The Ball 2010

As a German resident, I needed to apply for my Nigerian visa in Berlin. In Germany in January, I didn’t have enough time and was subsequently informed that there was no way I’d get a visa anywhere en route as Nigerian visas are only issued in your country of residency. It looked very much like I wasn’t going to be able to get into Nigeria.

The Nigerian embassy in Ouagadougou

The way the trip has turned out, I will be solely responsible for carrying The Ball from Ivory Coast to Cameroon, including Nigeria. What happens if I can’t get a visa? Would I be stuck in Benin? Would The Ball have to go on without me​? Most likely The Ball would not vist Nigeria. That would be a real pity as SO Nigeria have been planning events for The Ball in and around Lagos.

From a personal point of view, I’ve been very worried about the political situation in Nigeria where there have been kidnappings of foreigners, killings across different ethic groups and where the general situation appears to be dangerous and deteriorating. I’ve been starting to think that it might not be a bad thing if I don’t get my Nigerian visa.

Special Olympics Nigeria are on the case, however: Folashade Bolumole, SO Nigeria Director, has been in touch with the Nigerian goverment in the capital Abuja. Special Olympics have taken control of the situation, and as we arrive in Burkina Faso there is news — The Nigerian Embassy in Ouagadougou wants me to come by for an interview.

I turn up there with a representatives from the Burkina Faso Ministry of Sport and DHL and a letter of support from SO Nigeria. The Nigerian embassy staff are very keen to accommodate us and, to my surprise and delight, the visa will be ready within an hour.

The Ball gets its Nigerian visa

I have a question about the political situation in Nigeria. “Is it too dangerous to travel there?” I ask. “The trouble is just in one region. That is the Niger Delta. The rest of the country is safe. Nigeria is a wonderful country. You’ll have a great time in Lagos,” comes the reply.

Staff at the Nigerian embassy with The Ball

In my mind, I start reflecting on perceptions of Africa… we who live outside Africa hear so much about the problems of the continent. We sit in our living rooms and see pictures on the TV of war, famine, disease, ethnic cleansing and we hear about corruption and mismanagement. Yes, of course, some of these things are happening and are only too real — but the Africa I am getting to know is vastly different.

We are constantly meeting friendly people with smiles on their faces and a generosity that often goes beyond their means. A lot of these people may not have the level of material wealth that so many people in Europe have, but, to my eyes, they are often much happier. What is it that we have lost but that they have not?

Suddenly, I’m excited to be heading to Nigeria: With the positive energy of The Ball at my feet and the support of partners on the ground the prospect of Lagos’ chaos is enticing. Let The Ball roll.

Mac drops us at the bus station and our names are the first on the list for the bush taxi to Bandiagara. Bush taxis and buses in Mali don’t have a set time schedule. They leave when they are full and full in Mali has a very different meaning than we might be used to. Full in Mali means packed like a tin of sardines.

We prepare ourselves for a long wait. It’s 8:45am and the sun is already getting hot. Phil takes advantage of some free time in the shade of the bus shelter to finish off securing The Ball’s net on to Andrew’s backpack.

Phil fixes a net for The Ball to Andrew’s backpack

Back in 2002, Christian and Phil carried The Ball in this net to the World Cup in Korea & Japan. It helps to keep The Ball safe and reduces the stress of those “Where is The Ball?” moments that happen nearly every day. Those moments of panic can be done without.

Two hours later and the minibus is full with 16 people, including three children, and we are ready to cram ourselves in. Our gear is strapped on the roof.

The bags on the bus go on the roof

Our fellow passengers

We take it upon ourselves to tell our fellow passengers about The Ball and one of them is so taken by it that he decides he must kiss it.

The Ball gets a big old kiss

We arrive in Bandiagara and head to Hotel la Falaise to meet Mousa, our guide for the Dogon Country, and plan our solitary night in the region with him. Mousa is born and bred Dogon, and he suggests we spend our night in his village, Teli.

We are dropped off at our accommodation, Mac’s Refuge on the outskirts of Sévaré. It’s been quite a day thus far. Djenné had been all we hoped it would be and more. We’d even found transport and had fun travelling with 11 people and loads of luggage in a 1980s Peugeot station wagon. We have made new friends and they are happy to drop us off: door to door service!

