Thursday 5th to Saturday 7th
September – Football Mental.
![](http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-G_3uXSZDAbI/UkKqy9b-pFI/AAAAAAAAAr4/d_7d_xga2wE/s400/DSC00270.JPG) |
With Joseph and Timote outside Baba Yara Stadium. |
Eben and I were joined at the taxi station by two other
Ghanaians heading to the match; Joseph, the son of the Chief in Busua and
Timote, an ex-Kumasi resident now living in Busua. The journey is long. A full
7 hours. This is not only because the distance is great but also because of the
quality of the roads and the roundabout journey you have to take to get there:
a shared taxi to Agona before grabbing a taxi east to Takoradi where you have
to walk across town to get a separate Tro-Tro to Kumasi which then heads east
to Cape Coast before cutting back north-west to Kumasi. The Takoradi-Kumasi
section is the longest of the trip and unfortunately for us this was the leg
where we managed to acquire a driver that was under the illusion that the
mini-bus sized tro-tro was actually a rally car. Trying to push the aging
tro-tro to its rather impressive speed limit before proceeding to dodge all the
numerous pot-holes, other vehicles and pedestrians that thrust themselves in to
our path and all with as little use of the break as possible, which he was
presumably allergic to. Ebenezer shouted at the wannabe Michael Schumacher
twice on our journey to slow down, once after he hit a particularily large bump
in the road that caused us all to smash our heads on the already low roof. The road changed from pothole ridden to
freshly tarmaced, Japanese built modern highway as we drove further inland
climbing the luscious hills to Kumasi, where we left the open road behind and
crawled in to gridlock traffic.
Kumasi is the
ancient capital of the Ashanti who’s empire once encompassed much of West
Africa. The town used to be full of old colonial style white wash buildings
some with attractive thatched roofs, however, this attractive and beautiful
ancient city was burnt to the ground in the early 20th century by,
who else, but the British as they fought to colonise the interior of Ghana from
their Gold Coast stronghold. Ghanaians really do have a lot to thank us for.
Today Kumasi is a modern African city with no hint of it’s colonial beauty. It
is Ghana’s second city with a population of 1.5 million based in the middle of
Ghana it is the bridge between The North and The South. Basically, it’s
Birmingham. Now, never having the pleasure of setting foot in Birmingham, I can
only assume that Kumasi and Birmingham are exactly the same. Though I didn’t
find out where the Kumasi Bull Ring was and to be totally honest I had no idea
what I was looking for anyway as I literally have no idea what the Birmingham
Bull ring looks like or what it is for. Whatever it is, angry people of
Birmingham, I’m sure it is lovely and miles better than whatever equivalent
there is in London or Manchester. However, Kumasi did have it’s own smaller
version of Spaghetti Junction, the weather was constantly wet and the dominant
colour was grey so they have to be pretty similar places at least.
Being stuck
in almost stationary traffic for close to half and hour after a 7 hour drive to
the city limits was beginning to grate so the Ghanaians and I made a break for
it and marched off with Timote in the lead. I tried to keep up as my dead legs
slowly came back to tingling life dodging the endless stream of people heading
in every direction possible and indeed impossible. Timote was a good and
efficient guide having lived in Kumasi for 3 years before coming to Busua. The
pace of our convoy was getting ever more rapid and aggressive with each passing
yard. The smell of the open sewers at the sides of the streets was
overpowering. My senses were in overdrive. People hit in to you at every turn,
flying at you from every direction like the asteroids in Space Invaders except they were mostly carrying a
baffling array of goods on their heads at the same time. I struggled to keep
pace in the mayhem of people, carpets, fish, t-shirts, washing machines, mattresses, bread and other
assorted goods. Eben stopped to let me catch up.
“Walk
straight and ignore everyone in your path.”
I really have
been out of London too long.
We left the
wide main streets, winding our way in the climbing, narrow backstreets covered
with the debris of the day. I’m glad I wore flip flops today. The winding
backstreets with the high surrounding buildings brought back memories of the
medina in Fes. Kumasi seemed as much of a maze to me as the labarinth of Fes.
