The Chappas from Central
Maputo to Estadio Machava takes half an hour and costs the same as a
loaf of bread. There were no barricades in Maputo on Sunday. All roads
led to the Futebol.
It was difficult to detect the unease
of recent days as expectant supporters cracked open bottles of
"Doshem'', ripped into tetra pak cartons of cheap red wine and exchanged
predictions. This was not a day for the usual colonial replica shirt.
No Benfica. No Porto. No Sporting. You had to be wearing the Mambas
red, and you especially meant business if your scarf or shirt was
wrapped around your head.
My mini bus was bursting as it
passed the monumental Mac Mahon brewery, home of the 2M, the "Doshem".
City blocks gave way to cabbage fields. Palm trees waved in the
distance. It could have been a scene from "The Thin Red Line" were it
not for the sight of four floodlight pylons. We were now immersed in
a red sea of supporters, not even Moses could part, but the Chappas
found a way.
What was it the man said, "Porque Goshem de
futebol". He forgot to add they also like their chicken. The barnyard
creature was being crucified overroaring charcoal fires in fields all
around the stadium. Coolers crammed with cervejas provided perfect pre
match company. The women of Mozambique certainly understood the
business of football.
No far flung cordons or corporate
hospitality tents. Police cadets made sure no missiles or AK47s were
taken inside the stadium. It was organic and organized.
The
crowd were calibrated for celebration, but after the initial exchanges
it was also clear they possessed a collective connoisseurship of the
game. Yes, they loved magic football, and there were great roars for
every twist and turn, flick and trick, but more interestingly, the
"ohhs'' and "ahhs" were in time with the ebb and flow of the game. There
were no flashing of cameras or waving at the cameras. The crowd was
actually watching the match! This was not your Barclays Premier League
or FIFA World Cup were real fans are marginalized or increasingly used
as props. The stadium was full with supporters, not corporate
sponsors or day trippers.
Mambas supporters had their own
props. A wiry character with a cigarette in one hand and a dried, very
dead Mamba in the other, waltzed around the stadium. Occasionally he
placed the cigarette in the eye socket of the snake and lifted it high
to encourage the team. The dead reptile would have been turned into a
ten thousand dollar handbag in another country, but not here in
Mozambique.
A military brass band blew out a few tunes.
Some cadets sang like Welsh miners. Nearby, a few dozen Libyan fanatics
waved green flags. It was almost half time. They knew the game plan.
Libya had come the for the classic away draw.
Halftime was
more memorable as the ball-girls took it upon themselves to have a kick
around. A girl in blue shorts was chipping shots in the top corner for
fun. I have been to pitches up and down this country. Mozambique women
can play! The toilets were not classic 'Art Deco' as you find in much
in Maputo, but functional for half time relief.
Would the
Mambas make a substitution? The crowd wanted one. Mozambique turned in
a flat first half performance, and though defensively inclined, it was
Libya who created the best chance of the half. Kampango, Mozambique's
''Flying Warthog", earning his keep, despite much mocking from the
crowd.
Was it a bird? Was it a plane? Or was it a lumpy
Mambas supporter in his kit limbering up as close to the pitch as the
police would allow? He had holes in his socks, but no hole in his
heart, and was going through all the proper substitute stretches
androutines. His sidekick waved a flag like a proper linesman to
attract the attention of the ref.
The second half saw some
minor commotion in the stands. A supporter was forced flatto the
concrete. His offence was not clear, perhaps he was caught trying a
cheeky transition from the cheap seats. A section of crowd took great
umbrage to this and the officer sensing he was outnumbered straightened
up his collar. The lad was now being dragged up the steps for a early
bath. Section12 began agitating again. And then in a moment of pure
common sense (possibly with the recent riots fresh in the mind) the
officer found the offender a new vantage point and issued a stern verbal
warning.
The Libyan No. 23 was not so lucky. At about
the same time he was getting a yellow card for time wasting. Another
offender was Mbinho, Mambas' No. 9. His crimewas a pair of shocking
pink boots. He could not score in the Beira Moulin Rouge.
