The Ball 2010

We are preparing ourselves for a rough visa ride. We’ve heard many stories about African bureaucracy done with a good helping of “Africa time” at exorbitant prices. We are on our way to the Malian Embassy in Dakar.

At this stage we haven’t a single African Visa. “Have we got all the necessary paper work?” we ask ourselves. DHL have prepared a letter of invitation, signed and stamped by the head of DHL in Mali. That should help. Bashir from DHL is with us — he speaks French fluently, is a persuasive talker and has done a lot of work to prepare the ground for us.

“I called the British Embassy, they said that a letter of support from them is necessary,” Richard says. “Bypass that lads: they’re only drumming up their own importance,” he advises.
Thanks Richard, advice taken.

We walk in with The Ball, not knowing what to expect. Phil and Bashir explain the situation in French. The woman in charge of visa applications wants to know more about The Ball.

The Chef de Protocol at the Mali embassy, Dakar

A few minutes later, the Chef de Protocol invites us into his office. His phone rings. He’s talking about important things — like bed linen. Bashir, looking nervously at his watch, whispers “we have a meeting with the Minister of Sport in 10 minutes, 20 minutes across town”.
Bashir’s phone rings 3 times in the next 5 minutes, but not once does he answer it, respecting the Chef de Protocol who casuallly signs The Ball whilst continuing his phone call.

Suddenly, as he reads our letter of introduction, the Chef is all ears and frantically scribbling notes.
“So, you are meeting the President and the Prime Minister, the Mayor, the Governor?” The situation sinking in. “Moment. Moment please.”
He’s on the phone to the Ambassador, eyes shining now. She wants to see us right away.
“Sorry,” we say, “we must leave this minute. But we’ll gladly meet her tomorrow when we pick up the visas.”

Its all smiles as we exit, running out through the official front door.

After three hours sleep, we are woken by Bashir from DHL, enthusiasm bursting down the telephone line.

Bashir soon becomes our trusted confidante, helping The Ball in any way he can. A well-travelled Senegalese man, he studied in America but decided to return home after Senegal upset France in the 2002 World Cup opening game.
“I bought a ticket right after the game, and got my ass home. It was awesome.”

He realised that this country is where he wants to be based. It is his home. Since returning, he has travelled all over Africa. Now he’s very happy as sales manager at DHL in Dakar. A company, he says, that has human values that he believes in.

Service with a smile at DHL Dakar

The Ball meets the friendly staff at DHL Dakar

DHL will feature frequently in this story from now on as they are The Ball’s logistics partner in sub-Saharan Africa. They are organising most of our travel and many of the relationships with officialdom on our behalf. We are delighted to be working with them.

Arriving at about midnight, we are met by a lovely 20 degrees, a stream of people at the airport and relative chaos. Welcome to West Africa.

Phil and Richard meet at Dakar airport

Richard is there to meet us too, looking tanned and ready for action. Richard was instrumental in the development of The Ball. It was his suggestion that Phil and Christian meet him in Afghanistan in 2002 – and that they all travel to Korea & Japan from there – that led them to the idea of The Ball itself. He now lives in Dakar with his family, works in programme management for the Norwegian Refugee Council and is helping The Ball settle in to Senegal.

“Boys, I’ve got it under control,” he says.
And he most certainly has. We race off in the into the night. Straight to the hotel in Ngor which just happens to be right on the beach.

“Here is your kit boys.”
Cell phone: charged and full of credit. Guide book. Map. Starter cash. Hotel sorted.

Astounding. Thank you Richard. What more can we say?

I made it. I’m on the trip.

Phil and Andrew meet at Casablanca airport

I’m running on empty after three quarters of an hour of sleep due to mad final night-time preparations. But I’m absolutely on The Ball and so pleased to meet up with Andrew and be reunited in Casablanca. All preparations taken care of.

Medical kit: Sorted.
Endless electronics: taken care of.
Sad farewell: behind me.

Senegal here we come.

The one thing we’ve been craving for weeks now is clean clothes. Unfortunately, we have yet to stay in one place long enough to do anything about it and we’re beginning to worry that we’ll embarrass ourselves and The Ball.

