The “Foreign” media and the World Cup

It’s thoroughly entertaining to observe the African media wage the airwaves war  against the big bad conglomerates of North America and Europe.

It seems long ago those outside of Africa have concluded the 2010 World Cup is going to be a complete disaster and so the media is quick to publish any story that fits this narrative.   We heard endless rhetoric about how the games won’t be sold out, how security will scare tourists off and how the infrastructure is not up to standard of hosting an event of this level.

The hordes of journalists will come and leave and probably pollute their prose with pettiness saying it was an awful world cup.      The traffic was terrible, the lines were unbearable and things were just chaotic.  Hello this is Africa’s World Cup; it’s unjust to compare it to hosting in Germany or the United States.   They will surely say it did not bring the economic impact that is was supposed to.  And they are probably right on that matter.  I just find it troubling that these will be the same journalists who will live in a bubble shuttling to and from their 4-star hotel to the stadiums and the finer restaurants South Africa has to offer.  Oh perhaps they will get a guided tour of the legendary township of Soweto in  some fortress like vehicle and say the have experienced the vibe of Africa.  The point remains it’s a bit hollow for these journalists to hide behind the anonymity of their keyboards and chauffeurs and say the World Cup didn’t benefit the average African person when they turned a blind eye to the average African person themselves. The reality of the situation is that tickets for most of the games are sold out.  The games will be played. No players will be killed.  The world will still spin and people will wonder what all the fear mongering was about.

So the infrastructure is not like North America and there will be terrible traffic jams and people will feel so endangered at night that they will set up a hermitage at the hotel bar.   I don’t care for these people or their opinions.  Broaden your horizons.  Shouldn’t people have an open mind?  But undoubetedly there will be all those pictures of shacks and what not with the lavish world cup stadium in the background.  You know what: that is not the point.  We know Africa is very poor in comparison to the rest of the world.   These photos are implying it’s wrong for a poor place to hold a sporting event like this.

What these journalists should do is step out of their bubble and go to any village in South Africa, Lesotho or anywhere else in the sub-Saharan.  Undoubtedly at 4 p.m.,  there will be slew of kids on a bumpy pitch with little grass and some remotely round object playing football with smiles on their faces.  Sure these kids probably won’t get to see a World Cup game in person, but they can feel like it is their World Cup however illogical and vapid that might seem.  I like to think of football as the heart of Africa.  No matter what happens to the rest of the body, the game keeps on beating smile after smile.  We should celebrate that.

An Ode to Olive Oil

Oh olive oil I long for thee

My lips day-dream of Sicily

I need to taste your fine green essence

Before the horrors of evanescence

Oh olive oil I miss you more than my dad

When I get home I need you scantily clad

Candles at the table, just me and you

No better reintroduction than dinner for two

Oh olive oil you are driving me insane

How can anybody expect me to abstain

Your extra-virgin body just asking for a glug

But I cannot resist you and decide to chug

Oh olive oil I know this is so wrong

I promise tonight will be our swan song

Your succulent allure has left my heart ablaze

But tomorrow I return to salad and mayonnaise

Ohhhhhhh, olive oil

Grandpa’s Hands

“I will never forget you my people.

I have carved you in the palm of my hand.”

-Isaiah 49: 14-16

I have always been oddly captivated by my grandpa Marvin’s hands.   To me, they were abnormally large and strong.  I distinctly remember a hand-shake I had with him when I was 7 years-old.  Maybe I remember because it’s peculiar to give your grandpa a handshake at that age.  My Toronto Blue Jays had just defeated grandpa’s beloved Phillies in the 1993 World Series.   I was quite nervous about our encounter because I didn’t want to make him rehash such painful memories.  But grandpa was even-keel as ever: “Congratulations,” his voice rumbled as his hand enveloped mine.   The handshake was more like Lenny Dykstra shagging a fly in center; grandpa’s worn leather mitt plucking my tiny ball of fist out of the air.  It felt as though my hand had traveled down to grandpa’s basement workshop at Hunsberger Lane and was stuck between the vice.

