by Dan Doyle
“Sounds good to me,” said Jim.
“Me, too,” said Mathias. “You know, I really think the extra trip could be worthwhile.”
Looking over at Bill Foster, Rush said, “Hey Bill, any problem sleeping under the African stars?”
“Are you kidding? Hell, I was a boy scout in Indianapolis, although the farthest I got on a camping trip was my backyard.” The men laughed.
“On a serious note,” said Rush, “there’s some pretty wild animals in that region. But I’m sure that if Corporal Roberts and I are both armed, we’ll be okay. And, besides, it’s our only choice. You won’t find any Marriott Hotels in the rural sections of Burundi!”
Underneath Rush’s occasional quips, Jim knew there was solid confidence based on extensive military experience. If the Sarge felt things were safe, that was good enough for the Coach.
On the ride to Gitega, Jim pulled out some note cards and was practicing several basic Kirundi phrases when Mathias clapped him on the shoulder. “Jim, you haven’t seen this yet. Take a quick sighting.”
Jim looked up to see a group of nine or ten young people, probably in their teens, walking about a hundred yards in front of the jeep. They carried on their heads large baskets shaped like the spinning tops Jim remembered playing with as a child. A couple of them were holding the baskets, but most of the kids had their arms at their sides, walking in a rhythmic gait. As they came alongside the group, Mathias said, “Bwakeye”
Jim understood bwakeye as Kirundi for “hello,” so he waved as they passed and echoed Mathias’s greeting. The kids smiled and waved, and one of the girls said loudly in English, “Good day.”
Jim continued to memorize Kirundi phrases, but kept his gaze on the surrounding countryside as they traveled a bumpy, dusty, red clay road. The shrubs close to the road were covered with red road dust, and the roadside was littered with the usual trash. But beyond the side of the road, the vistas were often striking. Lush green vegetable fields gave way to rolling hills covered with stretches of acacia trees and patches of fig trees.
They had taken the northern route to Gitega, and as the road took them close to the southern boundary of the Kibira National Park, Jim said, “Robbie, please pull over for a minute, will you?” He had spotted through an opening in the trees a waterfall cascading over granite rocks, a sight as pretty as anything the coach had seen in his travels through the Adirondacks.
However, as they approached the outskirts of Gitega, the sights became less attractive. They passed the hulls of several burned out pickup trucks and a ramshackle bicycle repair shop. Jim saw a boy with a couple of dead chickens hanging from his handle bars wearing a jersey with the number 33 on the back. Jim’s mind snapped back to the reason they were going to Gitega, and some slight anxiety began to crowd his otherwise upbeat thoughts. Despite the large turnout the previous two evenings in Bujumbura, he wondered aloud if the six players—four Tutsis and two Hutus—scheduled to attend tonight’s session would turn up.
“They all live within 10 k’s of where we agreed to meet ‘em,” said Rush. “I’ll bet they’ll all be there—might even bring an extra player or two.”
When they arrived at the meeting place—a soccer field abutted by a smooth dirt area that would serve as the court— the six players were waiting along with a surprise guest.
“Looks like I’m a prophet,” said Rush. “Though I wasn’t expecting the extra player to be quite so pretty.”
Upon spotting their visitors, the players began to jog toward the jeeps. Immediately, Jim was struck by the grace of the young girl. She was tall, lithe, lean, and eager. As she ran, her head was up as if scanning the horizon; her shoulders were level, low, and loose; and her arms flowed forward and back. Her fluid forward motion was aided by a long, efficient stride.
“Looks like she is quite athletic,” said Jim to no one in particular.
The girl turned out to be the fourteen-year-old sister of Alain Kurabitu, one of the four Tutsi players. Omella accompanied her older brother, ostensibly to watch the session. She was certainly close to six feet tall and indeed quite pretty. Her hair was braided in corn rows, and she had a long neck and high cheek bones that reminded Jim of the bust of Nefertiti he had seen on display at a Barcelona museum.
