It was another working Saturday for Gretchen and me, and my one o’clock consultation was with a Dr. Nenda Kajitombe. He’s the recently-appointed Advisor for Diplomatic Affairs at the newly-opened Washington DC embassy of the just-created Republic of South Sudan.
“My goodness, this is so exciting,” he chortled as he settled into the soft, buttery lamb skin upholstery of the couch and gazed, grinning, out the picture window behind it for a moment. “The White House!” Kajitombe exclaimed. “How extraordinary, to actually be in Washington DC in an office where I can see the White House right out the window like that. And to think, only a few short weeks ago, I was just a history professor at Juba National University – I tell you, Mr. Collins, it makes one’s head spin.”
“You’ll get used to it,” I assured him. “The Washington Merry-go-Round always induces a certain degree of vertigo in every newcomer. But you will quickly learn that Washington uniquely combines the charm of a large northern American city with all the efficiency of one of our small southern towns.”
“Ah, yes,” my guest nodded, “’The United States,’ as we say in South Sudan, ‘A Land of Interesting Contrasts.’ No doubt about it, Mr. Collins, in order to effectively represent our infant homeland here, we South Sudanese diplomats have much experience which we must acquire, and not much time, I might add, in which to do so. Many of the People in the Know, as it were, whom I have met here since my arrival, have recommended a consultation with you at the first opportunity.”
“It is a very sincere compliment,” I told him, “to receive such recommendations.”
“They say,” he continued, “that you are the most intelligent person inside the Beltway.”
“Which is a lot,” I cautioned, “like being the tallest building in Baltimore.”
“Baltimore?” Kajitombe exclaimed. “Yes, I have heard of that place – a seaport city set upon the Chesapeake Bay, not too far from here. The natives reportedly thrive on a diet consisting primarily of blue crabs and beer. They live in quaint row houses, the screen doors of which they decorate with fanciful paintings; make flower planters out of automobile tires; dress very colorfully, with great eccentricity; speak with an accent derived from Elizabethan English, and call everyone they meet ‘Hon.’ So, is Baltimore, then, like New York or Chicago, also noted for exceptionally tall buildings?”
“No,” I informed him, “it most certainly is not.”
A brief silence ensued as Dr. Kajitombe pondered my response. “Oh, you inscrutable Americans,” he sighed. “I shall most definitely need to give that remark further consideration. But be that as it may, I suppose, my mission today is to obtain answers to a number of questions I have collected from various members of the South Sudanese diplomatic delegation.” With that, he picked up his briefcase, placed it primly on his knees, popped it open and withdrew an A4 sheet of elaborately watermarked, cream-laid linen paper from which he began to read. “The ambassador wishes to know where are the best places to buy nice suits.”
“There’s an embarrassment of riches in that department,” I told him, “George De Paris, Chevy Chase Custom Tailors, Field English, European Custom Tailors, Geoffery Lewis Limited, Reed’s, Keith Brigman… I’ll have Gretchen prepare a comprehensive list of the top twenty or so. But most of the diplomats in Washington share a little secret – the Hong Kong Tailor.”
“Hong Kong?” Kajitombe’s eyebrows shot up. “They go to Hong Kong?”
“No,” I clarified, “they don’t – their measurements do. Sure, the ambassador might as well tour the best custom tailors here in Washington and get to know a few, but the truth is, he can get suits that are every bit as good for much less just by visiting the Hong Kong Tailor and ordering several suits at a time. They have a very sophisticated measurement system, dating back to the 1830’s, that completely emulates the finest British Empire bespoke tailoring. After they take your measurements, they e-mail them to Hong Kong, where highly skilled, but not particularly well paid Chinese tailors and seamstresses build simply awesome looking suits to your exact specifications. It takes about eight weeks for delivery, but the savings are incredible.”
“Hong… Kong… Tailor…” Kajitombe murmured as he wrote slowly, with a large cursive hand, in a leather-bound notebook. “Very good. Now, the Chief of Protocol wishes to know where is the best place for the embassy to buy liquor.”
“That would be Addy Bassin’s,” I said without hesitation, “on MacArthur Boulevard. They’ve been supplying fine wines and spirits to the diplomatic community here in Washington since 1957.”
“Well, that was easy,” Kajitombe beamed. “Now, our Security Chief wishes to know, who are those American policemen he sees continually lurking outside our new embassy?”
“Those are members of the Uniformed Secret Service,” I explained. “They’re part of our Treasury Department – the same Secret Service that protects our President and other members of our government. An important aspect the Uniformed Secret Service mission is to ensure the security of foreign diplomats in the United States.”
