This Time: MALI FOOTBALL

March 2013

I hadn’t been to the capital since arriving at site more than three months earlier. The term was over and I was on my way back to Kigali for a visit. I wasn’t that excited to be back in the city, however. To me, Kigali lacks the excitement, movement and chaos that a capital city should have. Most people say that the city is clean and ordlerly, which is generally true. However, between the pristine boulevards and manicured landscaping, down in the valleys below the embassies, supermarkets and government buildings, there are plenty of poorer neighborhoods that almost resemble village life. Their chaos is generally kept sequestered and out of sight. It’s a city that seems like a college grad, bright-eyed and hopeful on its way to a mediocre job interview.

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So I had come to Kigali mainly because there was a football game between the Rwandan national team and Mali. I had heard that a lot of volunteers would be there, but in the end, I was the only one going. My official reason for going to Kigali (because I needed a Peace Corps acceptable excuse to be in the capital) was that I needed to see the doctor. This was true, but I might not have made the trip if it had not been for the match. For at least a year I’ve had a little bump under my skin on my back. Suddenly it had grown in size and was very painful. So at least it had good timing.

I headed to Nyamirambo, my favorite neighborhood in Kigali. All that stuff I said above about Kigali, well, Nyamirambo’s different. When I later told Harley (former volunteer in Cameroon) to visit Nyamirambo, he reported back with a lackluster review. “Well, it just seems like a normal African neighborhood, it’s nothing special,” he said. Exactly! Kigali is not a normal African city, but Nyamirambo is like a normal African neighborhood within it. Perhaps it is because of all the immigrants from Mali and Senegal. Maybe it is because it is the oldest neighborhood in Kigali. Either way, I like the neighborhood’s atmosphere and it even has good night life.

As I heard the sunset call to prayer stream languidly from the two mosques that flanked my guesthouse, I headed into the street. I was mostly wandering, but also had an idea of visiting a bar I had heard about on the opposite side of the neighborhood. As I passed by one of the many West African clothing shops, I noticed some men inside folding what clearly looked like a large Mali flag. I assumed they were preparing for the game the next day. I walked in and greeted them in Bambara, Mali’s most common language. They looked at me strange and responded, “bonsoir.” Poor start, Joey. I wasn’t feeling the usual warmth I had known from the people in Mali. We talked for a few minutes, though, and indeed, they were preparing for the game the next day. I told them I was going there to root for Mali. They warmed to me and before I left, they gave me one of their large homemade Mali flags. I was so happy for this interaction.

Later in the evening, as I was getting closer to the edge of the neighborhood, I walked into a boutique to buy some peanuts. This was the kind of boutique that I wish was more common in Rwanda. The kind of boutique with a couple small tables, a refrigerator, beer, and friendly people. A casual place, but not so casual that it was filled with sloppy, aggressively friendly drunks typical of the seedier establishments. I instantly earned the attention from a middle aged man and young woman when they heard me speaking Kinyarwanda. They indulged me in some small talk before revealing that they spoke great English. I appreciated that they would speak to me in Kinyarwanda even when they spoke good English. The girl was around my age and said she had lived in Belgium for 12 years. I didn’t know what their relationship was, but assumed they were family of some sort. After having a beer with them, she whispered something to the man and he nodded. She asked if I wanted to go to a ‘cabaret’. Cabaret usually refers to a very simple bar, sometimes serving locally made grog. I assumed we were all going together, so I agreed. So we walked out, but then I realized the man was not coming with us. This surprised me. As we walked into the street, she suddenly turned right and whispered that her mom was there and we needed to take this other street. That seemed incredibly strange. Originally she had said the bar was a five or ten minute walk away, but as we started to walk up a hill on a side street she decided it would be better to take motos for 500 francs. If the moto ride cost that much, there was no way it was as close as she had originally said. Then she asked if I had a girlfriend and I said yes. She seemed disappointed, and I got uncomfortable. I said I didn’t want to take a moto anywhere, so after some disagreement, I said I was tired and wanted to go home. As we walked back, she saw someone she knew. She whispered to me not to speak Kinyarwanda when greeting them. I don’t know why, but I went along with it. Then I left her at the bar we had come from and went home. This whole interaction was very puzzling. First, it’s not common for a Rwandan woman to be that congenial with a male stranger, but it made sense since she had lived abroad so long. She didn’t seem to dress or act like a prostitute in any way, but her intentions had suddenly become clear. Part of me wishes I had been adventurous enough to go to this “cabaret”, but it seemed clear that something bad was definitely going to happen if I had.

The next morning I went to the stadium to buy my tickets. It was 11:30 and the ticket booths weren’t opening until noon. As I walked away, I saw a group of men sitting at a table outside of one of the string of bars across from the stadium. I greeted them as I passed and they called me over. They were drinking beers and asked if I wanted to have a drink with them. They were all dressed in athletic clothes and seemed fairly affluent. They told me they had just finished doing “sport” and were hanging out before getting ready for the game. I ordered a beer and when I finished it, they brought me another one. I tried to say no, but they insisted. It was the first time Rwandans bought me drinks. They had different jobs, but some of them worked for various government ministries. They all seemed privileged. One of the guys asked me what my three favorite things about Rwanda are. It is a straightforward question that I wouldn’t have had difficulty answering in most other countries. The first reason, the easiest and most obvious, was that it was beautiful. I paused and thought before saying the second reason was that it was an interesting place to be. This is definitely true, but is not something I would have wanted to elaborate on. Rwanda is interesting to me because of its history, its current politics and for how unique it is. I was panicking to think of a third reason why I like Rwanda. As I was thinking, a hawker passed by our table, offering pants. The man at the end of the table stopped the man and wanted to try on the pants being offered. Saved. The third reason I like Rwanda, I told him, is that you can buy new pants without even leaving the bar.