After greeting the six boys, Jim turned to Omella.
“Would you like to learn?”
She glanced shyly at Alain for guidance. Without hesitation, he said, “She would, sir. Thank you.”
In welcoming Omella’s participation, Jim knew that any attempt to launch women’s basketball in Burundi would present its own set of problems. The culture of both Hutu and Tutsi dictated that a woman’s physical activities should be confined to bearing and raising children as well as working in the planting and harvesting seasons.
Not much different than how we looked at it in the States years ago, Jim thought.
“I’m glad you brought Omella,” Jim said to Alain.
“I am glad you will let her play, sir.”
As Jim and Mathias walked with the group toward the dirt “court,” a basketball joined at each man’s hand and hip, the coach whispered, “Mathias, if she plays, will this cause her a problem?”
“I don’t believe so. I imagine her brother brought her here today for that very reason, although I wonder if he gained permission of their parents. But even if he didn’t, I don’t think that merely playing with us today will be a problem. For the long term though. . .”
When Mathias’s voice trailed off, Jim decided to provide a bit of American sports history.
“You know, Mathias, it took the NCAA, the organization that rules over college sports in our country, until 1979 or ‘80 to figure out that they ought to embrace women’s sports.”
“Why was that?”
“Well,” replied Jim, “a law was passed by our Congress in the early 1970s called Title Nine that demanded equality for women in sports, including college sports. Up until that point, women’s sports at the college level was governed by an organization called AIAW—and don’t ask me what those letters stand for.”
He continued,”But after that law came in, the NCAA, over a period of five or six years, gradually recognized that women’s sports was becoming a very important business. So, like many big corporations in our country, they decided to push AIAW aside and take over governance of women’s sports.”
“Hmm, why didn’t they realize women’s sports were a big deal before that law?” asked Mathias.
“Well, first of all, until Title Nine came around, it wasn’t a big deal, with the exception of a certain few colleges. And to be honest, very few men, myself included, noticed that women were taking a greater interest in sports, both as players and as fans.”
What Jim did not say was that his prominence in the coaching field had placed him in a position to help the women’s sports movement in its embryonic stage. But, like virtually every other well-respected male coach at that time, his indifference, and, frankly, his wariness of the agendas of some of the movement’s early leaders, had held him back from making any meaningful contribution.
“Bunch of lesbians who are using basketball as a lever,” he recalled a fellow coach saying. His silence had been a vote of neutrality, if not agreement.
Jim regretted lacking the foresight to see beyond the specious thinking that prevailed among the male coaches of that era. He had also become an admirer of those early pioneers, no matter their sexual orientation, realizing that their goals were far more noble—and visionary—than he, and many of his colleagues, had ever given them credit for.
And so while his job description in Burundi did not include introducing basketball to women, Jim would, with an open heart and mind, provide as much opportunity as he could for this girl—and any other young women who wished to play.
“Okay, come on over so we can get started!” he yelled to the seven players.
The smooth dirt area was shaded by several large oak trees. Rush and Roberts busily measured ten feet up the
tallest and straightest of the trees. Within minutes, the two were nailing the half-moon backboard into the tree. For posterity, Mathias took a photo of the two Marines while Jim was addressing the athletes.
“I’m glad you’re all here, including you, Omella. Today, we’re going to focus on shot technique. And even though we’ve just put up the first hoop in Gitega, we’re not going to worry about the hoop just yet. For now, we’re going to work on proper fundamentals.”
As he had done the previous two evenings, Jim patiently reviewed the points he’d covered in last week’s session, “Feet shoulder-width apart, knees bent, elbows in, arc, back-spin, proper follow-through, and rhythm.”
The players, including Omella, gave Jim their full attention. And while Jim found their natural athleticism and appetite to learn to be great aids, the poor shooting habits the six young men had developed would take time to undo. On the other hand, Omella, as athletic as she was spirited, had never shot a basketball. As a result, she did not manifest any of the poor fundamentals of her counterparts.
