This past weekend was unbelievably exciting and overflowing with new adventures. On Saturday I was woken up at 7am by the sound of vevuzulu’s, Ugandan blow horns, all throughout the city- it was the day of the African Cup Qualifiers! I had purchased a VIP ticket to the game the day before for 30,000 shillings, only about $12. Normal tickets were only $6, but with a VIP you are guaranteed a seat and easier entrance. At 1:30pm I met a group of the friends that I have made here at a local shopping mall. We all arrived decked out in our new, official Ugandan Cranes soccer jerseys, ready for the game but not quite realizing that we were headed to a cultural experience that we would remember for a lifetime. One of my Ugandan friends, Pete, owns a bus company and we hired one of his buses to take our large group of 20 from the mall to Mandela National Stadium, the largest stadium in East Africa, for the African Cup qualifying match: Uganda Cranes vs. Guinea Bissau. The traffic to the stadium was both astounding and thrilling. Over 50,000 people were on their way to the game; the team has not had this successful of a season in over a decade. We opened all the windows to our bus and watched the boda-bodas weave in and out of traffic, with passengers on the back blowing whistles, horns, holding flags, chanting the Cranes' cheer: WE GOOOO, WE GO! UGANDA CRANES WE GO! WE GOOOO, WE GO! The roads were jammed, buzzing with excitement and friendliness as pedestrians danced and people shouted from car to car. When we finally arrived at the stadium, a ride that would normally take 10 minutes, but took nearly an hour, we hopped out of the bus to the sidewalk, carefully timing our jump so as not to be run over by the boda-bodas that whiz through the narrowest gaps. Thousands of people were streaming to the stadium gates and the lines were unbelievable. As a group we were directed to the supposed VIP entrance, a line that appeared shorter but completely stationary. At the back of the line, I was able to see the gate entrance and it appeared that people were being crushed against the iron bars as everyone pushed to get in. Stadium security guards pushed the gate closed from the other side, but they were not strong enough against the crowd. The fans pushed open the gate and they all cheered loudly, but suddenly I saw sticks and batons raised, threatening the fans if they did not back away, and then it really hit- this is not America. Our group immediately left the line to find another, and I made sure to stick close to my friends around me. It soon became quite clear that no one who worked at the stadium had any idea where people were supposed to go. Imagine attending a professional sporting event in the United States. Keep in mind that I make these comparisons to help convey how different things are here, not to suggest that one is better, worse, or in between. It is a different world. In the US, you have your officially issued ticket, with barcode, entrance gate number, section number, and seat number, and attendants guide you at every step of the way. Here, our ticket was color-printed on cardstock, and turn-styles do not exist to curb the flow of people who enter. Stadium officials stand at the gate, open it less than a foot wide, and people squeeze through one by one as their ticket is ripped in half much like a movie theater. So, back to the line. We found another line to wait in, but to reach it we had to jump across a ditch that was about 3 feet wide. I grabbed the hands of friends who had already crossed and jumped into the next queue. In this line of hundreds there was barely a few inches between each person, and everyone was blowing whistles and squeezing air horns. One stranger next to me bought me a Minnie Mouse face mask…really a great gesture, although I decided not to wear it...for various reasons. I stood with men from the Embassy who are here from the US Army; I decided that was a good choice considering the unpredictable environment. It was hard to know what was going on at the front of the line (being 5'3 has its disadvantages) but one of my taller friends took pictures with his camera and I was able to see fans climbing over the gates, and on top of the police cars that arrived to handle the crowds. All I could see was to my left, and I saw car after armed car arrive, starting with police, then escalating to soldiers and anti-riot officials. There was one man, he must have been a commander, who was pacing up and down the lines, screaming at the top of his lungs at the other soldiers to man their posts, holding a thick rubber baton in his hand. Every minute or so we advanced a few inches. On my left, portable iron dividers created a barrier to keep us in a straight line. They were not secured, and as one section fell, the other portions followed, falling into the wide ditch I had jumped across earlier. I was scared that the police would think we had pushed down the gate on purpose, as they were already anticipating a riot, and held my breath as 4 policemen approached. They righted the gate, looked at me, and walked away. Then, a commander came up to the gate, opened a portion, and signaled for me to leave the long line and move to a shorter one that had just opened. There was absolutely no reason why I should have been led to this new line, filled with Europeans and seemingly wealthy Indians, other than the fact that I was white. When I arrived at the stadium, I was bombarded with calls of "MUZUNGA MUZUNGA MUZUNGA" the local word for white person. These calls were not done in an intimidating manner, it was just that they felt my skin color deserved to be announced to anyone who could not see it for themselves. Although I felt a bit insulted by this call, it happens often, and it deserved nothing more than a blank stare. When I was invited to the shorter line, I was allowed to bring one of the army men with me, but none of the other Africans in line were allowed to switch like I was. It is racism within the same race. My appearance seemed to signal to the guards that I was not a threat, maybe peaceful and out of place. Perhaps they felt I did not deserve to wait in the long line surrounded by Africans, but I had never complained, I