After a few beers, the guys went home to get cleaned up for the game. I had a couple hours to kill, so I took a bus to my favorite market in Kigali. As I was walking into the market, I realized I was walking right behind another white guy. Suddenly he turned, saw me, did a double take, then said, “Eres Mexicano?” I was caught off guard and said, “Si…Eres Mexicano?” “No, soy de Argentina.” Then I realized I had completely lied and corrected myself, saying I was American, but that I had Mexican blood. I hadn’t spoken Spanish in a while and was still caught off guard, so I was curious what other language we could communicate. For some reason I asked if he spoke Kinyarwanda. Stupid question. English? No. French? Yes. So we continued in French. My French is still worse than my Spanish, but it was easier to reach at that moment. He was a med student doing an internship for a few months. He seemed like an interesting dude and I asked if he was going to the game. He said he already had plans. It was a brief, but startling exchange. Since leaving my village I felt like I had met more people and had more interesting conversations than I had had in my previous three months in my village. Maybe Kigali wasn’t such a bad place. Also, within the first 48 hours since leaving home, I had been mistaken for Spanish, French, German, Portuguese, Chinese, Moroccan and Mexican. I also got to use a little of almost every language I know more than a few words in, which was exciting. Maybe Kigali wasn’t so bad.

Before the game I made my way back to the now crowded strip of bars across from the stadium. I was wearing pants I had had made in Mali from a cloth celebrating the Mali soccer team’s efforts at the 2010 African Cup of Nations in Angola. I also had the Mali flag draped around my body. My allegiance was clear. The Rwandans were surprisingly welcoming, considering the circumstances. They saw me as such a novelty that they didn’t even mind that I was rooting against them. They were just happy I was drinking beers with them.

The atmosphere was getting uncharacteristically wild. The sidewalks were packed with people decked out in blue, yellow and green, some covered in body paint, and plenty of vuvuzelas going wild. Half an hour before the game started, I saw a bus drive up that was overflowing with red, yellow and green, Mali’s colors. It was their fan bus. I ran across the street, waving my flag and greeting them. They were loud and spirited. As they started to line up at the entrance for the VIP section, somebody asked me if I had a ticket. I showed them my cheap, 1,000 franc ticket. They promptly handed me a 5,000 franc VIP ticket and told me to come with them. I was happy to stay in the cheap seats, but it was clearly better to be cheering among my fellow fans.

The VIP section was definitely the choice spot for foreigners. I saw all sorts of westerners. Young volunteer types, older expats, large groups of high schoolers with matching shirts that looked like they were on some sort of mission trip or study abroad program. And Malians.

Rwanda got off to a shockingly good start and actually led 2-1 at halftime. Rwanda is not a powerhouse in East Africa, let alone Africa in general. Mali, on the other hand, regularly makes appearances at the big African tournaments and has a strong football tradition. It was actually kind of exciting to see the underdog doing so well on their home field. I actually would not have minded if they had won.

Mali scored right as the second half started. I immediately saw my cheering face on the jumbotron. A minute later I got a text from a fellow volunteer that said, “Are you at the game?” I assumed she was also there and had seen me on the screen. In fact, I was on TV, and she was watching the game in her village.

Mali ended up winning, and after the game the Mali fans headed back to their van. I veered away, but one man asked me if I was coming with them. He said they were going to a hotel to celebrate. I was tempted, but I knew what it would be like, and I knew I would feel out of place. They were well-dressed, successful people with money. I actually felt like it was time to go back to humble bar full of Rwandan soccer fans. I knew it would actually be more fun. And it was fun, for a while. I met a lot of friendly Rwandans, but when some people started to get too drunk, they got annoying. I ended up meeting a group of abazungu (gringos) and sat down with them. They were from France, Belgium, Holland and Finland. They were making plans to go see some live music and invited me along. This day, no, this weekend, had become very unpredictable.

The bar was basic, and the music was awkward. They played a lot of covers of cheesy western music at a high, distorted volume. It was a relief when the bar lost power, and we were left in dark silence. Still, it was nice to meet some westerners that weren’t volunteers, or American for that matter.

The next day, as I walked around Nyamirambo, a lot of people actually recognized me as the Mali fan. Clearly these were West Africans as they seemed happy to see me. Two weeks later I was in the neighborhood again. I was standing on a corner, talking on the phone, when a tall man walked up to me and looked like he wanted to talk to me. I was close to waving him off as I assumed he was going to ask me for something or make typical awkward conversation. Instead, he was a Malian guy who recognized and greeted me in Bambara as soon as I hung up the phone.

Finally, I had to go see the Peace Corps doctor about the weird growth on my back. He felt around and suggested I stay in Kigali for a couple more days so they could watch it. This was annoying because I had been expecting to leave that day. At least they let me stay at the Peace Corps headquarters so I wouldn’t have to pay for a guesthouse. In the end, the doctor gave me some ibuprofen and said if it got any worse to call him. I still have no idea what it was. Within a week, it was back to its original size.

With my extra days in Kigali I managed to meet up with a big group of volunteers. Since the term was over, they were all heading off to Zanzibar for a couple weeks. I hadn’t seen most of them since New Year’s so it was good to see them again.

This Time

Monday, October 7, 2013

MALI FOOTBALL

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