Finally we came across a barbershop where Timote stopped to chat with his
brother briefly before pushing on. We arrived at a small house in a block of
flats that strangely resembled some of the art deco blocks of flats in London
where Timote would stay. Eben, Joseph and I decided to stay in a guesthouse
somewhere so we marched off past churches booming out sermons at full volume
(presumably so God can hear them over the rest of the din), through a school
which was still inexplicably teaching at night in the school holidays and in to
the school field behind where a heard of cows were being grazed. We got out on
to the main road and went to check out the first hotel. It was pretty posh and
a bit out of our price range at 60¢ a night so back out on the street again to
head for a more down market place. The sky started to crack with thunder and
lightening. The rain was turning from drizzle to deluge as we entered the
second hotel. It looked like a backpackers style lodge but was still amazingly
charging 30¢ a night for sharing a room without a fan. I sat in the reception
area watching the news with the various hotel staff who had nothing better to
do. I sat there for around half an hour waiting for the rain to ease up enough
to make a break for it, there were 5 different news items on the Ghana v Zambia
match the next day:
![](http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-QPUhZxtV_Oc/UkKqzd3x2wI/AAAAAAAAAsA/ojnA1slwQvU/s400/DSC00283.JPG) |
I suppose you are?! |
There was the
history of the game – “Ghana haven’t beaten Zambia in a competitive match since
1992”. Followed by the squad training in front of 30,000 fans at Baba Yara
Stadium earlier in the day. The squad meeting the Minister of Sport, who gave
them a rousing speech. The squad visiting an orphanage to donate money, food
etc. while being mobbed by adoring fans. Then a focus on Zambia and their
botched preparations which meant they had only arrived in Ghana this evening
due to problems with flying to Kumasi accompanied by more old footage of
previous encounters. The news finished in the customary short and finally section but rather than something
about a puppy or Jesus appearing in someone’s toast there was a quick story
about something to do with Syria and the UN. The rain had slowed significantly
so we left on that heartwarming note.
The third
guesthouse was not too hot, not too cold, but just right. Hidden down a back
street it had a luscious and airy courtyard with 2 stories of big, clean rooms
all for the bargain price of 20¢ a night, and yes, there was a fan. Happy, we
dumped our bags and went to grab some dinner and a beer. I grabbed some rice
and fish stew (as it looked like Chili Con Carne) but tasted horrid while
Joseph and Eben managed to put away 3 giant banku balls each, along with the
accompanying soup and fish. I didn’t eat much but the beer slipped down nicely
before I gratefully headed for bed.
I awoke at
8:30 the next morning to a knocking at the door. Ebenezer had been to pick up
our tickets for the game and suggested we go and get some breakfast. I got
changed and met Joseph and Eben in the courtyard. Drizzle was still falling
with no sign of stopping. We walked up towards the stadium. With each passing
street the crowds grew. Touts sold tickets on the streets; excited fans blew
enthusiastically on horns, bashed drums and sang throughout the streets. We
finally turned the corner and came in sight of the great bowl that is Baba Yara
Stadium. A wall of noise and a sea of red, gold, greeted us, green and white,
there were still 7 hours to kick-off. The stadium hadn’t even opened yet but
queues of people were huddled around each gate eager to get in. We went to get
breakfast in one of the many makeshift stalls and bars that face the stadium. I
got myself an omelet sandwich while the Ghanaians went off to get some Fufu and
fish, I still can’t stomach this first thing in the morning. I chatted with my
fellow diners, sheltered under a gazibo from the ever-strengthening rain. All
were confident of a Ghanaian win despite, as I was now well versed in saying,
Ghana having not beaten Zambia in a competitive match since 1992. All nodded
thoughtfully with this statement but nothing could even dent their confidence.
To them my prediction of 2-1 Ghana win was pessimistic at best and treasonous
at worst.
When all were
fed and watered we headed towards the stadium. Joseph and I checked out the
merchedise while Eben headed off to purchase the 8 tickets needed for Simon,
Babel and the rest of their Australian contingent currently en-route from Accra
after voting in their national elections at the embassy that morning, which is compulsory.
