"You're not tough here! This is Not America! This is Fucking South Africa!"

Last night I went to my first colored club, located about 30 minutes away from Port Elizabeth, in one of the colored townships. Everyone in my group piled into a party bus with blue florescent lights. We had to double up and sit on each other's laps because there wasn't enough room for all of us in the bus.

The driver played Black Eyed Peas, and Fergie songs most of the way there. I sat in the trunk of the bus, squished between two guys. Outside the van, the lights of the city faded. We were far from our home, on a winding road that curved near a mountain. 

After about 20 minutes, we arrived at a huge parking lot, filled with tons of teenagers drinking. The van crept slowly, coming within inches of drunk stumblers, pimped out Hondas and thick looking bodyguards. The driver told us it was not safe to stand outside the club, but that we would be safe inside the club. "Everything you need is inside the club," he told us. We piled into the lobby, a dingy metallic thing, and the club owner introduced us to our body guard, Karen, a sweet-cheeked colored woman who must have been around my age. 

We walked inside as a group, basically keeping to ourselves. I'd heard that colored areas were the most dangerous areas of all, and that young colored people made up the most disenfranchised minority in South Africa.

The owner of the club bought us our first drinks, and together we sat near the bar and scanned our surroundings. There were very few people dancing in the center of the club, most were sitting around the perimeter, drinking, talking quietly with their friends. It was only 11:30pm.

After about an hour, more and more people started migrating into the center of the dance floor. I watched Melissa, one of my best friends here, very closely because she was really really blissfully drunk, and trying to do some sort of a swing dance with herself. 

A girl group from Cape Town, dressed like the Pussycat Dolls with long hair extensions and mountains of make up, came on to the stage and did covers of Beyonce songs. The crowd recorded their every move with camera phones. "Welcome American students!" one of the girls said after a song, and we all cheered for ourselves.  I stared at a cute colored gay boy wearing red suspenders and thick-rimmed glasses.

By 12:30, the crowd was rowdier and drunker, and everyone was on the dance floor. Melissa was talking to a colored boy in a hoodie. He reached over the table and tried to kiss her. Melissa leaned back in her chair, away from him. "No," she said, "I have a boyfriend in the States. I'm fine talking to you, but I have a boyfriend in the States." "But you aren't in the States," he said back to her, and reached to kiss her once again. Melissa leaned back again, and I held her back so she wouldn't fall over. She gave me a panic look. I told the man that we were going to go to the dance floor now, and I grabbed Melissa by the arm and helped her walk down the stairs. 

We walked as quickly as we could to Zach, a big African American basketball players in our group. I gave him a worried look. "WHAT'S WRONG?!" he yelled over the music. "I'm freaking out, Zach." I said to him, "This guy just hit on Melissa and he was very aggressive and he kind of freaked us all out." Zach's face hardened. "Who is this guy?" he asked me. "No, no, don't worry. You don't need to do anything, Zach. We're fine now that we're standing next to you." "Who is this guy?" Zach asked again. He looked frustrated with me for not sharing information that could help him physically defend Melissa and I. 

I gave in. "He's wearing a hoodie. Don't say anything to him, please. We're fine now. Don't get in a fight here. Don't be a dumb ass. Just keep your eye on him." Zach scanned the crowd. "I think I see him," he said to me. "Please, Zach! Do not talk to him!" I said once again, but it was too late. Zach had spotted the man drinking by the bar and he was marching in that direction. I followed him, stupidly. "I heard you were fucking with my friend!" He yelled over the music. The other man stood next to him, staring up at his face. Zach, 6'7", loomed over him. He said something to Zach, but I couldn't hear him over the music. 

I ran back to the dance floor to Natalie, the girl who'd organized the trip to the colored club. "Shit shit shit shit shit, Natalie." I said, "I told Zach that this boy was bugging Melissa and now they're fighting and I don't know what to do." "Why did you do that?!" Natalie said to me. "You know you can't tell him those things." Zach walked back to the dance floor. "It's all cool, Steven," he said to me. "The guys got kicked out. They're gone." Zach took a sip of his gin and tonic, and his body relaxed. "Fuck," I said to him, "Now they're outside the club, waiting for us." "Don't worry, Steven. Just dance," he said back to me.

I tried to dance, I really did, but I couldn't stop thinking about the guy that got kicked out; the way he looked at Zach and I, the way Zach's body jerked toward him, ready to fight. 

I ended up sitting next to Melissa, comforting her. She was coming down from feeling drunk. She looked out at the crowd, overwhelmed, and pushed her glasses on to her sweaty face. "This is too much, I don't feel safe here," she said to me. "Can you grab me a bottle of water?" she asked me. 

I walked toward the bar and ordered two bottles of water (8.50 rand = 1 dollar). On the way back, someone tried to sell me ecstacy. I politely declined. Now I covered the lid of my bottle of water with my thumb as I drank. Melissa rested her head on the table. Everyone was staring at us, or at least I felt like they were. 

Finally, exhausted, we all piled back into the car. "Where's Johnny?" "Where's Janine?" "Where's Mary?" We counted our group, and then counted again. Lobos and Johnny were in the parking lot, because they thought another cab would arrive to take them, and they didn't want to pile into the van, which was hot and uncomfortable. "Lobos! Get the fuck back here! It's not safe!" Shauna yelled. "You're not tough here!" Natalie yelled. "This is not America! This is fucking South Africa!" "Let them do what they want. We're all adults. If they want to be stupid, they can be stupid," Aisha said. 

I stared out of the tinted window at the crowd of teenagers and parked cars, and looked for the boy we kicked out of the club. I couldn't see him. I looked for his friend, but I couldn't see him either. 

We drove back to the hotel, and on the way back, I tried to remember what he looked like. I'd pushed his face out of my head the instant I had turned away from Zach. 

I sat on Melissa's lap, and closed my eyes until the lights of downtown Port Elizabeth forced them open.

Today I suddenly remember exactly what the boy looked like. I wonder about him.