aqumada

By CHEREKA 

It does not compare to your first trip to a neighborhood tej or tella bet with your older brother to get drunk for the first time. It's not quite the same as your first trip with your buddies for the ceremonial transition of becoming a ‘man', which was consummated in a gently humiliating manner by the self anointed "cherry popper" of the young men of the village. It's not even on par with your first driving experience or your first kiss.  It is, however, as close as a young teenager in the 60's and 70 in Addis can get to his rite of passage in becoming a young man. It was the first likely place where you heard the first cuss word, saw your first brawl between adults, and felt like you were part of the population...the people. It is your first trip to kambolojo, (Addis Ababa Stadium). Kambolojo, depending on who you went with, is that one unique place in Addis which can either earn you a few hours in a room filled with burnt pepper (berbere metaten) as a form of "punishment", (it's more like a page out of Gitmo's "interrogation" manual, if you ask me) or a star status at the school playground on Monday morning as you described the account of Sunday's game to your friends.

Kambolojo was an escape from the mundane life for many in Addis. It attracted fans from all walks of life. For a few hours on Sunday afternoons, everyone was a soccer fan as well as expert. Regardless of your social, ethnic or economic status, when you were in the stands, you were equal. You were a legitimate soccer fan. Your ‘expert' soccer opinion was just as valid as the next guy's. You could say anything you wanted about the game, the players, the referees, and the fans, no matter how absurd, there was at least one nut who agreed with you. In fact, the more absurd your opinion or your rant, the more you were liked by the crowd. You were sort of the class clown - the Sunday afternoon class clown.

Much like a priest looked forward to Sunday morning's church service, soccer fans in Addis looked forward to Sunday afternoons in the same religious fervor. I lived only a spitting distance from kambolojo, at meshualekya. It was the prefect place for a soccer fan. Kambolojo was a 5 minute walk, and on days I wasn't fortunate enough to attend a game, all I had to do was step out of my front door and ask anyone from the herd of fans returning from the game, 'man ashehefe?' to get the score. Sometimes, I even followed some fans a few steps just to hear game stories. Occasionally, if the game was a good one, I would use these game accounts as real personal stories to friends in school Monday mornings as if I were in attendance.

To me, a game day's experience started as soon as I made the turn from the corner Mobil station. The scenery outside kambolojo was just as amusing as the scenery inside. 7, 8, 9 year old kids, who could not afford to buy tickets, but whose passion for the game outweighed any rational thoughts, thus pushing them to challenge the law of gravity by hanging on the criss-crossed floodlight poles outside the stadium just to see a few minutes of soccer until the police came to force them down. Others hanging around the gates waiting for the perfect moment to sprint past the gatekeepers, like a prisoner making a mad dash from his captors and disappearing in the crowd. On the other side of the stadium, where there were no police, yet more kids squinted through a strategically pierced holes in one of the gates watching the game in hopes of witnessing a goal before the cops got there. And when the police came from nowhere and lurked behind the unsuspecting kid, loud jeers and whistles and the chant "oojé!! oojé!! " (pigs/cops pigs/cops) would ring from their friends in the crowd, tipping them to flee the scene before the cops got a good lick on them with a baton.

The excitement and anticipation outside the stadium was unlike any other for a soccer fan of young age. Fans trash talking to one another, scalpers trying to sell tickets, (especially if it was an international game), the crowd inside the stadium roaring as they reacted to a scored goal or a near miss, street vendors trying to sell you hats to block that scorching afternoon sun, kids shouting shenkora geda! (sugar cane) and shinbra eshet!  (fresh garbanzo beans) in hopes of unloading their inventory before the crowd clears into the stadium...it was like a scene out of an island vacation somewhere in the Pacific. But the real excitement awaiting just passed those iron gates.  And then, you step inside Kambolojo.