through and fell to the mat, leaving her torso golden in the light of the lamp. "Jee!" we all yelled, simultaneously. She jumped nervously, her eyes on the assegai point. It slipped between her breasts, under her bra. Another wrench and it snapped away, exposing her golden, tanned breasts. Her nipples were maroon in the lamplight. Jake and Kenny dipped their heads, each to suckle one. Kirsten's eyes became less round as she began to realise that this was a sexual overture and not ritual slaughter. This realisation seemed to encourage her enormously. Kenny and Jake lifted their heads to give her a good sight of the next stage and her nipples puckered and hardened in the chilling, evening air. Young Africa was pushing aside the monkey tails. Kirsten watched as the assegai point disappeared up her short skirt and trembled as the blade touched her skin and reappeared at her navel. A third wrench destroyed the skirt and exposed her panties and a fourth disposed of them. The crazy yellow lamplight made her blonde bush looked like brass shavings. Kenny, Jake and I made crowing noises of triumph and we started a horrible sound. It starts as a growl and rises into a howl. It's fit to frighten the jackals away and it certainly got her attention. "Uppsala was never like _this_," I hope she was thinking. As we fell silent, I lowered my head between her thighs. I panted hot, animal pants on her leg. She jumped as the tip of my tongue touched her and then held very still. I worked my way up her leg with little lip bites and, when I got to her bush, jumped straight to the other leg, noting the smell of rising excitement as I passed. I worked back, this time with big, swiping, dog licks and again, when I got to her bush, jumped the gap and carried on along the opposite thigh. Young Africa was straining and ready to go. I straightened up and looked down at her, pinned firmly, wrist and shoulder, to the sleeping mat by Kenny and Jake. I gave her a big, happy grin. She smiled and lifted her legs. She placed her heels on my buttocks and pulled me towards her. "Yes..." she said, "yes. Fuck me." I stooped down again and lifted her knees over my shoulders. I placed my open mouth over her mound and licked. She gasped and her pelvis pushed back at my face. I put my hands atop her thighs and pushed down. I opened my mouth as wide as I could and sucked. She rewarded me with a little animal whimper. I backed off and started licking, up and down her slot, big dog licks. She gave little cries, squeaks, every time I passed her clit. I pulled her folds gently apart with my fingertips, pulled back the little hood from her clit and pressed back so it stood out, hard. And waited. Her ankles, at my waist, pulled. Tugged. She was urging me on. I tongued her clit, waggling my tongue side-to-side, fast as I could. She called out, cooing, gasping, gurgling. I straightened up again. Her legs fell aside. As I looked at her, her eyes went to the rampant, tip-gleaming Young Africa, thrusting keenly out amongst the monkey skins. She looked at Kenny and Jake. Their manhood, too, was proudly on display. She reached out, with her fingers, struggling to grasp them. They released her wrists, she licked her thumbs and firmly grasped both their cocks, forefingers around the firemen's helmets and wet thumbs firmly in their faces. Kenny and Jake straightened up instinctively, dreamy looks coming to their eyes. Her eyes returned to me and again I felt her heels nudging at my buttocks. I bent forward and placed my palms flat on the sleeping mat, my fingers burrowed under her shoulders. I probed forward and felt Young Africa touch warm, welcoming wetness. Her calves were clamped at my waist, pulling me on. With a happy growl, I sank into the honey depths as far as I could go. As I did, she wrapped her legs tight about my waist and whispered a fiercely satisfied "Yes!". The legs gripped and held me fast, straining forward into her depths. Her eyes were closed and there was a tight grimace on her face. Jake and Kenny were motionless too. "Oh, boy," she finally said after many long seconds. The grip of her legs loosened gradually and I pulled back as she let me go. Then she squeezed again, drawing me forward and back into her furthest recesses. And relaxed. Back, and down, and back, and down. As I settled into the rhythm she wanted, her legs released me. She put her feet flat to the floor and pushed herself up to meet my thrusting. I was vaguely aware of Jake and Kenny either side of me, moving and gasping and sighing in time with me in the gathering gloom of the guttering lamp. And then Kirsten released them and wrapped her arms tight around me. She held herself to me as close as she could, hanging monkey-like from my torso, resting on the small of her back, being carried back and forth a little with every thrust. She pulled my face down to hers and thrust her tongue into my mouth, making little whimpering noises as I sawed back and forth. Then her head went back and hung as she started making little mewing noises. She was close. Her legs wrapped themselves around my thighs and