Gerardo Chapa is the producer of 20/10, a documentary about the 2010 World Cup. The movie's descriptor reads: "For a month this summer, for 90 minutes at a time, an inexplicable phenomenon will unite people of all ages, creeds and colors. Every four years, beggars and kings, whites and blacks, women and men gather to indulge in the revelry of this sensation. For the first time ever, the catalyst for this fever will take place in Africa."

Chapa is on the ground in South Africa as the world's biggest sport event seizes the globe's attention. He's writing a first-person account, exclusively for CultureMap.

As I walked into Tivoli, an overpriced Italian restaurant in the upscale Sandton district of Johannesburg, I spotted my friend Dave waving at me with a boyish grin.

"I want to show you something," the 57-year-old best-selling biographer said as he directed me to the bar in the back of the restaurant. "Hello, ladies!" Dave exclaimed, his face shining with glee as he introduced me to a dozen tantalizing strumpets. Dave had suggested we meet for dinner and then set out to find and interview candidates for the hooker character we intended to follow in our World Cup movie.

I had no idea it would be this easy. After enjoying lasagna and a few Millers, we made our way to the bar for our HR meeting. Although the girls seemed perplexed by our proposal to cast them in a documentary, they agreed to give us their numbers as long as we stopped wasting their time and let them get back to work.

Dave had gotten to know one willing participant who seemed to fit the bill perfectly. A quick lip, a scarred forehead from a territorial battle and a cool demeanor — Dorothy was a star in the making. As for her plans for the World Cup: "I'm not stupid, of course my rates are going up!"

We relayed our progress to our director, Alex, and he expressed a desire for someone more downscale, more desperate. His wish being our command, we hit the streets to find prostitutes who didn't pre-game on 40-rand glasses of Pinot Noir. We were only in the car two minutes when Dave's orange turn signal indicated he had spotted some possible candidates.

Sure enough, as we pulled up, two questionably feminine figures approached our cars.

I briefed them on our project while they tried to negotiate business. Gradually it sunk in that we were only interested in talking to them. I handed Lady Ladonna my phone to enter her number for a potential second interview, and the trouble began.

"How much," she yelled in the deserted street, "are you going to pay me to give the phone back? My time is NOT FREE!"

Suddenly holding my cheap South African Nokia for ransom, she was frighteningly determined. "I break your phone right now!" she shouted hysterically.

As if on cue, a police car came around the corner and pulled up next to us. "We're making a documentary," Dave said and opened the trunk of my car to show them our cameras.

The two officers, confused by the truly movie-like, undoubtedly-suspicious scene, got back in their car and drove away shaking their heads. Just as we tried to leave in our separate vehicles, Ladonna and her sidekick jumped in the car shouting obscenities and scrambled for anything they could get their hands on.

"That one's got your Blackberry" Dave pointed out, as he sped off to find the police.

"What's the emergency number in this country?" I shouted before he got out of range, naively certain that calling for help was an option. Dave, thinking back to his university days in London, shouted back "999!"

It isn't.

By then, the high-heeled thief had nearly disappeared into the distance with impressive speed, and I frantically chased after her, realizing my luck in escaping one mugging with my Blackberry was about to run out. Just as I caught up to the assailant, Dave, with a police car following close on his heels, came racing around the corner to the rescue.

Fearing deportation back to Zimbabwe, where she was from, the no-longer-brazen prostitute threw my phone in a dumpster and disappeared behind a strip mall.

"Sorry things are a bit quiet, but it's only Wednesday," Dave said from his car. "Do you want to call it a night?"

Two psychotic hookers, two police encounters, one Blackberry in the dumpster ...

"Yeah, let's go home. We'll try again tomorrow."