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.