RANDOM THOUGHTS FROM A 3RD-WORLD-1ST WORLD

In Antwerp there's lot's of stairs. It's amazing. The funny thing is that they're little tiny ones, much less width than in Australia, so at first I had to be a bit careful. Then I realised if I'm gotta spend time going up 4 sets of stairs just to go to my room I wanna use that time. I've got a few different 'drills' now. Jumping 2 steps at a time trying to be as light as possible and quick as possible. Slowly (maybe if I have a coffee in my hand, for instance) lunging 3 steps at a time. I can really feel it around my butt and groin, this is a practical work-out that beats lunges at the gym. But then today on the way down I thought about why descending stair patterns are so unvaried and I tried going down the steps 2 at a time. Without the rails , wow, it's pretty hard.

Africa is a dumping ground for Europe's old, unwanted… (when it comes to clothes, America's as well). As you walk through the streets of Accra you are just bombarded with 80's football strips from the most obscure teams SV Saaldorf, SC Eugendorf, ASV Pidding, JOS Watergraafsmeer, small town Dutch and German cafes advertised on the front. But the trucks stand out the most 'De Toekomst is nu.'


We randomly ended up going to a concert and seeing AIR and then MIA play. It was strange, I was really keen to see how MIA performed. And when I got there, there was something nice and unexpected about seeing a fellow Tamil absolutely hyping the crowd. But in the end - despite seeing the best video/lights/projection display I've ever seen at a concert - it was a bit of a let down. At one moment she made about 20 chicks night by hauling them up onto stage and having them dance and sing with for one song, but it took about 10 minutes to do it and the energy of the crowd just dissipated, but I mean she made those 20 chicks nights and possibly lives.

Odorkor, Darkoman, Budumbura

We are Obruni. We walk along the streets of Odorkor, Accra and the people stop, stand and stare.

Accra is intense, the people, the religion, the football, the food, the swelter.

When I got off the plane, the airport made me think I'd landed in India. The signage, the weather, it all pointed to that. South Africa's apparently considered 3rd world, but it had kinda just made me assume Ghana would be something similar.

Living in Odorkor has challenged us. I used to think I'd have no problem being stripped of the luxury of Australia and living village style, but now I'm not sure. 10 days is easy, but a life-time or 6 months? There's only one tap in the whole house we're staying in and half the time it's not working.

Bernard frequents the local pick-up matches at the dirt pitch behind the post-office. Balls frequently go missing in random shops around the complex; there's a heap of burnt rubbish in the corner on the one patch of grass - and you'll be lucky to just get scratched by glass - if you're not careful. The opposite corner has a big circle of cement protruding from the earth like a foot. Not long ago he was playing professionally with a big club in South Africa and in Swaziland too, but shit didn't happen right and he decided to come home to Darkoman, Accra. He's ready to do it all again, but he wants it to be proper. Bernard toys with the defenders, waiting until 1 become 3 and then faking them, faking them and then turning, he's off in a flash. Sometimes he plays with his arms always completely extended as if to retard himself and retard his opposition, he takes the piss and stops in the middle of a match to answer his phone or flick the ball up, juggle it a couple times, and then resume playing. He argues with the crowd which he polarises, some think he's a faggot because of his tight clothes, hair and peculiar habits. Most can't help but marvel at his skill. When he speaks he's beautiful and eloquent, he stops to applaud a nice piece of control, quashing any preconceived arrogance.

Francis and Henry-Obeng are brothers, in the true sense of the world if not siblings. They train from 6 to 9 or 10 each morning and then try and get enough rest and food after that. Henry-Obeng joined the under-20 team of the local professional club after politics at Red Bull's Accra football academy resulted in the sacking of the coach that brought him to the club and hence the sacking of him, that's football, huh? At Red Bull he received food, boots, and even a bit of cash, that was great, yeeah. Francis was scouted from a 2nd division club in his home-town Kumasi, he came over hoping that it'd all work out, the dream move every footballer romanticises. His mum is paying for him to survive for now, the club doesn't give him that, but he doesn't know how long she can keep doing it or he can keep taking it. He tells me how hard life is, he tells me this a lot, but cold as it may be, I can't help but question it,
train, eat, sleep = dream
no work + football = dream
no secure future = ?
Francis will travel back to see his mum tomorrow, and to ask for more money. She might not be able to give it to him, he won't have enough cash for the five-buck trip back to Accra.