had been patient, quiet and knew that just like everyone else I would have to wait my turn. It was the Ugandan commander who ushered me through the crowd to the shorter line, and there we were told by the gate guard that this was not a line, we would have to wait. The disorganization outside the stadium was amazing, but I was sure that once inside we would find our seats and get ready for the game. Once I got through the gates with my Army friend man, we were able to reunite with the group to decide our next plan of action. For the guys, that was buying beers, and we decided to wait with them until the whole group was united. After their drinks were purchased, we were directed to the supposed VIP entrance, and promptly upon arriving at the door, it was slammed shut in our faces. A guard yelled through the glass "All full! All full, sorry!" We looked at each other, waved our tickets around, trying to let him know that these VIP tickets were supposed to guarantee entrance. He acknowledged that, then with broken English yelled, "Go away!" Fail. We split up into smaller groups and found another door that was still open. Now, go back in your mind to that American sporting event and think of the indoor parts of an MLB park, for example. Think of the club lounges, the wide variety of restaurants, the drink specials, team memorabilia overflowing from carts. The door we entered brought us to a similar indoor area, but it was eerily empty. There was no food, no jerseys for sale, no light except what came through the windows, nothing except strolling soldiers and fans looking desperately for a way to get through the next entrance, into the sporting event itself. Everything was a battle. Every gate we approached was either padlocked or guarded by a soldier who told us to turn around because the area was full. How could it be full? We had tickets, guaranteed seats. Theoretically, yes we did. However, so did thousands of other people, since the tickets we had purchased had been oversold at nearly every mall, gas station, and supermarket in Uganda. At this point we had been through an hour of traffic and nearly two hours of lines at the stadium, the game had started and we refused to let all that work go to waste. In a large open area we saw a group of very professionally dressed Africans walk by, surrounded by an entourage and guards of their own. Suddenly, all the Ugandans we were close to sprinted after them, and my group looked around confused, then kindof half-jogged and speed walked to keep up, because really, what else were we going to do. We soon realized that the man we were following was the Vice President of Uganda, a door was opened, and he was quickly ushered through with his entourage before it was slammed once again in our faces. We stood against the glass door waving our tickets, unable to see where the VP had turned around the corner. Half of our group gave up, but I stayed with another friend because it seemed that the guard was going to change his mind. We pleaded through the door, along with a crowd of other fans for about 15 minutes, and suddenly the guard stood at attention and our crowd quickly parted perfectly along the middle; the VP was heading back indoors. Immediately after he passed, my friend and I made our way to the front of the crowd, and handed the guard our tickets. Before he had a chance to change his mind we squeezed through the door and looked around to see where we were. Unbelievably, we had just been let on to the soccer field where the match was taking place. We found ourselves on the sidelines, and both of us were speechless. We walked quickly behind the team bench, and in front of the journalists and photographers that were posted on the field. Both of us were beyond confused and giddy, but didn't want to let on to anyone that we definitely had no reason to be there, other than we had been denied from going to our original seats. As we walked, we saw our entire group of 20 people sitting on the grass, equally in shock, not believing our luck. Tens of thousands of people were in the stadium, and somehow through everything, we had all ended up in the exact same place, even though we had all been separated ever since we arrived. It's hard to convey how miraculous and bizarre it all was, but we still can't get over it! Anyway, I sat down immediately and started taking pictures of the team, soccer field, the fans, our friends, and the riot police that still guarded the field. Journalists and photographers began taking pictures of us and interviewing people in our group during the game. I think they thought we were important…HA! In fact today, Monday, as I write this, I'm staring at three different national newspapers, with our photographs plastered across the sports section. Every single picture's caption is interestingly related to race. Some of the captions read, "These white ladies did not miss out on the party as they rallied behind the Cranes", "Patriotism came in all colors at Mandela National Stadium", "BLACK OR WHITE: Cranes fans came in a variety of races." The first quote, referencing my friend and I as "white ladies" made me gasp, but none of these quotes were meant in a rude way, although by American standards are a bit inappropriate. Most of these journalists and Ugandans were excited and proud to have white people at their event. It seems that here, race can sometimes still be one of the most defining attributes of a person.
Oh yeah, and the game! That was also really exciting. The Cranes won 2-0, and after each goal the stadium exploded. Everyone danced, screamed, jumped, and ran around until the riot police gave a look that meant sit or be forced to. At the end of the game, people lit flares to countdown to victory. When it was finally over, the stadium boomed with loud music, and thousands of fans jumped down from their seats onto the field to join in the party. The sprinklers started immediately and we danced for almost an hour on the field before we got back in our bus to head back home. After 2 hours of traffic, we arrived at a delicious Turkish restaurant for a big group dinner, and finished off the night at one of the best dance clubs in Kampala. An incredible day was had by everyone!