I quickly grew to realize the talent of those hands.  Neither of my parents were particularly “handy” at fixing anything around the house.   Luckily for them, Marvin and Beulah made the 10-hour trip up to Canada twice a year to make sure everything was in tip-top shape.   I remember sprinting home from school  one day so I could loiter as grandpa’s entourage as he built us a new back porch.  On the rare occasion, he would turn to me and ask, “Could you get me some more spikes?” Nothing made me happier.  Evidence of his hands’ labour littered my childhood landscape.  “Mom, where did you get this rocking chair?” “Grandpa made it.”  “Mom, where did you get this blanket?  Grandpa  sewed it.” “Mom, when did Grandma and Grandpa move into their house?” “After Grandpa built it.”

Those powerful hands were essential to Marvin’s career as a handyman, yet I was still mesmerized by them when he returned from a day’s work at the home.  I contend to this day that my Grandma makes the finest juiciest beef roast in the land.   But she would deflect my family’s praise to Marvin: “He cuts the beef properly,” she would say.  After one of these celestial feasts, I retired to their living room; stomach swimming in gravy, mashed potatoes and beef.  “You know what,” I said to myself.  “My grandpa is the best roast beef-cutter in Harleysville.  No, No, No, he is the best roast beef-cutter in Montgomery County.   Heck with Montgomery County, he’s gotta be top 5 in the state of Pennsylvania!”

And then there were the hundreds of Pinochle games we played after dinner.  Grandpa had such a distinct way of taking a trick you knew you were in trouble before he even played his card.  His right-hand would reach into his handful of cards with a certain arrogance as if to say “back-off kid, this trick is mine.”  It was like getting brushed-back from the plate by a Don Drysdale fastball.

It was only once the talent of those hands deteriorated along with Grandpa’s health that I began to understand their wisdom.   Grandpa’s hands were cerebral.  They worked at a slow steady pace until the problem was solved.   They knocked down jobs one by one for decades.  Of anyone I know, Grandpa took the saying idol hands are the devils workshop most literally.  He didn’t retire until he was 80 years-old.

Two days after retirement he suffered a torn aorta.  He survived a surgery that had quite low odds for success.  Doctors said he shouldn’t expect to live more than two years.  But Marv clung to life with the same vice-like grip that he swallowed my hand with years earlier.   It was tough to watch those hands in his final years as they struggled to conquer simple things like unwrapping a candy.  It hardly seemed fair that tools of such genius had been reduced to this.

In our language when things start spiraling out of control, we like to say they are out of hand.   When someone is not grounded in reality, we like to say they are out of touch.  Marvin’s hands were firmly in-touch and in control of his life.  What I would do for Grandpa’s hands.  I look down at my own and they seem so dainty and stupid in comparison.  I may as well be one of those Wall Street bankers who get a manicure weekly.   I hope the intelligence of our hands isn’t lost as we continue to evolve as a society.  As my grandpa showed me, you don’t have to use a computer to solve all your problems.

I always thought Grandpa to be a man of few words.  The only time I can remember him giving me advice was at Christmas one year.   He sidled up to me with a grin on his face and said, “Remember treat your woman properly.  She will keep you going.”  He unraveled his great big fist to reveal a necklace he would give grandma lying on his calloused palm.  I never forgot the advice or the image of his hand cupping something so delicate.   The action’s of Marvin’s hands spoke louder than his words.  He passed away Friday morning but he left countless real life monuments to remember those hands and the man in charge of them.

Are Ya Gonna Be Kobe or Vince?

Riders on Chapman's Peak

I was amazed to find Vince Carter’s mug splashed across Botswana TV a few months ago. I couldn’t help but think what a useless waste of talent as he launched yet another fall-away jumper. “Take the ball to the freaking hole,” I chirped to the listening television. It’s sad when the pinnacle moments of your career are a dunk contest and jumping over a seven-foot French dude. But ragging on Vince was quite hollow coming from me, sitting there, reclined, on the couch in Lesotho . “Martin, you’re exactly like Vince. You settle for the fade away jumpers in life and never challenge yourself by taking the ball to the hoop,” I whispered to myself. “You’re Vince.”

The thought chilled every fiber of my being. Perhaps I do settle for the easy things in life. I’m too easily content and goal-setting has never been my forte. But please don’t call me Vince. And please not those awful nouns: faker, whiner, liar or pre-Madonna.

