Why do we travel? To experience different places and cultures, to see wildlife or to relax on a deserted white-sand beach, perhaps. These are all admirable reasons for choosing a holiday destination, of course — but do we ever really get to know a country when we visit? The simple answer is, no. We often barely scratch the surface.
For me, the best way to get under the skin of a place is through its people. In Africa, while amazing animal encounters or mind-blowing natural wonders linger long in the memory, it’s the unexpected conversations along the way that I truly treasure. From market traders to lodge owners, from taxi drivers to safari guides and barmen to entrepreneurs, everyone has a story to tell… and some of them are quite surreal.
By chance, I met a man on the street in Kisangani who claimed to be the driving force behind the lip-synch scandal popstars Milli Vanilli. I’ve chatted with a Ugandan heavyweight boxing champion in a Nairobi bar — he even showed me his fight licence to prove it, just before his head slumped onto the table. In Kampala, a self-proclaimed mystic told me the world would end tomorrow. Who saw that coming?
I’ve discussed the merits or not of polygamy — “one wife is enough”, my fellow conversant advocated. I’ve discussed the price of goats — about US$50 in Tanzania; although with the current cost-of-living crisis that may well have rocketed. And I’ve learnt that you can cure a nosebleed by smoking elephant dung. But, by far and away the most popular topic of conversation I’ve had in Africa is football.
My first encounter with the African obsession for the beautiful game came in Fes (Morocco) in 1992. Walking around the maze-like bustling streets of the world’s first hypermarket, I happened across a packed cafe. A crowd of djellaba-clad men spilled into the street — some standing, some sitting, but all craning for a view of a portable black-and-white television that sat on a low-lying table. Football. Morocco were playing Ethiopia in a World Cup qualifier. There was a constant babble; peppered with shouts of annoyance, the occasional cheer and collective sighs of anguish whenever a chance went begging. It was a scene that’s the same the world over. Although, I’m not sure I’ve ever watched a game sipping a cup of coffee before. Morocco won 5-0, by the way. More coffees all round.
An omnipresent theme of my excursion across the length and breadth of the continent in the early 1990s was Roger Milla. The veteran maverick footballer captured every fan’s heart with his exploits at Italia 90, as Cameroon became the first African nation to reach the quarterfinals of the World Cup.
The love for Milla wasn’t confined to Cameroon, though. Oh, no. In the Central African Republic, for example, a few of us from the overland truck I was travelling on sat around a campfire in the bush. Some lads from a nearby village watched us from a respectful distance, building their own fire — which they had to stamp out, barefoot, when it got out of control. Feet of steel.
Den and I grabbed a couple of beers to share with them and ventured over for a chat, which, given there was no common language, was a tricky affair. But, summoning our inner Marcel Marceau, we picked up a few words of the local tongue, Sango.
We started with the basics, such as balao (hello), before Den dropped the immortal words “Roger Milla”, miming kicking a ball as he did so.
“Roger Milla, Roger Milla,” they chorused.
“Banga,” said one, as he too mimicked a shot.
Aha. “Banga. Football, yes?”
We were practically fluent.
Ever since Mali, having spotted someone wearing a Cameroon shirt with ‘Milla’ emblazoned on the back, I had been on a quest to find one for myself. But as I travelled on into Burkina Faso, then Ivory Coast, Ghana, Togo, Benin and Nigeria, there was no sign of the craved-for shirt in any market; even though I had spotted a few being proudly worn. On crossing the border into the great man’s own country, my stomach fluttered. I had to find one here, surely. But, no. Not only were the market stalls a Milla desert, none of his people were wearing one either. I did, inexplicably, find a Celtic shirt, though.
Having also drawn a blank in the CAR, I resigned myself to the fact that I’d missed the boat as far as a Roger shirt was concerned. Disappointed, I ventured into Zaire, now DR Congo. On a cargo boat heading down the Zaire River, a stroll around the deck fortuitously coincided with the arrival of some palm wine, supplied by some traders who had paddled their canoe alongside. The wine merchants heaved a jerry can of the potent liquor aboard, selling it by the mugful. I rushed back, as fast as the mass of bodies and cargo on board allowed, to get my mug. The heady brew retailed at around six pence a mug. Spend 12p and that was you done for the afternoon. The quality of it varied, however. The first batch I tried was full of wasp floaters. But the second batch hit the spot.
