This Time for Africa!

The World Cup is here, and it hit Madagascar like it probably hit the rest of the world (sans the United States): in force. People here have definitely caught the fever (Nahazo ny Tazo!) and are tuning in throughout the country, any way they can. This is the first World Cup to be held in Africa, and as such the advertising is heavy on moving images of African players returning to their home continent (wearing sweet yellow Africa United jerseys, no less) and various songs/commercials focusing on the momentous event. The one song that is being played nonstop is Shakira’s World Cup anthem, with various South African languages and its English refrain of This Time For Africa. Perhaps I was paying more attention to this song that I should have, but I found myself recently questioning what it meant, a World Cup for Africa? I had two recent, very different, experiences that help to illustrate the dichotomy of my particular slice of Africa (note: don’t tell the Malagasy they are part of Africa!) and watching the World Cup here.

The first occurred in Ambatondrazaka, my banking town. With a group of 8 Peace Corps Volunteers, I watched the US-England match (Or as I dubbed it: 1812 Part Deux: Payback Time!). It was 9:30 pm. We wore bright blue track suits, red and white bandanas, red and blue face paint, and carried an American flag with us. We watched at a nice restaurant with French fries and steak. We drank cold beer (quick aside: THB has another new beer-“Bex”) and rum and cokes. We were loud American fans, supporting our team in a match that held little interest for most Malagasy. It was a fun night, but that experience could’ve been anywhere in the world (or, a very similar experience).

The second occurred in my village. I watched Cote d’Ivoire vs. Portugal in a papyrus-roofed shack outside the hospital, utilizing the charge from a solar panel to power the television and the satellite needed to broadcast the game. It was 5pm, but already dark, quiet and felt like 9pm. When the battery inevitably died halfway through the match (it had rained all day), we waited while they fired up the small generator, and watched the rest of the match by candlelight. I was surrounded by Malagasy men, rooting for the African nation, but respecting both sides when they played well. They made lots of what I call the “Sihanaka Shock” noise: “Way way way way!” (start high and end low, preferably while moving your head back and forth). When the game finished, I went home and cooked rice and an omelet with tomatoes and onions, read by candlelight and then went to bed by 8:30pm – a late night, but a fun one!

It is important to realize that both these experiences make up some of what it means to have an “African” World Cup. South Africa is a good host country, in that it exemplifies the dichotomy of Africa: rich and poor, developed and rural, white and black. I bet if you went to any African country, you would see examples of these divides. Indeed, you can see them anywhere, even in the US. But the most important lesson that the World Cup should remind us of? Events like this help people take their minds off their own troubles and allow them all, rich and poor, Malagasy and “Vazaha,” farmers and government ministers, to relax and watch the best Football (sorry, “Soccer!”) in the world. Cheers to you all!