Ghana got through to the quarter finals. The crowd was happy. The football was good and I am back in Accra. At the Ohene Djan stadium, the mixed zone not only exists but also works.
The Ghanaian players came through and though some did not speak, a few did. The Moroccans who speak English, Abdeslam Ouaddou and Youssef Hadji, will always get my good wishes. I'm their new biggest fan. They stopped and spoke even though they'd lost. Class. Pure class. I'm starting to forget errant South Africans.
Monday, 28 January 2008
The Scrap
Regular readers will know that i'm not Mr Jet. But after having done five and a half hours on the Kumasi-Accra main road, even the usual horror of speeding along a cushion of clouds at 31,000 feet, becomes welcome.
The Antrak flight from Accra to Tamale is only 45 minutes or so and therefore not enough time for even someone like me to froth up to a frenzy.
While Philippe, my French colleague, was preparing for his match commentaries on Sunday morning, I got talking to Mark Bright, former ace footballer and now a BBC commentator.
I was looking at BBC World which was blaring out in the concourse lounge and it showed a feature on how some chap had filched billions from Société Générale.
Bright said the bank had closed in one country - he couldn't remember which - but he'd heard about it as one footballer had investments in it there.
Société Générale has my morcels in it and the accounts of my little sweeties back home.
I really couldn't get stirred up about it given my pre-flight disposition. I didn't think I'd be around to complain about the plundering.
Clearly I survived.
Though in retrospect oblivion would have been a more appealing place after the Tamale experience.
The matches themselves were excellent. Eight goals in total as Angola came back against Senegal to win 3-1 and Tunisia outclassed South Africa by the same score.
What happened afterwards in the mixed zone continues to baffle me. The zone is supposed to be a place where players can respond to quick questions from radio and TV reporters.
They're not obliged to stop and talk but as I understood it from my time at the World Cup in Germany in 2006, they are supposed to at least walk along the mixed zone channels to their team buses.
This was all implemented to avoid possible feeding frenzies around the dressing rooms or as the players headed for the buses.
The protocol has broken down in Ghana and reached its nadir when South Africa's players - the very same bunch who'll be hosting the World Cup in two years - avoided the zone altogether.
I tried to find the media liaison officer but he or she had left the stadium - probably with the fugitive South Africans.
A team no-show has happened now in Sekondi, Kumasi and Tamale.
Even I was looking forward to this morning's flight back to Accra.
The Antrak flight from Accra to Tamale is only 45 minutes or so and therefore not enough time for even someone like me to froth up to a frenzy.
While Philippe, my French colleague, was preparing for his match commentaries on Sunday morning, I got talking to Mark Bright, former ace footballer and now a BBC commentator.
I was looking at BBC World which was blaring out in the concourse lounge and it showed a feature on how some chap had filched billions from Société Générale.
Bright said the bank had closed in one country - he couldn't remember which - but he'd heard about it as one footballer had investments in it there.
Société Générale has my morcels in it and the accounts of my little sweeties back home.
I really couldn't get stirred up about it given my pre-flight disposition. I didn't think I'd be around to complain about the plundering.
Clearly I survived.
Though in retrospect oblivion would have been a more appealing place after the Tamale experience.
The matches themselves were excellent. Eight goals in total as Angola came back against Senegal to win 3-1 and Tunisia outclassed South Africa by the same score.
What happened afterwards in the mixed zone continues to baffle me. The zone is supposed to be a place where players can respond to quick questions from radio and TV reporters.
They're not obliged to stop and talk but as I understood it from my time at the World Cup in Germany in 2006, they are supposed to at least walk along the mixed zone channels to their team buses.
This was all implemented to avoid possible feeding frenzies around the dressing rooms or as the players headed for the buses.
The protocol has broken down in Ghana and reached its nadir when South Africa's players - the very same bunch who'll be hosting the World Cup in two years - avoided the zone altogether.
I tried to find the media liaison officer but he or she had left the stadium - probably with the fugitive South Africans.
A team no-show has happened now in Sekondi, Kumasi and Tamale.
