The Street Soccer Journey

I'm writing this down because I never want to forget how it all came about and the smiles on their faces.

It all started on a Wednesday. I had been enjoying my holiday and thought it was about time to do something productive. I hadn't been writing at all and I felt the need to do so. With the homeless world cup around the corner I decided to phone the director of the South African Homeless Street Soccer to hear if they were ready to go. I was thinking of doing the story: the street soccer team head to the world cup in Brazil. But, the story turned out to be quiet different when the director, Clifford Martinus, told me that they weren't going due to lack of funds. They were missing about R200 000 to cover plane tickets and subsistence. I thought this might be a story, but phoned my lecturer Karen Jayes to double-check. She confirmed and I did a telephone interview with Martinus. It was too late to go to Schaapkraal by myself.

Early next morning, I tried to get hold of last year's sponsors to find out why they weren't supporting the team this year, but without any luck. It was impossible to get a comment from the department of cultural affairs and sport in the Western Cape. I was communicating with Karen on gmail and she helped me edit the story and told me to send it through to the Cape Argus without comment from government. It was crucial to get the story out as quick as possible since the kick off was only a few days away. We wanted it on every street corner, but the Cape Argus declined. They didn't take in articles from freelancers.

I then considered going online and contacted the Mail & Guardian. I already had Shaun de Waal's email address and he helped me connect with the online news editor. As I was waiting for the MG to get back to me Karen phoned. She had a contact at news24 and they wanted to publish the story. She filed the story and put me in contact with the editor. As news24 was preparing for the article to go online I got a reply from the MG news editor. He was also interested in publishing the story, but only if I could get a comment from government. Half-an hour later the story was live on news24: All kitted up with nowhere to go.

Later the same evening a woman phoned me. "I hear you're writing about the street soccer team." It was Linzi Thomas from MylifE, a foundation that works with at risk street youth and children. Her organisation had been working closely with SAHSS since 2007, assisting players on the team. She gave me all the information and contact details that I needed to do the story for the MG. That same night I did a phone interview with Lance Greyling, member of Parliament for the Independent Democrats.

The next morning I got up early to write the story. Once again Karen was assisting me online, editing and helping me find the focus of my lede. I sent the story through to the news editor and a couple of hours later it was in the MG's sport section: SA street soccer team struggles to reach Brazil. I couldn't believe it. It had all happened so quickly.

In the afternoon Linzi contacted me. They had a sponsor. Patricia De Lille had gotten Cell C on board. "The guys are going. We're working on getting them tickets now and we'll be gathering them here to tell them." With directions on a piece of paper, I called my flat-mate Tarjei, who studies photography at City Varsity. The news was great and we needed photos of the boys.

They were gathered on a soccer field in Gardens in their new humble gear. Green and Yellow colours. Happy smiles.

It was so amazing to be apart of their jubilation and there is especially one shot that Tarjei captured that I think portrays so well the spirit and the moment on that field, and that is the one that I chose to put up on my blog.

After talking to the boys, asking them questions about how they felt and what they expected from their journey, I went home to work through my quotes. I sent a message through to my lecturer Karen, telling her that they were leaving for the airport early the next day and that I planned to follow the story. She wanted to come with and came to pick me up at 3.30 AM. She's been such an amazing support and mentor, and I couldn't have done it without her. She was also really happy to see the result of the butterfly effect: 8 ecstatic boys on the Cape Town Airport ready for the Homeless World Cup in Brazil. (Leaving only 24 hours before kick-off)

I filed two different stories that morning. First one for news 24: Soccer team head to Brazil and one after I had spoken to De Lille for the Mail & Guardian: Soccer boys off to Brazil as De Lille secures sponsor.

I was absolutely finished. I hadn't been sleeping much since the story broke, but I was really happy that it was out there and that the boys were now up above the clouds on their way to Brazil. Most people didn't know that SA actually has a street soccer team participating in the homeless world cup. I hope that many of us now do, and that in the future there will be a proper structure securing the well-being of these young men.

