Dom's Thoughts and Adventures

Today I went to visit MacDonald Nkhutabasa. He works in Limbe, Blantyre’s sister city and a twenty minute journey by public minibus. Minibuses are public death traps and wealthier Malawians, and all but a few backpacker whites, avoid them. But Limbe is a short distance and what with commuters slowing traffic between the two towns, the cars rarely pick up enough speed for blow-outs to be fatal. At first it seems impossible to know which minibus is the one you need, few are signposted, and all lurch back and forth, impatient to be on the go once sufficiently full of passengers. Minibuses compete for customers and are run by entrepreneurial individuals rather than established companies. One man, I was reliably informed, owns no less than 19 vehicles, all of which ply the route between Blantyre and Limbe; others are blessed only with one, a thriving four-wheeled business nonetheless. All minibuses compete fiercely for customers, and only depart when crammed to the hilt. Conductors operate as touts until departure, and must constantly entice passengers away from competitors by convincing them that their minibus is certain to be the first to fill up and depart. One way to engage in this rampant subterfuge is to keep engines running and to rev them up and down, occasionally even pulling away as if on the point of flying off to one’s destination, only to reverse again, as if to invite that one last customer to quickly commit their chances. When customers show uncertainty between vehicles, touts redouble their efforts and sometimes even enter into scraps and fisticuffs to defend their right to a passenger.

Macdonald had instructed me to wait for him outside the post office. Although I was myself late, there was no sign of him and so I sat for some time observing the hurly burly of street life. Limbe is much more of a market town than Blantyre, which is more officially commercial. Limbe is where Malawians go to shop, and traders go to hawk their wares. In front of the post office the shoe merchants had set up their pavement stalls, in a line, much in the way that high street shoe shops cluster together for shared economic interests. I was struck by the limited selection of styles that the women had to choose from, but perhaps shoes aren’t as important here fore women who certainly express their individual style with Chitenji, the coloured, patterned cloths that can become a dress or a headscarf in many different arrangements.

When Macdonald arrived, it was a great pleasure to see him again. Macdonald is a social worker with the Chisomo children’s club, a shelter and support service for children who have come to live on the streets. He was also one of the subjects for the film that I made here three years ago. It is strange to see one’s cinema subject after a substantial interval of time. Somehow, as I’d edited him into the film, it felt as if I’d also essentialised him into this frozen form. Soon after our re-meeting, Macdonald said something so similar in tone, and identical in voice and accent, to one of his lines in the film. It made me feel as if I were listening to a stuck record - ‘Yes, there are many children coming onto the streets, we are meeting a lot of children’. But of course, Macdonald is not a static frozen entity, and had much news for me about his life, and the lives and stories of the children and other social workers I’d known three years earlier. He showed me his course books for the part time BA that he is studying in Child and Youth Development, he told me about his recent trip to London to visit his sister and nephews, and he told me about the opening of the Chisomo Children’s Club in Limbe. We stopped for a coca cola at a petrol station, I’d hoped we could take the bottles away with us and stroll down the street with them, but because of the precious bottle deposit, we found ourselves standing in the forecourt attempting to enjoy our drinks but ending up hurriedly wolfing them down to escape the smell of petrol.

Macdonald agreed to help me on my various video projects – yes, I could gain access to a Malawian prison because Chisomo have a good relationship with the police with whom they go on night patrols to look out for children and the dangers they face on the streets at night; yes, I could film some of the food distribution programmes that are going on out here; and especially yes, I would be welcome to involve the children in a small participatory video project.

