By Johnny Saunderson
A night out
It was our fifth evening in Brazzaville, time to be treated to a tour of the red
light area of town by our host, Stephan - a local fixer.
Shortly before leaving our hotel, the rain came down the only way it can in the tropics: in torrents and very suddenly, transforming Mungali's dusty, rutted dirt road into a mud bath. There was no street lighting and along each side of the road a row of tin-roofed shacks or hovels passed for bars and restaurants. Chicken was being barbecued everywhere under open wood fires, and joyous hypnotic African music blared at full volume from Ghetto Blasters hooked up to sizeable PA systems. The steady thump of the African drum vied with the distant rumbles of thunder. The clinging wood smoke lingered in the hot heavy humid air, spits and spots of rain were egged on by the occasional flash of lightning; people blended with shadows. My nose twitched, rebelling at the incongruous mixture of smells of raw sewage and roast chicken. Children and fat mamas danced, shaking 'what they got' to the rhythm. An occasional battered taxi wallowed past, its headlights creating weird shadows from the restless crowds carefully choreographed on the smoke. Over-painted whores, ranging from gorgeous to disgusting, strutted and strolled. Skinny teenagers hawked aphrodisiacs and boiled eggs from trays, carried like ice-cream sellers in the cinemas of the sixties. The potions on offer came in the form of large bitter pink nuts and raw six inch roots which, when chewed, guarantee the male an everlasting performance - all for the equivalent of half a dollar. One of the bars boasted that 'Guinness is good for you' and sported faded paper Christmas decorations of Santa Claus, smiling snowmen and red-berried holly. As though in solidarity, a taxi reversed through the mud at a snail's pace, its maneuver engaging the beeping electronic warning melody of 'Frosty the Snowman'.
We ordered chicken and took our place at a long wooden table serviced by rickety benches along either side. Swathed in the smoke of the barbecue fires, we drank bottles of Ngok (crocodile) beer - aptly named, as its ample alcohol content ensures a severe bite. On the raw table top the triumphant chef delivered copious amounts of hot greasy chicken accompanied by large bowls filled with stale dry bread. He beamed unashamedly, bathed in the glory and kudos his humble pile had gained by our patronage.
Reaching the point of total intoxication brought on by the Ngok, but enhanced by the rhythms and smells, we stumbled the three or four yards across the mud to the blue- and pink-lit entrance to 'Le Cave de Lionel'. Upon payment of the entrance fee of 2000cfa (about four dollars), we immediately descended a narrow stairwell into a tiny room - a pit. It was well over a hundred degrees. Oxygen was at a premium. The place throbbed and hummed to an ear-splitting African beat. The gut-wrenching, gagging stench of stale sweat, common to all, was overwhelming. The only light source was a stroboscope, mimicking the lightning from the relatively sane world we had left above. The shock of the strobe left images ingrained on brain and eye: frozen, dark bodies in varying degrees of sexual contortion, packed and squeezed like an Auschwitz mass grave. There was a huge mirror along one wall. It intrigued both whore and client, who took great delight in orgies of self study adjusting hem, bra-strap or tie while ignoring their prospective partners.
Katia appeared, popped like a pip from the seething mass of bodies. She spoke, but this was only evident from the sight of her ample lips mouthing the words: nothing could compete with the beat, the noise, the 'experience'. She was a gift from our host, a plaything to quench our assumed sexual thirst, a jewel in the crown of the pimp who hovered immediately behind her. Could she possibly have something to offer? Indeed....she loved to dance!...well, actually, to study herself in the mirror while adjusting a dreadlock here and a collar there. She was a microcosm of this world within a world: once pretty, but now over-used, over-abused, tired, dirty, smelly, loud and frankly rather repulsive. My colleagues shared my view, leaving a more than willing Stephan to step into the breech and 'save the day'. I observed him dancing next to her. He watched her in the mirror - or was he watching himself?
The stay was brief, our departure an escape. When compared to that place, the street scene that had so recently mesmerized us was now a Garden of Eden. The air was fresh, the smells sweet. It seemed darker than before, but there was light enough to gain my final glimpse of Stephan as he stumbled from 'La Cave' with Katia in tow, continuing to feel the rhythm as they heaved and swung and faded into the shadows. The mud had dried somewhat, redefining the ruts. We fumbled along, stumbling the hundred or so meters to the end of the road where we commandeered a taxi. "Voulez-vous une femme messieurs?" he enquired. "L'hotel Meridien s'il vous plait," we replied.
copyright Johnny Saunderson
