For most of the world, football is what Americans call soccer. I have no idea why we use a different word for the same sport. It seems to me that American football was invented after soccer, but I could be wrong on that. Anyway, today I share my experience of a soccer game in a local village. A big part of the experience was the kids (abana is the word for kids in Kinyarwandan).
There are a million interesting (to me!) details about me even getting to today’s game that I am inclined to share, but I am afraid I will start to give license to my inner Larry Korta who not only loved to give every last detail in a story, but would interrupt himself and argue (with himself!) about the accuracy of a fact. It went something like this: “On Thursday I had this delicious salmon…no, wait, it was Friday. No, that can’t be, because I had steak on Friday, maybe it was Wednesday…” At this point in my dad’s story, I didn’t even really care that he had salmon, let alone what day he ate it.
Here’s what you need to know: I was told that there was a game down the hill from where I am staying that was set to begin at 3. I arrived with two people I know from the Children’s Academy a little before 3. The other team had not yet arrived. The game didn’t start until 4:15. It was scheduled for 3, it just didn’t start until 4:15.
Sunday afternoon football in Kibeho seems to be more of a community festival than a legitimate sporting event. People started gathering at the “pitch” (that’s a soccer field, you Americans) expecting, like me, a 3 pm game. There were grown-ups gathered together, there were kids running and kicking soccer balls, kids rolling old bicycle tires with a stick (big thing down here), and people generally hanging out.
I went to sit in the shade, and was pretty quickly surrounded by abana (hence the above picture). I love the children here. It is always striking to me how universal silliness is (mine and theirs) and how much can be communicated with funny faces, goofy smiles, and some good old fashioned slapstick humor. My “stupid uninformed face” (the name my wife Jill gave to a look I like to make when I pretend to be really confused) absolutely kills over here. I try saying some Kinyrwandan words and they laugh at my mispronunciation and try to correct me, and back and forth. Handshakes, fist bumps, a poke in a little kid’s belly…these communicate the same in Kibeho that they do in America.
Finally, they love pictures. It has changed a bit since I first came here in 2010, but your typical child in Kibeho doesn’t see too many pictures of himself or herself. Quite unlike my new grandchild, Louie, who will only have a few minutes of his life that AREN’T documented on some phone. So when I bust out my smartphone here and start taking pictures of them and us, well, you get results like the one above. Unfortunately there is one kid in particular who knows what the middle finger is and really wanted to show off his knowledge. He ruined quite a few pictures!
There are experiences I want to share that frustrate me because it is impossible to adequately describe. This is one of them. The totality of what was going on this afternoon is just incredible to me. I kept thinking about soccer in America versus what I saw today and could only shake my head. These are some of my favorite moments.
The picture above gives some sense already of how different soccer is in Kibeho. The yellow team is from the district of Mata. Notice they all match. The ragtag group shaking hands with them before the game is the home team–Kibeho district. Yes, they are fully in uniform, or at least as fully in uniform as they would get. There are three players for Kibeho that match in the picture above…I think there might have been a fourth not in the picture who matched the other three, The guy at far right in the ballcap and khakis is the ref.
I watched the game from the near sideline. You can barely see the sideline, but those two kids on the ground are on the field. Yes, the game is in progress. Also, there is a dirt road that runs from goal line to goal line that is about two-thirds of the way from the far sideline. The players simply paused to let this car go through to wherever he or she was headed.
If the cars (and motos) driving through the field during the game isn’t crazy enough, here is a guy walking across the field with his five goats and a sack of what is probably rice on his head. You can see that the game is still going on in the background (a member of each team is on the far side of the road, but still on the field). The kids in the foreground are playing their own 5v1 game on the sideline, not caring that their game spilled onto the pitch quite often.
I saved the best for last. If I was forced to choose only one picture to tell the story of my experience, it would be this one. The main character in this picture is the line judge. To you and me that might look like a branch he is holding, but actually it is his flag. If you don’t know much about soccer, you won’t appreciate this, but he is responsible for calling offsides. You can tell by the way he’s looking that he is clearly well behind the play (he was pretty much the entire match) and I am quite sure he NEVER called offsides.
In the distant background, you can see a moto coming down the hill as well as a bicyclist. Both will go through the center of the game while the game is in progress. Vehicles have the right of way.
Still in the background but a little closer, you see a guy in orange (the Mata District’s goalkeeper) in front of the goal. Two people are standing not too far behind him. There is no net. Also, you cannot see the other goal, but the two goals are not the same size. The one in the picture is wider.
Finally, you can get a sense of what shape the field is in. There is grass to be sure, but it is long and clumpy. Right behind the linesman is a sort of trench that runs through a part of the field. You can get some sense of how the field slopes up to the road (which is still in play). This is the home field for Kibeho’s district soccer team (young men in their 20’s). I would venture that at least in Nebraska, there is no team at any level that would play a game in circumstances even close to this.
And yet…it was pretty dang good soccer. There weren’t a lot of fouls, the skill level of the two teams was quite good, and despite the rough field conditions, they moved the ball very well. No one–no player, no coach (well, not sure there was a coach), no fan–ever complained about a call. It felt to me like sport the way it was meant to be–guys out competing and having fun while the town gathers around and enjoys a Sunday afternoon together.
One of my companions who speaks decent English left with me a little before the end of the game. As I walked up the dirt road through the village, there were the normal surprised looks, both at the presence of a white person and then when I would greet them in Kinyarwandan. The cutest was a little girl who stood up on a hillside. As I walked by, she started yelling something in Kinyarwandan that ended with “mzungu.” My companion laughed and told me she was calling to another friend, “Come quick and look at the mzungu.” He explained that not too many white people pass through their town.
A good day in Kibeho today. These are some of the experiences that I hoped to have by staying in Rwanda without a group and for an extended period of time. It seems like every day presents some new nuance or opportunity that teaches me more about Kibeho, about Rwandan culture, and/or about myself. What a blessing this trip has been so far!
God bless us all.