Before long it was 4:30 and approaching time to go home. The Malawian rush hour is strictly determined by the sun, whose tropical angles plummet it steeply towards the horizon at about 5:30 so that all is darkness within half an hour. Dusk, that long drawn out twilight of an English summer, passes so quickly that it is barely noticeable. Darkness is no condition to be outside the home or protective company of your peers or family. Offices shut down and Malawians begin their journeys home, much of which is done on foot so that the streets become busy with pedestrians. The wealthier Malawians and most white people drive off in their 4wd trucks. I find myself a curious anomaly, a white man on foot. My journey from the centre of town takes about 20 minutes of up and down work. I have already begun to find my routine, I stop at the People’s supermarket and purchase a few cold beers. This is like the starter pistol for my home run - my self assigned reward for the day will start to warm itself up as soon as I begin the journey. Carrying my little bag of beer and groceries, I plod along, eventually leaving the main road and entering an increasingly residential area. Sunnyside is my destination, a relatively affluent suburb where Melissa lives and where I am staying. When I return, there is no-one there, the security guard who has a set of keys, appears to be in town, and so I must sit outside and wait. I open one of my beers and light a cigarette whilst I look out at the ever darkening garden. I am conscious that in a few minutes the mosquitoes will begin their attack. I feel the first one brush against my ear, and then that piercing screech that tells you that you that you are being relentlessly hunted. Still, it is not so bad, today I have planned for this eventuality and brought repellent with me, which I smear over my exposed skin and settle back in my chair. Yesterday wasn’t so easy and I eventually had to make continual walking loops of the house to avoid being bitten. When Melissa returns she is horrified that I have had to sit outside in the darkness for such a time, and expresses her indignation that her security overlord Nick, has been absent in town when he should have been on the premises, letting me in and guarding the property from potential raiders.

Melissa’s house, like Melissa’s life, seems to lurch from one crisis to the next. The fridge has been broken for several weeks and so cold beers are an impossibility. This is the biggest setback in my opinion and I have made discreet inquiries about when we can recover the device from the repair shop, but Melissa is up to her eyeballs in work crises and so this task cannot be squeezed in at the moment. There were two functioning fans on my first night but the flimsy plastic on one of them has given way and so that it can no longer be propped up, thus rendering it useless. I suggest that Melissa’s need is greater and volunteer for a sweaty night, my only insistence being that Melissa find me some ear plugs to cut out that screeching sound of mosquitoes outside the net. The only ones available are found on her bedroom floor and look distinctly grimy. Melissa soaks them in some water as a gesture, but it makes little difference. Still, I have no choice, those piercing blood cries, even if one is separated by the net, make for an uneasy night of sleep.

In the mornings, I plod around the house in preparation for my day of investigation. Melissa is always at work by the time I arise. She runs a theatre organisation called Nanzikambe. Much of the time they put on plays created from real Malawian situations, and of course, always with Malawian actors. Last year, they put on a drama about the 2002 food crisis, this year they are planning another one. But their mission is not only to create drama on social issues, but also to elevate the culture of theatre in Malawi. At the moment, they are preparing for a production of Ibsen’s ‘The Doll’s House’. Of course, 19th century Norway and twentieth century Malawi are distant realities and so Melissa is translating the piece into a contemporary Malawian setting. To assist her in this, she has Karl and Toko. Karl is from Norway and has worked for many years putting on dramas in Africa, on this occasion he has been employed by the Norwegian government as a part of its Ibsen celebrations. Toko is a Malawian and one of Melissa’s most trusted actors. Together they go through the lines of the play and rework them, often with in-depth discussion of Malawian society and culture so that they can make the drama meaningful, change place names, settings, situations, in fact, change the whole social backdrop on which the story takes place. In front of them, as an essential guide, is a book of Chichewa proverbs. Whilst most of the production will be in English, it will occasionally be peppered with familiar Chichewa expressions and proverbs, especially where English ones seem outdated or lacking in local colour. My favourites so far are:

Ndadya thako la galu – “He ate the dog’s buttock” which indicates someone who goes from place to place, usually in search of pleasure.

And

Galu wandifera m’khwapa – “The dog has died in my armpit” – meaning I did what I could but fortune had a different idea.

