Tuesday, December 6, 2011

ProstituteJohn/LadyGentleman


As I enter Nirvana Backpackers after my day in the town of Nyali Beach, I see Jane (the lovely lady who checked me in) sitting on a couch with two others. I’m introduced to Lesley, the owner, and Kai, a fellow guest.

I’m tired from the lengthy and lumpy walk home in the dark, and from a generally long and delightful day. I’m looking forward to retreating my plush quarters with private ensuite and free wireless.

But Lesley has other ideas. She invites me to a beach party. I imagine a bunch of people sitting around a campfire, and I’m a tad reticent due to fatigue, but this is yet another one of those “on the road you should always say yes when people you trust invite you somewhere” moments.

After all, what are the odds that I will ever have an opportunity to go to a beach party in Mombasa ever again? Carpe diem or in this case carpe night (pardon my latin). Eff the fatigue, lets do this thing.

So I find myself joining Lesley and Kai , and Lesley’s father heading to what I’ve defined in my BC boy lexicon as a “beach party”. I’m thinking beer coolers and Kumbaya  around a campfire or the Kenyan equivalent thereof. Golly, they might even have marshmellows!

Instead we pull up to a massive nightclub located on the beach. We pay a cover, and as we enter I notice a sign that says “Ladies In Miniskirts And Bikini’s Enter Free!”. Once inside, I immediately notice a plethora of women who have taken advantage of this generous offer.

I’m a little slow getting to the table, given that I am dragging my jaw on the ground, but once seated my knees feel less weak. To the others at the table it is another night out, but I kind of feel like I’m at some Kenyan version of The Playboy Mansion.

We drink a few beers (btw, in East Africa all local beer is sold in 500ml bottles) and we have some shots. I chat affably with Lesley’s father, a fine soul and a compelling gentleman.

More shots arrive and I glance at Lesley. She is a charming young lady,an Alpha female, and right now she has her foot fully on the gas. I down another tequila, gaze out at the pulsing crowd, the ocean only feet away, and very beautiful and scantily clad women everywhere.

I briefly consider the cost of being buried in this paradise, but Lesley has other ideas.  She is bored. She invites me to another bar, cautioning that it is a little “different”. I briefly have this feeling that I may be in a Stanley Kubrick film as Lesley’s father mutters in my ear “hang on to your hat”.

I begin to wonder if maybe I’m in over my head, that perhaps I’m going to find myself in some untoward  situation. Then I look at Lesley and realize that she is a trustworthy guide who is giving me a once in a lifetime opportunity.

It is yet another moment to say “yes”.

I am not entirely thrilled to be departing the Mombasa version of The Playboy Mansion, but the road ahead intrigues. We pile back in the SUV and head inland.

As we arrive at our new locale, I begin to feel the cumulative effect of imbibing. More beer, more shots. I gaze at the dance floor, and again, I am stunned speechless by all the beautiful women that surround me.

An utterly beautiful friend of Lesley joins us and she reminds me of Halle Berry. I can barely speak to her, and I stutter out some lame blather as I grin foolishly, and it is not due to the alcohol.

And let me be very clear,just because I’m looking at the menu does not mean that I am ordering dinner, but make no mistake I am garnering a level of attention that I would never get in Toronto. Which is why I live in Toronto. It keeps me grounded to the point where I am not susceptible to the the delusion that beautiful twenty year old girls find me hot.

As any traveler to Africa knows, prostitution abounds and the most likely target for business is a single male travelling alone. And being in these situations is not why I travel, though I see other men in my midst who are willing to indulge.

It may also surprise you to know that in this part of Africa that a significant portion of the sex tourists are female, to a point that they could be a majority.

Personally, I choose not to engage, but my reasons have a lot more to do with security than morality. I could be arrested, I could be robbed, or  in a worst case scenario, I might be caught with a girl who is underage by three days which could possibly lead to me being labelled a “Canadian Pedophile Sex Tourist” in the pages of The Toronto Sun.

And on a deeper level, I do believe that if you are going to have sex with someone that it is best that you know them, trust them, and care about them. (cue theme song from The Waltons) Honestly, for the most part, I don’t judge others who may have a different sensibility. As long as it is between two consenting adults, it is not my place to judge others,.

Let me be very clear, I am not a sex tourist and I do not frequent strip joints in Toronto, and as far as getting laid my home record is as bad as my road record. If my sex life was a baseball team I would have lost my managerial post long ago.

In Africa, what we in the West consider “prostitution” plays out on a more diverse and nuanced platform., a platform defined by poverty. I know that because I am white and from The West that I could walk into any store in a Western style mall, seek out the most beautiful young lady, ask her out to dinner in my charming, and inimitable, and somewhat suspect style ,and I would have a 50% chance that some goddess would say yes to an aging middle aged and middle class specimen such as myself.

And that is a sadly true statement, though I have (almost) never exercised that option. Lets face it being hit on by beautiful young women is not something that I experience every (or any) day in Toronto, but it is no different  than some rich a-hole who hangs around as a regular in a strip bar in Toronto, all the while deluding himself that the dancers actually care about him more than they care about any other customer.

The reality is that you are just a customer, and whether you are in a strip bar in Toronto or a legitimate venue in Mombasa the dynamic is the same. The ladies pretend that they like you because they want something, the only difference is that in Canada the price is posted on a menu and paid up front.

In my experience in Africa there is no menu, only the expectation of a tip at the end. Either way, I’m not buying, but I am most definitely looking at the menu.

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