Thirty-One Nil

by James Montague

  The squad for the US Virgin Islands game is full of talented new professional players, many of whom have never been to Haiti before in their lives. Some of them play in good European leagues. Jean-Eudes Maurice was signed by Paris Saint-Germain; Kevin Lafrance plays in the Czech Republic, and goalkeeper Ceus, a New Yorker born and raised, plays for the Colorado Rapids in the MLS. ‘I was in college when I heard a buzz about Haiti being interested in seeing me play,’ Ceus explains. ‘It took a little bit of time to feel I was ready to play internationally.’

  This is all new for Ceus, who grew up in New York’s large Haitian community. He went to a Haitian church every Sunday, where he learned to speak a smattering of Creole. His family had watched the country degenerate from afar. All, that is, except his grandmother. She was the personal baker to former President Jean-Bertrand Aristide, a priest who had vowed to work for the poor against the interests of foreign-controlled big business after the Duvalier years. Twice president, he was twice deposed in US-backed coups. ‘She was baking him cakes. She would tell me about walking amongst the staff of the palace. She travelled all around the world with him,’ he recalls. Her two signature dishes, he says proudly, were pineapple upside down and Haitian yellow cake.

  Ceus has learned everything he knows about Haiti, its language, its culture, its cake, second-hand through stories from his family. His mother and father would tell him about a golden age in Port au Prince of clean streets and security. This is the first time he has set foot in the country. ‘It has left me speechless,’ he says. ‘People coming after training, before training. They crowd around the bus. My passion for soccer has always been there and I always wished that the people around me shared that passion. For the first time it’s the passion I’ve been looking for. It is the first time I’ve felt equally as passionate as the fans.’ Ceus and his Haitian team-mates are swamped everywhere they go in Port au Prince. ‘Everybody who comes up to us says: “Win the game to bring some joy to us,”’ he explains. Tavares is now gathering his players for the trip to the stadium for his final training session, at 3 p.m., in the 46 degree heat. ‘It would be huge for anyone,’ Ceus replies when I ask what World Cup qualification would mean to Haiti. ‘But the suffering they are going through is immense and all they are asking for is happiness through soccer. It would be immense to qualify and bring some hope to these people.’

  **

  As Edson Tavares stands in the shade and the workers busy themselves preparing the stadium for Haiti’s big game the following day, the US Virgin Islands national team sit in the stands with a look approaching horror on their faces. The Haiti team are on the pitch below them running through what might be described as cutting edge European training methods: complex drills, one-touch passing, multiple coaches working in small teams, resistance training. The US Virgin Islands has a pile of cones and a small bag of balls. They have only brought sixteen players with them, too, three of them goalkeepers. ‘We are one of the last teams left that don’t have any professional players,’ says the team’s young, polite captain, Reid Klopp. They are all American citizens, living on what is an incorporated territory of the United States: three islands with a population of little more than 100,000 people. They all have day jobs. Klopp himself works for a Baptist youth outreach programme, some are students and a couple of the players work in construction. Basketball and track and field are by far the most important games on the islands. Soccer comes a distant third.

  This is only Klopp’s third competitive game. The first two were in the CONCACAF preliminary round against the British Virgin Islands, the stage that saw Montserrat play Belize. Klopp scored in both games. ‘It has that local derby feel. The islands are so close,’ he says of what is probably one of the unlikeliest derbies in world football. ‘We came away 4-1 on aggregate. This is the first time we’ve ever made it past the preliminary round. We are not getting too far ahead of ourselves. They all have pro players.’

  Since their inclusion into FIFA in 1998 – the same congress that marked a massive expansion of members and saw the likes of Palestine join – the tiny three-island territory to be found between Puerto Rico and Montserrat has played only twenty-eight matches in its entire history, twenty of them defeats. Between January 2010 and June 2011, they were 200th on FIFA’s rankings, making them one of the worst sides in world football. Games were hard to come by, too. They had only played six games over the past five years. Now they find themselves with six games in as many months, with a trip to the anarchy and heat of Haiti first. It is a baptism of fire. ‘It is quite a shock when you drive around and you see there’s extreme poverty and the other class that is beyond rich,’ Klopp says of the inequalities and unhappiness he has witnessed. ‘It’s quite an experience. It makes you grateful for what you have.’