When that is said, I want to share an important thing that I learned from this experience. You never do anything completely on your own. It is essential to be a team.

I would never have known about the trials for the cup if it wasn't for a friend of mine Jaques who told me about it earlier this year. The trial in May was my first encounter with the team. I also couldn't have done it without Karen, who got me through to news24 and who was always there to give me advice. Or Linzi Thomas, from the MyLifE foundation, who contacted me after the first story was out and gave me all the contact details that I needed to follow up the story. She constantly kept me updated with what was happening. Thank you to all of you.

I also want to say thank you to Tarjei who came with to take photos, and to the news editors at news24 and the Mail and Guardian, and Shaun de Waal.

Poetry: Racket, love.

So we were there

jumping up and down to heavy metal racket

listening to each others' heartbeats

losing control...

raising our hands

setting our hearts free

From the corner of my eye

I captured you

your smile

the way you squint your eyes to good music

oh, how I loved the way you shook your head

to that racket.

Poetry: Dear Uncle

Tonight

music on the radio

triggers memories of you

your last days

the night we went walking

you holding my hand

I was balancing

but you were the one

on the verge between life and death

someone was pushing you

you had poison in your blood

and I knew

so I told you

before there was no hand to hold

and no birthday parties to look forward to

everything that you meant

Poetry: Bobby the Singer

Bobby the singer
I took a picture of him
three days before he died
he was at the old harbour
playing his guitar
singing to a crowd of people

I was there
in the midst of it all
listening
didn't really know shit about the guy
except that he could sing
and play the guitar

Someone later told me that he used to be rich
ended up as a homeless man
sniffing too much white powder
shooting brown crystalline

His girlfriend was also there
always with her rambo headband
rattling the tambourine
"Hi, Mr Tambourine Man"
accompanying his song for freedom

His bearded old friend was in the background
watching from a distance
standing in a boat that barely floated
eating an apple
indifferent to the song he had heard too many times before
about how life takes a grip
but never carries you on its shoulders

I don't know how he said goodbye
Bobby the singer
with his curly wild hair
an excellent street musician
but terrible father

Three weeks after he meet his maker
I saw his girlfriend
rattling her tambourine with someone else
as she was drowning in a crystalline high
protecting herself from the outside
in a bubble she finds shelter

And now that he's gone -
and the harbour is a ghost
I wonder
who really misses him?
Bobby the singer

All kitted up with nowhere to go

Yesterday I phoned Clinton Martinus to ask him if the South African Homeless Team was ready for the Soccer World Cup in Brazil. When he told me that there is a big chance that they're not going, I had to write about it. This is the news story that I wrote. The story got published at news24.com, with help from my lecturer Karen Jayes who connected me with the editor. Thank you for your help and for always giving good advice.

From http://www.news24.com/SouthAfrica/News/All-kitted-up-with-nowhere-to-go-20100916

Cape Town - Sixty-four national teams are in the line-up for the Homeless Soccer World Cup 2010 in Rio de Janeiro, Brazil, kicking off this coming Sunday, but the South African team might not make it due to lack of funds.

"The catering and accommodation is sorted, but we still need about R200 000 to cover plane tickets and other subsistence," said Clifford Martinus, the director of South African Homeless Street Soccer.

"We were supposed to leave on Friday. Saturday at the latest to play our first game on Sunday."

The South African Homeless Team has been present at every Homeless World Cup to date since it first started in 2003. Last year the SA team was also struggling to attain necessary funds, but made it just in time, a week before they were set to leave for Milan.

"Ambition 24hrs did the airfare, From Us with Love assisted us with clothing and the department of cultural affairs and sports helped us out with subsistence money," said Martinus about last year's support.