Now they are discussing how the play will be received here, especially the controversial ending where the woman walks out on her husband, something which was scandalous in its nineteenth century European productions as much as it would be here. Such a gesture of defiance would be almost unthinkable here, and even more unlikely given the very real need that most women have for their husbands to provide for them and the children. Malawian men rule the home. From this they started to explore questions of love, and whether we are ethnocentric in our assumptions about what this means and how it will be shown.

Sadly I shan’t be here when they put on The Doll’s House, as the production is due to be performed early next year. However, on Saturday they will perform the Little Prince at the French Cultural Centre and so I am due a little drama whilst here.

[The email describes my attempts to buy a toaster in Chinese supermarket ]

Bumped into
eccentric American called Joe; another solitary
figure, this time clutching extraordinary Belgium maps
detailing such things as geopolitical struggles of the
world over the last millennium. All coloured shaded
boxes, arrows of invasion and influence, nuclear
proliferation, linguistic and cultural spheres of
domination etc etc. Stared at them mesmerised for many
minutes. Each one seemed to tell a story on an
enormously large scale of time and space (from the
human perspective anyway) and yet without words.
Whipping ourselves into great enthusiasm about the
possibility of deciphering such pictures, we decided
to form a discussion group in which we could attempt
to understand some of the larger patterns that have
been effecting human international relations over the
last few centuries. To supplement the maps I have been
burying myself into Kissinger and Chomsky. Spent
Saturday afternoon reading about such nefarious
documents as the National Securit Council resolution
68 of 1950 detailing the moral superiority of America
and the innate evil of the Soviet Union. Strange that
such dogma could have become official diplomatic
philosophy and therefore policy of the next 30 years.
Am looking into what was behind it, who was making
what decisions and in whose interests, discrepancies
between official history and the revelations of more
subtle investigations. I am thoroughly enjoying
myself.

To keep me alive during the quest and provide me with
great pleasure, I decided to buy myself a toaster.
This inspiration came to me on Sunday, a traditionally
unwise day to attempt to be a customer in the PRC.
Still, I was dedicated to my mission and was not going
to be defeated by the sheer volume of people that I
knew would be invading the supermarket.

The first thing to know about Chinese supermarkets is
that you are not allowed to take your bag inside.
There is therefore a bag check-in desk of sorts where
no order is apparent. After struggling through the
whose-arm-is-longest and the whose-voice-is-loudest
contest you may eventually exchange your bag for a
small plastic token attached to a rubber band. The
whole can be worn around the wrist in the manner of a
locker key at a public swimming pool. Of course, one
has to go through the same process in reverse once the
shopping is completed. The whole procedure seemed time
and energy consuming and the simple loophole of
stuffing my empty rucksack in my pocket dealt with
this one. Why bring a bag at all you may ask? Well,
such shopping is done by bicycle and hanging plastic
bags onto one's handle bard creates for a rather
unsteady experience as two ballasts (is that the right
word) swing the bike lower to the ground causing the
bike to veer centimetres closer to such passing
obstacles as jack knifed lorries shipping polluted
materials to Tibet or pedicabs transporting piles of
styrofoam. So why not walk? Too far, too cold, can't
be ***ed.

So, the long awaited second thing that you have to
know about Chinese supermarkets (this one in
particular) is that one has to enter on the 1st floor
(which for non English speaking peoples means the
second floor) even though one may only want to buy
food,which is located on the ground floor. Instead one
must ascend a long gangway passed signs advertising
cheap thermal longjohns etc until one is jettisoned
into a room of commercial hyperactivity. Of course the
ascent takes a good few minutes as there are perhaps
ten times as many people in the supermarket as you are
ever likely to have seen in the cosy world of Europe.
Jostle, jostle, jostle. Finally arrive and have to do
some more brain numbingly slow jostling just to get to
the correct aisle. Nearly bought a juicer for 98 yuan
(7 pounds), but remembered the mission at hand and the
difficulties of having to transport two kitchen
appliances through the jack knifed lorries etc. Found
the toaster of my dreams and had to do the descent
down the ramp and in contra flow to the ever invading
and ascending hoards who were up there leafing through
piles of VCD and discussing the merits of
refrigerators etc. Avoided using a basket as there
isn't enough room to sneak through small spaces in the
crowd with such a bulk. Used prior knowledge of the
whereabouts of cheese and bread, and my increased
height to slip my way through the crowds and find the
shortest queue (if it can be described as such, only
by someone more optimistic than I). This still several
times longer than anything you will have seen in the
west. Strings of people filing back into the aisles
and blocking the progress of people trying to shop
around them. Difficult to tell queue barging from
shopping, although others did not seem to make much of
a distinction. Victory, pulled the bag from my pocket
and squeezed all purchases within for the swift
journey back.