With this in mind, I signed up for the Cape Argus bicycle race. I needed a mountain to climb to prove I was not Vince settling for another fade-away jumper. The Argus is the largest participatory bike race in the world with over 35, 000 riders annually. The route is a breathtaking 109 kilometers that sees you slipstream your way down the False Bay coast from Cape Town and back up to mother city over the exquisite Chapman’s Peak and Atlantic seaboard.

Training was hard. I looked lustfully at the fat cakes and chips and cokes. At these moments, I had a refrain I uttered to myself: “Are you going to be Kobe or Vince?” I hate no athlete more than Kobe Bryant, but even I have to admit he has the most indefatigable will to conquer of any athlete post-Clinton Whitehouse. Call it a begrudging respect .

Cycling the hills of Lesotho had its advantages. I was training at altitude and the roads were rarely flat. There were several Kobe-Vince inner-dialogues ascending the steep slopes. I would bike from village to village on the weekends picking up bananas and water fueling myself through the oppressive African sun.

When the eve of the race arrived I was quite nervous. I carbo-loaded because I heard that’s what Stevie Y did before a big game. I was sleeping in a 20-person dorm at a backpackers. Not ideal for the 5:30 wake-up. I arose as my roommates returned from a wild night on Long Street.

The race was easier than I thought. The views were magical and my legs metronomical. Slipstream Sean had lent me a really nice bike. It made a huge difference because it was much lighter than what I had trained on. The wind was howling. Even the impregnable Lance Armstrong said the winds were something to behold. But reaching the summit of Champman’s peak it was hard to be bothered by the aching quads and the belligerent breeze. The Atlantic Ocean silenced the muscle spasms. It was hard for me to imagine there was a more beautiful road in the world. I crossed the finish line in 4 hours 51 minutes, somewhere in the middle of the pack of thousands of riders. I thought to myself: well you’re no Kobe Bryant, but at least you’re not Vince.

A Routine Entry Cont…

I guess the second ogre to slaughter would be life outside of work.   I live with a family on a hill in the shadow of the Makhoarane mountain. It’s gorgeous and my family is so nice.  My father is the Morija town councillour and my mother works for the Ministry of Agriculture.   They have three authentic children (I’m the fake one) who have all moved out of the house.   But two house workers stay at the house along with a herd-boy who stays adjacent to my hut.  We have a massive garden that surrounds much of the house. It has produced: watermelons, peaches, carrots, tomatoes, green peppers, apricots, pumpkin, squash, green beans, chilies, maize, pees and cabbage.   It’s a powerhouse.   The amount of peaches we had was absurd.   I started a competition with my father to see who could eat more peaches in a day.   He destroyed me.  “Ntate, How many have you eaten today,”    “13.”  We also have an array of livestock.   There’s 8 dairy cows, 7 pigs, and numerous chickens.  It’s nice to experience “the farm life” even though it’s not quite a farm.  My parents devote an incredible amount of free-time to the garden and animals.

During the week, I usually do nothing in the morning except wash and eat.  After work, I like to exercise.  I bought a bike and am cycling the rolling hills of Morija and the surrounding area while the sun sets.  It’s incredible scenery.  I also have trained with the local soccer team quite a bit which has been a good way to get to know the guys my age.  There is something authentic about playing the game on the dirt fields of Africa.   I have probably lost between 15 to 20 pounds.   I don’t have a scale, but that’s my guess.

At dinner my family congregates around the TV and we watch the news and a soapie called “Generations.”  The food is quite repetitive, but oddly comforting.  The staple is what  they call papa, which is cornmeal in congealed slabs.   I try to cook once a week.  Tacos are the clear favourite.  They think it’s fantastic.   And really who doesn’t like tacos?  I try to retire to my room to read or write before I go to bed.   I have read quite a few books.  Currently I’m reading The Prodigal Son by Henri Nouwen.   But have plowed through several of my books.  I have to admit the Robertson Davies trilogy was great and the Idiot by Dostoyevsky caused me to eliminate all other priorities in life until it was finished.  I go to bed listening to the BBC World Service on my shortwave radio.

I think I have crushed the monster.  Finally.

A Routine Entry . . .

It has come to my attention that I have been abysmal at describing what my Lesotho life is actually like to you ardent readers. I have to admit that life has settled into a routine and I have never been good at describing routine. My sister and I were experts at stone-walling our parents “How were your day at school questions.” We usually just grunted in-between bites of stir-fry and hoped the conversation would move towards something else. Perhaps, it was because we knew any answer would only lead to more questions from our mother.

