2009-01-19 Stone Town, Zanzibar
I’m sitting now in an outdoor café beside a fine-grained sand beach and the shimmering green waters of the Indian Ocean enjoying an exquisite afternoon beverage which appears to feature the chartreuse colored juice of a local gourd-like plant. A few days ago, on the port side of the ferry that took me from the mainland to this island for some much-needed R & R, was the first time I was able to peer inside the diplomatic pouch Joe Daly was able to have routed my way and discover two piece of very, very good news. Very, very good, indeed.
The first, of course, is that Mott the Hoople is reuniting after 35 years and playing two gigs in London later this fall. Although not as famous as some of their glam rock counterparts, the Hoople always had a cult following that refuses to give out. And your humble correspondent has been a loyal fan ever since first seeing them in London in the early 1970s. At this very moment I have trusted representatives in both NYC and the UK scouring the music scene for tickets. I sense some of you readers may be a bit skeptical. Well, check out this clip:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=N-9F_z0B2TA
I know it all seems a little strange now. Perhaps my fascination has something to do with my profession: hanging with Lou Reed in 1960s NYC and Ian Hunter and his glam rock buddies in 1970s London prepared me all too well for the troubled third world – and rugby coaches.
The second piece of very good news is that my adopted hometown rugby team, the Westlake Chaps, hung on last weekend to win the first annual Capitol City Slug Fest. The tournament was hosted by Stony Point and they supplied a fitting trophy: a gold-plated sledgehammer, whose wooden handle the Stony Point lads had carved in shop class to comemerate the occasion. Charles Vermont says Bravo. Joe tells me that Coach Al is still grousing about sloppy rucking and mauling. Well, we all need something to work on, don’t we? Enjoy the victory, lads. Stiffer competition awaits.
But that diplomatic pouch also contained a touch of bad news. The woman that I’d come to the Spice Islands to see has now gone; called away to farther reaches of the continent. I can’t predict when our paths might again cross. I sit in the place where Livingston launched his search for the source of the Nile. The beautiful traditional Arabian sailboats – dhows - that ply the calm waters of the harbor are beginning to waiver. Perhaps it’s because of the heat. I’m sure it has nothing to do with that strange native liquid I’ve been drinking for the past few days.
Charles Vermont