she started urging me on, faster and faster. I could feel Jake and Kenny's breath. Their hands were on her body, cupping her straining buttocks, her neck, as a long, groaning cry was wrung from her as she came and came and came, convulsing around me, gripping me harder than ever, driving me over the edge, to explode in her and pour and pour and pour my seed into her. She slowly relaxed her arms and lay back on the sleeping mat as I looked down at her, the sweat on her forehead glittering in the lamplight--my beautiful Masai-tourist. Her eyes opened slowly and focussed on me. The mischievous grin slowly constructed itself on her face and she said, "Oboy. Best guided tour I ever went on." Her legs slowly released me and I rolled off, breathing heavily, to lie next to her, one arm across her rib cage, the other snaking under her neck. She cuddled and leaned up and kissed me. "That was great," she said. She looked down at Young Africa. "He seems to have lost interest," she observed. "But," she looked at Jake and Kenny, "there's more business to do here." She crawled over to Jake and gently took his straining cock in her mouth. Her head bobbed up and down as a faraway expression painted itself onto his face. She released him and turned around, on hands and knees, to face away. She looked back over her shoulder at him. "Come, jungle tiger," she said, "take me jungle style." She reached a hand back, took his cock and guided him forward, into her. His hand went to her hips and he pulled her back at him as he thrust himself forward at her. She reached far back behind her to grab his thorax, breast-bobbingly urging him to be faster, harder, and then, when she had him up to speed, beckoned to Kenny. He walked towards her on his knees. She cupped his balls with one hand as he came within her reach and guided his cock into her mouth with the other. She rocked from one to the other as I watched them in the failing lamplight. With a satisfying feeling that my duty had been done I fell into a deep sleep and heard, from far away, the sounds of Jake and Kenny servicing the tourist industry in their turn. I slowly woke in the morning to the realisation of bright sunlight. Shit! The ship was leaving. What was the time? No watches are included in traditional tribal gear nor clocks in authentic native villages. I blundered over the sleeping bodies to get to the clock in the minibus. We just about had time. I ran back inside, kicking at Jake and Kenny. "Her damned ship's leaving," I said. They scrambled up. Kirsten was awakening slowly. She stretched happily and the mischievous grin came out to say, "Good morning". "Hullo, big boys," she said, "and what's next on the guided tour? Do we get breakfast?" Well, for the record, we don't, but what I said was, "We're going to be late for your ship." She gasped in horror and looked about for her clothes. Not a hope: they were history. "Get in the 'bus," I said. "But I have no clothes," she wailed. "What am I going to do?" "Get in the 'bus," I said, "Now. Unless you want to swim after your ship." Jake and Kenny grabbed and hustled her, naked and squeaking indignantly, out into the morning where a few interested villagers got an eyeful. I revved up the bus and we bumped up the rutted track towards the main road. "The tour of the authentic native village concludes," said Jake, loudly enough to invade Kirsten's distress, "with the award to each of the ladies on the tour a set of traditional native dress." He produced the skirt, the hat and the blanket and Kirsten was restored to dignity as I exceeded the speed limit back to the Durban dock. We could hear the warning blasts from the ship as we got near. They were ready to pull up the gang plank and sail on to Port Elizabeth to give the Nordic goddesses a chance to found out what the young Xhosa men have to offer. I stopped by the sidewalk to let Jake out before I drove round to park the minibus. He ran off to the lockup and brought my ricksha round to meet us in the car park. We lifted Kirsten in and pulled her, full speed, up the wharf to her ship, leaping up, tipping her backwards, yelling "Jee!", the whole trip. They saw us coming and waited. When we got to the foot of the gang plank, Jake grabbed Kirsten's bag and Kenny and I grabbed Kirsten and carried her raucously up to the top at the run as she screamed with laughter. A sour-faced purser was waiting to block us from getting on the boat. He knew exactly what was going on, of course. He was just jealous, as well he might be. Oh, well, our services create a demand for his. Ours are more fun, is all. We got big farewell hugs and kisses all round from Kirsten. "I'm going to tell all my friends at home about you," she said. So that was all right. She went off in a happy daze and her new native blanket to get her passport stamped and the purser ushered us firmly down the gang plank. At the bottom, the Chamber of Commerce rent-a-cop was waiting to make us put on those damned running shorts. Oh, and by the way, there are no tigers here, or jungles. It didn't seem right to point that out at the time, though.