So I’ll do my best to tackle the monster that is the banality of routine in attempts to bring you closer to me. Work of course is the first ogre to slay. Morija Printing Works is my home five days a week. At least it’s not your stereo-typical 9-5 shift, rather 8-5. I work in what is called room “Number 1”. We are in charge of getting our customer’s documents (books, calendars, pamphlets, newspapers, programmes etc.) into the proper layout so we can print them to film. We develop the film in the dark room and then transfer the film to plate. The plate heads to printing press to get printed. Most North American printers now run on computer to plate technology, which cuts out the film step and a whole lot of time. Morija Printing Works is set to acquire computer to plate technology in May. I find myself getting quite excited about this; almost Sidney Crosby overtime golden-goal excitement. Speaking of which, it’s going to be a bit embarrassing in the future when people ask me where I was when Crosby scored. Ummm I was following the game in my thatched hut in Lesotho via espn.com chat. I did a victory lap in just boxers at 1 a.m. after reading: “Crosby!!!!!!!!!”

But back to the ogre at hand. I do various things in room number 1. I have designed book covers and calendars, been a typist, taken-up the role of resident IT guy, taught Microsoft Excel and am in the process of making a website. I work with two others in my office. Ntate Bataung has been with me the whole year and he is a joy to work with. We share a lot of good laughs together. He tricked me into thinking he had three wives. I haven’t been able to top that yet. I’m the over-protective mother of the computers in our office. I don’t trust any of the kids they play with. So when a customer comes in with their project on a Flash drive I lock eyes with Ntate Bataung so he knows to scan for viruses before using. When I first arrived there was no anti-virus software and I was asked why their main computer wasn’t functioning properly. “It has viruses,” I state emphatically. Bataung, of course chimed in, “It’s got H1N1 and HIV AIDS man. It’s the outhouse of Lesotho.” Upon installing free anti-virus software, the first scan revealed 4,500 infections. The nickname outhouse has stuck. “Bataung, where is the Auditor’s report?” “It’s in the outhouse.” About 95 percent of flash drives in Lesotho have viruses. The problem is pretty rampant worldwide with the Flash Drive or memory stick or USB.

It’s tough working with computers in Africa. They are a terrible investment because things get out of date so quickly. But at a printer you have to be running the same software as your clientele. It seems rather unjust to me that in Lesotho we have to pay the same price for an Adobe program as Toronto. We don’t have the same budget to drop money on technology year after year. So a lot of the problems we encounter in room number 1 revolve around not having the right program. Business, for the most part, is done in person because the internet is far from universal. People don’t just email us a PDF, rather they make an hour drive to drop off the PDF. So jobs often get prolonged while we drive the document to and fro down the tarred road instead of the information super highway. South Africa is far more developed in terms of internet access then we are here in the geographically rugged Lesotho.

Heinous Decision from African Football Authority

Emmanuel Adebayor stricken with grief

The African Cup of Nations just wrapped up  in Angola yesterday.   The holders, Egypt, defeated Ghana 1-0 in the final.  But the tournament will be remembered for an ugly incident that took place before any of the games were played.   The Togo team bus was ambushed by Cabinda rebels toting machine guns two days before the tournament.   The Togo assistant coach and the communication director were killed.   The goalkeeper was severely injured.    The Togolese team withdrew from the tournament and returned home to mourn the loss.

Here’s where things get out of hand.  On Saturday, the Confederation of African Football (CAF) banned Togo from the 2012 and 2014 cup of nations for “governmental interference.”   The CAF president said it had no choice but to ban Togo in order to “protect  the integrity of African Football.”  The team was also fined $50, 000.  It was against the rules, according to the CAF, for the Togo government to summon the team home and withdraw from the tournament.

If the CAF was really concerned about protecting African football they would make sure the players were actually protected.   Has a sporting body ever been more egregious in putting the value of their sport above human life.  People died.  You may not agree with them withdrawing and whatever, but people died.   Whatever way the country’s national team decides to mourn that situation should be respected.  It’s not up to you, heartless CAF, to decides what’s right or wrong when the tournament you organize has a team’s bus ambushed.  Maybe you should think about real protection before you embarrass yourself further by the outlandish claim that the ban on Togo in someway will protect the future of African Football.  Angola recently emerged from a civil war in 2002, so events like this couldn’t have been entirely unforeseen.