The entrance to Mac’s Refuge in Sévaré

Another bonus: we are sleeping outside under the stars on the roof tonight, with only a mosquito net separating us from the bright stars and the huge, clear African sky. Mac’s Refuge is not just any place. This little oasis in the blazing Malian bush is serving authentic Indian curry for dinner with ice cream for dessert. And tomorrow morning, pancakes with maple syrup, real muesli and home-made yogurt are on the menu. What a treat. And, Mac’s has wi-fi too. Here we are out in the middle of nowhere with all of the luxuries of home. Yes, we’re really roughing it out here in the Malian wilderness.

Mac, the founder of Mac’s Refuge

Mac is both an American and a Malian. Born to American missionary parents in Sanga, Mali in 1941, Mac spent his first 14 years growing up in Mali’s beautiful and famous Dogon region. After going back to the US for high school and university, Mac returned to Mali and has been here ever since. He’s a fascinating character and has a wealth of local knowledge, speaking two local languages like a native — well, in fact, he is a native. If you are vsiting the Dogon Country, we highly recommend that you stop off at Mac’s Refuge, tap into his local knowledge and enjoy the cuisine. But don’t be late to the dinner table, dinner is served at 7 o’clock if you are there or not. Don’t keep Mac waiting!

Mini-bus out of Djenné. This one was too full for The Ball.

We waited a few hours for the next one out of town. Our luxury liner was an eighties-style station wagon crammed with 11 people inside, including Phil in between the middle row and the front row, and one person with loads of bags and a motorbike wrapped in foam on the roof.

Phil has been referring to Mali as the hottest place on earth since he saw it on a French weather channel a few days ago. And Kayes (pronounced “Kai”) is one of the hottest places in Mali, five degrees warmer than the capital Bamako, where it has been well over 40 degrees recently. “Out of the frying pan and into the fire,” we agree.

So now we’re on our way to Kayes in an old Spanish bus. The driver slept up on the roof under the stars last night. But now a mountain of bags, car tyres, boxes full of products, even a few chinese mopeds are somehow loaded up there. Inside is crammed full of people and their belongings. All interior lights are broken, the AC doesn’t work and the windows are just about falling out of their frames. The front windscreen doesn’t exactly inspire confidence.

Safety first — the view from the driver’s perspective

Appropriately, a sign says: “Leave it how you’d like to find it.”

We are the last on the bus and are ushered to the last two remaining free places on the back seat. We squeeze in and are soon underway. The prospect of a 12 hour journey in this heat in this overcrowded, overheated bus isn’t exactly making us smile and it doesn’t take us long to realise that the engine is directly under our seats. Lovely. The excruciating heat is soon being amplified. Eggs (both proverbial and real) would fry quite easily under our feet.

Andrew feeling unwell on the bus

To make matters worse, Andrew is feeling decidedly unwell. He’s had a nasty cough since his time in the extreme dampness that was Morocco and is hoping to see a doctor in Kayes to help him get rid of the infection. Travel, we agree, amplifies both the highs and the lows, in equal measure.

Was it this football-like hairdo that Andrew was so impressed by…

…that he inspired him to go and get himself braided?

Two weeks ago, I was interviewed by the BBC World Service as our European tour was coming to an end. Christian and I were in Malaga. The interview took place at Phil and Alice’s, surrounded wet laundry in their computer room. It was a cold rainy day in Malaga.

In Auckland, New Zealand, it was a warm, end-of-summer morning. My dad, big Jimmy from Glasgow, was lying in bed, headset on listening to the BBC World Service, drifting in and out of sleep following the live roundup of football action from across the UK. It’s been the same procedure for him for as long as anyone can remember. But that morning at 4am, there I am on the radio talking in his ear and Jimmy, with no forewarning of my appearance, was suddenly awake.

A week earlier in Dakar, I couldn’t help but think of him as we sat in Mbacke’s flat in central Dakar. We were sitting with the family in a circle in the living room, eating from a communal plate containing a fantastic traditional meal of Senegalese rice and fish, when suddenly there was a cry of “goal” from the commentators on the TV. I excused myself, jumped to my feet and raced into the TV room. Rangers had scored in the 93rd minute at Ibrox. 1-0 against Celtic. I raised my fists and cheered and thought of my dad, at home in Auckland, who was certainly watching the game as happy as Rab C Nesbitt at Italia ’90.

