I Love the Nightlife (Sort of)

Around 9pm, Tom, Ed and I meet Wendy at Bob's, a restaurant. We then head to a club on the beach, Il Covo. An Indian family has rented the bar for the night, so we sink into Swahili couches (giant chairs with huge, soft cushions) on a terrace overlooking the beach, drinking wine. The moon skates across the water toward us and we laugh about the cheesy dance music coming from the party and talk about life as volunteers in Kenya. Tom and Wendy are leaving in September when their placement ends, both going back to the U.K. It's late and I'm tired, ready to hit the sack, but Wendy insists on stopping by the Causarina bar on the way home. Ed is crashing at Tom's, so it's just me and Wendy in the matatu. She says we'll only stay five minutes, we won't get a beer, she just wants me to see the place. It's an open air bar sitting only a few yards off the two-lane highway, enclosed in woven walls with a thatched roof and a wooden dance floor. In the center of the floor is a pole and from the pole are suspended six young men, part of an acrobatic team performing for the crowd. The music is pumping and they do amazing things; hard-to-watch things. Wendy orders a beer, a 500 ml, and I calculate how long it will take her to finish. I was ready to leave before we arrived. Wendy seems energized by the scene, but as a I look around at the crowd, I notice old, white men talking with young, black girls. Sometimes they're seated together. Sometimes the old man is on a bar stool and takes liberties with a series of young women as they pass in front of him. To kill time, I go the bathroom but can't find Wendy afterward. The crowd is young, except for the old, weathered white people. A tall, slender young man steps up to me and slowly runs the back of his fingers down my bare arm. His friend looks on as the guys says, "Are you having a good time?" "No," I say and walk away, toward the entrance, looking for Wendy. She appears, thank goodness, and a Masai friend of hers stops us. As they talk, I scan the crowd and see an older white couple sitting with a young black couple. The women, bottle-blond with too much sun on her skin, is leaning into the young, black man, their shoulders resting against each other. Across from her sits the white man, who's nestled into the young black woman. I've heard about the tourism sex trade on the coast, almost as infamous as Thailand's sordid practice. But to see it is disgusting. We walk to Wendy's apartment, two blocks behind the Causarina. It's nearly 1am and not at all a good idea to walk, though Wendy seems to feel safe in her neighborhood. The rains have flooded the street and left giant puddles the width of the road. I don't breath deeply until we're within the guarded gates of her compound. But the guard is sleeping and it takes him a few minutes to let us in. Wendy admonishes him for falling asleep. A metal grill covers her front door five floors up. When we're inside and the door and grill are once again bolted, I finally relax. Somewhat.