Toast, toast toast. What joy. Back at home had no
knife and so had to go and buy one down the road. Bit
too sharp for my purposes but the toast does somehow
remain intact enough. Toast and National Security
Resolution 68. Finally settled and resolved upon four
productive months of study in the cold concrete world
of Shanghai. A friend came around and watched the
Beach. Now I want to be in Thailand!

Hope all well.

love Dom
PS Can't correct errors in this letter as it is stuck
in overtype mode and my knowledge of Chinese
characters isn't good enough to go into the Options
menu and find the function.

[I wrote this whilst I was teaching English at the Shanghai Foreign Language Middle School 1999 to 2000 - the night before I had drunk a number of Martinis with a chap called Stephen Pang, a fellow expat with whom I had been to see the snooker the night before!]

Promptly slept straight through my alarm clock and awoke at 9:15 having missed two lessons. It wasn't one of those bolting sinking realisations of panic, instead it was more of a slow 'ah hah!' moment. I calmly considered my options. In the end I dressed and confessed as I am not in the habit of pulling sickies (besides I want to go out this evening and it would not be very convincing). Went to my students' classrooms and wrote an apology letter on the board. Scraping of chalk screaching in my ears whilst hundreds of kids crowded round offering commentary on what I was doing: 'he is writing something', 'an apology', 'oh!' etc. I remained silent in my suffering.

Seem to have got away with it, but the hangover still lingers. Ate a cheese and branston pickle sandwich for lunch as I have been avoiding going outside into the maelstrom of sunlight and hopscotch. Must somehow now muster my forces to prepare for my Chinese lesson in an hours time. Have run out of cigarettes, smoked most of them with the martini drinkers. As I gazed at my sunken features in the tarnished mirror I became aware of this black lump on the floor plumb between my legs. From 6 feet up without my glasses on it appeared like some kind of freakily large fluff ball from a particularly cosy jumper. Instead an upturned cockroach, all dead-like. Closer inspection followed by a prod. It wriggled and sent a shiver of disgust through my sensitive nervous system. Felt no pity as it waved its legs around trying to win back some advantage. Grabbed my shoe and crushed it. Crunching noise disgusted me further, so much that I had to return to bed.

Later I heard the maid rattling around swishing mop to and fro with sinister promise like some harbinger of hygiene intent on unlawful entry into my private realm. Grabbed a towel, pre-empted her with a door opening manoeuvre. What's the Chinese for taking a shower, go away come back on another washing day etc. Made some gesture of armpit scrubbing which seemed to do the trick and I could have learnt a new word, nay a talisman to protect me from the Grim Sweeper. Instead, back on my own. Hadn't in fact been planning a shower, but switched it on to maintain my deception whilst I emptied my bowels. Slowly the water warmed and steamed through the flimsy curtain and condensed on my shivering leg. The three sacred SSS's flashed through my mind. Perhaps they might provide a solution. Slipped into the scrub stream.

Maybe I will have a shave now.

