African Odyssey: Report 10 - Big Roma

"Goooooooal!" the crowd screamed with delight, crammed three deep to the chicken wire retaining fence surrounding the dirt field. I had to stand up and scurry quickly from my crouching position in front of the fence, as it appeared the leaning support pole might snap at its base. I didn't want to become another statistic in the hundreds of fans who are killed by a collapsing stadium fence each year around the world. Zambian second division football simply wasn't worth risking my life.

Driving by the large crowd only moments earlier, Chris and I simply had to stop and watch some of the spectacle. As outsiders, with pale skin, a camera and a vuvuzela, we were immediately escorted to one corner of the field. A six foot tire was laboiously rolled to the side, the chicken wire detached, and suddenly we could walk through to the field.

A V.I.P. Entrance! We were close enough to touch the players, and immediately next to the Big Roma Fan Band, i.e. a guy with a drum. It seems being a foreigner is enough to get you field-side access in Zambia.

After the goal, the scoresheet would read: Big Roma 1 : Casco 0, goal scored by Victor, number 9 on Big Roma, in the 5th minute of play. However, nobody in the crowd of around 2,000 was shouting Victor. As he ran to the corner of the field for a full squad choreagraphed celebratory dance, the crowd shouted "Go USA!".

I scratched my head and asked: "Huh? Why USA?". One of the Big Roma fan club/entourage/former players section turned to me and said: "We call him USA because he plays like Landon Donovan: he is fast, runs hard, and scores many goals."

This is a change up there with global warming and the Mayan prophecy of 2012. Being called "USA" used to mean being the worst player on the field, the one who couldn't trap the ball or shoot. In 2010, after World Cup in South Africa, people in rural Zambia now think of the USA as label of soccer brilliance. US soccer has surely never received higher praise. "Go USA!"

Matthew-

African Odyssey: Report 9

Arriving to Victoria Falls, the biggest tourist mecca in Southern Africa, felt like making a landing on an alien planet. The hip hostel bar, full of white patrons who sat transfixed watching a rugby match on tv, appeared to be a mass of zombies. How could they know our shock: in the last 48 hours, we had seen only one other white person, in a passing car? Masvingo, Zimbabwae, population, 112,374, was very different than this little corner of backpacker "heaven" (hell?).

It all began two days before, with our arrival in Great Zimbabwe National Park. The $15 entrance fee seemed steep, even if it was a UNESCO World Heritage Site and the greatest in Southern Africa, according to sources. The $3 for the tour guide, however, was the greatest value in all of Africa.

We were told we'd get the best tour guide, Tino. He proceeded to wow us with his great knowledge of history and culture, as well as his friendliness. Who knew that the king had hundreds of wives and concubines, to whom he could call out by number from the top of his hilltop palace complex. "Number 20, come here now!" Or that in Zimbabwe, if you want to marry a woman, you must first pay her family a dowry or "lubalo" of anywhere from $5,000 to $100,000 (U.S. dollars!). Tino is still paying off his wife's $8,000 lubolo six years after the wedding. This in a country where starvation was not uncommon as recently as 2008.

After our tour of the Great Zimbabwe Ruins, we were so impressed by Tino that we asked him to go have lunch before we left town. Little did we know that the invitation would end over an empty bottle of rum at 6 am with Tino, his cousin, and his uncle. From grocery store to bar, dance hall to outdoor bbq, we experienced a day with the common Zimbabwaen.

First, it was happy hour at the local bar, near the bus depot. It was payday for teachers, so far too much of their monthly pay draw of $160 disappeared over suds as they hollered with friends at leopards chasing after poor antelopes on the National Geographic channel. It is a strange sense of irony watching footage of African animals via an American channel via a satellite in space, all back to a tv in a bar in Africa.

Next was my personal favorite, Bar Eden. They sells Cokes and beer out of the main shop, while a outdoor area next door lets patrons bring their own meat to cook, all while blasting Congolese music videos over a projector screen. Our personal chef, Thomas, made a fire, cooked our chicken and veggies, and cleaned up. When Chris handed him a $5 tip for over 3 hours of service, he clapped his hands in appreciation.

