Hangover in Angola

January 2010 – Hangover in Angola

I open my eyes, forgetful for a minute of where I was. For that split second, I could have been back in New York after a heavy night on the booze, back in Blighty on a rare mission in the homeland, scraping up the remnants of last night’s Mutton madras, but no, my skull aches as though it has been mothballed by a heroin addict, a gentle numbing pain, secreting occasional sharp twinges every so often. I’m in Angola – Fuck, what am I doing here? The penny had dropped, all along this assignment seemed to good to be true, like it would never happen, yet here it is, although Ang fucking gola to start, the country wasn’t even on my global radar some weeks back.
The news from back home is that most Premier League matches are postponed due to snow. No fucking chance of that here. The only postponement would be due to some dark voodoo magic, conjured up by a local witch doctor. Not too misguided from the truth either, according to Four Four Two football magazine. I read their preview of the African Nations Cup with giddiness and dread. The average African football fan – in fact there is no average, each one is bonkers.
The phone goes...its Corey. ‘You heard the news? The Togo team bus was shot at man...one dead, loads of injured. Thank Christ Togo aren’t in the World Cup!’
‘Why’s that?’ I ask.
‘Cos we would have been there covering the story, dodging bullets too!’ came the reply.
Bollocks. The shite whiskey from last night drained from my head in an instant, as this sobering thought entered the fray. I sat with my head in my hands, eyes closed, mulling over the tight predicament we found ourselves in. I switch on the portable TV to see what all the fuss is about and there it is plastered all over the news in the native tongue, yet I recognize Emmanuel Adebayor, used to playing in Manchester in some distress, being comforted by other players and passers by – Jesus!
There was several quarts of Whiskey left in the bottle and even though I was ball bagged beyond belief, I necked the whole lot, trying in vain to allude to some kind of plan b, in which we could meet some fans bound for the World Cup and bugger off on the first flight out of here.
Our Angolan guide and ‘fixer’ – Tarzan was loitering in the lobby, I knew it was him, even though I’d never met the bloke before. I guess it was the fact he had our names plastered all over a scruffy piece of cardboard that gave the game away.
‘You must be Tarzan I take it?’ I ask, offering my hand in a welcoming gesture.
‘Mr Rosenthal, Sir at your service’ this man beast answered. 6ft 7, the width of the Thames and built like a brick shithouse, or I guess round here a brick mud hut, to say I was more than happy to see this giant would be a grave understatement.
‘What’s the crack with this ambush carry on?’
‘It’s the fuckin F.L.E.C. boss, tryin to fuck us over. Is bad news...very bad news, we must keep a low profile for now, play it safe’ Tarzan advised us, his hands still clutching the big fuck off sign as he spoke, totally contradicting his last comment.
‘The F.L.E.C. are?’
‘The Liberation of Enclave of Cabinda – a small terrorist group, trying to start off the civil war. Don’t worry boss, stick wit me and will be ok’, Tarzan now patting my back with his huge palms – an instrument I wouldn’t like to get in the way of.
Without my list of ‘Pharmacy’ drugs to keep me sane and protect me in the form of numbing everyday life, free from mental pain, more Wild Turkey is to be acquired and issued asap, in order to enable me to digest street life outside the comfort zone of the hotel and that was the only comfort on these premises, let me tell you...the zonal benefits, barricading us from depths of outside life on the street.
Meanwhile back at the Angolan bat cave, Tarzan is riding the train of thought that he is to take us to the main press conference for the day, focusing on tomorrow’s inaugural game of this ill advised tournament. I quickly inform him that we are here merely to meet and greet the five African nations that are involved in the forthcoming World Cup. My words fall on deaf ears, as Tarzan ploughs through a side street market, crammed with fruit stalls, a flash dance of colours jump out at me dazzling my intoxicated brain, causing my eyes to bulge, crammed with trying to process too much visual information for this time of morning.
Now this is a real market, none of those mundane market town affairs back in the UK, or regional cook off cum Billy boy drag races in the States. Smells orientate their way to a hot chilli fragrance, wafting from a street vendor, and sizzling Chicken kebabs in a way the Portuguese settlers here would have been proud of. My nostril hairs are stood to attention, saluting this aroma in all its awe. For a moment I forget where I am, forget I’m on my way to a meeting of hacks I do not need to be at, forget that three or four people lie dead after a machine gun attack down the road, forget about the tense atmosphere here today and that the tension is only about to increase at this bloody conference, forget that the whole tournament could be off, forget that this could have a bearing on the world cup, forget that I could be next in line for a firefight.