As I sipped, I chatted to some local lads; again, easier said than done with the language barrier. But we got by with a mixture of pidgin French and English — and, of course, the communal language of football.
“Gary Lineker,” piped up one lad.
“Peter Shilton,” said another.
“Roger Milla,” I countered.
“Bobby Charlton.”
When the palm wine ran dry, we refilled our mugs from their secret stash. One of the boys, Victor, wore a Primus-branded cap, as did I (Primus being the local beer). Victor’s hat had the word ‘Philip’ sewn onto it. His face lit up when I told him that was my name. In a gesture of friendship, we swapped caps, like footballers exchanging shirts at the end of a match, then paused for a team photo before taking another slug of vin de palm.
I have returned to Africa several times since those heady days of youth. The conversations continue to surprise, but football is often still the opening gambit. On a recent trip to Malawi, strolling through a market in Lilongwe, I spied a smiley curio seller bedecked in a Chelsea shirt. My team. I hurried over to shake his hand and share our love for the Blues.
Charles (for that was his name) showed me his wealth of woodcarvings — statues, masks, bowls, you name it — all handcrafted by his own bare hands, he assured me; vibrantly coloured chitenje (sarongs) hung from a clothesline strung across his pitch.
“Why Chelsea?” I asked.
“Didier Drogba [Ivory Coast], Michael Essien [Ghana], Jon Obi Mikel [Nigeria], Demba Ba [Senegal], Samuel Eto’o [Cameroon],” he replied, reeling off a list of Chelsea’s African acquisitions over the years.
“What about Victor Moses?”
“Ach, yes. Moses. Nigeria.” Charles grinned at the thought of another African footballer making it big in Europe.
That evening, catching a cab to Harry’s Bar — a Lilongwe institution — to watch some football (obviously), and to enjoy some local beers in a local pub, I noted the taxi was a gleaming new model.
“Business good?” I asked the driver, Dumi, as I got in. Why do we always ask cab drivers that?
“Oh, yes.”
I remarked on his shiny new motor.
“It’s just six weeks old,” he said, puffing out his chest metaphorically.
No prizes for guessing my next question. “Do you like football?”
“Football?” he replied softly, before raising the volume somewhat: “I love it!”
Dumi told me he had been a Manchester United fan since he was a boy, like his father before him. Indoctrinated by his dad, just like my son is with Chelsea, and as are countless other children around the world.
“Do you support a team in Malawi?”
“Mighty Wanderers. Top of the league,” he said, chuckling. I’m sure he even gave a little fist pump.
But what of my quest for that Roger Milla shirt on that trip the best part of 30 years ago, I don’t hear you ask? Would it be more difficult to come by than a leopard sighting?
Following torrential rains, the dirt roads in Zaire had turned to mud. The heavy truck traffic that ploughed these highways had resulted in multiple holes appearing, some as large as 50m long by 3m deep. While we sat in a long queue of vehicles waiting to cross one such void, I wandered around the hole.
My heart leapt. There, on the other side of the chasm, was a lad wearing a Roger Milla t-shirt. I made a beeline for him. It was a bright yellow-and-white-hoop affair, with a picture of the great man resplendent in Cameroon kit on the front, a ball at his feet, and the legend ‘Roger Milla, Cameroon, Talia 90’ written underneath.
“Where’s the ‘I’ in Italia?” I thought. Who cared? This was too good an opportunity to miss. I invited him to swap shirts. He gleefully accepted. Why wouldn’t he want to exchange a dirty old t-shirt with a rip on the shoulder for an equally dirty one without a rip? He seemed delighted with mine, which depicted The Smiths’ The Queen is Dead album cover.
“Has he heard of Morrissey?” I wondered. But I quickly dismissed my idle wondering. I couldn’t stop grinning. Finally, I had my hands on that elusive Roger shirt.
Phil Clisby has been production editor at Gecko Publishing since 2008, during which time he has written several entertaining pieces for Travel Africa.
