Shake Your Gasy: A Disco Experience

"Handeha amin'ny Disco, amy Alina, Christophe?"
Well, I wasn't planning on going to the disco tonight, but now that you mention it, I might have some interest. "Amy firy hanomabaka Disco?" The Disco starts around 10:30 pm, but we'll pick you up around 9:00 pm.

My friend Olivier owns the local radio station as well as an epicerie that I frequent. He and his friends always hound me about going to the Saturday Night Disco and I usually beg off or say I might go, all the while knowing that I will spend another low key night at my house. When Olivier offers to pick me up, my mindset changes and I agree to go. In my mind, I convince myself of the importance of having this cultural experience. I also get a little excited at the fact that my usual routine of eating dinner, reading and then going to bed around 9:00 pm will be interrupted for a sweaty shakedown.

Making my way back to my house I think that while I might be ready to go to a disco at 9:00, there is a good chance that no one will be by to pick me up. I eat dinner around the usual time of 6:30, all the while thinking about what I may be getting myself into tonight. After dinner, I spy the old water bottle filled with rum that has been marinating with vanilla beans. A little pre disco cocktail sure wouldn't hurt, and it might end up as a nice nightcap if the pick up never happens. Occasionally I will have a beer on a Saturday night, but I have yet to imbibe any liquor at my home here in Port Berge. Drinking a beer here is very socially acceptable as it is seen as merely another form of soft drink. Toaka Gasy (rum), on the other hand, is a different ball game and one that is played by only the professionals. My little cocktail proves to be quite refreshing and is socially acceptable since I am the only one who knows that I am enjoying it. I always find myself socially acceptable in my own company. I get ready, nip my toddy and read a National Geographic--one of the rowdier pregames I have ever been a part of.

As 9:00 comes and goes, I feel fairly certain that I will not be going to the disco and begin to shut down the house for a night's slumber. At 9:30, a rap on the door lets me know that it's time to get up and boogie. I throw on my Hawaiian shirt, a pair of khakis and some flip flops. I make my way outside and waiting for me on the dirt road in front of my house is a black Mercedes Benz. Olivier is probably one of the wealthier men in town, but I had no idea that he would be pushing a benz. Well, we shall roll in class. We make a couple of stops to drop off some girls sitting in the back seat and while I wait for Olivier's return, I ponder how I have found myself in this situation. I am in an isolated rural town in Northwestern Madagascar, which is off the southeastern coast of Africa in the Indian Ocean, and here I am sitting in a black benz waiting to go to the Saturday night disco. Rarely do I find myself out at night, and so this is one of the first times that I have seen how incredibly illuminated the night sky is with its bountiful amount of stars.

I think that we are on our way to the disco, but Olivier informs me that he is not dressed to impress. We go to his house which is also the radio station. Here I meet his friends and my cohorts for the evening's adventure. Jimmy, Gervais and Dodo (pronounced DooDoo) are calmly knocking down a few whiskey and cokes. Whether you're in Port Berge, Bloomington or Kansas City, there are always going to be a few guys sitting around chewing the fat whilst enjoying whiskey and coke. As I drink one myself, I make a vow to myself to watch the intake and keep my wits about me--you've got to if you plan to really get down and shake it Gasy style. Jimmy tells me that I might have to go home and change out of my flip flops as they are not disco appropriate foot attire. Olivier assures me that since I am a vazaha I will not be hassled, but to not wear flip flops again. I try to explain that flip flops are socially appropriate for going out in the US, but quickly realize that this doesn't make them any more appropriate here in the Port. We load up in the Benz and make our way to the disco which is located at the corner right before you enter the market.

Just like in Swingers (sans chain wallet), we unload and swagger in. Because Olivier is kind of a big deal, we walk right in without dropping the 3000 Ariary ($1.50) cover charge. From the outside the building looks small, but once inside I realize that it's quite open and spacious. While this is no Studio 54, I would contend that this disco has as much character, if not more, than that infamous establishment. The Steve Rubell's, Androgyny and White Horses are replaced by many scandalously dressed women, one other white male apparently with an eye out for a Gasy prostitute, and many guys dressed in the latest Von Dutch knockoff attire to hit the Port. People are looking good, feeling good and ready to go to work on the floor. A large cement dance floor is surrounded by many white tables and chairs. The ceiling is high with many multicolored fluorescent lights hanging down in the various arbitrary places. One large disco ball hangs down in the middle, certifying this as an official disco. Two large speakers sit in each corner of the building. There is room in the back where one can purchase various disco supplies such as Good Look or Boston Cigarettes, Three Horses Beer, Whiskey, various soft drinks, snacks and condoms. This room is also where the DJ plies his trade. There are no records spinning, but there is an ample selection of mixed CD's. In front of this room are two people attending a small grill which turns out the finest brochettes (beef grilled in fat and then sandwiched on a stick between several delectable bites of fat) in PB. In the back left corner are the restrooms. I can't speak for the women's lavatory, but the men's is one big cement trough which is rarely used. Most of the men find it more convenient to pee on the plants that sit right in front of the bathroom. Even though the bathroom is one step further, I guess guys always feel compelled and more comfortable to mark their territory on any freestanding vegetation.

