Line dancing in the DRC—Saturday night in the Star Wars Bar

Goma, Nord-Kivu February 27^th

Most clubs and drinking establishments in eastern Congo remind you of the Star Wars Bar, or at least the Wild West: soldiers, diamond traders, Russian pilots, bar girls, aid workers. They are not necessarily threatening and dangerous places for the most part—although when they search you for a gun at the entrance you know they are not just going through the motions. The décor is typically rough and ready, several of them open air.

But whoever opened Club-B in Goma had their sights set on something better—this place draws its inspiration from the upscale clubs of Manhattan and Paris. There is a large open area built over an empty swimming pool with groups of deep leather chairs that would not look out of place in a Nienkamper furniture showroom, and a series of 4 poster lounge beds with draw back curtains. Inside there is a DJ booth in the middle of a raised VIP only area and a long bar with under-lit red glass counter and a bank of TV screens on which Congolese music videos are being played—a large group of choreographed dancers led by a local music idol dressed like an American hip hop star but whose gangsta’ persona has infinitely more authenticity. In between shots of the dancers the video slips to the star flying in a private jet and sipping champagne. You have to hand it to the Congolese—they do have a sense of style.

People are well dressed—some very well dressed. There is a lot of money in Goma and you have to spend it somewhere. Now and then a bottle of Absolute or Johnny Walker Black is plucked from a shelf and has a large sparkler—like a miniature stick of dynamite—strapped to it before being sent, flaming, to a far table by one of the waitresses—all of them in red uniforms and looking drop-dead gorgeous.

But the really cool thing about this place is the dance floor—they line dance in the Congo and though the genre may have started with Tex and Edna in the Panhandle, the Congolese have taken it a lot further and look like they are having a lot more fun with it too. The men and women dance separately, men with men, women with women, with an easy flow and rhythm that is infinitely fun to watch. This is not racy kwasa-kwasa or Soukous dancing, something that started in Congo and spread throughout Africa despite periodic attempts to have it banned as obscene.

The other great thing is that there are no white folks here—apart from your correspondent—and also no hookers, who flock to westerners like flies in most bars in Congo. This place is for Congolese having a good night out and doing it very good naturedly; there is no aggression, no attitude.

Night clubs all have a formulaic atmosphere—the process of display involves sheer acting, facilitated by the lighting, the dry ice and the staff who are mere choreographers. I’m standing at the bar next to a bunch of guys who are doing the same thing young men do in bars all over the world—check everyone out while pretending they are not checking anyone out. This low-key atmosphere suits me fine—I am left alone, for the most part, the vibe is relaxed.

Life is good it seems, even here in Congo where all the problems and suffering can be forgotten for this night. There is one theory about why there are actually few revolutions in Africa and really no terrorism either, as opposed to, say, the Middle East. A young Muslim male in the Arab world on a Saturday night will probably get together with other young men, walk around the souk and drink sweet milky tea, look at all the hot women he can’t talk to, and wonder if he’s ever going to afford a dowry, and an arranged marriage with someone he can’t stand, before his mid-30s. On Sunday morning he will wake up and plot revolution and jihad out of sheer boredom, anger and frustration. A young man in an African country will go out on a Saturday night, drink beer, dance with and go home with someone and on Sunday morning, wake up and think—no matter how corrupt and mismanaging his government may be—that life is not so bad.

I take a glug of Tembo—the local beer with a cool retro Elephant label—put it down on the bar and am facing a well fed man who says good evening in good French and asks where I’m from. When I tell him he immediately reaches for his wallet and pulls out a Province of Alberta driver’s licence.

“I’m from Vegreville! Near Edmonton! You’re my countryman! I love Canada, I love Alberta, I love Stephen Harper!”