Saturday night’s party was great: bring and share nosh at the conspicuously luxuriou home of someone who works for DFID (so, as someone else noted, my taxes pay for it!). Just when I thought I’d had a good time, folk decided we should go out to a nightclub. We piled in the back of a Land Cruiser and off we went, bumpity bump, accross town to the club most people had suggested. When we got there:
“Oh not **this** place, it’s crap!” said the driver.
Off we went again, bumpity bump, to the driver’s favourite club.
I’d not voted for any of these clubs. I was all for being dropped off at somenoe’s house with a spare bed and getting an early night. Next thing I knew, after the percussive ride in the back — not the back seat, the **back** — of the Land Cruiser, I was paying 200 bob to get into Florida (site possibly not suitable for viewing at work!).
Now from what I’ve heard most clubs where Mzungu men go are frequented by Kenyan women of negotiable affections. It was standing room only in Florida, the pros are very beautiful and very forward. I found it hard to relax as it was difficult to look **anywhere** without getting eye contact with them.
Finally I was convinced to join our party on the dance floor. It was Freddy’s birthday and he was having a great time gyrating in the middle. Elsewhere on the floor beautiful girls polished the groins of middle-aged men with their bums. But once I was dancing myself, and therefore not trying to work out what to do with my gaze, it was, in fact, quite nice to be in the middle of it all. It didn’t always feel like business. Many of the girls were just having a good time on the dance-floor. But they were clearly pros: theiur attire was enticing enough to identify them as different from the majority of Kenyan women (think ‘frumpy’) but not predictable like the slutty uniforms of professionals in Leicester, Bradford, etc.
No photos of the wildlife on this safari, I’m afraid; you’ll have to come and experience it for yourselves.