The Budumbura Liberian Refugee camp is like Liberia's own little village on the outskirts of Accra. They have their own DVD vendors, hair braiding salons, groceries and even a football league. Every morning different 'clubs' play off against each other in friendly matches. The standard's quite high, but it's rare that a scout would ever come here to find a gem. They have a rising star, Cephas, his mum believes everyone has a talent, hers is braiding hair and she struggles to pay their way with this. His is definitely football, his first words were a long time coming as a toddler, but when an older boy wouldn't give him a football, that was when he first spoke. The coaches at the camp say he's a beautiful player, but he doesn't say much out of the way of the normal stuff. It's as if he's inherently media-trained. Samson "Bobby" Weagba a.k.a Bigga Tings is the Liberia Camp commentator, he raps in a flavour of pigeon English which would easily land him a job as a TV Veejay or something to that effect, if he weren't here. But in the camp he's out there whenever a match is on bigging up the players, 'unearthing the stars', the players love it he proclaims. Bigger things. The camp also houses players from the previous generation. Ousmen is fairly old, but not frail, he still trains every second day. In his day he was an attacking-midfielder, top-scorer in the Lebanese Premier League. He was taken from Liberia to Egypt, then Lebanon and Quatar. From one of his contracts (a two-year one) he didn't earn one cent, when he did finally start earning well and saving he had to spend it all on an eye-operation which his club conveniently deemed to be hereditary or pre-existing. Ousmen watches the younger generation at Liberia Camp dream. His younger brother is currently in Sweden, he was playing professionally but now is without a club. Ousmen tried to call his brother the other day but hasn't been able to get through ever since.

Bezuidenhout Park

I crossed the peak-hour traffic, hopping over erupted cement refuge islands and within a minute I was on one of the peoples' taxis, commonly known as combis here. I'd just left the safety of Enos our driver who I cajoled with the nickname 'Mr Snake', based on his ability to always find a sound route through or around the Joburg traffic. I waved good-bye to the touring team. The peoples' taxi I boarded roared illegally past my friends and then squeezed into a set of lights, onto the highway and that was it. I was by myself, with a bag packed full of expensive equipment, trying to work my way towards some part of town I'd never heard of and one that I'd failed to even find on the map. Nobody on this particular peoples' taxi knew where Parkview was and English was scarce and that all added up to being directed to Park Station instead. The place was crazy, like really really packed with people walking around, all ignoring traffic. I walked in a few different directions asking for directions, realising I was lost, thinking I could make it and then admitting I was lost.

This was when I got a call from Karabo the woman I was supposed to be meeting. I'd called Karabo randomly one day, a week after she'd interviewed me for a radio show whilst we were at the National Arts Festival, and a couple days after I'd bumped into her at a gig outside the Market Theatre. In a nervous voice I'd explained to her - in many more words - that I thought she was cool and knew what was cool in Joburg and that I'd like to (a) meet up and (b) hangout a bit - or maybe you could even sort me out with some accommodation? Karabo was a strong woman and when she heard where I was she sounded almost pissed off, what the fuck was I doing there? And then after hanging up and realising it was dark and I was in Joburg city and I had valuable shit on me, I remembered that those were three of the things one was absolutely not meant to do. FUCK. I walked back and forth and then decided I needed to just find a rich man's taxi, coz that'd get me where I needed but then I couldn't spot one in sight and then I turned to this dude who just looked like he might help and asked him and he said you know it's dangerous here and then he told me to follow him which sounded possibly even more dangerous but by that point in time I was already following him and thinking FUCK. But the nice looking guy didn't keep following me leeringly or anything and so I felt a bit relieved except where I was now was even darker. And then the phone started vibrating again, Karabo starts talking about coming and picking me up herself and where am I exactly and stay in the lights. Then I notice a 'metre taxi' - at last. I hop in and Karabo demands to speak to him coz otherwise he's gonna rip me off and then I get the phone back and the guys visibly taken aback by the pre-emptive dressing down he's been given. When we arrive at Parkview the driver wants to take me into the place to meet her because he promised her he'd deliver me safely. But I tell him it's alright, this is like some bowling club, so I'm pretty damn sure I'll be alright.

