We discoed last night.  I’m heading to Arusha in northern Tanzania to take a break, do some work, and then travel a bit before coming back to gawk at more baboons.  But my flight isn’t for two days, so, in the interim, we must party, Tanzania-style.

There are several discos in town.  We chose the swankiest, open every Friday and Saturday at the posh Lake Tanganyika Hotel, which, in a moment of genius entrepreneurship to make up for a lull in business (Air Tanzania has temporarily ceased to exist (bankruptcy, broken planes…no one seems to be sure) and thus flights bringing wazungu tourists have been scant) opted to risk angry guests by inviting most of Kigoma to come skank it out on their dance floor every weekend.  John, an American volunteer for the Jane Goodall Institute here in Kiogma, and I arrived at 10:30 — early — and took up residence in some damp pool chairs to people watch.  We sipped local beers with fanciful names (Kilimanjaro, Serengeti, Tusker) and marveled at the dance moves and outfits on display.  I was particularly amazed by the scantily clad women, especially in a culture that requires my legs, out of propriety, to be covered at least to mid-calf (keeping them pasty, pasty white).  Apparently, these social norms do not hold sway on disco night.  Or most of the women were prostitutes (I am only half-joking when I say that).

Eventually, John and I joined the fray.  The music, which began with catchy but unknown (at least to me) American hip-hop, transitioned to Swahanglish grinding music, and then eventually settled on oddly-rhythmed Congolese rap/hip-hop.  We bounced and jived with great abandon, trying out moves we would have been bashful about in the U.S., but everyone around us was either too drunk or too fixated on being Michael Jackson to care.  John, being male and white, was assumed to be my boyfriend or husband, which, for the most part, kept me from being grabbed and whipped around by stumbling Tanzanian men.  He informed one man who wanted to join us that I was his wife and the man responded by dancing and gyrating right next to me for several minutes, a loopy grin on his face while he jiggled his elbows and fists in the air.  Another man approached us several times to give us a “pound” high-fives.  At one point, I beelined to the DJ in order to request some Michael Jackson (inspired by those dancing around me) and was informed with a pleasant smile that that simply wasn’t possible.  John and I danced more.  We were having fun.

Several times I had to make my way to the ladies room, where each time I encountered buxom Tanzanian women in tiny little backless dresses, travelling in herds, and I couldn’t help but feel I was back at Kat Man Du, the only night club in New Jersey within 45 minutes of Peddie (the boarding school where I used to work).  Invariably, they stared at me.  Sometimes they made a comment or greeted me.  One woman, listing to the left slightly, playfully pretended to box me in the face.  In the bathroom, none of the women locked the stalls, leading me to play an unpleasant game of “What’s Behind Door Number One”, but they primped in front of the mirror like girls at every bar I’ve ever been to.

We danced until late, taking a couple breaks, during which we met a Dutch man who worked for the power company.  He proudly proclaimed that he had a Tanzanian girlfriend, that he’d been in Tanzania for over four years, and that he didn’t really speak Swahili.  He then told us there would be a power outage tomorrow around noon (it happened around 9 AM), due to a lack of petrol.  We were also regaled with stories of girls who hovered around one of our coworkers, most of whom, we were informed, had “the virus.”

And then we got tired and wandered home under a full moon, arriving a little before 3 AM and decided to make scrambled eggs because John has the good fortune of living in Jane Goodall’s house (since she’s not there) where there is a bonafide stove.  We added tomatoes and weird processed cheese I had purchased in town and then I went to bed in Jane Goodall’s guest room, snuggled under a mosquito net, while disco music continued to pump into the night.