Ranked 17 worldwide
In Milan, the South African Homeless team was ranked as number 17 worldwide and they won the Milan City Cup. Upon return to Cape Town the players were welcomed by Deputy PresidentKgalema Motlanthe and Winnie Madikela-Mandela. But, in spite of their results, Martinus admitted that it has been harder to find support for this years trip to Brazil.

"So far Hummel Africa will do kit and tracksuits, but that's it," he said. "We've sent emails to the department of cultural affairs and sports, but they haven't replied."

Recently Martinus appeared on Zoopy TV, connected to the online social media community zoopy.com, in an attempt to call on new corporates, but without any luck.

South African Homeless Street Soccer aims to keep homeless people off the street and away from peer pressure through soccer. They are now crossing their fingers that the government will come through to assist their players in reaching their dreams of playing on the world stage.

"The other night Social Development Minister Patricia de Lille called me directly to see where we stand and yesterday she arranged for the Director General of SRSA (Sport and Recreation SA) Vernie Petersen to contact me," said Martinus.


"Among these youth we have definite leaders for the future," explained Martinus, giving credit to the players who he described as "determined to compete and represent their country", but also mature in understanding their current situation.

"To be honest I would feel disappointed if we don't make it," said Lukanyo Mjoka, 24, one of the players who has been struggling to stay off the street since 2004. 'Though I always try to stay positive, I must also have room for disappointment. But, I guess there is always next year if we don't make it right?"

When asked about how he would feel if his team does not make it to Brazil, he couldn't help but reminisce the feeling he had when he was accepted to the team earlier this year; "It was quite fantastic. Overwhelming. Whenever I am given a chance, I want to do my best."

The department of cultural affairs and sport in the Western Cape could not be reached for comment.

Five Mail & Guardians please...

Remember a while ago, I wrote a post on the burden of a young poet - and how all you want as an aspiring writer is to get published. I think I also said something about buying five copies if it happened?

Well, on Friday I bought two M&Gs, and I'll probably buy three more. Just to live up to what I said, because on Friday the 10th of September 2010 I was published for the first time in one of the best South African Newspapers: The Mail & Guardian (www.mg.co.za)

Oh, and how did it feel to read my name? Absolutely unexplainable.

When that is said, I also want to share my "fame" with two good friends of mine, Rebecca Jackman and Gerhard Jacobs, who got published in the Cape Argus (another great Newspaper) last week (several times actually.) This is their first article, and the same day, for the afternoon edition, they scooped the front page covering a protest at a petrol station in the outskirts of Cape Town. I'm very proud of you, and it feels good to know that we're moving in the right direction, seeing that we've almost finished our Journalism course.

The poets. The journalists. No burden.

Over.

Memoir: Safe Hitchhikers?

The summer of 2000 my mum and I wanted to be a little bit more adventurous than normal when choosing our holiday destination. We decided to go to London. Three days before we took off, a bee stung me while my then current boyfriend and I were smooching behind a tree. My left check grew to double the size and it looked like I had my mouth stuffed with marshmallows. In all our photos from our trip you can see that I’m clearly uncomfortable, but my mum had to keep shooting. After all it was our maiden voyage and it had to be well documented.

My mum, Marianne, has always been a master at making me feel embarrassed. The day I was stung she was the one who took me to the doctor, and the one who had to sit in the waiting room together with my boyfriend and do small talk. Somehow, out of all the questions she could have asked him about school, interests etc, while the doctor was examining me, she chose “Does your mum accompany you when you go to the doctor?” My boyfriend at that time was 18 and I was 14, so for me her choice was mortifying. I wanted to be the cool girl.

He was my mum and dad’s first challenge when it came to my choice of men. I’ve always had a thing for older guys, something that my parents have learned to accept. Though not always agreeing from the beginning they’ve been very supportive and loving parents with whatever I’ve done so far in life. A good example is when I came home from philosophy studies in Mexico, the winter of 2005. I was heartbroken, missing my Mexican boyfriend. My dad was not happy when I told him that I was seeing a Mexican Surfer by the name Coco, 29 (I was 19.) His response was “Over my dead body.” A month later, on New Year’s Day, my dad and I fetched Coco at the airport; he was invited for New Years dinner.