There is a small debate as we enter the disco as to where we should sit. Several people are already present (mostly groups of females) but I'm told that the place will be filled around 11. We choose a very central table in front of the brochette grillers. At this vantage point it is possible to scan the entire perimeter of the dance floor as well as observe all the newly arrived party goers. There is Gasy music playing but no one is out on the floor yet. I observe the crowd. Sure enough around 11, a giant TV screen is wheeled out, turned on and Gasy music begins blaring. With little hesitancy, men and women get out of their seats and begin dancing. Immediatley my friends encourage me to get up, grab a girl and shake my groove thing. I beg off for the first few dances because I've got to observe how things are done. Apparent protocol maintains that the guy goes up to the sitting girl, says nothing, extends his hand and she must accept. I watch how Olivier does it and he's as smooth as butter. Girls seem eager to dance with him and I quickly realize why. He can really groove and knows all the right moves and steps. Watching all of this makes me a little hesitant to get out there and act the fool, but then again, "whatcha gonna do if you really don't want to dance, get ya back up off the wall." I'm at a frickin disco and there's really only one thing to do at a disco and that is to put on your boogie shoes. I strap up and make my way to the floor, because at this point there are so many people dancing that I need not ask for a partner. Some people know special dance steps and moves, twisting and turning their way around everyone, but most people are just out there to shake it. Immediately, the majority of eyes are on me to see how ridiculous the vazaha will look while he gets down. I must say that I consider myself a pretty good dancer, but this mainly has to do with the fact that I could care less what others think as they watch me. This reckless dancing abandon served me well through high school and college and I happily summons it up in order to make the most of my disco experience. I look and dance ridiculous but this does not concern me. As it looks like I'm having a great time (which I am) other people want a piece of the action. I've got guys duplicating my patented shoulder shaking and I quickly find myself surrounded by girls hoping to get my attention. I am content to dance solo and just enjoy the tremendous energy pulsating through the massive throng of rhythmic revelers. People, man and woman, really move their hips. The place feels as if the steam has just been turned on in a sauna. The mob on the dance floor is tightly packed together, creating a dense heat that percolates with an alternating aroma of very strong cologne and very strong natural scent.

I dance myself into a sweaty mess and then decide it is time to take a small timeout. I go talk to the DJ and request some American hip hop. I'm especially after Usher's Yeah, but I have to settle for some other mediocre hip hop tracks. Then the first of several special events throughout the evening occurs. A woman comes strolling around all the tables holding up a whole grilled chicken. I am confused at the onset of this display, but once an explosive bidding war breaks out between two factions on either side of the room, I realize that the chicken is being auctioned off. Some of the road workers from COLAS win the bird and quickly reduce it to a heap of perfectly cleaned bones. Then, a hip hop dance contest is announced. A group of boys dressed in their freshest hip hop attire (mainly knockoff Jumpman jerseys and shorts) make their way to the center of the room and everyone else sits down. For twenty exhausting minutes these boys dance their hearts out with every move from the robot, head spin to flips and the moon walk. I have never seen dancing endurance like this, they just keep going and going. Whenever one guy does something cool or outrageous, it is immediatley attempted by all the others. Some are really good while others have some work to do. If you work hard some day maybe you too can be the hip hop dance champion at Port Berge's Saturday night disco. I am awaiting a vote by crowd enthusiasm, however, since the judge of the town tribunal is present he chooses the winner, runner up and third place. He gives a small speech congratulating the winner on his hard work and accomplishment and then a set of prizes are placed at our table. Apparently, I am considered one of the more important people at this disco as I am selected along with Olivier and the judge to hand the prizes out to the finalists. I hand the runner up a digital watch and give him an "Arabeny" (congratulations) and return to my seat, happy that I don't have to give a congratulatory speech. Finally, as the night wears on I hear a country western line dance song blast on and I laugh as I think this should be interesting. Well, I don't know where they got their hands on the Branson Dancin DVD but this was some rather spectacular line dancing. People paired off, man/woman, woman/woman, man/man and the Grand Ol Opry meets Hee Haw meets Gasy Disco was swingin, steppin, twirling and just plain makin it happen on Saturday night in the Port.

I am lost in the inferno when I get a tap on the shoulder and Olivier tells me it is time to go. My concept of time left me as soon as I walked into the disco. We hop in the benz and Olivier drops me off in front of my door. I presume that Olivier is going home with the girl who is sitting in the back and who he danced with most of the night. I am shocked when I get inside my house and realize that it's 3:30 in the morning. I fall on my bed and peacefully slip into a dance induced coma. I don't plan on going to too many more discos, but I am very happy that I have had this fabulous cultural experience. Get your Gasy on the floor tonight, and make my day.