George, unable to find sleep, decided to look for a dandy. He changed into a light t-shirt and some khaki shorts and made his way back downstairs towards a reception that was vibrant with the light of day.
'I thought you were resting,' a surprised Pierre said to George when he saw him approach. He motioned that he would presently rise from the sofa, placing the laptop that had been on his lap on the table in front of him, but George waved him back down. He sat on the armchair adjacent.
'No. No. I can't rest, nor am I tired. Listen, Pierre. Do you know where I can find a dandy?'
'A what?'
'A dandy. Them guys that wear colourful suits.'
There was a pause as Pierre thought of the possibilities until he exclaimed:
'Oh, yes, les sapeurs! Yes. I know many of them. Plenty. Ceux qui sapent!' he boomed.
'I want to take a picture with one or two of them. Where can I find the most?'
'You can find them everywhere in the city. Come, you know what. I'll show you to them.'
'Really?' George beamed. 'Thank you. I'm indebted to you.'
'Come then.'
Both of them rose from the aquamarine furniture. Pierre headed to the receptionist, said a few words to her, handing over the laptop and turned back around. He then pressed his hat down on his head like there would be strong winds ahead and walked out of the hotel with George in tow.
The sun was waxing hot and penetrative which mixed well with the decorative trees that various buildings around them had. The glare made it look picturesque.
'Let's take a car,' the tall, debonair Pierre said to George as he stopped abruptly. He looked down at him and added: 'You're not used to the sun yet and besides, you're not wearing a hat.'
George ruffled his hair which was a dark blonde compared to his moustache, which was light blonde and moistened by sweat.
'Maybe I can buy one on the way.'
'Excellent,' beamed Pierre, happy for the local artisan who would receive foreign money.
'By the way,' George said as he entered a black SUV. 'Is this a tourist area?'
He had seen a white couple enter one of the buildings that had palm trees around it.
'I think they might be one of your competitors,' Pierre answered. 'Russian maybe. There are a lot of hotels here rented out by the olympic committee. How many countries compete in this...competition?'
'I don't know the total number but I'm sure the Russians are one of them.'
'Ah. Of course they are,' he said musingly. 'I thought they might be.'
They drove out of the area glutted with hotels into an area where no one would be mistaken for a Russian, a decidedly local area with simple shops that had its owners lounging in front of their establishments eyeing and greeting those that crossed them. These establishments, like most in this city, were not tall. The tallest things that were visible were mountains, curious mountains, mountains that were tall but didn't seem much taller than the one or two story buildings around them because the city was built on high ground. Mountains that had forests at their feet, thick green foliage sprouting granite, mountains with vapours at their peaks, seemingly drawing the rest of the mist lingering in the city to add to its crown of sky's obstruction. This mist also seemed to have been a shield against the sun for as the mist was receding, the heat was increasing, and George, looking at the mountains, thinking of the dandies, started to experience a sweet, eye watering languor. Lazily, he felt the car cruising over the flat earth. The road had no dips or blemishes, going neither up nor down, and seemingly was on its way to being covered with asphalt. The car slowed and Pierre rolled the windows down further to speak to a woman who was walking in the opposite direction. She was a woman in her thirties wearing one of the Olympic t-shirts, one that hugged the figure because it was a size too small for her. Her mouth opened slightly in recognition as the car pulled up on the curbless road.
'Madame,' Pierre said in a loud voice, smiling a knowing smile. They spoke to each other in French. 'Ça va? I'm looking for les messieurs. Have you seen them?'
The woman looked at Pierre with a peculiar look and George recognised it instantly. All the years he had spent on earth allowed George to recognise a smitten woman when he saw one. Pierre recognised the same thing and his smile became warmer.
'Madame?'
'They are at the farm,' she said in a surprisingly sharp voice. 'I saw three of them already walking towards it just now,' she added waving behind her.
When she finished speaking her look again drew the attention. This time censure to draw him in was clearly expressed.
'No, no, sweetheart. It's over for you,' Pierre said to himself, still smiling a warm and increasingly satisfied smile. 'You had your chance, but that's done now, ca y est, even with your ivresse...ca y est.'
''Je vous remercie,' Pierre said to the woman while moving closer. 'Did you lose weight? You look good...' The woman's eyes enlarged as Pierre slid back in the car, turning towards George as they set off once more. 'Well, friend. Looks like you're in for a treat for we have come upon a migration.'
Pierre was beaming now not so much from finding what they were looking for as from masculine pride. He felt desired.
'What do you mean by migration?' George asked, politely making no mention of the affairs of men and women he was just a moment ago witness to. 'Are they leaving to go somewhere?'
'There is a farm not too far from here. A farm intrinsic to the sapeur. In fact, I doubt that without farms like this they could even exist.'
'What kind of farm is it?'
'We're close by. You'll see it now.'
The density of buildings had already decreased to the point where there were double digit metres between buildings. The greenery had increased as they had driven towards the mountains and the forest when Pierre made a sharp turn. The road wasn't as smooth anymore and it felt that the car had to use more horsepower to move forward. This caused George to snap out of his languor.
'What kind of farm was it, did you say?' George asked again nervously. They entered a large area with an enclosure encircled by flat metal. Within it was a descending slope of darker earth and a moistness which prickled the tongue. Not far from this enclosure was a light ochre coloured building, single story. Pierre abruptly stopped his car closer to the enclosure than the building.
'Come out and see,' Pierre said as he stepped out of the car.
George did as he was bidden and joined Pierre as he walked towards the open gates of the enclosure, towards the sloping earth. He started to feel a thickness in the air just as he started to smell a curious scent which once he recognised it made him marvel.
'Is there water around here? I didn't realise we were so close to the river.' Even as he said this he realised that it wasn't the river for the moistness felt stranger, dirtier. He felt like he was in a bubble whereas the experience of a river or an ocean was more like liberation.
'No, it's not a river. But there is water here,' said Pierre as he stopped on the ledge of the slope just before it started to descend.
George stood next to Pierre as they both looked down the slope. This was a slope that descended softly, without sharp vertical drops until you got to the centre. At the centre of the slope a manmade basin had been created; a little grove that had the water the air reeked of; an olive coloured water whose olive colour had been given to it by the crocodiles crowding within it. Most of them were static, lounging in the metal basin while the others, not fancying the crowd in the basin, shuffled side to side, and took sips from the water that they for the moment didn't want to bathe in.
Watching the crocodiles and talking in soft voices were a group of people dressed in immaculate suits of various colours.
'What?' stammered George as he looked at the quiescent animals. 'A crocodile farm?'
'Not me. This isn't my farm. It belongs to that guy in the white with the silver cane.'
Only now did George notice the men in the suits, the dandies he had been looking for. The thought of crocodiles around him, relatively small that they were, domesticated or not, left his mind. He felt in his inside pocket for his phone and pulled it out.
'Can we go?' he asked Pierre timidly, like a child with happiness close at hand.
Pierre smiled his most indulgent smile.
'Naturally.'
With careful steps along the hard earth that softened as they went closer to the little basin they made their way to the immaculate group. The men had already noticed them and watched them approach.
'Salut mes amis!' Pierre called out, and a couple crocodiles lifted their heads languidly to look upon the person who made the loud noise.
'Shh! Don't wake the baby,' one of the dandies warned. He was dressed in indigo blue, with a purple and yellow hat on and looking upon him George could have wept for joy.
'Which one?' Pierre asked with good humour.
'That one,' he pointed out, exposing an emerald bracelet. 'They all just ate.'
The crocodile he was pointing at looked like everyone else.
'Ah I see. The baby.'
There is no better way to be social while not having anything witty to say than to repeat what has just been said to you. Pierre regularly made use of this device and if you asked him it was very useful.
'Who is this you brought, Pierre,' another dandy wearing a red and black suit asked. He was also wearing gators. 'Is he from the committee, the Olympic committee?'
Everyone turned to a nonplussed but smiling George who had been looking on as the Congolese had been speaking in French. Pierre turned from George to the immaculate men.
'No. He's from one of the teams. His niece is one of the athletes.'
'Oh ? What was the sport they do?'
'They play around with a horse and make it dance.'
'Animals? As in sport, in the Olympics?'
A croc separated itself from the crowd around the basin to move a little closer to the men.
'Can anyone enter animals? I got money on a croc beating a horse in everything but a race.'
Pierre's eyes sparkled like he was asked a great question. He posed the question to George who was shaking with agitation. The question however settled him somewhat.
'Crocodiles in the Olympics? How?'
'What is the criteria for animals to be included in the Olympics? Why a horse exactly?'
'Why a horse?' George was befuddled. 'But it has nothing to do with a horse. It's the human riding it and dancing.'
Pierre duly translated.
'All of us are riding crocs right now,' the indigo blue dandy said, lifting his foot towards the crocodile that was perilously close to the group now. 'And I'll be damned if a horse can dance better than me.'
'Fine by me,' George said, getting a little red. 'I'd love to see you dance as an Olympic sport.'
'Maybe soon,' Pierre said musingly. 'Once the Russians get onto that maybe. We have to wait for the Russians...but sapeurs, my friend here is present to take pictures.
'Pictures of what?' the man in the white suit said, clutching his silver cane. 'The crocs?'
Everyone stiffened like they were under threat.
'No. Of you.'
They all relaxed. The croc was standing there with his mouth open, drying the tongue wet with olive water. The man in white suddenly lifted his cane and jammed it in the croc's skull. There was a momentary suspension of movement that was unbroken until the croc started to jerk rapidly with its nether regions.
'How about like this?' the dandy said, with a questioning look, holding the cane with a strong grip to make it stop moving.
'The real Congo,' mumbled George as the silver cane was slowly changing colour from the blood trying to burst through the hole it was resting in. 'I'm so happy.'