In their unorganised wisdom, GFOM missed the deadline for official press applications and therefore we find ourselves camped away from the remainder of the world’s media, currently enjoying themselves in a special venue, reserved for their use. More to the point, a secure compound for journalists to go about their everyday business, sound in the knowledge that they have safety in numbers. They are the Antelopes crossing the river in numbers, avoiding the lying wait of the Crocodile ambush. We are the stray wandering Buffalo, ready to be picked out at will, as we stroll through the bush unaware of any danger lurking around the corner. I shall be having words with the Sheikh later about the option of danger money for this trip.
The GFOM outcasts are lodged at the Le Presidente, in downtown Luanda, a single high rise block, daubed in depressing battleship Grey, formerly a Le Merdien chain of hotels in the 1970’s and unchanged since, still charging top dollar, reminiscing about its halcyon days, I’m sure. Perhaps the thinking behind that is, if they charge the high end rates, then this will kid the guests into thinking they have the facilities to match. At $295 a night, I would at least expect a Jacuzzi and Wi-Fi. The hotel’s saving grace is the rather pleasant bar, which I have yet to frequent.
We finally arrive at the media circus, with carnage already taking place. African press wetting their pants, arguing with each other about the current status of the Togolese squad, arguing about the rights and wrongs of travelling in this country. Foreign journalists taking a back seat to it all, adding their words of wisdom at ad hoc intervals, Reuters and the associated press spokespeople denying the Togo keeper has died of his wounds, local football officials trying to calm the atmosphere, stating that everything is in order and that the tournament will go ahead as scheduled.
I’ve seen nothing like it in my writing days; it certainly beats pre meditated run of the mill US military public speaking, in which the war on terror is always reaching its targets, no matter how many body bags return from the badlands of Iraq and Afghanistan. I love it, organised chaos and nowhere better to see it firsthand than the world’s representatives at organised chaos – Africa.
I collar a journo not involved with this mass verbal brawl, a chubby faced chap, adorned with a sleazy pimp moustache, a cigarillo perched on his lower lip, rounded glasses, pinstripe shirt complete with ghoulish braces, holding up a pair of beige nylon trousers, separating his strides from his well worn creased slip ons. This guy was a morph of Don King and Mike Bassett and his crack didn’t disappoint.
‘Look at these imbeciles’ he points towards the bustling crowd ‘they give these parts a bad name, I tell you’ in strong Afrikaan dialect.
His name is Ernie, from Cameroon –result! I can progress with my probing about South Africa in the summer from his point of view, or so I thought.
‘How will this affect the World Cup?’
‘I tell you now my friend this is totally different, a different kettle of fish, its bout time Africa got some appreciation off FIFA, who knows we may even have a African winner too’, offered our optimistic friend. One could mistake this for arrogance; however it is only the way of these people. A proud people.
Ernie goes on to invite me over to Cameroon to ‘join our party’ – now I’m all ears, whether or not I can fit his party into my schedule we’ll have to see and so I take his business card for now and promise to make contact at a later stage...he may well yet come in handy for the remainder of this tournament, should it go ahead.
The remnants of my Yellow Fever inoculation are back with a vengeance, with the shakes taking over my hands. A stiff drink and sharp exit are required, besides I can make no sense of the squabble playing itself out in front of me. We’ve only been here half an hour or so, but I want to escape this scene. I grab a few press releases on our way out – all focusing on the Togo shooting incident.
I fear that a case of pigeon English has entered the fray; either that or a bigger news story is developing, for the CAF press release reads... ‘Paulo Kassoma tranquilized the President of the CAF, informing the government is providing total support and sympathy to the Togolese delegation’.
