Shitball

Vea Dam is fast becoming a weekend picnicking spot for Helen and I.  We've now been twice in 3 weeks for a relaxing Saturday day out.  We take a picnic, play cards, listen to music, enjoy the breeze, get surrounded by groups of boys who stare (the girls are at home with mum washing, cleaning, cooking etc) and avoid the water through fear of bilharzia.  

Vea Dam

the shit producers

Wrestling

posing like I've never seen before!

A group develops

The cheeky snotty one....

The first weekend we took Samina who was visiting from Accra.  It’s a 30 minute or so ride out from our home to the Dam, a nice countryside ride actually and we all had such a good day, Helen and I vowed to do it more often.  We did get starred down by a group of boys but had a chat and tried to ignore them thinking we wouldn't be such a novelty on our subsequent visits so it wouldn't be a problem.  It did take longer for the group to surround us the second time and once again the boys wrestled and chased in order to impress the solomeas and then they took it one stage further (I can only presume as a volleyball ‘net’ had been erected since out last visit which could also serve as a goal); ‘shitball’ was started.    I am not being factious as many of you may be thinking knowing my previous disdain of football.  Previous due to spending time with Ali and the Chelsea team; I’ve found I don’t mind it too much now (they do say as you get older your taste changes).  In fact at the moment the African Cup of Nations is on (Ghana is through to the quarter finals) and I've sought out a game or two to watch.  Unheard of I know.  No.  When I say ‘shitball’ I actually mean ‘shitball’.  This is the game played when a lump of cow shit takes the place of the football.  Children with or without shoes first choose the right lump by gently placing their flip flop or bare foot over said dried cow shit in order to ascertain it’s form.  If it cracks under the weight it is immediately discarded for another more together (less dried out) lump.  When found, it is kicked around to within an inch of its life until kicked so hard it breaks or is sat on. Most of the game involves more than one child slide tackling each other into even more shit.  One can only thank god that the hot African sun is hot enough to dry that shit as it falls out of the cows arse so as to not render shit covered children across the length and breadth of Ghana as they slide tackle into it. They take great pride in kicking the shit (along with half a tonne of dust) so close to the solomeas it scares the living daylight out of them but not so close that it hit’s them.  No amount of protesting would change the play for in doing this they were highlighting their maleness and for a Ghanaian male however tender his years this is of uttermost importance.  The answer was to simply chase the buggers away… which in itself became a game unsustainable by the solomeas without enough brassier support… and not fit enough to run in the UK let alone the heat of the African sun.