Even I was looking forward to this morning's flight back to Accra.
Wednesday, 23 January 2008
The Journey
I simply have to realise that I am not good as a passenger.
Planes I can just about deal with. But being driven is not good for my nerves. And here on this trip I am being driven around a lot.
The trip organiser feels this is the right thing to do. And he's right.
We set off from Kumasi and the 250 odd kilometres took something like five and a half hours.
The problems were speed bumps to prevent people zooming through villages. A natural precaution you would say but this is the main Kumasi to Accra road. The major artery has speed bumps.
Then there was the bit where the road was actually nothing more than stones and gravel.
Do I not like that as one hapless England football manager once said.
What I do like is the spirit of commerce. Because the traffic often comes to a grinding halt due to police checks and the occasional toll, there are hordes of women selling fruits and other goodies far too exotic for my weak constitution.
On the way to Sekondi on Tuesday we were at such a toll booth and we bought some bananas. They were very good and served as lunch as we just about arrived well in advance for the Nigeria versus Cote D'Ivoire showdown at 5pm.
The mistake was not buying food outside the stadium because inside it was just a desert.
Which more or less described the place where we stayed that evening in Takoradi. But I was a trooper and I adapted to such an extent that I was in Captain Hook's restaurant eating barracuda.
I'll have to review my diary for the trip to Kumasi from Takoradi. I recall seeing small children walking along the side of the road as cars roared past.
The Kumasi Accra trek is giving me nightmares.
And I haven't even gone to sleep.
Planes I can just about deal with. But being driven is not good for my nerves. And here on this trip I am being driven around a lot.
The trip organiser feels this is the right thing to do. And he's right.
We set off from Kumasi and the 250 odd kilometres took something like five and a half hours.
The problems were speed bumps to prevent people zooming through villages. A natural precaution you would say but this is the main Kumasi to Accra road. The major artery has speed bumps.
Then there was the bit where the road was actually nothing more than stones and gravel.
Do I not like that as one hapless England football manager once said.
What I do like is the spirit of commerce. Because the traffic often comes to a grinding halt due to police checks and the occasional toll, there are hordes of women selling fruits and other goodies far too exotic for my weak constitution.
On the way to Sekondi on Tuesday we were at such a toll booth and we bought some bananas. They were very good and served as lunch as we just about arrived well in advance for the Nigeria versus Cote D'Ivoire showdown at 5pm.
The mistake was not buying food outside the stadium because inside it was just a desert.
Which more or less described the place where we stayed that evening in Takoradi. But I was a trooper and I adapted to such an extent that I was in Captain Hook's restaurant eating barracuda.
I'll have to review my diary for the trip to Kumasi from Takoradi. I recall seeing small children walking along the side of the road as cars roared past.
The Kumasi Accra trek is giving me nightmares.
And I haven't even gone to sleep.
Friday, 18 January 2008
The Farewell
I hadn’t been on a plane since the return from Boston with the children back in October. Ooh memories of the horror.
It was thus a feeling of carefree abandon that swept through Charles de Gaulle Terminal 2F.
I specify 2F because if you miss it, there’s a seemingly eternal runway which prevents you from getting back there.
We didn’t overshoot because the taxi driver knew what he was doing.
The trip started sadly. I said goodbye to just awaken daughters who clasped me as if there were no tomorrow.
These are entirely my sentiments any time I got near an aircraft. But I had to appear brave.
Even the boy added his dramatic tuppence worth – coming to the door and standing on his tiptoes - to proffer a pucker.
My sweeties.
All three offspring pressed their noses against the kitchen window to wave me farewell as I traversed the courtyard to the front door onto the street.
The taxi was waiting outside and Jean – whom I hailed en route to the World Cup in Germany in 2006 – was there to help me with my cases.
Thirty-five minutes later we were at the airport. I phoned home to say I was there. The girls were impressed. Usually the trip to CDG is an obstacle course of incompetent taxi firms and RER trains.
The flight to Amsterdam took off late but it arrived in ample time for an hour long wait in a queue to board the flight to Accra.