Fuck me, the football president in these parts has been put under sedation, I’ll have some of what he’s had to get me through these worrying times. I instruct Tarzan to take me back to the hotel via an off licence – or the local equivalent, whilst I gather my thoughts on our situation – the future of this tournament seeing as Togo are threatening to go home, how this affects the summer’s main event over yonder in South Africa and how we are going to capture the African contingent’s preparation, trying to travel around Angola safely, but at the same time keeping the Sheikh back in the states happy –he is after all funding our expedition. The last thing I need is to blow this huge payday in terms of travel and experience...not just yet anyway.
Corey and I mull things over in the hotel bar. It isn’t officially open, but then nothing is official over here. Tarzan has provided his contact numbers should we need him anymore today. I can only call from the hotel as my mobile signal doesn’t stretch as far as Angola. It has been pointed out that in fact two sim cards are required over here, as two networks cover various regions of the country. If my plan comes to fruition, the less travel in Angola the better, especially after the machine gun incident.
Apparently, the local authorities have warned everyone involved (including teams) in the tournament to travel from city to city, ground to ground, by air and in no circumstances is anyone to travel by road. It’s a bit late for that, as rumours are rife circulating on the fate of the Togo team, the conditions of the injured and in particular that of the goalkeeper shot by the militia. Some of his team mates have announced his passing away, whilst the football federations involved heavily deny this. It appears that the organised chaos witnessed at the press conference earlier, has seeped into the communication system, baffling the world’s media once more.
I have arrived not by choice in Angola to cover the entire African ensemble of teams, who are representing the region in the World Cup, yet I have spent more time discussing my own safety and the ambush on the Togo team – a side not in attendance come the summer. Hell that is the nature of the beast following football. That is definitely the nature of the beast following football in this climate...completely insane and there are elements in this concoction which are right up my street.
Corey turns out not to be the gimp I anticipated. True he has classic Americanisms in him that need to be ironed out, but come the end of this rollercoaster ride, I fully expect him to be a shell of the man that sits before me. I fear that I will have failed him the full blown on experience of hedonism, if the outcome turns out any other way. We share a bottle of potent local brew – a mixture Tarzan did explain to me, however I was concentrating on any suspicious activity heading anywhere near our mini bus, the slow seeds of paranoia firmly planted, the first shoots of which were displaying signs of blossoming into full blown panic attacks. Just where is my combination of pharmacy drugs when I need them? I fear I may require Tarzan to pick up some local ‘produce’ later in the day to quell this anxious spell, waiting on the horizon of my brain.
After four rounds of playing Shithead and bomb bursting my way through three packets of Lucky Strikes, dousing my flames of anxiety with shots of local shit and bottles of Carlsberg Export, I get round to making a plan. Whether it was the best one or not and whether it was the best frame of mind to make it in remains to be seen, but here fucking goes. We both agree that a visit Cabinda is out of the question. Neither of us plans on getting shot, for the sake of a dodgy football tournament, maybe for the European Championships or the World Cup, even the FA Cup, but not for this ramshackle get together. Sods law decrees that two teams we are here to cover – Ivory Coast and Ghana are based in the group centred around Cabinda – scene of the Togo shootings. We’ll have to take a chance on the pair of them getting through to the next round and we’ll take it from there. Either that or someone gets us a few shooters to take up there to even things up a little. Besides, we’ve still no transport (equating to no flights as no other form of travelling is advised in these surroundings) and at the moment look like we’re going nowhere. How does that sound for a plan? Well shit I know, but with these limited resources and the state of mind I’m in it’s the best I can do.
C’mon man, pull yourself together! You’re here to do a job in the middle of an assignment of a lifetime, get some bollocks and pull it out of the bag.
‘Get me fucking Tarzan on the blower!’ I yell across the bar, pointing to his number on a business card.
Half an hour later, our Angolan guide pitches up, firmly sticking to the instructions I supplied over the phone. The man mountain produces more booze, a map of the country and some local delicacies – to which I told him to use his imagination. The local delicacies are taken out of a plastic shopping bag, to reveal themselves as a bunch of leaves. I refrain from taking the piss, confident that this wise local can produce the goods and so I keep my mouth shut, even though it pains me to keep quiet.
‘And what do we have here my good friend?’ I ask, now fully on the way to intoxication.
‘Khat leaves boss, chew and swallow the juice...very nice indeed’ answered our new found connoisseur.
Fuck it, I take the advice, grab a bunch and chew away.