Karabo had organised for me to stay with her good friend Tsepo, which is sweet because that means all the money I'd have wasted on accommodation can be spent shouting these guys and whoever else dinner. I wake up on the couch still in my jeans and same clothes from yester, it's already time to go and so I get a really quick shower in but I still feel pretty stinky and then I get on one of the kinda stinky peoples' taxis and I'm headed for this park which I don't really know how to describe the location of to people. Somehow this trip goes incredibly, the interchange of peoples' taxi goes smoothly and I end up at the Bezuidenhout Park. It's here that a large group of African migrants gather every day to train for football. None of them have teams, none of them have jobs, families, papers, money; just football. There's about 4 groups of almost 30 players which train from 8.30 til 11.30. Two of the groups have coaches and equipment - shabby equipment, backyard welded goal-posts, two poles wedged into the ground with a net strung between them to simulate a wall for a free-kick - upon my arrival the players are very amicable and welcoming, I meet Jude a half-Nigerian, half-Swedish guy who's very positive but also admits that if his agent hasn't found a club for him by the end of the week then it's time to go to the next city. A few players come up to me and ask me for a video, which means they want me to video them playing and then cut them a highlights reel, which they can then send to clubs, who will then sign them up. Unfortunately it doesn't work this way, it's very rare that a club would take a player based on a video.

I put my boots on after a while, coz my sneakers are soaking up the dew, and coz I feel the urge to kick a ball a bit. It's like the first time in 2 years that I've really trained for football. The group I'm mucking around with consists of Nigerians, Ghanaians, Congolese and other mostly West-African guys. But after playing a bit of keep-aways with these guys I get told that I can't keep playing if I'm going to be wearing jeans and also I need to ask the coach if I want to train. I decide it best to just stick to videoing. Then just as I'm getting bored of watching Serge (the only guy who isn't black in the whole park apart from me) comes trotting up to me. - What's happening? We thought you were going to come train with us?
- Can I train like this? What if I put some shorts on?
- No, put one of these uniforms on. Before Serge came along the setup was pretty amateur. Serge tried to bring a bit of professionalism to a routine which was really already there, he welded the goal-posts in his garage, he invested in balls and kits and tracksuits.
I get thrown into a possession game, no warm-up, no nothing, no proper training for so long. My second, third and fourth touches are very rusty. It becomes clear to me that the divisions in the groups at the park aren't random at all or based on skill (as some claim), the dominant language here is French and pretty much all of these guys are Cameroonian. But after a few stray passes I start to find my feet. Oui, oui, oui. Possession games are my favourite and it's not long before I am somewhat predictably thinking to myself, what if I just stayed here and trained with these guys every day? Unfortunately when I was floating in between teams I never had a regular session like this I could attend, I just tried to simulate it by myself for hours on end. I end up going home with Serge. He happens to own an apartment block. In it along with his own family and some tenants he houses various players from the Bezuidenhout Park training group, guys who otherwise would be in squats or probably scrapping in some other city by now. I talk at length with some of these guys Emmanuellong, Timothy (the coach), … What I've found here is like this strange football oasis, full of paradoxes. None of these guys really work, they sacrifice this for football and in turn sacrifice a good life or savings for the dream. It's the antithesis of the cliched football mercenary, but they're all just waiting to graduate, as 24-year-old Emmanuellong said so earnestly pointing at Spain on a map - I want to be Madrid's big black defender, and I know it's going to happen.

The Sri Lankan Footballer is an urban myth.

Sri Lankans play cricket. As he walks onto a soccer-field in Liverpool a crowd of Bosnians boo him and tell him: 'it's not cricket'.

The closest thing to a prominent South-Asian footballer is Vikash Dhorasoo and even he came from the French colony Mauritius.

The Sri Lankan Footballer's cousins speak highly of him, but the name of his so-called club in Germany is not remembered.

The Sri Lankan Footballer is not strong enough.

The Sri Lankan Footballer is not Sri Lankan, he's Brazilian or Australian or African.

The Sri Lankan Footballer's name is never spelt correctly. It's Aluhan, it's Alien, it's Anil, it's Ahilon, it's never Ahilan.

The Sri Lankan Footballer doesn't have football in his blood.

The Sri Lankan Footballer's parents don't watch him play.

The Sri Lankan Footballer has never received a response from the Sri Lankan Football Association, some say it's because he is Tamil.

The Sri Lankan Footballer get's told he's pretty good for a curry.

The Sri Lankan Footballer.

Secluded Alley

The secluded back alley was a training ground farfetched from the previous training grounds on which he's spent hours on. But the game was adaptability; and being able to use any strange space, and integrate its idiosyncrasies into a training regime, which would ultimately attain an improvement in an aspect of the game, un-trainable for most, was the beauty of it all. The secluded back alley was like an traffic-stripped T-junction, parts were rocky, parts were smooth, parts were sunny, parts were shaded, parts were covered with smashed glass from a group of drunk dickheads from the night before who had parked their car in the back-streets of Newtown but had then gotten lost. There was a wall.

