AFRICAN ADVENTURE
Goats, goals and Gambia
WHEN I managed the Urdd Under-13s football team, the first thing I had to do was to clear the pitch of dog muck.
In Gambia, they clear the pitch of goats, the animals themselves not their muck, extended families of which seem to have the freedom of the streets and roam at will.
Welcome to Serrekunda East Park. Just a few kilometres outside the capital city Banjul, it’s a stadium - of sorts - with just a small concrete stand running half the length of one side of the pitch. East Park is home to a number of local teams including the wonderfully named ‘Steve Biko FC’.
As I arrived the players were warming up, clouds of dust puffing up around them every time the ball hit the ground. I paid the princely sum of 25 local dalasi, about 30p, for the privilege of sitting under the afternoon sun on bare but, thankfully, cold concrete.
The cordoned off VIP section had a few rows of plastic garden chairs laid out
in loose rows. ‘Who’s who?’ I asked my new footballing friend Mordour. ‘Not sure. Banjul in blue maybe,’ he said nonchalantly, ‘but that guy’s a big deal.’
He pointed not towards the pitch but at the posh seats next to us. A tall man looking relaxed in an open necked shirt smiled as he greeted everyone with big handshakes.
‘He’s the local mayor. A very generous man.’ Nice touch I thought. Man of the people supporting his local team.
This was supposed to be the Armed Forces against Banjul United in the Gambian League First Division. That’s what I had been told. That’s what I was expecting. And it was what was written on the website. The presence of the mayor and his beefy security guard, the singing of the national anthem, and the lengthy introduction of Mr Big to both teams should have told me something.
This was not the top-of-the-table clash I was expecting but I did not find that out until after the final whistle.
I should also have guessed that you don’t travel to the smallest country on mainland Africa for the quality of the football. The standard was that of a poor Welsh Division Three match, which was odd given that the warm up by both teams had been quite professional.
The game itself saw the white shirts put in a few hefty tackles but the play was low on skill with long, directionless balls ending in a pointless race to the touchline.
To call it ‘industrial’ would have been to presume some sort of game plan. I should have felt at home: it was a little like watching my Cardiff City but without a long shot on goal.
I asked Mordour about the game in Gambia. He thought for a little and then asked me if I’d seen a group of Belgians in my hotel. I had noticed six middle aged men drinking together by the pool and
thought it a bit odd. The Gambia is not exactly the place for a 50th birthday party or a stag weekend.
‘They were scouts looking for new and cheap talent,’ he said. ‘Anyone who’s any good here goes straight to Senegal and from there, who knows?’
The export of any half decent players went some way to explaining the quality of the fare I was watching. It also said a lot about the economy of this little country.
Not that any of this mattered because the spectacle in Gambian football for me was not on the pitch but all around you, right there in the stand. It was a riot of colour and sound.
From kick off to the final whistle there was a cacophony of music which didn’t let up. One man banged a drum which somehow hit a double beat.
A lone saxophone added a simple riff in a loop while almost everyone in the crowd slapped two pieces of wood together, blasting out a wall of rhythm.
The whole show was orchestrated by a group of women who shook and danced on the dust in front of the stand. Every so often two lads would run out and do an asymmetric dance-come-kung-fu move in what looked like a tribal dance. They would clap hands and laugh before disappearing back into the stand as everyone roared their approval. One big woman then rolled out to the front and shook herself to the beat. Groups of little children squealed and hit their sticks. I seemed to be the only one taking any interest in the game. The beat went round and round mesmerising me in the afternoon heat.
Older women, oblivious to the mayhem around them, threaded their way through the crowd with pans balanced on their heads, their hands free to reach up and serve you.
For a few dalasi you could get a polythene bag of water or a twist of ground nuts. Mordour waved to one of the women and handed me a small orange which she sliced open. He laughed as I slurped the juice up through the hole she had just cut.
Shaven headed kids and dreadlocked teenagers, Muslims girls with their heads covered, others wearing baseball hats were all enjoying their day out. Young and old stood, danced and shouted together. So this is what they mean by family friendly football
The music did stop - at the final whistle of the most glorious, low quality, goalless draw I have witnessed. The football had been secondary to having a good day out.
As the sun finally dipped, shaking off the worst of the heat, we stood behind the goal chatting. Mordour introduced me to a referee friend of his.
We spoke generally about football in Africa and particularly about whether the fourth official should have been interfering with the assistant’s decision making.
I looked back to the stadium. ‘Er, why are the players still on the pitch?’ I asked. ‘It’s gone straight to penalties,’ said the ref.
This was not the Armed Forces versus Banjul United but a local cup final. Mr Mayor was the guest of honour. Mordour shrugged his shoulders. Rangers FC beat Zurich on pens 4-2. Oh well, at least I got to see some goals.