It’s clear the CAF doesn’t know how to protect anything.  It can’t protect the players and it sure as heck can’t protect themselves  from getting lambasted by every blogger, journalist and citizen who knows about this debacle.  They have embarrassed African Football worldwide and proven they are an organization with no integrity.   Why should they ever be trusted to “protect” African football?

Togo is appealing the decision.

The F Word

My fiance and I?

It’s true.   I have a fiance and, inturn, am a fiance.  I’m really happy I can’t figure out how to type the accent.   That would be way to pretentious.   Before I get side-tracked I don’t want people to misconceive this post as bitterness towards marriage or engagement or love.  I’m elated.  Thanks to all of you who have been a support in our lives.  I’m truly grateful.  The engagement ordeal was a bit of struggle.  We hiked down an extremely steep slope to the bottom of a massive waterfall through stinging nettle.   I proposed.  Rachel said yes after she said sure.  We drank water we shouldn’t have drank.  We tried to find an easier way out and failed ending up on a cliff island.  It took an an hour and a half to get to that island.  We had to return and hike back the way we came.   The bad-water induced spell-binding bowel problems that lasted the remainder of the week.    It was a great.  Really.

But none of that prepared me for unleashing the f word.  Rarely has a word slithered out of my mouth with such apprehension and disdain.   It feels so fake.   Maybe my problem is genealogical.   My mom, after all, was known to introduce my father as her friend for the first two years of their marriage.  I’m not artistic.  I have a terrible French accent.  The word does not fit my je ne sais quoi.  I can’t pull it off.

It brings me back to a very bizarre period of my life in China where I would read Tolstoy’s Anna Karenina before bed with Mozart’s 4oth in the background.  I thought I was cool.   And that’s the thing so did all of Tolstoy’s Russians.  They would speak French to each other to show they from the upper class.  I wonder if they had the gall to use the word fiance.  At the time I thought it was great and cultured.   I even began to speak French in China.

The point is I’m not going to masquerade in those 19th century Russian drawing rooms using a word that feels empty.   So if you could please help me out I need a new word.  Any suggestions?

I hate Mayo

Mayo. I don’t feel good about it. To me, the only acceptable use for Mayo is in Tuna. And that’s only because Tuna’s potent enough to mask Mayo’s deficiencies. Needless to say there is a lot of Mayo in Lesotho. I dream of it. I dream of opening my cupboard door (It’s not refrigerated!), grabbing the jar, running up to the top of mountain behind my house and hurling it into oblivion.

In the name of Louis François Armand du Plessis, duc de Richelieu, why did you bring this condiment back to France after the battle of Mahon. My aversion may have started at the Via station in Ottawa. Unfortunately at Burger King you’re not allowed to specify what you would like on your burger. Whoever the employee was who made my Whopper opted for the full immersion bun baptism of Mayo. I took a couple of bites and puked. Coleslaw; please; potato salad; disgusting; there are vinaigrettes in this world for reasons.

There are no vinaigrettes in Lesotho. So instead we grate carrots and add three heaping spoonfuls of Mayo. Take a can of beans and add 6 or 7 heaping spoonfuls of Mayo. Potato salad; we might just add half the jar. The thought of Mayo gives me goosebumps and my body gives a few uncontrollable shakes. Oh, how I loath Mayo with every fiber of my being. I detest it more than the Ottawa Senators, Birkenstocks, Stephen Harper, Kobe Bryant and Fox News. I can’t even write the full word, Mayonai… ughh it just sounds lubricated, slippery and rotten.

So you North Americans revel in your balsamic vinegar and olive oil and I’ll keeping eating crow, that is, canola oil and egg yolk. But upon my return could you do me one favour, please hold the Mayo.

Gameday Spectacle

It’s Sunday and it’s cold, wet and rainy.  You can see the mist mingling at the tops of the minature mountains that hover behind the village of Morija.  The drizzle clatters against the tin roofs held down by a mish-mash of rocks and nails announcing to residents: stay inside.

