Malawi 2004 - 2007 |
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Football In Africa
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1. Street Scenes Near every village is a patch of grassless bumpy earth - the football pitch. More often than not you will see a maelstrom of arms, legs and flashing teeth swirling shapelessly around the loosely demarcated arena. The boys, for there are not usually girls, gleefully, endlessly chase the tightly packed plastic bags that is the ball, legs lost in clouds of dust. There are large numbers of Arsenal away shirts in Lilongwe District, not so much a sign of adulation as the dumping of Asian, counterfeit, merchandise in Africa. There are also many local games featuring older boys. These are serious affairs - sometimes there are kits but not usually shoes. Boisterous, noisy and volatile crowds gather to cheer on the combatants. Today I finally succeeded in bringing most of the CEYCA staff out to our key village, Kangoma , for a sports day. It has been like herding cats. As one is ready another disappears. Yet another finds a task that really cannot be done at any time but the present. Our team was a mixture of the old, the young, the fit and the lame. We even managed to arrive with a woman. I was worried from the start. This was like the Primary School Outing. As we waited to get into the cars the young, and some not so young, men were racing around like puppies snapping at each others heels, displaying half accomplished football tricks, vying to introduce training exercises seen at football matches. The cars barely contained this effervescing excitement and as the doors opened in Kangoma the yelping pack raced away in every direction, chasing everything that moved. There was little hope of organised competition. The wild-eyed CEYCA staff was joined by a few local lads. A game of volley ball emerged from the chaos. I asked where the other young people were. " don't worry they will be here. They have jobs to do this morning." Sure enough as the dust rose, the game settled. More young people, including young women arrived and joined in. Eventually a proper series of games took place with an umpire and a clear result. We went on to play something that approximated to netball. The young women were in control and really rather skilled. The young men were still full of testosterone. At the end of the game a group of younger women gathered round one of the posts and we threw them the ball. They delightedly chased the ball shot at the net and generally had a good time . The same might not have been said of the infants strapped to their backs in Chitenjies (printed sheets used for carrying animal,vegetable and mineral objects ) . Here child care is the responsibility of all women - even the very young . So if little one wants to play netball, baby plays too. My fears were well founded. By the time we came to the afternoon football match it was clear that some had peaked too soon. Our opponents had outflanked us. We realised that our battle-weary troops were facing a fresh battalion of elite storm-troopers - the youth network's feared football team. We were in Chetshwayo's krall - this was our Rorke's Drift. By half time three our young bloods had to lie down. We lost 6-0. The point of this day was to reintroduce some energy into CEYCA's contact with the network. I hope that this is the start of a process of re-engagement with these rural young people. 2. Euro 2004 There was much interest in the fate of Europe's over-paid and over-weaned footballers. During the tournament the office and bar buzzed with discussion of tactics, results, and prognoses. England matches provided the excuse for football parties and I experienced three very different environments. I planned to see the match against France at the upmarket Capital Hotel. Sitabene heard and invited me to join her and her friends at the Golf Club instead. We were transported in a Tonka Toy large enough to have staged the match. This was the rich end of Malawian Society. Although the chairman of the golf club was a Malawian, as were most of the members, the whole scene bore a closer resemblance to English suburbia than to Malawi heartland. Reaction to the excitement of the match was muted and mannered. The Chairman even said he was sorry when England lost to assuage my feelings. My work chums were very keen England supporters. We watched the Croatia match at Desmond's house - a small dingy room with six men, a couple of younger females (for a while), a wife in attendance, a motor bike and a worn three piece suite crammed into every available space. We made a real evening of it. We had a meal and settled down to the last two discs of 'Titanic' before watching the match. It was the perfect place to become sensitised to the contrast between the opulence on our flickering screen and the poverty of our surroundings. The half time break could not have been more poignant in its expression of this very contrast. Scene 1. Advertisement David Beckham, Francesco Totti, Ronaldinhio , all of whom probably have incomes in excess of Malawi GDP, earn more in a 30 second advertisement than anyone in this room will earn in a career. Cut to TV Malawi for the half time analysis by the presenter and the chief coach of Bakili Bullets, the top Malawi team. Scene 2. The set has been borrowed from an early pilot for the Blue Peter