It too departed late - an hour late. When we landed, the stewardess announced over the intercom: “Welcome to Accra.”
There was a round of applause.
And the man next to me said: “Thank God.”
Ghana...... a land of mindreaders.
It was thus a feeling of carefree abandon that swept through Charles de Gaulle Terminal 2F.
I specify 2F because if you miss it, there’s a seemingly eternal runway which prevents you from getting back there.
We didn’t overshoot because the taxi driver knew what he was doing.
The trip started sadly. I said goodbye to just awaken daughters who clasped me as if there were no tomorrow.
These are entirely my sentiments any time I got near an aircraft. But I had to appear brave.
Even the boy added his dramatic tuppence worth – coming to the door and standing on his tiptoes - to proffer a pucker.
My sweeties.
All three offspring pressed their noses against the kitchen window to wave me farewell as I traversed the courtyard to the front door onto the street.
The taxi was waiting outside and Jean – whom I hailed en route to the World Cup in Germany in 2006 – was there to help me with my cases.
Thirty-five minutes later we were at the airport. I phoned home to say I was there. The girls were impressed. Usually the trip to CDG is an obstacle course of incompetent taxi firms and RER trains.
The flight to Amsterdam took off late but it arrived in ample time for an hour long wait in a queue to board the flight to Accra.
It too departed late - an hour late. When we landed, the stewardess announced over the intercom: “Welcome to Accra.”
There was a round of applause.
And the man next to me said: “Thank God.”
Ghana...... a land of mindreaders.
Saturday, 12 January 2008
The Scrape
Managed to get through the football match without any significant structural damage. But we lost 3-0. It was awful. The opponents weren't that great.
But they converted their chances.
And that's what counts. So my last game before Ghana ended in defeat. Woe. But at least I walked away from it. That was after leaving a bit of the skin from my knee on the astro turf.
Ooh that feeling of multiple loss.
But they converted their chances.
And that's what counts. So my last game before Ghana ended in defeat. Woe. But at least I walked away from it. That was after leaving a bit of the skin from my knee on the astro turf.
Ooh that feeling of multiple loss.
Thursday, 10 January 2008
The Visa
I believe. Oh yes I believe. The trip to the Ghanaian embassy over in the 16th proved fruitful. I went there this morning and retrieved my passport duly embellished with a visa.
The chap behind the counter put on a little show for me - sifting through various other passports, putting down the box containing them and asking me if I'd been in before.
"I was here last Thursday .... Thursday morning," I replied.
Well it had to be Thursday morning really since the place closes at noon.
He lowered his eyes and continued his search. I watched him survey a few crumpled ones.
"Mine's quite a new one," I offered.
That really didn't speed things up but he found it, handed it over and urged me to check that all was in order.
As I've never had a visa from the Ghana embassy I had no idea. But there was a page in the document with an official stamp.
And I guess that's good enough.
The other bonus was bumping into a chap who's also going to be covering the African Nations Cup.
We had a coffee after he'd deposited his passport. Joachim told me he went to the embassy last week and discovered that his passport would expire within six months and therefore he wasn't allowed to travel.
He was able to get a quickie passport. And why not since you can get quickie divorces and within three days he was back.
I don't think Joachim was given a receipt. But he's been to Ghana three times already.
Feeling flushed that I have my travel documents I went to the department at the radio station dealing with expenses to hand over the receipt.
I apologised for the delay and explained why I hadn't handed it in earlier.
"Everyone else got a receipt Paul," said the assistant. "I think they were having you on at the embassy."
Just as well Thursday night is yoga night.
The chap behind the counter put on a little show for me - sifting through various other passports, putting down the box containing them and asking me if I'd been in before.
"I was here last Thursday .... Thursday morning," I replied.
Well it had to be Thursday morning really since the place closes at noon.
He lowered his eyes and continued his search. I watched him survey a few crumpled ones.
"Mine's quite a new one," I offered.
That really didn't speed things up but he found it, handed it over and urged me to check that all was in order.
As I've never had a visa from the Ghana embassy I had no idea. But there was a page in the document with an official stamp.
And I guess that's good enough.