“So they are not spying on us?” Kajitombe asked suspiciously.
“Well,” I allowed, “I wouldn’t go so far as to say that – they – along with the Federal Protective Service over at the Department of Homeland Security, the Federal Bureau of Investigation at the Justice Department, and, of course, the Central Intelligence Agency – are all spying on you, all the time. But the Uniformed Secret Service police are primarily there to keep your embassy safe from, oh, I don’t know… how about a suicide bomber from North Sudan, for instance?”
“I see,” Kajitombe shuddered as he wrote. “All right then… the Attaché for Host Country Relations wishes to know where to have all these parking tickets we have been getting… um… fixed up.”
“You don’t,” I warned, “get parking tickets ‘fixed up’ in Washington DC, Dr. Kajitombe. You pay them. Otherwise, the DC Police will put a boot on your car.”
“Excuse me?” Kajitombe interjected. “How does one put boots on an automobile?”
“The ‘Denver boot,’” I explained, “is a large, heavy steel clamp that is locked in place on one of the car’s wheels. It stays there until you pay the parking tickets.”
“But what,” Kajitombe wondered, “about diplomatic immunity?”
“Yes,” I acknowledged, “you have that. But your limousine, on the other hand, does not.”
“I see,” he grumbled as he wrote in his notebook. “Many of the embassy staff have asked about which are the appropriate schools for their children. What would you suggest?”
“English, French, or something else?” I asked.
“Ah… good question,” he admitted. “How about French?”
“The Lycée Rochambeau or French Maternal.”
“English?”
“Saint Albans, Sidwell Friends, Georgetown Preparatory,” I recited, “and Emerson Preparatory is very close to the embassy, you know, over by 13th Street and Massachusetts Avenue.”
“Thirteenth Street… and… Massachusetts Avenue,” he recited back as he wrote. “And many of the ladies have also asked, what are the safe parts of the city?”
“Rock Creek Park,” I revealed, “serves as a barrier between Safe Washington and Dangerous Washington. The ladies should never, ever venture out alone east of Rock Creek Park. The gentlemen should be safe during the day east of Sixteenth Street but no further east than Georgia Avenue, and it is best for them to confine such travel after dark to portions west of Fourteenth Street. And under no circumstances should anyone from the embassy ever visit Anacostia unless they have been invited to a specific address at a specific time by someone whom the are absolutely certain actually lives there.”
“Specific time… by someone who lives there,” he quavered as he wrote. “Sounds like a very rough section, that Anacostia. Is there anything else we need to watch out for?”
“There is a kind of local dance music called ‘Go-Go.’”
“Yes?” Kajitombe breathed in anticipation, his pen poised above his notebook. “And what of it?”
“Never, ever,” I admonished, “for any reason, attend any social gathering where Go-Go music is performed. If invited, make up an excuse – any excuse not to go there; if you show up someplace and they have a Go-Go band playing there, make up an excuse – any excuse to get out of there as soon as possible. Okay, then there’s Prince Georges County. That’s the county in Maryland that borders on Northeast Washington and Anacostia. The only safe part of Prince Georges County is the University of Maryland campus in College Park. And the police in Prince Georges County are just as dangerous as the criminals, if not more so, particularly if you happen to be, as all the folks at your embassy are, from Africa. Don’t just go driving willy-nilly around the countryside surrounding Washington, either. Montgomery and Frederick counties in Maryland, and Arlington, Fairfax and Loudoun counties in Virginia are acceptable for Sunday excursions with the family, but don’t expect the country folk in places like Culpeper or Lusby to know anything about South Sudan or care whether you or your family are from there. They’re going to see a bunch of black people who talk funny driving a foreign car, and take my word for it, they will act accordingly. And if you must go to the beach, please – drive straight out to Ocean City, stay in a hotel on the boardwalk, and if you do, in fact, get so bored you have to get out of town for a few hours, be sure to drive north up the coast highway into Delaware – nowhere else, because the Delmarva Peninsula south of Ocean City, Maryland is the last place this side of Alabama that a vacationing African diplomat and his family want to get lost.”
“Stay… on… coastal highway…” he muttered as he finished his note and looked once more at his list of questions. “The Cultural Attaché wishes to know… how shall I put this? Ah… where is the… um… ‘gay scene’ as he put it, here in Washington?”
“Tell him he’s in luck,” I advised. “Your country’s new embassy, at 1233 20th Street Northwest, is only three blocks away from Dupont Circle. You can’t spit without hitting a gay nightclub around there. But if that’s not enough for him, there’s Georgetown, the U Street corridor, Adams Morgan and Southwest.”
