Capital Night Out

Kampala, capital of Uganda. For those of you who know, it's La Paz on steroids. For those of you who don't, it's difficult to describe; standard descriptive words for cities such as "bustling", "hectic" and "choked" are far too generic and overused to apply. Kampala is all of that and more. Here's one night out.

00:07

Time to go out. Mario and I have been hanging out in the hotel for the last few hours, talking and having dinner. A quick cold shower and we're ready to go. Jeans, T-shirt, shoes (no sandals tonight, we're going upmarket). We walk down the four flights of stairs of Pacific Inn and out to the street, where there's no power and no light, just typical.

"Let's walk in the middle of the street, there's more light," Mario suggests.

"Yeah, and less garbage, potholes, puddles, and sleeping bodies to step over," I add.

Once we get to the main street, the night comes alive, despite the late hour and power cut. Traffic and pedestrians mill about, while salespeople sell bread from parked vans and display snacks, candy, cigarettes, and condoms from blankets on the sidewalk, their wares lit by candles.

Just a block away we find a cluster of boda-bodas, small motorcycle taxis that can squeeze one or two passengers onto a colorful, cushioned seat.

"Hey, how's it going?" I address one.

"Ahh, good evening bahs, to whea?" he responds in his quaint African accent.

"We go to Silk, you know it?"

"Sil....? Sik? Uhhh....Ahh! Silkee, yes I know eet."

"How much?"

"Two-five." (That's 2,500 Ugandan Shillings, or $1.25)

"Ahhh, come on, how about one-five?"

"OK, bring two and we go."

The three of us zoom away, the bike's motor buzzing like an overstressed lawnmower. It's a bumpy ride, especially in the roundabouts, where heavy traffic has made a lava field out of the asphalt. It's also a bit of a rush - three of us on a little bike zooming through the unlit city with no traffic lights, no evidence of traffic laws, and plenty of traffic.

He drops us off a couple blocks from the disco; boda-bodas aren't supposed to run at night, and the clubbing area is one of very few that sometimes has a police presence. The street, 1st Street, is busy with clubbers, as Kampala's two most important discos - Silk and Ange Noir - are located only a block apart on the same street.

00:43

We approach a metal detector that looks like a wooden bluff. The gorilla-chested doorman receives us and asks,

"You want to entah?"

"Yes, of course we want to enter," answers Mario.

"But here is just niggahs, you should go to VIP," he motions to a separate entrance that we hadn't seen. "There is another level, other people, nice people."

Mario looks back at me with amusement.

"So Derek, you want to enter here? There are just niggers."

Chuckling, we go on to the ticket counter.

"OK, but I'm telling you, you should go to VIP level," the doorman says after us.

The motivation is obvious: VIP costs more, we're white, so we must have more money to spend on the club. At the ticket counter, they convince us to go VIP by giving a discount and the freedom to move freely between the two levels.

(Note: for those of you who found the above language offensive, think again. Africans are very open and tolerant about speech and behavior. The word is used regularly with no offense intended.)

We walk up to the VIP room through a gaudy, mirrored hall that makes us feel rich and special. Everything's top-notch: nice sound system, plush lounge areas, wooden dance floors, fantastic disco lighting, clean, organized, and completely boring. Apparently, it's a bit too special for all but a handful of people.

01:16

We go sub-level. It's packed, hopping, and full of fun. The music is mostly hip-hop and R&B: Shaggy, Sean Paul, Snoop Dogg, Eminem, among others, and a host of African artists. Most people are packed onto the dance floor and any other space large enough to move in. Clothing is typical city-going African style: jeans and nice long-sleeved shirts or blouses for youth, and business suits for the older crowd. Some sport shades, caps, and enormous medallions hanging from equally huge chains. One such rapper has Bugs Bunny on his jeans.

We go to the bar for a drink, and within a minute we find our first friend. It's very easy to find friends when you go out here, all you have to do is be white, and therefore look like you have money. With very few exceptions, such quickly-acquired friends are only in search of a free drink. This one was no exception.

"Hello! Welcome, welcome! Welcome in Uganda! I am happy to see you heah, I am James."

"Ohhh, thank you, thank you. I'm Frank."

"OK! Good, welcome, you are most welcome! You are from wheah?"

"USA and Germany."

"Oh, I love States and German. I don't know why, but I love them. I want to go theah someday."

More artificial chit-chat ensues, then when I tell him I'm going to the bar for another drink, he makes his pitch.

"Oh, Ok, I go with you, we can buy one togethah."

I ignore his request.

"And me, you don't buy one for me?"

"Sorry man."

He's gone within five seconds, never to be seen or heard again - short and sweet.

Sometime Around 0200-0400

A pool table holds the interest of a sizable group, some just watching, others waiting for their turn. We play a few games. Here, the winner holds the table and a challenger pays for the next game. If that challenger deposes the champ, he gets to hold the table and play for free until another challenger takes the prize. The guys here are good, so we don't get to play much.

Africans have a wonderful, contagious spontaneity that makes any group of them lively and entertaining. The pool players never forget where they are; whether a brief trip to the dance floor between turns, or a few moves between shots, they always combine dancing with pool, often using the cue stick as a dance partner.

I ask another pool spectator how much he paid for his drink.

"I don't know, something like three or four thousand."

"Oh, well I just wanted to know because they always try to overcharge me because I'm white." (Not a joke).

"What? Really?!"

"Yeah, all the time." (Not a joke.)

"Ohhh, sorry, sorry! I am very ashamed!"

"Ahh, don't worry about it."

"No, that is not good!"

With my faith in the overall goodness of humanity partially restored, we return upstairs to see how the VIP section is going. The situation has improved a lot, so we get on the dance floor for a while. A couple guys approach and start dancing with us. Weird? Gay? Hardly. Perfectly normal here. Unlike our first friend, these guys are dancing buddies, they just want to move, and it's always more fun to dance with others. Guys here really get into it. If there's no girl to dance with, they'll dance with each other as if they were a couple, with no homosexual overtones whatsoever. Our dancing buddies actually invite me to a beer - it's happened a precious few times in Africa, and it always lifts my spirits.

Sometime Around 04:00-06:00

The top level is dying out, so we go back downstairs. After some more pool, we move to the dance floor. By this hour, most of the people left on the dance floor are really into it, which is great fun. People hop this way and that, exchanging dance partners and moves. Some guys battle, challenging and pushing each other to show their best. Everyone does his or her own thing without any regard to whether it's ridiculous, funny, sleek, cool, childish, or whatever. And, in turn, everyone respects everyone else's interpretation. It's a fantastic and simple notion that I've found to be refreshingly abundant here, in comparison with other continents where most people are overly concerned about the image their peers may have of them.

Back on a boda-boda, we cut through the crisp, pre-dawn air and stop at another club near our hotel, Sax Pub. A budget-level bar, restaurant, pool hall, disco and hooker joint all in one, it has free entry and is a far more typical African nightlife destination. Packed like a sardine can, and not much bigger, it's impossible to dance without pressing against at least two other people. Regardless, everyone gets along and has a good time. Well, mostly. Fights break out nightly, but are generally quickly subdued and forgotten.

07:21

The sun is up and is our cue to walk home. The streets and sidewalks are already clogged with the daily flux. We walk in the street mostly, it's the fast lane compared with the sidewalks, which are so cluttered with pedestrians, vendors, boxes, and other random obstacles that the pace is uncomfortably slow. Of course, walking in the fast lane means dealing with the haphazard traffic of buses, trucks, cars, boda-bodas, bicycles, hand carts, and other fast walkers. But, that's just one of the many lessons to be learned in this African capital!