Our trip to London was my first trip abroad. It was my mum’s first time crossing the Norwegian borders as well, except for a short trip to Sweden together with my dad who always preferred Nordic, mountainous landscape to unknown cities in Europe. When I was growing up I would often impersonate my dad’s voice saying, “I love mountains. I love fjords.” My mum would laugh, but after a couple of giggles she would stop because it made her feel bad.

The way I see it, London was and always will be my mum’s first adventure outside her motherland. Crossing the border between Norway and Sweden doesn’t really count as many people think that Norway is a city in Sweden. There is also a reason why Norwegians call the Swedes ‘Sweet Brother.’ 115 years after our independence we still feel like meeting one of our own when we encounter a lost Swede in an exotic country.

While in London, we didn’t meet any lost Swedes, but rather got lost ourselves. We were two naive farmer girls far away from home. A home characterized by every one knowing every one, sleeping with unlocked doors and safe hitchhiking.

10 years later, my memories of our trip to London are snippets without dialogue. It’s like a silent movie playing in my head. I picture my mum pointing out buildings and street names so we could find our way back to the hotel. I see my mum on the top of a double-decker bus, she’s wearing her goofy-looking sunglasses and the wind is playing with her hair. I can’t see exactly how she looks like, but her hair is dancing. I see Pringle boxes in different colours at Sainsbury’s. We bought one of each because we wanted to try all the different flavours. I remember the cramped feeling of walking down Oxford Street. We were just two out of many people walking down that street. We were insignificant, but significant to each other. I reminisce about the Italian restaurant close to the hotel. The waiter thought that my mum and I were sisters and he tried to hit on my mum, but she was totally oblivious to it. I see tub rides, shacking wagons and moving walls and long queues at Madame Tussauds’ and somewhere, between all the snippets, the silence stops. I can hear my mum laughing whole-heartedly. It’s a sound that is easy to recognise because I hear it often. One evening she got tipsy on one glass of white wine and she couldn’t stop laughing. It’s funny how some moments are so vivid, while others fail to be remembered. We also have moments that we don’t want to remember, and ironically they end up as the most vivid ones. They even have dialogue.

Exterior – Outside the police station. Night.

‘Hi. Are you guys lost?’ says the Indian man in the white van. By the way he also has an Indian accent. ‘Do you know where you’re going?’ Before I continue with the dialogue, let me rewind so you know why we were outside the police station in the first place.

Interior – Packed tube to Camden, the black line. Day.

15 minutes before my phone got stolen I made a joke about it. My mum didn’t think it was funny, but I did. When the phone eventually ended up as stolen, my mum didn’t believe me at first. She searched through the whole bag before she realised that I wasn’t lying. She appeared like one of those inspectors at the airport, but ten times more thorough. We didn’t know how to deal with a theft, because it was the first time something had ever been stolen from us. (We're Norwegians you know.) We kept calm, though it was uncomfortable to know that the pickpocket was one of the people standing next to us. The tube was so packed that it was impossible for anyone to move. We were sardines in a can. The can was the tube.

I remember wondering who could’ve taken it, and I had my bets on the tall guy with the Mohawk (of course.) As soon as we got out, we called my dad who had to block the sim-card. Since we had already made the effort to go all the way to Camden we decided that the police station could wait for later. (We had to get a statement for our insurance company.)