Finally, at the Liquids bar, I turned to Chris and realized: I had never been in such a foreign place in my entire life. Chris and I were the only foreigners in the bar, and the only white people. I had never heard a single song being played before. I didn't recognize people's dance moves. I had never drank the beer we were drinking. I didn't recognize the videos playing on the tv. The locals talked with a different accent and intonation. I was out of my element, but thanks to the company of Chris and the hospitality of Tino, I was completely at ease and enjoying the nightlife of Masvingo, Zimbabwae. Population, 112,374, plus 2 very out of place yet at home Americans.

Matthew-

African Odyssey: Report 8

The first fist bump accurred at the toll booth. "This is gonna be awesome!" Chris said to me, our closed fists colliding. Our African Road Trip had offcially begun. Five countries over three weeks. New experiences awaited.

An hour later, the first new experience was soccer by the side of the toll road. But the mood was different. Roadside soccer is always fun - but not as fun when you are forced to play because your car has broken down. We were now making lemonade from lemons. The closest directions we could give the tow truck was "under a nameless bridge on the toll way, north of Johannesburg."

Luckily, we had Courage. Not courage, but Courage with a capital C. A student in Chris's school, Courage thought he was getting a free ride to his native Zimbabwae with us. What he got was a free ride 187 kilometers north of Joburg and no further. Luckily, Courage proved to be a good soccer player in the roadside game, and he also told us stories of his native land. Apparently, in some if not many people's minds (or at least Courage's) Zimbabwae's much criticized Robert Mugabe is not a brutal dictator but a misunderstood puppet leader. He even wants to quit, but his supporters won't let him for fear of the ensuing chaos. I don't believe it all, but Courage certainly lives up to his name to defend a known killer like Mugabe.

But back to the car. When you are stranded by the side the road, there is no creature on earth you'd rather have help you than an Afrikaans male. They are big and bulky in the style of a corn-fed Nebraska offensive lineman, except that Afrikaans just happen to play rugby instead of football. With necks thicker than the head above, these men are bred to move a rugby "scrum" and haul farm equipment about. They settled central South Africa by wagon in the 1840s; obviously, they can fix stuff with their hands.

Unfortunately this may also say something about the lack of size of the very head on top of the shoulders - these are the founders of aparteid and Africa's version of the KKK. Or maybe they are just like protectionalist farmers in the USA, afraid of "others" who might disturb their world. Afrikaans believe they are God's chosen people, and defend their culture as such. They are certainly not the only tribe in the world to make such a claim. But there is a racial component to their world view not unlike Southern farmers.

Enter our next character in the one act play entitled "Stranded": Hanny. Hanny will be playing the part of our saviour, in the form of a large, white Afrikaans auto mechanic. When asked if he could fix our car on a Saturday, Hanny responded "Well, yeah, sure, since the rugby match just ended I'm free.". Thank goodness the match was over, because priorities are priorities.

Hanny took obvious pleasure in fixing the car. This clearly was man verus machine, and it was his own personal challenge to get our car up and running again. He would not let the car beat him.

Within minutes of entering the shop, Hanny had diagnosed our problem, but he did not have the correct part to fix our problem. He did, however, have "A plan." Hanny took the old, broken part, ripped it in half, and proceeded to weld it together with the generic part that he did have in stock. A hybrid part was born. Seeing this man was a marvel: a blowtorch in one hand, melting iron in the other, and a cigarette in his mouth all the while. I am honestly not sure if he lit the blowtorch with his cigarette or vice versa. Eventually, after an hour of welding, he turned and said "Chris, you are free to leave."

As we left the shop, Courage remarked: "That is why you have to do what you love in life; you could see how proud he was of creating a new part and fixing the car."

Matthew-

African Odyssey: Report 7

"Robert, meet us down by the stadium and we may have good news for you." With that, I hopped on the park and ride bus towards Royal Bafokeng Starium in Rustenburg. The USA Ghana game was only 90 minutes away.

Robert had driven me, along with 7 or 8 friends, in his van, to three different USA games around the Johannesburg area. During the drives, I had bonded with Robert. We had hours to talk about what guys talk about on road trips - women, soccer, life. Also, the guy was an amazing driver- where others took 5 hours getting home from USA-England match, Robert got us home in around two hours by using back roads. Turns out he used to make deliveries for a company, and so he knows every back road in the area.

Due to his work, he had not been able to see a match at the World Cup. Naturally, I had an idea to make sure that he did see one. On the park and ride bus to the stadium, I quickly discussed my plan with Chris (my friend in Johannesburg) and we agreed to split the ticket price. I next found an extra ticket available - at a price of around $120. However, when we called Robert to tell him the plan, his first reaction was our safety: "Let me make sure that I can find a safe place to park the van and someone to watch your things." What a reaction- responsibility and restraint I would not have had. The ticket would have to wait.

