The part of Toswania we're in (in this continuing mission) is called Porto Macio Torneira, which, so I'm told, means port of dead hens, but the over-moustachioed customs guy had a shifty smile when he told me, so I think that's bollocks. Particularly as this city is completely land-locked, and surrounded by the kind of jungle lazy travel writers call impenetrable, and I will therefore call impenetrable.
The airport, on the outskirts, was once a major railway marshalling yard, and there are many abandoned diesel engines rusting in poisonous weeds - iron and vine islands in the flat acres of indifferently maintained concrete.
The air is close packed and humid, like breathing with a hot damp cloth held an inch from your face.
And it smells of pepper, rotting fruit and petrol fumes.
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