Back in Bamako, the phone rings — it’s Matt Davies calling from the BBC. I’m slightly nervous at the thought of millions of people listening to our live conversation. But this time, I know my dad will be listening live in New Zealand.

We have been in the DHL office all afternoon copying footage onto hard drives, writing for the blog, taking pictures with the DHL staff and The Ball. Our time in Senegal is coming to an end: an overnight DHL cargo flight awaits us. We are properly hungry by now so Bashir has a idea. “We have time to visit my mother, boys. She wants to meet The Ball. Then we are having some traditional Senegalese food for dinner. Rice and fish.” Okay, that sounds like a plan.

With Bashir and his mother in their lovely home.

The flight is scheduled to leave just after 10pm. Bashir reassures us. “We have time. We don’t have to be there until 10pm at the very latest.” Great, we have time to eat. Or do we? There has been a power cut at Bashir’s; we find his house is candle-lit. All very romantic. The good news is that the food is prepared.

Just then, Bashir’s phone rings. It is Basile at the airport. “Where the hell are you?” he screams down the phone. Oh dear, there’s been some miscommunication — it turns out we had to be at the airport 20 minutes earlier. We might even miss the flight. No time for food now. As soon as we can, we head for the DHL depot at the airport. Frantic faces greet us.

Basile and Andrew… Basile looking very anxious.

We are escorted through the airport by Basile. “DHL (pronounced Day Hasch El in French) cargo flight,” says Basile as we jump the immigration queue. He repeats this as we go to the front of the security check-in line. In five minutes we have cleared security and customs and are on the tarmac. Basile has one more trick up his sleeves. He waves down a large airport shuttle bus, commandeers it and once more tells the driver “DHL cargo flight.”

By now it is a quarter past ten and we are plane-side.

We reach the plane and Phil takes The Ball and chips it Remi Gaillard-style first time on board and celebrates first by wheeling away, then coming over to celebrate with me. We celebrate not just the goal, but the fact that, thanks to Bashir and Basile, we’ve made the flight on time. We will be leaving for Mali today.

Phil celebrates his goal — and catching the plane

Time for take-off, up and away to Nouakchott, the capital of Mauritania with Phil in the jump seat and Andrew back cargo-side in one of two other seats, sitting next to a distinctly non-talkative US government official. Our 15 minutes in Mauritania allow The Ball to be kicked on the tarmac and a single solitary Mauritanian signs The Ball.

The only person to sign The Ball in Mauritania

Back on board and off to Mali, this time Andrew taking his turn in the jump seat. His first thought — to give The Ball to one of the pilots for an onboard portrait photo.

One of the pilots with The Ball

We arrive at 4am in Bamako and a friendly DHL employee is the first to head and sign The Ball in Mali. It is dry and it hasn’t rained here for months. It’s a reasonable 25 degrees right now, but the expected high later in the day is 45 degrees. We’re a little bit daunted by that figure. But there’s no time to dwell on weather reports as it’s off to our hotel where a surprise awaits us. More than 10 Special Olympics Mali administrators and athletes are there to greet us.

Special Olympics greet The Ball in Mali

Fantastic! What a welcome. We’re overwhelmed by the reception. But for us it is time to get our heads down and sleep — at least for a few hours please?

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.

A laundry in Casablanca

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.

Our first internet café on the African continent turned out to be one of the most beautiful cafés we could hope to have spent time in: the remarkable Café Clock in the medina in Fez.

A view through a door at Café Clock

Walk a short way from the medina’s Bab Boujloud — the “Blue Gate” — through the aptly named “butchers’ guzzar” presided over by the “camel” shown in a previous post, turn left into the narrowest of alleyways, then left again into a small doorway… and emerge into what seems to be a palace.

A view down on our office at Café Clock

Founded three years ago by Mike, an Englishman fed up with the drudgery of daily life in London, Café Clock now seems to be an essential stop for travellers in Fez. Mike has a keen nose for the best of Moroccan cooking and a finely tuned ear for the tales of those who pass through his establishment.

Café Clock’s owner Mike listens to The Ball

Thanks for your hospitality, your fantastic breakfast and your broadband. We’d have been struggling to keep up without all three. Café Clock has certainly left its mark on The Ball…

Café Clock stamp The Ball