I bought a hat for Joseph and I as well as a Ghana sweatband for all three of
our contingent before heading in to the grounds of the stadium to wait for Eben
and Timote. All of a sudden amongst the mix of bands, drums, horns and
merchendise stands a man started sprinting pursued a couple of seconds later by
an ever growing band of angry Ghanaians. The man was panicked. Weaving
erratically away from the kicks and punches aimed at him by passers by. The
gates were blocked by an enthusiastic band of supporters immersed in chanting
and dancing. The man desperately veered off to the left before soon realising he
was blocked in by a mob on one side, a band on another and by walls on the
other two. He made a desperate sprint towards the band hoping to win his
freedom. A single chest high kick knocked him to the floor. Cheers erupted. A
police man came running in to the mob and landed another boot square on the man’s
chest before handcuffing the man and placing him in the back of a pick up truck
packed with heavily armed officers to take him away.
“What did he
do?” I asked Joseph.
“He was
selling fake tickets” Came the matter of fact reply. Probably not the cleverest
offence to commit here.
I bought a
flag and some sunglasses as we waited. Eben called and said he was stuck in
traffic, after retrieving the required tickets. With some time in hand I did
what any good Brit at a sporting event would do and took Joseph and Timote for
a beer.
Eben turned
up after an hour and we headed for the stadium. Baba Yara is bowl on three
sides with one covered stand running parallel to the pitch, to the right of us.
We were behind the goal, exposed to the elements. At the opposite end of the
stadium fans had arranged themselves in to blocks of red, yellow and green,
each colour with its own conductor already leading their corresponding blocks
in song and dance. It was 11am. 5 hours until the match and the stadium was
already half full and the noise was approaching deafening. We grabbed a couple
of beers and sat chatting as best we could over the ever growing noise as
sellers walked amongst us selling everything from snacks and drinks to horns
and photos.
After a
couple of hours the noise of horns got too much for me. The sun was now out and
happily burning my unprotected skin. I went to the concourse, grabbed a coke
and sat watching the mayhem. The police were conducting thorough and often
multiple frisk downs at the gate and were ordering fans with different degrees
of success, to rip up their tickets to prevent re-use. The crowds, however,
were large and th police presence small so many slipped through the net which
led to a boom trade in fans passing their used tickets back through the gates
to be used again by friends and anyone paying enough. To the left of the gates
an impromptu Muslim prayer centre had been set up using broken up cardboard
boxes as temporary prayer mats. The number of worshipers was constant. Even on
a Friday, Islam’s most sacred day of the week, a day of rest, mosque and
family, Muslim’s were here in their droves. Proving, if proof was needed after
the mayhem of the last week that Black Stars were not only “bigger than Jesus”
but maybe even god himself.
Finally Simon
arrived from Accra and I passed his (unused) tickets through the bars as
casually as I could and headed back to my seats. There was still over an hour
to kick off but every seat was taken. The steps were full of people claiming a
good vantage point for the game but somehow the sellers still managed to move
freely like mountain goats on cliff faces. My progress back to Eben and the
others was somewhat slower.
![](http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-VA2LuYL_F80/UkKrIqiP0tI/AAAAAAAAAsM/oolVU7CfLec/s400/DSC00306.JPG) |
A happy Eben. |
The Zambians
came out first to warm up to a wall of boo’s. If there was a single Zambian in
the house you couldn’t tell. I have never been in a more partisan and
intimidating atmosphere. Thankfully I was supporting Ghana. The boo’s and jeer’s
continued until a small man in a while Ghana polo-shirt carrying a Ghana flag
shot out of the tunnel like he was selling fake tickets, completing a lap of
the pitch in close to world record pace stopping only to do a short dance in
each corner to whip the crowd up in to a greater and greater frenzy. Finally,
when the you thought the noise could get no louder, they appeared. The crowd
went in to complete delirium as the Black Stars walked out lead by the holy
trinity of Gyan, Essien and Prince-Boateng. It was only the warm up.
When all were
finished and sufficiently warmed up the players disappeared the normal
cacophony of drums and horns re-started. There wasn’t a spare bit of concrete
in the house. We all sat, waiting, watching the flag carriers practice their
role over and over, for some reason without a Zambian flag meaning one group of
flag carriers had to pretend diligently each time. They left only to be
replaced by an army of ball boys. There were 12 alone behind our goal. Three
elder boys in blue were in charge, pitch side ready to pass the ball back to
the player were backed by 4 deputies in grey who were also backed up by 5
deputy deputy ball boys behind them. They waited patiently in formation.
