World AIDS Day

The industrious I had been pressing flesh and making herself known to the movers and shakers for at least a month leading up to the big day and it really paid off. The hall was packed when we got down there. All the village elders turned up for the first time. Both local schoolchildren and those from surrounding villages had made the journey and at the front were around a hundred kids sat quietly on the floor. It was a magnificent sight after we’d been told that in every previous year, the hall was barely half full. Plus, through her connections, we were made the district sponsored event, which meant funding and attendance from the district council.

The event began with a prayer, as they always do. Then the Anglican Church Choir sang harmonies beautifully. There were dramas, speeches, demonstrations, poetry and it seemed the crowd were kept genuinely enthralled for around four hours. Considering many of them had just come from the football tournament, there must have been rumbling bellies and so this is some achievement. What I’m most proud of is the way Ilona handled herself the whole day though, she was like a whirling dervish ordering this and directing that but always with a smile on her face and time for everyone. I, on the other hand, was still wound up from the football so whenever someone asked me for a free t-shirt I told them they’d find one where the sun don’t shine.

The nurse at the local clinic, dodgily called ‘the madam’ gave an enlightening speech on female condoms. To demonstrate, she had cut a hole out of a piece of sponge to represent a vagina. But, she’d forgotten the other essential element. So she asked the crowd whether any one had a penis she could use. More weirdly still, one of the peer educators from the local mine had brought his wooden penis with him. Does he carry it everywhere he goes? To the bafflement of elders and primary school kids like, the madam then proceeded to insert said penis. The mirthful I maintains it’s the funniest thing she’s ever seen.

At around 6 the events came to a close with a prayer and the DJ set to work. We danced with what little energy we had left with a succession of little kids. Finally, at around 8, 12 hours after the kick-off of the first match we slumped in our chairs at home. Incredibly, the owner of our local, Sister Comfort, had made us some fish stew and boiled yam so we had our first food since toast at dawn. A beer or two later and we were at the bar thanking her and being thanked for a job very well done. (sound of trumpets blare).

World AIDS Day Kick-Off!

Although the idea was mine, I initially had some reservations about holding a football tournament for the village. Tall tales from the foreboding I had warned of a quick descent into village-wide rioting following a botched tournament in Tanzania organized by a group of well-meaning English girls. Plus whenever I had played at or watched the games at the village pitch, it seemed every goal was debated furiously because there’s no net. The combustible nature and competitive spirit of a Ghanaian, especially when village pride is at stake, puts even my Dad playing charades at Christmas to shame. In an insular little place like this, perceived wrongs on the football field can fester like sores till a blow-up is inevitable. But, it’d be a laugh so why not?

The organization didn’t begin well. If I ever work for the UN Security Council, I doubt I’ll see a more tensely debated meeting. All the rules I had presented were scrutinized by eyes labouring under furrowed brows. As with everything here, a bargaining process then began. For instance, I wanted the games 7-a-side, as this would mean more goals, less penalty shoot-outs and more results within the 15 minutes each way time allowance. The captains couldn’t understand this at all. We compromised on 9-a-side. Other issues clearly harked back to previous fighting between the groups, in particular that of finding an unbiased referee. This led to several shouted comments across the room in the kind of local language we haven’t been learning in our textbooks. It seems one of the teams, the Old Boy (OB) Stars, had been the Juve of the village buying favours and influencing people in the past. ‘Course, they hotly defended themselves and it was only my intervention to say that if we did not find a suitable outsider to ref, then I would, that curtailed a pre-match barney. Blimey, I thought, what have I got myself into here? Not even a ball kicked in anger and already recriminations, verbal assaults and the Humjibran equivalent of pizza being thrown between the managers. Next issue was over the prize. On the basis of assurances from the boss Clement, we confidently announced that a ‘brand-new leather ball’ would be given to the winners of the tournament. However, when we looked in the storeroom, all the balls we had were either slightly used, not leather or had a puncture. The problem stems from the fact that many of our balls had been confiscated by the police as ‘evidence’ following an incident when one of the villagers had copied our keys and had been squirreling our goods on the sly. We called the cops but the boss hogg, who “is the only one that can handle the balls” had gone traveling, so we were left with a slightly scruffy-looking red Patrick ball as the prize.

