“Why would you go into the bush at this time of night?” the local head of the UN peace-keeping security task force asked Birame as he and Estelle discussed where we could eat at 10pm in this small town. We were sitting on the terrace, drinking flagettes, at their favorite local (and I would say expat) restaurant. This was my second time coming here, since we also came last weekend. The hermitage is a real restaurant and hotel, and not a shack on a dirt road. There were cocktails on the menu, and when DRC people come to Duékoué, they stay here.
Despite the fact that we didn’t end up finding any place that was safe to eat tonight, it was a crazy night. We had some drinks with a group of UN and UNOCI guys, which was an adventure in itself. Again, the stories they can tell you, about experiences working in different countries, different political situations, and different criminals, could be the basis of a new US television series. I think it’s the nonchalant way they talk about it, like it’s all so commonplace, that strikes me.
After our unsuccessful attempts to find food, we hooked up with more NGO guys and went to the same nightclub, or discothèque we went last Saturday. I’m beginning to see a pattern here. But I’ll never forget how we got there. We all drove together on flooded mud paths in the monsoon rain (it’s rainy season here), in a long line of giant UN and NGO SUVs. You know, like the ones you see on CNN. Apparently everyone working at a UN agency here gets their very own a large white SUV with “UN” in gigantic black letters on the side of it, so there were several UN vehicles. I’m thinking that the UN doesn’t believe in the carpool lane. People walking on the street stared at our ostentatious parade. We were on a mission…to dance. DRC was well protected in the middle of the chain, so we were laughing our asses off, about this freaking UN convoy to a discothèque in the middle of nowhere.
We went again to one of the three large discothèques in the town. It is off a dirt road, but surprisingly pretty fancy. There is posh furniture, a well-stocked bar and cool disco lights, but no running water most of the time. The music is mostly French-African, so last weekend I had a hard time getting into it, but this time, I really felt it. People, even men, love to dance here, especially everyone we were with, so it was truly a fantastic time. There’s sort of a regular crowd, so I guess now people are recognizing me. Last weekend, the entire club was staring at me on the dance floor, and that sucked. I’m pretty sure I heard people saying, “look at the Chinese, dancing” in French of course, which majorly irks me. But we were with a much bigger group this time, and these UN guys are mostly African (and thus are awesome dancers), so I felt right at home.
I have to admit I was excited to finally meet my first European expat in Duékoué. I was getting lonely being the only “la blanche” in the area. (That has apparently become my name in the neighborhood, and the kids yell that every time I jog by.) He was a new program director at another NGO that we frequently partner with. We basically implement most of UNHCR’s progams in the area. He was French of course, but had come from Yemen, and just like me he has only been here 2 weeks. An exuberant and friendly guy, I couldn’t help remarking that he was so so fun to dance with, but hilarious to watch. I apologize for the generalization but I have found this to be true of most of the white guys I have danced with in my medium-sized research sample. And, I just have to say it, white guys seem to be missing an internal rhythm and some sort of dancing gene. This is all the more apparent when you have 1 white guy in a room full of Africans.
We all danced late into the morning, until the usual electricity problems began occurring again. Tonight, the whole place when dark and mute 7 or 8 times. Then around 4am the electricity did not come back on. It was crazy because as the night went on, the crowd got rowdier and rowdier every time the power went out. People were singing at the top of their lungs, bangs on tables like drums and flashing their cell phones like candles.