“Okay, let’s work at the hoop,” said Jim. “Now, remember what we just worked on. I’m looking for good technique, ending with good follow-through.”
The six males varied in their success at the newly installed target. Omella was another story. Jim was amazed at her grace and fluid technique—this after touching her first basketball only thirty minutes earlier. When she swished six straight ten-footers with perfect form, Jim said to Bill Foster, “God, she could be a real player. I have one deflated rubber women’s basketball in my bag that I brought from the States. When practice is over, let’s blow up it up and give it to her.”
It was 8:45 by the time the jeep pulled out of the parking lot in Gitega. A couple of the kids, including Omella and Alain, were still playing and waved goodbye.
“Gents,” said Rush, “we’ve only got about an hour and a quarter of daylight. I don’t think it’s a good idea to go back to Bujumbura tonight. Looking at the map, I’d say the Mutumba camp is only a thirty-minute drive and, according to our reports, quite safe. Still okay if we camp out tonight?”
Jim heard less of a question than a strong suggestion. Besides, he was weary. During the demonstrations and the drills, he was always moving and didn’t think about being tired. Now, he’d rather risk a night in a sleeping bag than take the long jeep ride back to Bujumbura.
“I’m okay with camping out, Sarge,” said Jim. “But what about the rest of you guys?”
Bill Foster gave a thumbs up, and the others nodded their agreement.
“Then,” said Rush, “we’ll need to get the tent pitched by ten. Burundi nights are dark—real dark. First things first, though.”
He trotted back to the trailer containing all the provisions he’d packed for what he glibly called The African Experience. Lifting a corner of the tarp, he pulled out a large pill bottle and tossed it to Jim.
“Here ya go, Coach. Take two of these and pass it around. They’re extra malaria pills and you’ll need to take two a day on this trip; where we’re going is a very—and I mean very— high-risk area for malaria. I also brought along mosquito nets to put over our heads when we hit the sleepin’ bags. The open fire going through the night will help, too.”
Rush got behind the wheel. “Hold tight, folks. Here we go.”
Jim settled back and closed his eyes. He found himself in a quiet state of euphoria over the enthusiasm of the six young men . . . and the remarkable potential of Omella. This could work, he thought.
Thanks to Rush’s sense of direction and camping skills, the large tent was pitched just before dark, the night watch for wild animals and militia was manned by Corporal Roberts, and the rest of the group was huddled next to an open fire. All except Jim were holding mugs of hot coffee. The coach drank disinfected water instead, knowing that caffeine this late would wreak havoc on his system, which, while getting better, was still unsteady.
Jim had not been camping since his youth. While concerned about the threat of wild animals and other intruders, he felt good in the company of the six men.
“You know,” said Bill Foster, “my adventurous wife was dying to come on this trip, but Wednesday night is her poetry group, and she never, and I mean never, misses that.”
“She writes poetry?” asked Jim.
“Oh yeah,” replied Bill. “She loves it, and I don’t mind bragging that she’s very good. Had three poems published in different poetry journals. Her big goal is to get one in The New Yorker. By the way, she was very impressed with the poem you read at the opening dinner. And so was I.”
“Amazing,” said Jim. “She’s an amazing woman.”
“Won’t argue with that,” said Foster.
“Neither will I,” said Sergeant Rush. “In fact, I’m convinced the ambassador could someday be the first woman president of the United States. But guys, I’ve gotta trade places with Robbie at 3:00 AM, so how ‘bout if we get some shut-eye?”
“Yeah,” said Foster. “If Mathias is right, we might find the next Hakeem Olajuwon tomorrow. I want to be ready for it.”
So as not to put a damper on Bill Foster’s statement, Mathias kept his own thought to himself: I hope they have not killed each other off.
26
By 7:00 AM, the group had consumed a breakfast of bananas, pineapple, bread, fried eggs, and coffee, had broken camp, and were bouncing along the treacherous stone roads leading to Kayanza.