Robert is from Soweto, an all black area about 10 miles outside of Joburg. Much like Africans in South Africa, Soweto has come a long way in the past 30 years. Begun as a distant all black labor camp for the Joburg mines, it now houses 3 million people in a variety of homes, from shanty shack to suburban mansion. There are now B&Bs, cafes, museums, and even the crown jewel of the World Cup, Soccer City Stadium.

When I asked Robert what he liked to do, he said "Invite some friend over to drink a few and watch soccer." Drink Jamison and watch on his 42 inch plasma tv, by the way. Sounds a lot like what I like to do back home. I was impressed - South Africa is doing pretty well if van drivers in Soweto have tvs like that and drink Jamison Irish whiskey. Robert also pays for his girlfriend of six years to go to University in Cape Town.

Eventually, Robert met us outside the stadium having parked the van securely. The first person Chris and I approached, we asked for a ticket, any ticket.
The response from Nick the Englishman, "Who is it for?"

We pointed to Robert, "Our driver - he's a great guy and we just want to get him in the stadium."

"Is he a nice guy?"

"He's great - that's why we want to get him in."

"Ok, I have one extra ticket and you can have it. For free. It was given to me yesterday, and the guy told me to make sure it went to a nice person."

We tried to insist on paying him something, bu he said he had paid nothing for the ticket and wanted nothing for it. And so it went. Robert got into the game, for free. I recon you could sit outside the stadium for 1000 world cup matches and never once be given a free ticket. Count me as a believer in kharma, and on this day we had good kharma.

-Matthew

African Odyssey: Report 6

"What's the best thing to eat here?" I asked the Indian man sitting at the head of the table. "Oh, you are not from here, are you? You must try the curry, the curry in Durban is famous." Of course it was - that was the whole reason we'd stopped at the random restaurant on the side of the road. We were following road trip rule #73: always stop at a crowded restaurant, even If you are not hungry.

The next thing we knew, I was sitting at table, with Joe Bird, talking to the nicest group of Indian South Africans known to man. They had invited us to sit with them, had ordered our food for us (the famous Durban Bunny Chow curry sandwich) and began asking us all sorts of questions about the USA.

The table of ten was one large family- Neville and his wife and three kids, aunts and uncles all from Durban, and his nephew Bradley and wife from Johannesburg. The family told us all sorts of stories - how their relatives came from India, along with thousands more Indians, to work in the Durban area around 1900 (including one Mohatma Ghandi) and what I was like being both Indian and South African. They didn't know any family back in India, but they did know generally where their family was from. Sounds a lot like my family coming to Texas from Germany.

As the night wore on, I realized how much I had in common with Bradley. He and his wife had been dating for five years and married for three, like me and Eileen. They had done long distance dating from Johannesburg to Durban, a five hour drive. Durban is even a lot like Houston - a hot coastal town with spicy food and humid summers. Bradley's wife is a career woman, and he had changed cities due to her burgoning career in joburg (much like me). In all, I had met my SA match, a soccer-loving 32 year old who loves to travel.

By the end of dinner, after not being allowed to pay, we were headed to Neville's flat. "Flat" being a nice way of saying luxury apartment in a great neighborhood with a view of the Indian ocean from the balcony hot tub. However, this was no Hilton family with luxury suites and no values. Neville had grown up, with his four brothers and sisters, the son of a priest. They all grew up in Phoenix, a notorious Indian township segregated under Apartheid, with a dirt floor and little to no possessions. Neville started his own clothing company, and the rest is history. Some of his less moivated brothers still live in Phoenix. None of this is lost on him and the family, however - they prayed before our meal at the Curry House, and in reference to his life, Neville was ever careful to give thanks to God.

By the end of the night, after coffee and much conversation, Joe and I left having made our first local friends. It is often posible to travel months and not be invited to a someone's home; this was a special night. We left promising to see each other again, with an open invitation to Texas for all.

When Eileen arrived on Thursday, I told her the story, and she instantly wanted to meet Bradley and his wife. So, last night we went to Bradley's house in Johannesburg for dinner with his parents and in-laws. Bradley promised us that his wife would make us curry so good, so spicy and hot, that "For the next day, you have to put the toilet paper in the refigerator!"ac