“How much you pay for me?” she wants to know. And she’s not just asking it to be provocative, or to get a reaction, or just for something to say. She really wants to know, how much would you pay for me?
How much would you be prepared to pay to have sex with me? How much to nod your head, take my hand and lead me into the Aussie bar for a couple of hours, down three beers and five shooters, then lead me to the Lotus Hotel and Bar at the top end of Bangla Road, where the event can take place.
How much would you pay for me? One thousand baht? Four thousand? Five thousand? Ten thousand?
How much is that in your South African rand?
Let’s see… roughly 3.5 Thai baht to the rand makes it…
Let’s see… yes, let’s see. Let’s see this scene on Bangla Road, Patong, Phuket, Thailand.
Let’s see the men with the photo-op iguanas the size of a toddler. How much you pay for that? Let’s see the nightclub touts. Club Seduction! The Tiger! The Aussie Bar! The backpackers, the pavement vendors. Is that rat? I think that’s rat! The fortune tellers, the T-shirt shops, the tattoo parlours, the lit neon sign declaring welcome to Patong, all of this… Will you just take a look at it and believe all of this in full effect at 2am!
Let’s see the 50-odd go-go bars. Beers 300THB all night! Genuine Aussie Owner! Live Rock Band! Sexy Dancing Girls! Let’s see the hundreds of go-go dancers. The schoolgirls, the cowgirls, the model girls, the disco divas, the cheerleaders!
Let’s see the beggars on their knees, crawling to retrieve those guilty banknotes. Or let’s not see them. As you please.
But let’s see the girls, can we ever not see them, these ladies of Bangla Road? On the kerb, in the road, alone, in pairs, threes, fours, fives and sixes. Parlaying your vaguest curious glance into meaningful eye contact. “How much you pay for me?”
Let’s see this poster: “Help us find Peter Burnett. Last seen Full Moon Party, Kho Pha Ngan, November 11.”
The diligent police presence, the Guns N Roses cover band, the Supersport on cable, the flaming sambucas, the lady-men, the man-ladies, the gorgeous Thai visions of beauty with the bottomless mini-skirts. In pairs!
And the men! My God, these men! These swarthy European men, grinding their jaw as they stalk Bangla Road. In their dungarees and their gym bodies and tattoos and their no eye contact and their palpable self-loathing.
Will you take a look at this, and then take a look inside yourself and see the mass of prejudice you carry around with you. Big, liberal, open-minded you, with your free and easy attitude. What do you say about this? Are you sure you’re not judging? Are you sure you’re cool with this? Are you open to this? Are you cool, or are you a bit of a square? A bit uptight? A little prudish?
If you’re not, then what are you here for? Are you here as a person or as an observer? And did you come here to Bangla Road to ask yourself that question?
Monday, November 24, 2008
Night of the Game Boy
That Thursday at the Standard Bank Arena, The Game was having a pretty poor night.
He’d taken the stage with a dozen of his Compton Bloods homies, done versions of all six of his hits and another handful of hip-hop classics by Pac, Biggie, Snoop and NWA.
He’d dissed rival crew G-Unit, professed lifelong loyalty to his red Bloods bandanna, tossed a brick of banknotes into the crowd and prayed that he might one day enjoy carnal knowledge of Keyshia Cole. Halfway through the show, one of his West Side dogs brought on a bottle of what might have been vodka, and he downed the entire thing in a single draught.
“I’m an alcoholic,” he declared with some pride. From there on out his performance only got worse.
He’d do 45 seconds of One Blood and then sabotage it, “Whoah, whoah, whoah,” he’d tell DJ Chris Styles. “Play some else.”
“Turn on the lights,” he ordered, “I wanna see everybody”.
He burst into tears. He ordered us to salute the late Mama Afrika, “Even though I don’t know her music.” He also didn’t appear to know her real name – Miriam Makeba.
The crowd – mostly young men – became restless and fights broke out. Someone in the crowd hit him with a lobbed beer can. He ordered the other crowd members to beat him up.
Things went from bad to worse. So he invited the crowd on stage. Guys started clambering over the barriers. Pretty soon there were 30 dudes up there, and there was a real chance of Game being jostled off the stage into the press pit.
“Let’s get the ladies up here,” he bellowed, and the women began grappling their way over barriers onto the artist’s space. It was chaos.
Then someone in the crowd caught his eye. “Come up, man,” he said. “Send him up. Pass him up!”
A nine-year-old boy was handed over people’s heads and deposited at Game’s feet on the edge of the stage. The Kid had been singing along to the songs and Game wanted him to sing into the mic.
But the kid wasn’t there for a novelty moment. He grabbed the mic and began busting out in full voice. Displaying perfect flow and timing, and knowing all the words, he strutted across the stage, stirring up the crowd with a stunning version of Dreams, ending it off with a straight-up dig at Game: “I’m not supposed to be you!”