Anyway, the day rolled around and I donned my whistle, stopwatch and cards and went out to do battle, I mean referee. Among the teams represented were my boys, the Terror Squad, Parliament, Footwear, Old Boy (O.B.) Stars and a GHEI All Stars team that my fellow teacher - and complete donut - Thomas organised. In fact, all the ‘stars’ of GHEI weren’t from GHEI at all, Thomas had paid handsomely for a set of ‘ringers’ (people not from the village) and students from the local school on the basis that the kids we teach are too scrawny to play. Mind you, after a quick look at the other teams I could see his point. Anyway, in the clearing Harmattan fog, I blew the whistle to begin the tournament on a dusty stretch of ground laughingly referred to as the football field. As the sun burnt off the mist, I officiated over the sad exit of the Terrorists at the hands of GHEI All Stars (which they complained bitterly about), Parliament at the hands of Footwear (which they complained bitterly about), Ampomah at the hands of Gye Nyame (which they complained bitterly about) and so on. You might detect a certain pattern here. It seems Humjibrans know how to kick out the jamms when they win but when things don’t go their way they don’t half spit out their dummy. Pretty much every team that won that day came to hug and congratulate me on my good refereeing and similarly every team that lost shouted abuse and claimed a fix. I guess it’s no different on any park anywhere in the world but then again it’s not everywhere that machete are so readily to hand.

A pretty big crowd soon gathered and then the DJ with his 12 foot stack of speakers appeared. Over a booming bassline, some guy gave over-excited commentary on the matches. The Terror Squad had reacted badly to losing but showed it in a cool way by jogging round the pitch with their flag knocking on their metal percussion instruments. All good clean fun. Anyway the games rolled by at a frenetic pace until the final which was due to kick off at high noon. The teams that made it through were OB Stars, the favourites, village first 11 and instigators of mass pitch invasions to celebrate every goal; and the GHEI All Stars, which meant more people claiming it was a fix. I just hoped OB would do me a favour and win comfortably so as to avoid me hanging from the nearest pine tree. Perhaps I needn’t have worried though, since there had been whisperings that OB had roped in a player from outside the village with knowledge of a certain kind of ‘African medicine’. The level of belief in witchcraft or juju, as its known here, warrants a separate entry, but let’s just say sides in the highest national league have confessed to using it. Just look at the size of the brute though, he’s the giant standing to the right of the picture, superhuman powers or not its enough to put the creepers on you.

The game kicked off and OB quickly took control. The expected pitch invasion came as they scored the opening goal. However, the game started to turn as GHEI started to move the ball around quickly enough to keep out of the way of the bigger OB players. Surprisingly though, the fouls were coming from GHEI, and in particular my fellow teacher Thomas. I gave him a yellow and ticking off. It was quite pleasurable because he’s quite annoying, but then I give him the same kind of hassle at work and he gave me the same kind of reaction. He pleaded forgiveness and then went on doing the same things anyway. It was at this point that GHEI made a break, I was up with the game and clearly saw the big OB defender handle the ball in the area. I blew the whistle and pointed to the penalty spot. Pandemonium. The pitch became a melee. Players squared up to each other; kids kicked up the dust enjoying the anarchy; the headmaster of the primary school screamed something intelligible, and it looked as if every spectator took the opportunity to wander on to the pitch. I remember taking 5 seconds to just watch it all while an OB player shouted at me. Then I started blowing my whistle. That didn’t do too much good so I decided to sod the dignified approach and literally went round kicking people up the arse till they got off the pitch. After about 6-7 minutes, calm was restored and a GHEI player stepped up and scored the pen.

The game rumbled on into the second half and tempers were becoming increasingly frayed under the midday sun. Mine included. After several warnings, I grabbed Thomas and told him that if he so much as looked at an OB player in the wrong way I’d send him off. So seconds later he goes and kicks someone as they take the ball past him. Hugely pissed off that a colleague could be such a prat, I ran over showed him the red card then shoved him over and told him what I thought of him. I have to admit to enjoying this piece of gung-ho refereeing and might try it in the office more. Anyway the OB started turning the screw but the crowd seemed to backing the underdog GHEI and they almost scored twice from breakaways. Then OB scored what used to be called a ‘wimbledon goal’. Nothing to do with lawn tennis but all to do with the tactics of a team that grabbed groins, never scored outside the 6 yard box and are thankfully no longer in existence. Maybe it was the memory of that FA Cup Final goal in 1988 but before I knew what I was doing I had blown for a pretty minor foul on the goalie. Giving a penalty is one thing but disallowing a goal, well refs have been stoned by baying crowds for less. It took Mr Pano to defend me from one of the OB ‘stars’ as, metal bowl full of bread balancing on his head all the while, the team tried to make me do a D’Urso, as the scummy mancs would have it. One thing you’ve gotta do, even if it’s a crap decision, is stick to your guns. However, the OB players were starting to slink off the pitch saying it was a fix when I ordered the kick to be taken. There’s something about a player running towards your goal with the ball that makes anyone wake up and realise the ref’s serious. Anyway OB started playing and saved my bacon when minutes later they scored. 2 token minutes later I blew the whistle and even got hugged by the celebrating OB team. Funnily enough though, everybody else seemed a bit gutted as their whinging hadn’t exactly covered them in glory.