A
bearded, pregnant, transvestite in a yellow leotard and wearing a Diego
Lugano style, blond wig appeared in injury time to rally the crowd.
Domingues went wide.Domingues went inside. But wherever the Mambas No. 7
went he had two Libyan bodyguards.When the final whistle blew the
Libyans collapsed in exhaustion, all praises were issued, and auspicious
celebrations began.
This would be the last time the
Mambas would play at Estadio Machava. An impressivenew Chinese built
national stadium will be ready on the other side of town for the next
home fixture.
I watched the final hour of daylight
disappear from a busy intersection as buses and coachesdeparted for
various districts of Maputo and to the provinces. The Xai Xai
charabangwas packed beyond Guinness Book proportions. Meantime, hard
core supporters were engaged in some stout exercises of their own,
consuming Pretas in the friendly ale shacks dotted all along the side of
the road.
I could not squeeze in a Chappas for love, nor
money. I even tried to hitch a ride with Libyan team bus, but it wasn't
going my way. The Libyans had their digital devices rolling inJapanese
tourist mode. There was no police escort or if there was it was stuck
behind half a dozen Chappas. A Toyota pick up truck loaded with about
50 Mambas supporters snaked alongside the Libyans. All sorts of funny,
gruesome gesticulations were made. I thinkthe idea was to send the
Libyans back to Tripoli as eunuchs. It was classic gest, and theLibyan
players were clearly enjoying the banter.
I finally dived
headfirst into a Chappas and made back it to town for some prawnsand a
nice ice cold Preta at Milanos, the Lebanese spot with the cheapest
pizza in town. I was nursing my night with a Johnny Walker Black when
four Mambas materialized with their FINE lady friends. Soon enough a
bucket of the finest champagne arrived at their table. Ferroviaros'
Jeremias "Jerry" Sitoe was wearing his bright yellow official away from
the 2010 CAN in Angola. He was No. 23, in case you needed any
reminding. Edson Sitoe or "Mexer" of Sporting Olhanese was rocking his
red NY Yankees cap. He had business and was in and out. The brother was
cool and collected. The type who didn't need to prepare to pass his
'Blood' initiation in East New York. Costa do Sol's Josemar Machiasse
was representing and I think it was Carlos "Carlitos" Chimimole of
current Mocambola league leaders, the most merciful of Maputo clubs,
Liga Muculmana de Maputo, who rounded up the posse. I choose not to
interview the players. They were off duty. They were relaxed. They
were quiet and enjoying some decompression time. And they were just
sipping. But YO...C'MON NOW...Save the champagne for when you have
issued a serious beat down. Maybe they didn't check Facebook for
updates on how to act out on the street.
Rumours persists
through the now usual sources of SMS and Facebook for more Manifesticoes
or riots in Maputo. The rumours proved largely unfounded during the
weekend. The tension seems to have eased, though Tuesday is a national
holiday commemorating the Lusaka Accords. Who knows what today will
bring. It is cool and cloudy and the Chappas are moving, so trouble is
unlikely, but one never knows what time "they" may schedule a Kick Off.
Last
night a post mortem took place on TV M, Mozambique state television.
Four football commentators and the host were gathered to grill, Mambas
head coach, Dutchman, Mart Moolj. I have seen Moolj give press
conferences. He speaks some pigeon Portuguese, but here he fielded
questions in English. Two of the correspondents spoke English, the
other two had their questions translated by the host. It was
ridiculous. Moolj was slippery, and Sven like. One can only wonder
what gets lost in translation during training. Why so many African
nations persist with dour, defensively minded, grey haired European
characters to run their national teams is a continental disgrace.
Maybe
the Mozambique Football Federation should set up their own Facebook
page to hear from supporters. I would join that Facebook Group. I
would set up a page promoting the firing of that Dutch fella and replace
him Maria Taju, the Mozambique woman's football coach. I would also
draft in that girl in the blue shorts to help Mbinho with his shooting.