show. The backdrop is a sheet with sign-writing done by hand in a market workshop. The fancy logo of the European Football Authority has also been painted by a shaky hand. The sheet droops wearily in the centre. The camera is fixed at tabletop height, which is lucky because our two analysts are seated behind someone's kitchen table covered by a white cloth which no-one has thought to iron since the last match. In front of our hosts, on the table, is arranged several piles of luxury items such as bars of green washing soap, biscuits, breakfast cereal etc. We listen intently to Mr Phiri talking about diamond shapes, running in the channels, and narrow formations. Suddenly the presenter turns to camera and exhorts us to purchase the luxury goods. He waxes lyrical about the green washing soap completely oblivious to the ironic fact that no-one has seen fit to use it on the table cloth . Mr Phiri nods approval. Excitement builds as the competition is set - win up to 5,000 kwatcha (£25). Unfortunately there is no paper to note the question. Cut to David Beckham I saw England's exit from the tournament in the back room of a local bar in area 18. Passion is as high as the beer consumption. The room is almost equally divided between Portugal and England. The banter grows as the match tension builds. Interestingly I attract very little attention. People are not quite sure if I should be part of this or whether they can insult me. Goals cause everyone to jump up, dance around, hurl abuse and whoop with delight. We could be in the middle of Newcastle except that these are Malawians who have never been to England or Portugal and probably have few accurate images of life in either. When England lose the penalty shoot-out one man is close to tears; I leave happy with the evening's events. 3. Oh Dear What Has Happened To The Flames? Malawi means 'land of the flames' so it is only proper that the national football team is referred to as 'The Flames '. This Saturday was set aside for the Flames to play Guinea at the CIVA stadium in Lilongwe. Because everyone is so short of cash the match counted towards both the World Cup and the African Nations Cup. The stadium holds only 30,000 people and prices are fixed at MK100 (50p) and in some club matches rich corrupt politicians pay for the stadium and let the fans in for free. This annoys FAM, the governing body, because they find it difficult to collect their share. I was advised to get there early and make a day of it. I met a young man who worked in a hotel en route for the stadium and we decided to watch the match together. The stadium is a low concrete bowl that could be described as 'all-seater' if by that you mean that you can sit on the wide concrete terraces. There is one covered stand for dignitaries. To my disappointment I discovered that I had worn a short-sleeved tee-shirt and forgotten to take sun screen . I would have to suffer for my football like a true fan . As the stadium filled slowly the atmosphere became very communal. New arrivals walked around the field greeting friends in the crowd, laughing and joking as they decided where to sit. Vendors made hay while the sun beat down. Occasionally a large armoured truck did a slow lap of the pitch to the massed whistles and insults of the otherwise good-natured crowd. It seemed that the favoured place to watch from was the wall at the back of the stadium. One man drew laughter by walking round the stadium blowing a horn and shouting the praises of the Guinean team. At last the teams came to the field to do their warm-up exercises. I was worrying about my rapidly reddening skin. Eventually the match started. The Flames were a neat, short-passing side, which is difficult on a bumpy, bone-hard pitch. Guinea had a more physical and direct style. No-one could quite manage to tame the lively ball well enough to create a goal chance, and half time arrived with no score. The crowd was very mannered. There was no organised chanting or singing. People would show their excitement at a good move by grinning, exclaiming " eeeeee " and clapping happily. Many had radios, listening to the commentary which charmingly switched between Chechewa and English every quarter of an hour. The more extravagant wall-standers danced provocatively. The second half followed a similar pattern until at last The Flames managed to bundle in a messy goal. We all became instant friends. I found myself high- fiving with new chums all around and for the only time singing rang out around the ground. Unfortunately, Guinea had not read the script and scored an equaliser five minutes from the end. The crowd left the stadium in grumbling mood. Malawi had not won in five games and had lost to even weaker sides. There was now a crisis that was to lead the Minister for Youth Sports and Culture to hold a war cabinet to divine the cause of this decline. The Guineans were to make headlines for fighting each other in their hotel over the favours of a local girl. As we left the ground there was a dangerously narrow exit to the stairs which, added to the determined pushing of the crowd, meant that tactics had to be used to avoid being crushed. Outside the crowd streamed across the dry grass towards the road into town. The Flames had disappointed and my skin was already starting to flake. ***************************
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