I get in to see the guy I want to talk to, and I sit down right in front of him, and ask if I could schedule an interview. He says he's free tomorrow morning.
"We ask that people submit a written request," he says. Which I understand when I hear it coming from the mouth a secretary or a press person or any random underling. But this is the guy. And he wants me to leave, type up a request for an interview, and then come back and hand it to him so I can schedule an interview we've agreed is no problem. Que?
So I do, at the nearest internet cafe. Halfway through document production, I realize that the cafe stereo are playing a particularly deep-throated lady's version of "White Christmas." Nevermind that you could pour Bisquick on the hood of your car in mid-afternoon and have have one giant Wheat Thin in an hour.
I ignore the carolling, repeating my new mantra: at least it's not Shaggy. That rastapatois-slinging ass is the embodiment of everything horrible about globalization.
Anyway, it's too late to drop off the printed interview request, so I retire to do some reading at a little open-air drinkshack: its roof is corrugated sheetmetal on wooden posts, its floor is part pleasing collage broken tiles set in concrete, and part just plain old half-broken cement.
I walk in and the shack's proprietor smiles and asks is I want a Fanta orange. (Apparently, I have a usual.) She invites me to sit in a seat in the tiled part. I do a good bit of reading, but the radio keeps intruding.
African DJs have an awful habit of talking in the middle of a song. They seem to just sit in the booth, trying to think of something to say. When an idea strikes, they just bust in in the middle of song, and spout DJ inanities.
The herky experience of listening is accentuated by an unadressed diversion between DJspeak and the lyrics. Most African DJs are all optimism--they want to talk about how to be honest and happy with your lot and about finding true love--and most of the music they play is American thug life hip hop.
So on this day, the lady DJ keeps busting into a Nelly song. It goes like this:
Nelly: "You got your kids shit on layaway!"
DJ: "Life is about trying again and again until you succeed."
Nelly: "I think mommy gettin' paid to screw!"
DJ: "Your most prized posession is integrity. Without integrity, you have nothing."
Nelly: "Now you're smoking methamphetamines!"
And so on. Not freakishly conducive to reading, but the soda's cheap, the shade is nice, and the people trundling their giant carts full of goods home and the women with cigarette packs cargo-netted to their heads all ask if you want to buy anything cheap. Per usual, cheap is good.