31st August 2005, Ryabaga Camp, Ponoi River

It's been an extremely wet day today, in many different senses.
Fishermen are an inverted bunch when it comes to weather and they view
sunny days with doom and gloom, and they rub their hands with glee at
the approach of low clouds. So, it should have been a bumper day out
there, but instead people are trundling back in low spirits, convinced
that the fishing gods are unjust, that they've been cheated out of their
rights, that the only consolation is to be had the in camaraderie of
your fellow sufferers, a whisky in hand and sitting round the wood
burning stove. Fishing is a strange hobby, involving pegging your mood
onto something as seemingly arbitrary as hooking unsuspecting water
creatures out of their resting places. Of course, these creatures have
their own agenda and resolutely fail to conform to our human expectation
or even to our attempts to predict what they are going to do next. They
are forever being chastised for not behaving as they ought - which
invariably means not choosing to get caught. Anyway, the camp spirits
are gloomy from a few thin days of thrashing unresponsive waters. I
myself didn't catch a salmon until this morning, day three, which is
almost unheard of on the Ponoi. Having said that, I am not an especially
dedicated fisherman and so have nonetheless been having quite a fun
time, and have been finding other amusements for myself to make up for
the 'slow' waters, and to clear away the ignominy of being, until this
morning, a 'double-skunker'. Yet again, Deakin has been my inspiration
and this afternoon's pleasure was a bit of snorkelling in the Ponatch, a
tributary of the Ponoi and therefore a much more manageable size for the
swimmer. My guide was Dr Sergei Prusov, the world's leading authority on
the Ponoi salmon, and the camp's resident salmon scientist. Sergei is
from Murmansk and, alongside salmon studying and guiding the fishermen,
he likes to swim in the rivers here, especially with snorkel and mask to
dive down to watch the fish swimming around. Sergei and I tramped across
the tundra from the camp, bounding through bogs, and across spongy
fields of fluffy lichens and enormous mushrooms. Sergei is something of
an authority on tundra environments and showed me some of the edible
berries that carpeted our walk, chewing some of them for vitamin rich
liquid and spitting out the pulp, while eating others whole. The swim
was superb fun, and my wet suite 'hoody' was an extra welcome barrier
against the cold. Under his tutelage, I learnt how to swim up to the
salmon pools, and use heavy stones to sink down to the river floor,
cling to rocks and watch these prized fish resting in their underwater
cliffs. I especially enjoyed playing around with the currents,
sometimes thrashing slowly upstream and then rewarding myself by turning
around to fly down with the current, and using my hands to push and
slide off any approaching rocks. I tried to imagine being one of my
prey, living in this watery world, and only occasionally being
dramatically, and possibly traumatically, ejected from it by the strange
and devious technologies of unimagined bipedal land based life forms.
It took us an hour and a half to get back to camp, clutching flippers
and discussing how Sergei now carries a pepper gun on his walks as a
last defence against any encounters with the local bears. Having been
thoroughly soaked by rain and swimming, I plunged into the traditional
sauna for a good sweating session, and am now sipping a rewarding cold
beer in the camp office. This email will probably go out sometime
tomorrow on its daily satellite connection.

Anyway, it's now approaching dinner time, and the fishermen are
gathering at the bar to discuss the day's events. Soon I must join them
and throw myself into the culture, expressing regret to the 'skunkers'
and congratulating those with stories of sporting encounters, especially
tales involving 'bars of silver', fresh fish recently arrived from the
sea and brightly coloured compared to those that have been lingering too
long in the river (known as 'darkies'!).

Extract from The Nation, Malawi's English Language Paper, August 2002

"You see, Africans have gone far with their
technology, just like the azungus(whites). Whilst
whites boast of being able to make things like cars,
trains and plenty of others, we are proud because we
make ours out of very cheap materials"

He said two people can fit inside a piece of bamboo no
more than two nodes long.

"I can do something to you and you can find yourself
in this bambo", he boasted.

Gama explained that a magic plane is a simple
apparatus that works because of the witchcraft powers
it has. The plane, he said, can only be operated by
people who are witches.

