They drove all day and around dusk made their way past the red-tiled roofs of the old colonial buildings along the beach front in Luanda. Stirling felt safer and looked out of the beaten up pick-up at the port city. It was split between new and old, wealthy and poor. Modern glass skyscrapers, opposite clay-tiled roofs of the historic Portuguese quarter. The derelict shanties of informal settlements and their destitute owners lapped at the city like the tide.
After dark, VD led Stirling walking through the shanty town. Dogs barked as they made their way down the narrow passages between densely packed dwellings. VD took Stirling down a green passageway and a tube of light flickered on the ceiling. VD paid a bouncer and he banged rapidly on a steel door. He ushered VD inside and Stirling stepped through the doorway.
“What’re we doing here?” Stirling asked over the music.
They stood in the crowded nightclub, and past VD there was a tired looking boxing ring and stained mat, squared off with decking rope. VD looked around as if he hadn’t heard; the music was loud and the nightclub was filled wall-to-wall with dancing people. Over on the stage a band of three horns and a drummer played while a woman in colourful dress danced and sang. The antique boxing ring was in front of the band.
Yellow electric lightbulbs hung from beams along the warehouse roof, wrapped in red acetate sheeting which gave the place a pink-grapefruit glow. The people jived and shouted and drank spirits out of clear plastic cups. They were the only white faces in the place. Stirling watched VD’s mouth and tried to hear. It opened and closed and he waved his hands, but Stirling shook his head and couldn’t make out what he was saying. Stirling pointed to his ear and shook his head. VD leaned in and pulled Stirling’s shoulder to his chin.
“Ag, go get a drink and relax man. Look who is at the bar, you know him,” he said and pointed at the bar, “I need to talk to somebody.”
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