He would train their almost each day. Starting slowly in a hoodie, but often ending half naked because of the drenching nature of the sweat. Many people would pass by him and he'd usually just try to ignore them as if embarrassed by the skill he was producing. The routine was usually similar almost each day. There was one lady that passed by, on the way to drop her daughter off, who he talked to on an almost regular basis. The techniques were practiced in 20s. Often cars would begin to drive into the secluded back alley - the secluded back alley couldn't accommodate both him and a car - and he would meander effortlessly into whatever crevice he could find, allowing the car to pass without giving it a look, but all the while wondering if the people within were particularly impressed by the last technique he'd produced. The lady would walk past after picking up her child from day-care.

One windy day in the secluded back alley he wasn't feeling well. He was thinking too much. Past mistakes flooded his mind, as the notion of confidence began to overwhelm him. Das Selbstvertrauen. And he started to think horrible thoughts. But they felt so real. Maybe he should just give up. Just quit the game now. He'd has some nice moments, he'd had so many bad ones as well. And sometimes, especially after the last year or so, he just felt like the bad ones were starting to take over in a malignant spiral which would lead to a putrid hate and eventual bitterness. Maybe quitting now was just the best thing to do, he could go out, not on a high, but at least not too far off the back of something that maybe he hadn't pictured as being his high, but could nonetheless suffice. The ball bounced away from him and into the gutter. He walked over to it, picked it up and stopped training.

The next day he walked outside with a hoodie on. It wasn't long before he was warm and just in a t-shirt. He felt good and he liked the way he played, his technique, he thought »Who else can do this?« and began to believe in a sense of arrogance that he had hyped; an arrogance that was so necessary to believe in.

Artistic Dilemmas #37

I'm sitting here watching Control for the second time, finally. I haven't really sat down and viddied a good film for a while. Well no, that's a lie. But still, truth be told, I haven't watched as many as I'd like to have. Not nearly. But what can I say? What can I do? There's just not enough time. I got the chance to read about Henry Darger a few days ago but still haven't gotten to a long list of others that I wish I would, Søren Kierkegaard's waiting. I find myself trying to plow through this amazing book, Heaven is a Playground, coz I just got my hands on a spanish copy of Hopscotch, La Rayuela. There's too much music that I can't hear enough of - speaking of Control, I haven't listened to Joy Division a quarter as much as I should have - how do I pick? Even now, I'm multi-tasking, writing whilst watching, and still there's an unlearned language waiting. And soon it all swirls into one big cyclone; writing, reading, watching, listening, learning... and it's as if I can only choose one.

Out of Chaos

Chaos is the precursor to...
Chaos is the precursor to...
Chaos is the precursor to...
Chaos is the precursor to.
The Sydney summer was about to set in, you could feel that, but it was pissing down with rain on this particular weekend. Possibly an omen? Who knows, but definitely a shortcut to a reclusive weekend.

The letter came in the form of a surprise, as if a piece of junk mail claiming you've won a million dollars materialised and inside sat the million dollars in cold, hard cash. Only this wasn't a million dollars, this was a summons for cash, for an absurd amount. And mid-way through a conversation his jaw dropped and completely losing interest, but being obliged to stay and listen when all he wanted to do was read that letter. Money is only money, but fuck. Maybe the showing was bad, who knows either way the receiving of this letter now and then was a crashing back into society of sorts.

So on this weekend, when he probably should have been out getting drunk after 3 social-interaction-less weeks, it was all to easy to melt into the couch and just read:

Cruyff didn't talk about abstract space but about specific, detailed spatial relations on the field. Indeed the most abiding image of him as a player is not of him scoring or running or tackling. It is of Cruyff pointing. 'No, not there, back a little... forward two metres... four metres more to the left.' He seemed like a conductor directing a symphony orchestra. It was as if Cruyff was helping his colleagues to realise an approximate rendering on the field to match the sublime vision in his mind of how the space ought to be ordered.

The head space he was inhabiting was incredible. One of complete indifference to an outer world he'd been secretly yearning to see again. It was as if nothing meant anything now in comparison to one piece of art. He packed his things and headed back over to the suburbs for a nice few days with the mum and the dog. They were both pleased to see him. If there was a place to be indifferent and reclusive, maybe it was better to spend some quality time with the familia.

Still a confrontation was always necessary and inevitable. Something like Saul Williams said, out of chaos comes order, but will order come from this current chaos?