“… Adams… Morgan… and.. Southwest,” Kajitombe mumbled as he wrote. “Yes, I think he should find that… sufficient. The embassy chef wants to know how to best obtain bush meat.”
“Tell him,” I flatly replied, “to check with the chefs at the embassies of Ghana, Cameroon, Gabon, Senegal, Congo, Nigeria, Benin, Togo, Sierra Leon, Cote d’Ivoire, Angola or the Central African Republic.”
“… Central… African… Republic,” Kajitombe whispered as he finished writing and turned his attention once more to his list of questions. “Uh… several of the gentlemen have requested to know where to obtain a relaxing, full-body massage… with a happy ending.”
“Tell them,” I cautioned, “that they must be very careful not to engage the services of a licensed massage therapist, because there are many of them here in Washington, they take their profession quite seriously, and they will become extremely upset if one of you gentlemen from the embassy ask them for a happy ending. I suggest they consult the Adult Services section of the Washington City Paper for appropriate massage providers.”
“Washington… City… Paper… Adult… Services,” Kajitombe repeated as he wrote. “Ah, yes, and also, there has been the another question from… various individuals… about where one can arrange to hold a brief… but very private… outdoor meeting.”
“The Washington DC area has a large selection of parks, and nearly every one of them is suitable. But do not,” I recommended, “use the Potomac overlooks on the George Washington Parkway. The Watergate gang used those, and consequently, they have had surveillance cameras trained on them since the mid 1970’s. You should schedule your… brief meeting… to begin ten minutes before sundown. Pick a place that is easily accessible by car from at least two exits. Scout the location by stopping by there at least three times in the week prior to when you want to have the meeting. If there’s anybody else hanging around there at ten minutes before sundown, pick another spot, because that one’s taken. Since your colleagues are diplomats, every time they visit the meeting location, they will have to shake the various US and foreign agents tailing them, and, what’s more, make it look like they’re not trying to do that, because if it looks like they’re trying, that will tip the agents off and they’ll double their surveillance. Establish a pattern of leaving work in the middle of the afternoon and wandering around a lot – catch a cab, ride for a while, get out, walk through an alley, dart into a Metro station, catch a train, get off two stops later and double back – that sort of thing. If you do it all the time, they will never know when you’re trying to shake them. Arrange for some vehicles without diplomatic tags to be available, parked at various designated points. Switch vehicles several times, only proceeding to the meeting location after you’re sure you are not being followed, and for God’s sake, leave the damn cell phone back at the embassy, because it doesn’t matter what you do, if you have a cell phone on you, anybody can track you anywhere you go, anytime. Now, if you’re going to be… ah… bringing anything back with you from the meeting, be sure to have a safe place to put it before you park that car with the civilian license plates and start your circuitous route back to the embassy. And, should that package with which you return from the meeting contain… currency, well, then: Nothing larger than twenties; no sequential numbers; no marked bills; and you had better know how to spot counterfeits.”
“Gracious,” Kajitombe clucked as he wrote, “this is ever so complicated.”
“Unfortunately, so,” I agreed, “but it can’t be avoided. Unless, of course, you simply find another way besides accepting bags of cash to become… let us say, adequately compensated… for selling out South Sudan’s vast petroleum riches to whomever will pay you the highest bribes.”
“What?” Kajitombe protested as he raised his voice to a proper level of indignation. “I am shocked – shocked – to hear such a suggestion! But now that you have mentioned it, I have, for some unknown reason, grown oddly curious about the concept. How, exactly, would one do that? Theoretically speaking, of course.”
“Theoretically speaking,” I proclaimed as I opened a desk drawer and handed him a dossier, “it’s all in there.”
Kajitombe spent the next half hour perusing the dossier, after which he looked up from it and asked, “You prepared this in advance of our meeting?”
“I prepared that,” I proudly confessed, with just a note of irony, “eight years ago. Although I have kept it up to date with the latest embellishments and inside information, naturally.”
“So,” Kajitombe presumed as he stashed the dossier in his briefcase, “we South Sudanese diplomats are hardly alone, and there is apparently nothing new about such… theoretical interest.”
“No indeed, Dr. Kajitombe,” I confirmed, “you are hardly alone; and yes, there is most certainly nothing new under the sun. Except your lovely country, of course.”
“Quite! It is all bright and shiny, like a limousine on the show room floor,” Kajitombe smiled as he clapped his briefcase shut and rose to shake my hand, “and I assure you, we intend to get as much enjoyment out of it as possible before the warranty runs out!”