"You may think that it is just a simple thing. But
those who know the planes better know that these
machines are worth a lot of money. When you hear that
a witches' plane has crashed somewhere, you may look
at it as a small thing but in the eyes of the owners,
it is a big thing" he said.

He explained tat a magic plane has so many things that
make it go.

"Normally, it uses human blood for fuel. In most
cases, if it falls, people say that it was flying over
a 'protected' area but the truth is that it has run
out of fuel.It has a copmpass that tells you whether
you are flying into the right direction or not. When
you are lost it's when you hear of a crash" expained
Gama.

"Its not easy to travel in such aircraft, that's why
when it crashes at night, the people who were in it
are unable to move their limbs and people usually find
them in the morning" expalined another witchdoctor
Mfiti Zalimba.

"Witches can reduce their sizes to that of ants,
flies, bats and so on and so forth. So a plane that is
30 centimetres long can accomodate as many as 100
witches depending on their form. Of course, there is
no way witches can board a plane in their human form.
It does not happen that way, MfiSaid Mfiti Zalimba.

The magic planes are are know to travel at supersonic
speed and often use graveyards as airports. They can
travel to neighbouring countries while others are said
to fly as far as the US, Europe and Asia.

"Depending on the owner, everything that is in a magic
plane is of importance and use. Beads can turn out to
be lights. A small rag at the tail can be used as a
compass." she said.

When asked whether or not it is possible to to fly
these planes during the day, Mfiti Zalimba said that
it is impossible because flying involves a lot of
things that cannot be done during the day.

"Don't you know witches hate light? she asked in

It's a whole weird world for witches.

I challenged two Zambian immigration officers to a game of pool the other day. After a thorough trouncing, I was accorded a welcome invitation to their country anytime I should happen to passing through their border post. Just ask for Matthew, I was assured, and rubber stamps would fly with a zeal unseen on this side of the Sahara. They were in town for the big match, Malawi vs Zambia in the semi finals of the Castle Cup. There had been much talk of this in the last few days and I had enjoyed watching the Zimbabwe friendly a month earlier and so anticipated another lazy afternoon, sipping beers in the sun and idly absorbing the serene atmosphere of Blantyre’s Chichiri stadium. Two foreign girls from the office, Micol and Julie, were also keen to come and so we planned a joint venture.

On local advice, we got to the stadium an hour and a half before kick-off to find the place heaving with arriving people, most clinging onto the backs of pick up trucks, crammed into mini buses or simply strolling along the road. Hawkers were in abundance, selling everything from samosas to sugary drinks, buns and tiny shot sized sachets of the fearsome local moonshine. Advised to bypass the queues with a small bribe, we were soon streaming through the rusty turnstiles and up the open concrete steps until we had a lofty view of the empty pitch and surrounding architectural curiosities of Blantyre’s suburbs. To describe the mood as buoyant would be an understatement. People streamed in until the stands were at capacity and the standing areas were mobbed. Friends arrived and clasped hands in extended and ululating welcomes. Women braided each other’s hair while gangs of drunken young men swaggered around, shirts off and playing macho theatrics. An inflated condom that had caught the wind and was floating across the pitch sent ripples of laughter through the crowds. I soon found myself at the centre of this humour when a man handed me a packet for inflation. Imagining it must be like a balloon, my first attempt resulted only in the rubber sagging back down in a gasp of escaped air. It was a flimsy impression of good humour and, as thousands had wheeled around in an air of amused and vocal expectation, it seemed that success in this prank had taken on an importance far greater than its intrinsic wit. When I finally found myself with an expanding condom growing out of my mouth, the crowd erupted into uproarious laughter and we were at once welcomed into the bosom of the event.