Never mind, it was over and time to start the procession down to the Community Centre for the World AIDS Day celebrations.

The Harmattan

At the end of every year the long rains take a break from tropical west Africa as the wind changes direction and starts coming from the north. Giant clouds blow over the vast Saharan wilderness picking up several million castles of sand, getting darker and thicker as they roll towards the Atlantic. This natural smog enshrouds the countries of the African ‘bulge’ from mid-November to late February. If you could see it from a satellite, it’d probably look like someone has taken a giant eraser and rubbed out this whole region.

As I’ve mentioned before, a programme of conditioning by the loudspeakerman has resulted in the novel habit of pre-dawn wake-ups. I generally sit out with the Scruff watching the village emerge from the milky gloom. Many of the farmers make their way to farm before light and their voices can be heard having long and detailed discussions over 500 metres. This somehow reminds me of Venetian fishermen calling out to each other in the morning fog. The hawkers then emerge, for instance Mr Pano the bread seller, sometime after 7am with their goods balanced on their heads. The uniformed kids then come strolling by, oftentimes clutching a machete. The students have to tidy the school before classes, which includes cutting back the quick growing foliage. They also have to collect water for the teachers after school and, at the start of the year, spend a week making charcoal that is then sold to fund the purchase of new textbooks. Imagine that in your local compy.

As I say, the morning hills are obscured in the harmattan haze. The air is thick and retains moisture much more than usual. We’ve been told that in the past the dust was thicker and meant that the nights were ‘bitterly cold’. All is relative (or is that subjective?) though, and I can kinda see why John Barnes needed those tights when one of our teachers is wearing gloves going out for a run while I’m sat on my pale behind in shorts and t-shirt loving life.

Let there be light

Aside from the odd tarantula and a snake that lives by the compost heap, the fact that we live in the African tropics usually just means we have a nice view from the front patio of some rainforested hills. Quite pretty, we admire, as we sip on a cup of tea. However, when darkness falls and we humans resort to artificial light, the creepy-crawlies of the surrounding forest are wont to come to call. One place they like to gather is by the strip light that illuminates the side of our house. The decision over whether to turn the lights on therefore means we have dominion over a minor world populated with a bewildering variety of the jungle’s night creatures.

The geckos are the quickest; as soon as we play God they hungrily devour a bellyful of the hundreds of flying ants that swarm to the false moon. Sometimes, they’ll eat so much they fall off the wall. Can’t be good for the digestion but after a few nods of the head they scurry off happy enough. The elaborate three dimensional spider’s webs that hang from our gutters will take some of the rest. Thankfully, the spiders are of a relatively harmless variety, nothing like the armoured yellow and black monsters that infest the bushes near the rubbish pit. Although a rarity, sometimes a cricket will also pay a visit. They are smaller than those you see in Europe but their metallic chirruping, loudest at dusk, is enough to force speech up a notch or two. The noise is akin to a loud version of the background fuzz you hear with a minor bout of tinnitus, of the type you might get after a ‘Tap gig or as a result of dipping your head in a drum n bass bin. Air raids are sometimes made by flying beetles, which sound like Chinook helicopters as they whizz by your ear.

A rainforest will always throw up some jokes from evolution. For instance, there is a type of flying insect, somehow descended from the ant, which have oversized abdomens, seemingly too heavy for their slender wings to achieve anything but the shortest of flights. They zoom about randomly bashing into walls and the floor like early rocket tests. Nevertheless, the abdomens make a crunchy but evidently tasty snack for Mr Scruff. She will happily crunch these poor suckers till she’s ill. But then she’ll have a nibble on anything, even when past experience proves it to be painful. For instance, little squadrons of safari ants occasionally infest the verandah and every time she’ll bite them, and every time they bite her right back. She’ll come whining to us with one of the tenacious little suckers clamped onto her lip and squeal till we rip it out. They can draw blood on humans too but like most things 20 times smaller than you, don’t try it on without undue provocation.

One evening we came out of the house to find a beetle of the goliathus (or feckin gigantic) family harassing a frog. Although it’s pincers were the size of a finger, the dog went bounding over fully expecting either a new playmate or a little light supper. The frog made a sharp exit at this point, glad that something stupider than it was ready to take the limelight. The Scruff almost got her nose bitten off before we stopped the bout telling her that she’d won on points.