After 7 hours
of travel, an overnight stay and 6 hours in the stadium the players emerged
fronted by the flag carriers who had thankfully managed to find a Zambian flag
since rehearsals, the crowd went wild again. The teacher from Charlie Brown
made a few announcements over the tannoy, anthems were sung (well one was
anyway) and then, a mere 10 minutes late, we kicked off.
The game was
fast paced and physical from the outset. Ghana had the better of the opening
chances with 2 free headers being sent just wide. Zambia weren’t creating much
apart from a couple of half hearted long range efforts. They looked
intimidated. I didn’t blame them. Ghana attacked down the left, whipping
another threatening cross in to the box, this one wasn’t wasted as Waris stooped
low and headed the ball in to roof of the net. Cue eruption. The stadium was
rocking, dancing, singing, blaring horns. A man dressed in red paint emerged
from the delirium and placed a smoking pot on his head with Ghana 1 – 0 Zambia
on it while dancing, much to the delight of the crowd and adding much to my
confusion. The singing became
louder and louder until half time. When the whistle blew they players, coaches,
ground staff, ball boys, officials, press, police (dressed a bit like RoboCop),
security and other mysterious pitch-side dwellers decended down the tunnel. The
stream of important people was so long that it took most of half time for them
to dis and re-appear.
![](http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-yl60gVu5S4o/UkKrRYajbRI/AAAAAAAAAsk/1Z4Gpogo1Aw/s400/DSC00298.JPG) |
"Look! I've got the shopping!" |
In the second
half Ghana started quickly putting the pressure on the Zambian goal right in
front of us. Zambia had managed to shake off some of the nerves and were also
creating chances which would have opened the game right up. Though it was Ghana
who scored next after almost 10 minutes of completely open football. Zambia
failed to clear a corner sufficiently letting the ball fall nicely for Asamoah
just outside the box, who fired it in to the back of the net from distance. Cue
more delirium and red pot men. When Zambia pulled one back with about 20mins to
go Baba Yara fell eerily quiet, though I was relieved to have even a small
break from the incessant horn blowing. The rest of the game was slow and
physical; Ghana needing only a point to top their group weren’t taking any
chances. On more than one occasion the stretcher golf cart needed to be called
on to the pitch, once almost running over a Zambian player in it’s zeal to get
to a fallen Michael Essien. With 5 minutes left on the clock Joseph announced
he was going to get out before the rush. I was astonished. We hadn’t spent 2
days getting to this point to miss the last 5 minutes. I wasn’t going anywhere.
The final
whistle went to loud cheers and a pitch invasion from the hundreds of pitch
side officials while the Zambians tried to skulk off as quietly as possible.
Eben and I watched the lap of honor before exiting the stadium through a minor
scuffle.
![](http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-nHw1ZYVcAY8/UkKrJqr9ReI/AAAAAAAAAsQ/9TBR7-6jIwg/s400/DSC00303.JPG) |
The clock ticks down to victory. |
I met the
Aussies for a beer while the Ghanaians went back to the hotel. All were in good
spirits. The Ghana team bus went past to cheers followed by a stream of
ecstatic fans while the Zambian bus passed to more boo’s and jeer’s the team
looking like they wanted to be anywhere but there. The Aussies and I headed for
a curry but my stomach was going mental by that point so I couldn’t eat or
drink much. Even so it ended up as my most expensive meal in Ghana. I finally
got hold of Eben and found out the name of our guesthouse, which I had
forgotten. I grabbed a taxi and went back to the room to fall in to a deep and
happy sleep.
The next
morning as the rain drizzled down again, Joseph and I went and grabbed some
breakfast before we headed to the tro-tro station to begin our long journey
home with the same Michael Schumacher wannabe driver and 6 screaming kids. Oh joy!
![](http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-161SOdLxvu0/UkKrJzRL4bI/AAAAAAAAAsU/gVqMslHI81Y/s400/DSC00313.JPG) |
Celebration time. Someone should tell the guy on the left. |