Since leaving Erfurt, we’ve been staying only one night in most places. And it’s been raining almost continuously. Which is fine, unless it’s clean clothes that you need. No time to dry anything — and not much hope of doing so if the only option is to hang them on a line.

And then we arrive in Casablanca. Nicole and Lisa meet us at the football stadium — they have just come from a laundry, they say.
“A laundry? What, with a tumble-dryer?” we cry.
“Yes, with a tumble-drier…” they reply.
Oh. Joy. Unconfined.

The laundry’s name? Pressing Lavage. How apt.

As we’ve been travelling around Morocco, we’ve come across a few guys dressed like this and wondered what they do.

Can anyone enlighten us? We’d love to know.

We bumped into Nathaniel in Fez — an American nomad who renews his European visas by nipping over to Morocco every six months. Schengen doesn’t do him as many favours as it does us Europeans.

“I don’t like football. I don’t even watch it,” he told us. “But your project is not about football. It’s The Ball, but it’s more about travel and play.”

Moroccan men love to play, watch and talk about football. Walking through the massive, spectacular Medina in Fez on an evening of European football you will see a multitude of TVs playing football, hear the blur of football commentary, the chatter of men, young and old, drinking tea and smoking cigarettes and the smells of a myriad of exotic foods wafting into the air. But where are the women? Where are the girls?

Boys come up and want to kick The Ball or they want to have The Ball.
“Please sir, give me the ball.” Or they want to buy The Ball.
“How much for The Ball? I give you 25 Euros”
“It’s priceless, not for sale”, we reply. Strange to be offered money for The Ball. By this time, word has got around town that some crazy guys are in town with a ball. They don’t know that it is not just any ball and that this ball cannot be bought.

We’re dribbling The Ball through the medina, meeting people left, right and center, when two young girls come along and, in a flash, The Ball has been booted off down a side alley. We all race after it, laughing, giggling, but also slightly fearful of losing sight and control of The Ball.

We have an enormous responsibility. We must bring this one ball to the World Cup. And on time too.

In Fez we are constantly asked the same question. “Who has signed The Ball?”

“Julio Cesar”, Andrew says.
“Julio Cesar, from Inter Milan?”
“Yes, that’s right.” They know their football here. “Mbark Boussouffa,” he continues.
“What? Mbark Boussouffa? He’s Moroccan. He was player of the year in Belgium.”

We show the video clip of Mbark Boussouffa and The Ball at RSC Anderlecht. He’s a national hero in Morocco we’ve found out. The old football adage that a team is more than any individual player finds an exception with Mbark. When the Moroccan coach didn’t pick Boussouffa, he got fired.

One person in a group learns more about The Ball. He then tells the others in Moroccan.
“Can you please show my friend the Mbark video?”
“Of course.”

Moroccans are very proud of their football exports. They’ll happily tell you that every team in the French first division contains a Moroccan player and all top European leagues contain Moroccan stars.

Arriving in Fez… lost. Looking for the road to Azrou. Wrong turn here, wrong turn there.

Two young lads on a moped flagging us down.
“Follow us”, they said.
We did.

So here we are driving across town through Fez rush hour, in the dark, following two lads on the slowest moped in town. Thankfully slow, as it just happened to have no lights on. But they got us to our destination: –’s.

We were promptly invited into –’s parents house where Christian and Andrew kicked off into an argument, followed quickly with a hug to make-up.
“Sorry,” we apologised for our public scrap.
“No problem at all,” came the answer. We were assured that this was the way things happened here too.

In any case we got a real insight into Moroccan culture; fantastic mint tea, home-made dinner eaten with hands for cutlery. And after dinner, –’s father produced the quote of the night:
“The world is round. The Ball is round.”
Despite language problems we were able to make each other understood through the common language of football.

In case you’re wondering why there are no photos illustrating the story, it turns out that the Fez police take a very dim view of Moroccans associating with visitors. We were told that locals have to register their friendships with the police so as not to be mistaken for unofficial tour guides. Which means we have to protect the anonymity of the people in this story. So, instead, here’s a picture of a camel which we dedicate to all bureaucracy when it fails to distinguish between the sensible and the ridiculous: