Fly Me To The Moon

The café was dimly lit and stuffy, smelling of beer, tobacco and unwashed bodies. Ceiling fans revolved slowly in the smoky air. Many of the fan=s paddles had rusted or rotted away, leaving spindly rods rotating uselessly, occasionally dropping blobs of grease on the tables or patrons. No one seemed to care. This café was the only place where one was likely to run into Europeans, such as there were who washed up in Bobodialasso, usually as bad off as me, or worse. I noticed Klaus sitting at a table with many empty pombe bottles, an overflowing ashtray, and the sticky remains of many crushed insects. I had spoken to Klaus a few times before, but did not care for him. Klaus beckoned for me to join him, and with a sense of foreboding I picked up my pombe bottle from the bar and walked over.