The other bonus was bumping into a chap who's also going to be covering the African Nations Cup.
We had a coffee after he'd deposited his passport. Joachim told me he went to the embassy last week and discovered that his passport would expire within six months and therefore he wasn't allowed to travel.
He was able to get a quickie passport. And why not since you can get quickie divorces and within three days he was back.
I don't think Joachim was given a receipt. But he's been to Ghana three times already.
Feeling flushed that I have my travel documents I went to the department at the radio station dealing with expenses to hand over the receipt.
I apologised for the delay and explained why I hadn't handed it in earlier.
"Everyone else got a receipt Paul," said the assistant. "I think they were having you on at the embassy."
Just as well Thursday night is yoga night.
Wednesday, 9 January 2008
The Call
I’ve been thinking about the film Running Scared as I prepare for the flight next week.
In it two cops from Chicago try to bring down a drugs baron before they quit and open up a bar in Florida.
They get so consumed by the future and the easier life they envisage that they can’t operate effectively as policemen. They stop doing the things they would instinctively do.
I’m so close to an important moment that I’m not functioning properly. I played tennis yesterday but thought I wouldn’t go for my shots in the normal way just in case I ended up in traction.
The fact that the court was a bit slippery may have helped me rein in my all action tendencies.
I said to my tennis partner at the end of our hour that I didn’t want to do myself a mischief.
I don’t want to do that at the best of times let alone nine days before flying to Accra.
Quite why I’ve signed up for football on Saturday beats me. Perhaps it’s because I’d like to contribute something before leaving for a month.
But if all I produce is an injury to myself then I’m going to feel a real chump.
There would be a gruesome irony about not being able to go and cover a football tournament in Africa because of an injury from football sustained on pitch in eastern Paris.
Or would that be delicious congruence?
I’m starting to make headway in the guidebook. The hotel where I’m staying in Accra is in the book and it receives a fair review.
As I plan to spend a week of downtime after the tournament finishes on February 10, I thought it wise to call up and reserve a room for February 16 as I fly back to Europe on the 17th.
But the number on the list provided by the trip co-ordinator didn’t actually work. Fortunately a number was in the guidebook.
I called and duly reserved a room. So at least the night before take-off is sorted.
I rang the number again today and it is in fact someone’s mobile. The chap said he was connected with the hotel.
I feel reassured. If the number from the list had been wrong I would have started to doubt the accuracy of everything else.
By which time I would have been sprinting scared.
In it two cops from Chicago try to bring down a drugs baron before they quit and open up a bar in Florida.
They get so consumed by the future and the easier life they envisage that they can’t operate effectively as policemen. They stop doing the things they would instinctively do.
I’m so close to an important moment that I’m not functioning properly. I played tennis yesterday but thought I wouldn’t go for my shots in the normal way just in case I ended up in traction.
The fact that the court was a bit slippery may have helped me rein in my all action tendencies.
I said to my tennis partner at the end of our hour that I didn’t want to do myself a mischief.
I don’t want to do that at the best of times let alone nine days before flying to Accra.
Quite why I’ve signed up for football on Saturday beats me. Perhaps it’s because I’d like to contribute something before leaving for a month.
But if all I produce is an injury to myself then I’m going to feel a real chump.
There would be a gruesome irony about not being able to go and cover a football tournament in Africa because of an injury from football sustained on pitch in eastern Paris.
Or would that be delicious congruence?
I’m starting to make headway in the guidebook. The hotel where I’m staying in Accra is in the book and it receives a fair review.
As I plan to spend a week of downtime after the tournament finishes on February 10, I thought it wise to call up and reserve a room for February 16 as I fly back to Europe on the 17th.
But the number on the list provided by the trip co-ordinator didn’t actually work. Fortunately a number was in the guidebook.
I called and duly reserved a room. So at least the night before take-off is sorted.
I rang the number again today and it is in fact someone’s mobile. The chap said he was connected with the hotel.
I feel reassured. If the number from the list had been wrong I would have started to doubt the accuracy of everything else.
By which time I would have been sprinting scared.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)