La Discoteque

The village discoteque is where it's at Samdi (sat.) night - modern, vibrant, up-and-coming Africa at her finest. Supposedly this club, Bistango, was the private club of former pres. Conde, who's from this small hamlet of Dubreka. Hence all the paved roads, and the water that ran freely from pipes once upon a time (Conde is no longer with us). 
This nights outting is the result of the motivation and urging by my host sister Kodjatu.  I think the politics in the family are that if I want to go out, she can go out too, so I am 'the excuse' for the night, but I'm alright with this.  Kodjatu, aka Nanafuta aka 24yrs old, spunky and is in a  really flashy, short, tight, pink dress with glitter down the front.  Next to her I feel underdressed in my peace corps issued jeans and tank top, but, I figured I was dressing for a village bar, not a night out to the 'village big time.' Also, I attract enough attention as it is.  Thus said, when we arrive round 11pm, I am completely outdone by all the uberly-stylish women and girls in the club who obviously got the dress-to-impress memo (not quite sure what the age limit here is, or if there is one).
We enter the club and are affronted with a haze of sweaty hot air - ugh, no 'current' tonight, therefor no AC.  How can you have an inside dancing venue in Africa with no AC - hotbox! Couldn't you have made it 'covered'?! Maybe its someone's sick idea of a weightloss,  sweat to cleanse program. Haha. Nevertheless, I'm here so I set about checking the scene.
The disco dots are in full effect. I plop down on one of the plush, gaudy couches with Nanafuta and watch the dancing action. Infectious polyrhythems and beats are being pumped out; I can't help but join in. The dj switches from Guinean music, to Ivorian, and even some songs in english (where he's gotten these ones from I have no idea, never heard them before).  The tunes are all upbeat and fastmoving, but the dj keeps cutting the beats haphazardly to speak over the song, or switch tracks - party killer.  People ask me if I'm tired because I stop dancing when he does this - well, how can one dance without a steady beat? Stop doing shout-outs and play! - my messege to the village DJ (who I've heard comes to Dubreka every weekend from Conakry, as if this means he's good. But well, his work speaks for itself). Nevertheless, I enjoy checking out all the different dancing styles, and Nanafuta gets a kick out of seeing me on the dancefloor - I take pride in shattering the widely held belief here that white people can't dance. 
Beers here at discoteque Bistango are half the price of a coke, and cheaper than water so I make the economic decision.  I sit down again and survey the crowd, so many beautiful ladies and mostly unattractive guys - hum, isn't that the case the worldover (hey, I can play critic here).  Still most everyone is dancing, sweating, getting their saturday night groove on till 6am sunday morning. 
I go outside for air and see that the rain has finally come.  I greatfully soak in the cool and get pulled into conversation by a few guys hanging around the door.  One is from the local art school and the other's the bouncer.  They both confess their love for me, and their desire for marraige, true to west african standards (yes, the vast majority of men here will propose within the first 3minutes). I go back inside to dance to avoid having to respond sarcastically to any more of their unrealistic requests.
A few Ras guys come in.  I'm guessing their from the art school too. The Ras lifestle and guys with dreads are not looked upon favorably in west africa, as one might assume the otherwise.  Most west african men have shaved heads - either because they're Muslim or they're trying to beat the heat.
Well, its now 2am and my feet are threatening to stop working.  I know Nanafuta wants to stay but if I stay any longer I'm going to be catatonic and cronicly dehydrated tomorrow.  I get a ride in someone's small red car, and have to cover for Nanafuta (who's going to stay out all night) when all my banging on the door is finally heard by my not-happy-to-be-woken-up host mom. She's all questions and I spit a quick response out, politly, and then hurry to my room.  I'm like an african high schooler making up late night excuses.  (*note, i still have to open the sqeeky door to her bedroom and go in to brush my teeth, since i am sharing the house bathroom with her, which happens to be in her bedroom ! I would just go outside an do this, but she puts a pretty serious bolt on the door at night and hides the key from me.  oh, the joys of host family life)