My private disco nights in Praya are back on. I missed them while in Berlin. Berlin, contrary to its perhaps well-deserved reputation as Europe's best clubbing capital, has never elicited my own disco fever. I've always harbored feelings of dislike for the oh-I-am-so-cool-hanging-out-at-an-illegal-party-in-an-industrial-complex-loft-this-club-has-no-permanent-address-keeps-moving-venue-and-my-name-was-on-the-guestlist disco crowds. I have been dragged along to a handful of such parties in Berlin, and I've never left them feeling beguiled.
Over Christmas, boy, did I miss my disco nights in Praya. Firstuval, in Praya the air humidity and heat are so high, it only takes looking around the room and you've worked up a little sweat already. Maybe you snap your fingers a couple measures long, bend your knees a little, go hi-lo, you're really breaking into a full sweat now. You follow this routine along, skid across the room a couple of times, solemnly hoof along in Limbo style, mix in Shakira's signature shotgun hip-flick and you're sweating from every pore of your body. In profusion. It will feel like waterfalls run down your spine. This party is BYOT, bring your own towel, you will really need it.
I have ranted to a couple of people about my semi-legendary Praya disco nights already. They've apparently gained some recognition, and the stories have inspired my friend Janine to present me with a small disco bowl over Christmas. I've brought it back from Germany and during day-light, the disco bowl dangles demurely in the room. But when night falls, and the lamp shades dance on the terrace, the pack of dogs outside howl like wolves, she, the disco bowl, is cajoled into a light swaying of her equatorial hips, and when the wild colored lights come on I give her a spin to the wild side.
One of these days I'm gonna ride Kylie Minogue's locomotion right into the streets of my kampung.
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