Later, a drunken youth hurled a water bomb into the crowds below giving rise to angry accusations and finger pointing. It wasn’t long before guilt was determined and a fight broke out. We had become aware of one of these earlier in one of the neighbouring stands. The mass of neatly seated figures had instantaneously rearranged themselves into a vortex at the centre of which the thumping and scrapping figures had been given a narrow berth. Now the action was only a few steps down and we were soon swept up and pressed in on the scene amidst shouting of violent encouragement. All applauded when an enormous man strolled into the middle of the action and delivered one punishing blow to the chastened youth. Hastily grabbing his shirt, he scuttled off in a hail of booing, as the big man, seeming bigger, strode back down over people’s heads to his seat below.

When the match finally began, the crowd responded to its developments with considerably greater energy than on the previous occasion and we were enthusiastically informed of the history of the tournament, the key players and the relative chances of victory. We also learnt important Chichewa footballing expressions such as mpira chinyani meaning ‘go for goal’. During tense moments, the crowds rose to their feet in noisy excitement or alarm. The action on the pitch was impressive, although the occasional clumsy or aggressive encounter sent stretcher-bearers loping onto the pitch whilst the crowds demanded ‘reddie reddie’ at the referee. Other cries of support and discouragement were banded about as both sides had a succession of near misses, finally meeting half time with no score.
Micol and Julie had been attracting some unwanted attentions, with one of my more drunken neighbours confiding in me that in his long years on earth, he had never had sex with a white woman, and would dearly like it if I could sort something out for him. When asked if Micol was my wife, I hastily concurred and put an affectionate arm around her shoulder to suggest a contented couple in blissful wedlock. Sadly, not having given mormon as my denomination (a frequent inquiry in Malawi), I was unable to make the same claims for Julie who later told me how she had had her hand licked at one point by an admiring suitor. Micol was thankful for the deception and was given a respectful space whilst I was showered with compliments at my good fortune in having procured such an attractive wife. When the match ended, so did the marriage. It had been sweet, socially prestigious and free of any alimonious attachments.

By the second half, most of the people in the stadium were drunk or stoned and were falling over one another in the endless succession of standing up and sitting down. Some even fell to their feet when there was nothing in particular happening on the pitch, prompting those behind to make noisy complaints about the obstruction to their view. Whilst warnings were not always well heeded, there was no more fighting and all increasingly turned their attention to the drama on the pitch. A Malawian winger escaped from the pack and made a skilful run into the penalty area only to be fiendishly tripped up by a desperate Zambian defender. The crowd was furious and then instantaneously overjoyed as a penalty was awarded. All were on their feet now and exploded into mob ecstasy when the ball hit the back of the net. Now, thousands of fans, ourselves of course included, jumped in the air and slapped and clasped one another’s hands in a display of mass jubilation. Within moments, the singing began, with elaborate clapping and harmony bursting around the arena. At one point the joy was so great that people leapt up and down in unison so that the precariously balanced concrete shook and swayed with the force. It was quite incredible and made all the buzz of before seem like a crowd on mere simmering form. By this stage the match was moving to a close and the singing and dancing and hand slapping continued with steady enthusiasm; only the braiding of hair was at an end. In expectation of the end, the police slowly manoeuvred their armoured vehicle onto the edge of the pitch and distributed their forces around the turf. Their presence was seen as decidedly misanthropic and they were booed from all around. A couple of Zambian near misses threatened to make our celebration premature, but the whistle blew to renewed displays of delight as one or two daredevil fans managed to scale the fence and get through the police cordon to run across the pitch. These nifty escapees were cheered by thousands as bulkily clad policeman lumbered after them in the chase. None were caught. In the midst of the running policemen, the dancing players and the cheeky fans, stood the police chief with his peaked cap, military stick and immaculately shining shoes, a solitary figure surveying his territory of control and marvelling at his display of authority.

Soon we were picked up with the drunken crowds and poured out of the arena, bottlenecking at the stairways and exits until we were finally out on the dry muddy ground. Celebration continued as the roads teemed with people, clinging even more precariously to their beer bottles than to the backs of pick up trucks. It took some time to get home, a place which, for the rest of the short day, seemed bizarre and peripheral.