All 10 000 people in the house were gobsmacked. The kid had mad skills. The DJ flowed straight into Hate It Or Love It, and the tiny rapper rolled right along with it in his youthful treble, again word-perfect and with tight flow. He was beating The Game at his own Game!
The West Coast Crew started worshipping the kid, Game was bowing down! He took off his chain and hung it on the kid’s neck. Pretty soon all ten of his homies had taken off their massive chains and hung them on the kid’s neck.
And still the kid was rapping! With a couple of kilos of bling hanging off him. The kid just wouldn’t quit. After three songs, the Game wrestled the mic off him and laid down 40-odd bars of pretty fair rhymes. Maybe his best of the night. The kid had shocked him back into form.
“What’s your name kid,” he asked, but the kid indicated that they had to give him one. Game sidekick Jersey Devil whispered in his ear and then they had it. Game Boy.
“I say Game, you say Boy,” Game commanded the crowd, and we obliged in full voice. “Game… Boy. Game… Boy. Game… Boy!”
“Welcome to Black Wall Street, “ Game told Game Boy at the end of it, and presented him with a shirt as tall as he was, and a chain of his own! Then the kid and his brother walked off stage with Game and his West Coast crew.
As they did so, he indicated to his friends in the crowd, pointing to the exits stage right. He’d still be needing that lift home…
He’d taken the stage with a dozen of his Compton Bloods homies, done versions of all six of his hits and another handful of hip-hop classics by Pac, Biggie, Snoop and NWA.
He’d dissed rival crew G-Unit, professed lifelong loyalty to his red Bloods bandanna, tossed a brick of banknotes into the crowd and prayed that he might one day enjoy carnal knowledge of Keyshia Cole. Halfway through the show, one of his West Side dogs brought on a bottle of what might have been vodka, and he downed the entire thing in a single draught.
“I’m an alcoholic,” he declared with some pride. From there on out his performance only got worse.
He’d do 45 seconds of One Blood and then sabotage it, “Whoah, whoah, whoah,” he’d tell DJ Chris Styles. “Play some else.”
“Turn on the lights,” he ordered, “I wanna see everybody”.
He burst into tears. He ordered us to salute the late Mama Afrika, “Even though I don’t know her music.” He also didn’t appear to know her real name – Miriam Makeba.
The crowd – mostly young men – became restless and fights broke out. Someone in the crowd hit him with a lobbed beer can. He ordered the other crowd members to beat him up.
Things went from bad to worse. So he invited the crowd on stage. Guys started clambering over the barriers. Pretty soon there were 30 dudes up there, and there was a real chance of Game being jostled off the stage into the press pit.
“Let’s get the ladies up here,” he bellowed, and the women began grappling their way over barriers onto the artist’s space. It was chaos.
Then someone in the crowd caught his eye. “Come up, man,” he said. “Send him up. Pass him up!”
A nine-year-old boy was handed over people’s heads and deposited at Game’s feet on the edge of the stage. The Kid had been singing along to the songs and Game wanted him to sing into the mic.
But the kid wasn’t there for a novelty moment. He grabbed the mic and began busting out in full voice. Displaying perfect flow and timing, and knowing all the words, he strutted across the stage, stirring up the crowd with a stunning version of Dreams, ending it off with a straight-up dig at Game: “I’m not supposed to be you!”
All 10 000 people in the house were gobsmacked. The kid had mad skills. The DJ flowed straight into Hate It Or Love It, and the tiny rapper rolled right along with it in his youthful treble, again word-perfect and with tight flow. He was beating The Game at his own Game!
The West Coast Crew started worshipping the kid, Game was bowing down! He took off his chain and hung it on the kid’s neck. Pretty soon all ten of his homies had taken off their massive chains and hung them on the kid’s neck.
And still the kid was rapping! With a couple of kilos of bling hanging off him. The kid just wouldn’t quit. After three songs, the Game wrestled the mic off him and laid down 40-odd bars of pretty fair rhymes. Maybe his best of the night. The kid had shocked him back into form.
“What’s your name kid,” he asked, but the kid indicated that they had to give him one. Game sidekick Jersey Devil whispered in his ear and then they had it. Game Boy.
“I say Game, you say Boy,” Game commanded the crowd, and we obliged in full voice. “Game… Boy. Game… Boy. Game… Boy!”
“Welcome to Black Wall Street, “ Game told Game Boy at the end of it, and presented him with a shirt as tall as he was, and a chain of his own! Then the kid and his brother walked off stage with Game and his West Coast crew.
As they did so, he indicated to his friends in the crowd, pointing to the exits stage right. He’d still be needing that lift home…
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