“It’s only about twenty kilometers away, but it’ll take us a good two hours,” said Mathias, who had taken on the role of navigator and was riding in the front seat of the lead jeep.
“You must be looking forward to this, Mathias,” said Jim.
After a moment’s hesitation, Mathias responded so quietly that Jim had to lean forward.
“A long time and many changes, Coach Jim,” he said, his words barely audible.
For Mathias, the trip produced a conflicting set of flashbacks. Judging by his dour expression, Jim guessed his diverse memories were more bitter than sweet.
Jim was thinking they were making pretty good time when Mathias announced, “We’ll be coming to a village soon—I believe just beyond that hill. If it’s still there, it’s the only one in this region, as most people live up in the hills without the aid of any community.”
Fifteen minutes later, when the jeep rolled through the small, rather grim village, Mathias drew Jim’s attention to a distressing view.
“Look—do you see anyone except kids and old people?” asked Mathias rhetorically.
“The AIDS virus,” said Sergeant Rush in a somber tone. “It’s wiping out an entire generation in rural areas like this.”
“You know,” said Jim to no one in particular, trying to blunt the unease in his voice, “the majority of Americans have no idea of this horror. And I’ll bet that those few politicians who do don’t much care.”
“You’re right, Coach,” said Rush. “But you know, it can’t be easy for a congressman whose district is in dire financial straits to worry about a country that seems a world away.”
“Might not be easy, but that doesn’t make it right,” said Bill Foster.
The depressing sight, and Foster’s frank words, made Jim reflect on a disturbing fact: The overwhelming poverty and disease these people face make the problems we complain about seem trivial.
The beginning of the dry season had turned the smaller roads from mud to ruts. The turbulence caused by the bumpy route interrupted Jim’s thoughts, and he joined the other passengers in tightening his seat belt.
“We’re not too far,” Mathias said.
Twenty minutes later, as the jeep passed by a veiled crescent of overhanging brush, Mathias’s memory was jarred. “Stop!” he yelled. “You see that archway? The brush is very dense. Well, behind that brush is the road, I am almost certain.”
Rush pulled the jeep into reverse and then began to maneuver through the brush. Jim thought of the archway as akin to a discrete door of a restaurant or hotel, but, in t
his case, providing entry to less of a road than a long and foreboding passageway.
As the jeep wended its way to an uncertain destination, Jim noticed that Corporal Roberts had placed his rifle at the ready.
“Looks like you’re leaning forward a bit, Robbie,” said Jim.
“Just bein’ careful,” Roberts said quietly—as if he needed to say it at all.
While the rutted stone road challenged Clive Rush’s driving skills, Jim took in the spectacular views of green fields, wild flowers, and mountains in the distance. All the while, though, he wondered if some machete-wielding warriors lurked in the brush, priming themselves for attack.
“Are you sure this is the way, Mathias?” Rush asked, seemingly more wary of unseen hazards than of the treachery of the road.
“I am not totally certain,” the Tutsi replied. “But I believe we are on the right course.”
After twenty muscle-bruising minutes, a fear of what might be concealed in the forest pervaded those in the jeep. Yet for Jim Keating, the specter of danger was neutralized by the more positive possibilities that might lie ahead. When Rush suggested, strongly, “We might want to think about heading back to the main road,” Jim said gently, “Just a bit further.”
Fifteen minutes later, when the bumps of the road turned to yet deeper ruts, a compromise was reached.
“If I am not mistaken—though please understand that it’s been many years—I believe that beyond that ridge is where the families live.”
“Okay,” said Rush firmly. “How ‘bout if we go as far as the ridge and then turn back if we don’t see anything?”
Everyone nodded, some a bit more slowly than others.
Ten minutes later, the jeep pulled to the crest of the ridge. Below, on a level grass field, a group of tall, barefoot boys were playing soccer.
“This is it!” said Mathias.