Camden was an interesting place, very bohemian. Most of the people we saw there had facial appendages and luminous hairdos. Everything was new to us, even the vagrants. We spent most of the time there browsing the Camden market. We lost ourselves in shopping and the stolen phone was no longer on my mind. I finally got the buffalo shoes that I had been drooling over for as long as I could remember. They were super fashionable in Norway at the time, especially among boys and men suffering from the short man’s syndrome. My mum also bought me a white and a blue top with Chinese writing, which I didn’t know the meaning of. I also got a black mini-skirt with a matching top that was decorated with Chinese letters and an orange dragoon. (Yes, my memory is clothing-related and my dress sense back then was horrible. I was wearing legwarmers on sunny days and I remember that a vagrant pointed at them and laughed a toothless laugh because he found them extremely funny. He clearly hadn’t been exposed to the movie Flashdance.)

When we returned to the hotel it was already dark, and we still had to go to the police station. The manager of the hotel ordered us a taxi and explained to us how to find our way back to the hotel, but my mum and I weren’t paying him much attention. And what did we learn from it? To always pay attention when we don’t know what’s going on.

The police station was a quick fix, though my mum made it last a lot longer than necessary because she was confusing the officer by mixing Norwegian words with English ones before she totally switched over to Norwegian as if she was on autopilot. It must have been around 11 o’clock when we left. The street outside the station was pitch-black and ghostly. We couldn’t see any taxis. We looked at each other in a ‘what did the hotel manager say again’ way. As we were standing next to the road an Indian man pulled over in a White van.

‘Hi. Are you guys lost? Do you know where you’re going? He asked without giving us any space or time to answer before he continued: ‘I heard you talking to the policeman. I was also there reporting a theft.'

I don’t think my mum and I said anything in response. We just nodded to show him that we were listening. We must have looked so stupid.

‘I can help you out if you want me to. I’ll give you a ride.’

His van was packed with chubby Indian children who called him ‘dad,’ so our risk calculation concluded that it was ok. Without putting much more thought into it we jumped on. What else should we have done?

The car smelled of curry and mustard seeds, and I remember looking at the reflections from the street lights that were dancing over the chubby Indian boy’s face as he blew cinnamon chewing-gum bubbles. We were driving through streets that I didn’t know, but which I tried to recognise to make sure we weren’t taken elsewhere. Paranoia was building up inside of me, and it grew bigger as the man drove into a side alley that he described as a ‘short cut.’

‘My kids are tired so I’m going to drop them off at home before I take you to your hotel. Is that ok?’ He looked at us through his rear view mirror. He had bushy eye-brows.

I freaked out and I just knew that we needed to get out.

‘Stop the car. Pull over! Stop!” I shouted frenetically.

My mum had the same idea, but was a little bit puzzled when I took her by the wrist as I opened the sliding door and dragged her out of the car. I was the one playing the hero.

‘Thank you for the ride, but we’ll walk from here.’ I said.

The Indian stranger rolled down his window: ‘You girls shouldn’t be walking her. It’s not safe.’

He sounded worried, but I chose to ignore it, thinking that it was some sort of trick to get us back into the car. Psychopaths always know how to gain trust.

My mum and I started walking as quickly as we could in the direction that we came from. I could hear the stranger putting the car back in gear before he drove off. Easy Match. It was me, my mum and the alley now. We didn’t know where we were, and we didn’t say anything. We didn’t have to say anything. We both knew what was going on and we were on a mission to get back to the hotel (safely.)

When we got to the main road I saw a prostitute for the first time in my life. I was shocked of course. (I'm Norwegian.) We also passed a couple of drunken people, who made me feel very uncomfortable. Junkies and drunkards always made me feel uneasy because they just didn’t exist in my little hometown. The street laid out before us sure didn’t look like a good place to be. We needed to get out of there. So when I finally scouted a taxi on the other side of the road I risked my life crossing without looking. My mum followed.

Safe on the other side, we flung ourselves into the taxi as if we were fleeing from a crime scene. And safe and sound on the inside of the taxi our heartbeats settled. Traumatised, we didn’t say much, but looked at each other in a ‘how stupid are we’ way. A little bit embarrassed we promised to never tell anyone, and especially not my dad.

Sorry mum.