“The perfume of the good guys”

August 15, 2009

Tonight I took my “driver” to watch his football team (Merriek) play Zambia’s Zesco team in the African Cup. I put “driver” in inverted commas, because this gentleman – who looks to be pushing 80 – is so much more than the role he appears to assume when he gets into his battered yellow taxi. A lawyer by training, he decided that when the current regime took power in a military coup, he could not find work as a lawyer that would give him “clean money” (in his words) to feed his family. So for the past twenty years he has been at the service of foreign journalists and writers like me, making our way in unfamiliar surroundings.

We have had a long week of work together – 16 hour days abound, as well as some serious tiffs when he decides not to eat (he belatedly told me he has diabetes, and so maintenance of blood sugar levels across the course of the day is a not insignificant issue). Anyway, tonight was to be our night off.

Alas, Merreik lost – in resounding fashion. “Our” goal keeper was red-carded – never a good sign. In many ways it was like any footie match I have ever attended. But there were a couple of notable exceptions.

First, I’ve got to say that allowing your crowd to bring blow-torches to the game = not very smart. There was the odd firework let off as well, whenever it looked like we were close to scoring a goal, but this fazed me less that the huge live flames being bandied about. Then there was the fact that being the only Khawadja (white) in the place was not what made me stand out. I did not see a single woman in the crowd (only later did I found out this was because my driver decided it would be inappropriate to drop me off in the section of the stadium reserved for women). No surprise then that as me and my elderly companion entered our stand, we were noticed – –  seats were vacated for us in prime position.

However the real action of the evening started as we left the stadium. The home crowd were not happy to see their team defeated – and in turn the riot police stationed at every corner were not happy to see said crowd getting punchy. We made it to the car, and started turning down the street on which we were parked when all of a sudden, masses of people started running towards us. As we tried to turn in the direction they were running, a minibus started backing into us. Clunk, was the sound on my passenger door – followed by the continuation of the minibus down the entire right hand side of the already battered taxi. I’m not sure I did anything more useful than scream.

Finally, the mini bus stopped backing into us. I noticed a metallic taste in the back of my throat and the thought that passed through my head was that this must be the effect of shock at being run into. Then my face started to burn, and the next idea I had was that perhaps the minibus caught our fuel tank back of the taxi was alight. It seemed like a good time to get out – something my driver had already done in order to start screaming at the mini-bus driver.

It was readily apparent that there was no fire. At first I thought I was going mad. Surely the burning all over my face was not actually real. Without thinking I started running away from the car in the same direction as hundreds of people were also running. I had no idea why.
Half way down the road I stopped at a huddle of people. In the center of them was a street seller who had small plastic bags of water that he had been selling to the exiting football crowd. But now, he was opening the water bags freely. “Here Khawadja. Water, water.” He started pouring it all over me. I was drenched but grateful, since while still having no clue what was going on, it felt comforting. “Sudan very bad, very bad” said another man in the huddle.

After what was probably no more than a minute, it started to click what was happening. Tear gas. Of course. Next minute, my driver found me and also started pouring water over from me that he had on hand in a jerry can. “Let us go” he said, as we started to hear shots being fired. I was not about to disagree.

The taxi is more battered than previously, but still runs at a clip. I am, of course, fine. And my driver was philosophical – “When we win people are dancing in the streets. When we lose, it is like the days of the demonstrations.” Telling a Sudanese friend about the experience afterwards he commented, “Tear gas – you know in Sudan we call it the perfume of the good guys.”