Ghanga?

I'm tired, sweaty, and confused as I walk over one of the many bridges crossing the Seine. Fuck. I need to get to the airport shuttle station in the next 15 minutes if I'm going to make my flight. I'm pretty sure I'm going the right way, but I'm not be totally sure.

In the sweltering heat, I pull out my map and unfold it, laying it out on the railing on the bridge. As I'm in looking over the map, a local Parisian strolls up. "Hello! Where are you trying going to now? Can help?"

Well would you look at that. A friendly local trying to help a brotha out. "Airport shuttle? Do you know what it is?"

"Oh!" He points. "Just over there!"

Oh thank god. I'm only a couple minutes away. I'm gonna make it.

"Thank you so much man, I appreciate it!"

"No worries, no worries!" The local begins to laugh, rather loudly and awkwardly. I join him laughing, trying to be nice, when all of a sudden...

"Ghanga?"

I stop laughing. "What?"

The man becomes straight-faced as shit. "Ghanga?!", he says intensely and solemnly.

"Uhhhhh... well, I mean, yes, I smoke, but I'm about to get on a plane, and they will security check me and find it. No thank you." He doesn't understand. I try again, using hand signals and facial expressions. Now he gets it.

"Well, well, well, well, well, well... OK OK!" The man strolls off down the bridge, laughing.

I made the plane, and now I'm in Prague.