Pius--pronounced "puce"--drives me around town in his tiny, beatup Toyota pickup and shows me apartments. The Toyota usually takes six tries to start-up, and you can’t unlock the passenger-side door unless you crank the window up. But Pius's shirt is always pressed, though sometimes it has an old stain or something on the back.

(Sidenote: Kenyans dress incredibly formally. They usually wear slacks at a minimum, and often walk the streets in suits. Kenyans find it mind-boggling that wealthy backpackers walk around in shorts, sandals, torn shorts. I was walking home yesterday and noticed a guy laying off the side of the road—likely a drunk taking a siesta. He was wearing a blue suit, matching socks, brown loafers. It looked like a body dressed up for its own funeral at fallen out the back of a hearse on the way to the service.)

Pius has all the characteristics that are supposed to turn him into Mohammed Atta: he graduated from U Nairobi with an engineering degree that he can’t use. But he’s started his own real estate business, and he seems to know how to wheel and deal the people at all the apartment complex. I always ask him what he’s did last night or over the weekend, and he always says he had to work on a deal. Of course, he could just be spinning me like Jack Lemmon in Glengarry Glen Ross. But he also tells me that he doesn’t go out much. Usually, if he’s not closing a deal, he says, “I hang out with my wife and play computer games.” Doesn’t sound like much of a good lie.

Today he and I both thought we were going to close the deal. The aprartment is $400/month, fully furnished. But the when I asked about the phone, the landlady said it's not working, but that should be solved pretty soon. Whoa, whoa, whoa. Nothing gets fixed pretty soon in Nairobi. Any apartments with working phones available? No. Did she lie to me yesterday when I asked if the phone was working? Yes.

Freaking hell. Do the whole thing again tomorrow.