Big Tanzanian Dance Party

When I'm traveling in dodgy places - and these days that's just about always - I like to abide by a few self-imposed ground rules:

1. The tap water is probably not potable. So drink beer.
2. Always travel with the locals. Let no bus, car or boat be too sketchy.
3. The grungier the restaurant, the better the food.
4. Don't arrive in a brand new town after dark.
5. When locals ask you to hang out with them, go. But keep in mind that you'll probably be footing the bill.

To get to Mbeya, Tanzania from where I was staying in Malawi, I had to do the following: 10km walk. Wait. 2 hours in the back of a pickup. Wait. 1 hour in a minibus. Cross border. 2km walk. Wait. 1 hour in a minibus. Wait. 1 hour in a bus.
Add it all up, and you'll not be astonished to discover than I ended up violating Rule #4.

The nighttime can be scary in Africa. Exit the sun, and all the good people are gone: disappeared into their dwellings, replaced by the macabre. Whereas the daylight brings laughing children, clucking ladies and charming old rastas, the darkness unleashes the wolves. The streets fill with phantoms, ruffians, thugs. Smiles turn into scowls, music to silence, the pitter-patter of kids to the menacing footsteps of prowlers.

So what invariably ends up happening when I rock up in a new town at night is that I sleep in the first place I can get. It often means I pay too much, usually for lousy facilities. Beats walking around in the gloom with all your valuables, though.

Mbeya was no exception. From the bus station, I stole across the street towards a hotel I spotted, quickly mind you because several street urchins were already making inroads on me. I swear these ghouls have Mazungu Radar. I paid an African fortune to drop my bad in a dilapidated room with prisonesque decor and a mosquito net with holes the size of my fist. I then proceeded back out to the shadowy street to find some nourishment - preferably of the sudsy liquid variety.

Within 20 seconds I heard "Hey! Friend!" and a young dreadlocked man was bounding down the stairs toward me. "You hungry? Come eat with us!"
Rule #5: say yes. I am, of course, proceeding with caution at this point, but the guy had a disarming personality and knew a good place for chicken and chips and beer.
Though "come eat with us" sounds like the offering of a complementary meal, what it really means is "come pay to eat at my brother's restaurant". But I didn't fuss; the food was toothsome, the beer cold and I got to sit and banter with some resident Mbeyans. The man who flagged me down was called Elly, though in Swahili 'L' and 'R' are interchangeable, so sometimes he was Elly and other times Erry.

After dinner I excused myself, the soft pillow at my nearby hotel beckoning my sleepy head. Didn't make it out the door, though, before:
"Mike! Where you go? It's Sunday! Tonight we dance!"

Damn you, Rule #5, you'll be the death of me. I acceded, and soon I was on the heels of Elly/Erry as he led me to some backwater dance club that was so far up an unlit street, Sherlock Holmes would have had trouble locating it.

In we went, and I instantly froze. Upwards of 50 black faces were pointed at me, frozen in bewilderment. For a second I wondered why, before reality struck: I'm white.
At this point, you have two choices. You can utter something to the effect of "Uh, don't mind me, just here to check the meter..." and shuffle out, or you can throw yourself headlong into the thick of it with reckless abandon.
And that's precisely what I did. I hit the dance floor like a splash of porcelain paint hitting the hood of a jet-black Corvette. I got down. Laid the cut straight. Kept it real. Rolled with the homies. Shook my ass. Watched myself. Hell, I started having such a good time that I even outlasted (Ell/Err)y, who decided he'd had enough after only about 3 hours. He went home and left me to my own devices.

Brave Mazungus actually get a fair bit of respect here. Once the locals get over the initial shock of seeing you in their establishment, they become very welcoming. The whole night I had guys coming up to me, shaking my hand and telling me they we're pleased I'd stopped by. I even had a few ladies come up to bust a move or two, though most of them had bums so big that I just ended up being bounced around the dance floor like a human pinball. At times, I felt like I was in a 50 Cent video and couldn't get out.

But... eventually the DJ stopped the hooks and we all had to go home. Sweaty and exhausted, I slunk into my bed and slept in my shoes.

Go dancing at the rocar bal in Aflica. You'rr have a learry gleat time.