The weather, however, is no barrier to Lijabatou (pronouced Dijabatou), Morija’s local soccer team.  They gather by the roadside about to launch their campaign in Lesotho’s second division.  There’s a throng of young boys toting vuvu zelas; the obtuse African horn that you will become familiar with at World Cup.  Undoubtedly, they are the Lijabatou entourage.   Slowly the crowd grows into a swarm.  A red Toyota pick-up arrives with two players and blasts accordion laced Lesotho hip-hop.  The vuvu zelas can be heard in the background like feroucious bumble bees.

The full team arrives and pile into a 15 passenger mini-bus.   Fifteen more members of the entourage squish in after the team to make the glorified van’s passenger count 32.  The rest of the entourage attempt to hop into the bed of the red pick-up.  After careful deliberation and hurried looks to see what kind of clearance he had, the driver said he could only take 17 passengers in the truck bed.  A thirteen-year-old boy just loses it and starts punching his friends who were fortunate enough to be a pair of the 17.  He, of course, wasn’t. The two-vehicle convey sets off on the half-hour journey leaving over 20 dissapointed fans.

It’s evident upon arrival this pitch is no Wembley Stadium.  There is a 10-degree slope from one end to the other, the penalty areas are thick with mud and the nets are two-times too small. Plus houses surround two-thirds of the ground. Never-the-less, the Lijibatou players prep while the other team comes streaming out of the village.  The game finally starts. Dijabtou in a black and white and Mazenod in Green.  The Morija side has the misfortune of being at the bottom of the 10-degree slope and is bombarded for most of the first half. The entourage sits along the touch line beside Dijabotou’s goal.  There is nothing to cheer about except for several dubious off-side calls by the Morija-based referee to help ensure Dijabatou only trails 1-0 at halftime.

Several more fans show-up at halftime with a case of Carling Black Label.  It seems although they have already polished of their first case as they stagger around the sidelines.  The ringleader is wearing a shirt that reads “11 expereince.”  He sits on the case of Carling Black Label and swigs.  When he sees the bottom of his bottle he reaches underneath his but to grab the next round.   A white Toyota pick-up comes zooming across the field.  The driver is sucking back the last of his Castle Light like a calf does to the teet of its mother.  The windows are down and he is blasting Paul Simon’s graceland.

“A man walks down the street it is street in a strange world maybe it’s the third world.  Maybe it’s his first time around.  Doesn’t speak the language. Holds no currency he is a foreign man he is surrounded by the sound sounds of cattle”

The second-half is underway now. Dijabatou is dominating with the slant in their favour and quickly notches an equalizer.  The entourage sprints the length of sidelines in ecstasy blowing the vuvu-zelas mid-stride.  The driver of the white pick-up interrupts his embrace with the bottle long-enough to lean on his horn for two straight minutes.  The players look relatively somber as the incessant noise slowly dissapates.

There is a delay.  The crowd is confused and restless.  It seems the game-ball has entered a yard that is guarded by the much-feared Doberman.  The goalie is seen conferencing with the ref and the coach.  He decides to try and walk slowly towards the ball.   The Doberman charges towards him and nearly bites his head-off.   Two more minutes of restless waiting as the referee and the players seem utterly confused.  Finally,  a member of the entourage with a fresh batch of Dutch courage makes a run for it while another member slings rocks at the dog.  Somehow this combination of events discombobulates the Doberman enough and the ball is truimphantly returned to the pitch.

Lijabatou promptly scores.  The opposing goalie lies face down in the mud.  He should have had it.  The entourage exalt in joy.   The driver of the white truck is singing with his arms outstretched like a patron at a praise concert.  Every once in a while he stops, siddles over to his truck, honks the horn for a little while and then returns to singing.

The Morija boys begin to blatantly waste time.  Tying shoes, pretending to be injured and taking a minute to take a throw-in.  The entourage take the cue.   The ball comes to the sidelines and is uncermonously booted further away from the field of play.  A drunken supporter sprints off to fetch it.    He grabs the ball and boots it half-way across the field to further aggrevate the opposition.

“I am invincible,” he says with a laugh upon return.  Blood starts to pour from the palm of his right-hand like a dirty Shiraz.  It seems the barb-wire fence has punctured that invincibility.  People attend to him.  The game ends.  2-1 Lijibatou.  I can’t even remember a single play.