  What do you expect to get out of the game, I ask.

  ‘We come away from this game with a point or something that will be something. We are all really excited to be here,’ he answers. Not one of his team-mates is smiling. ‘There is a sense that this is one of the best teams we’ve put together. We have a small population so when you look at the numbers ...’ Haiti, traditionally one of the region’s heavyweights and one of only three Caribbean teams ever to qualify for a World Cup finals, was always going to be a tough place to play but in a few days’ time the US Virgin Islands travel to Antigua where Klopp believes they ‘could definitely get a result in that game’. He also knows his and his team’s limitations, though. ‘We are the extreme underdogs. That’s one advantage that we have. No one expects us to come even close to getting a result in this game so we don’t have to play with that pressure.’

  When it is time for the ‘extreme underdogs’ of the US Virgin Islands to begin training, they start by running the length of the pitch, back and forth, back and forth. They take shooting practice next. No one manages to hit the target. Balls balloon over the goal, or end up near the corner flag. The maintenance men go about their work, painting and repainting the terrace steps in red, yellow and blue, only stopping to retrieve any balls that land close to them.

  **

  I cling on to the back of the motorbike as it careers through the slums. It is raining on the morning of Haiti’s big day. Port au Prince’s snarled, potholed and at times dangerous streets are hard to navigate. The quickest way is by bike taxi. Snapshots of life flash past us. Barefoot children happily splashing around in a foetid canal. A brightly coloured tap-tap bus jammed with people, a portrait of Brazil striker Alexandre Pato painted on the back. The still-manicured lawns of the abandoned presidential palace, its white turrets now collapsed but the Haitian flag still flying. A beautiful woman, with short hair and a smart business suit, expertly picking her way through the refuse and mud of a tented city in high heels. A hand-painted billboard, seven foot high, leant against a road sign to advertise the game. It reads: Haiti Leve. Haiti rise. I shout at the driver to stop. Haiti Leve, it reads. Brasil Mundial 2014, Haiti v Virgini Sland [sic]. A ticket for the match, it tells me, costs 150 Haitian gourde, around $3. At the bottom, misspelt but clearly legible, the sign reveals one of the game’s main sponsors. Courtoisie T-Vice, Wiclef Jean [sic], MTK. Wyclef Jean? The Wyclef Jean? Sponsoring the Haiti team? I jump back on the bike and head for the team hotel. A special guest has arrived to wish the team luck, a man who can arguably claim to be the second most famous singer from Haiti.

  President Michel Martelly wasn’t always known by the name he was born with. He is more widely known as Sweet Micky, a singer of kompas music, a form of Creole merengue. He is one of the region’s biggest stars – even appearing on a Wyclef Jean record in 1997 – and notorious for his onstage antics during his glory days, including exposing himself, cross-dressing and farting into the microphone. He was also a staunch opponent of President Aristide. But Martelly hasn’t had a good few months. He’s only been in office for five months after a farcical election. None other than Wyclef Jean himself fancied the job of president of Haiti. He would probably have won it too if he hadn�
�t been banned from standing by a Haitian court for not having spent enough time in the country. Martelly finished third in the first ballot and only made the run-off after one of the candidates was disqualified because of voting irregularities. He has been unable to form a government and, to make matters worse, his nemesis, Aristide, has returned to the country after living in exile in South Africa. His presidential palace remains uninhabitable. Yet his election is the first peaceful handover of power in Haiti’s history. He is more sober and restrained these days, wearing a suit and tie as he enters the hotel function room where the players are quietly waiting for him. He shakes each player by the hand, presenting them with a flag on a stick. He hands one to Steward Ceus, unaware that his grandmother used to be Aristide’s personal baker.

  Martelly gives a short speech, the lights of the ballroom shining off his bald head. The match is as much a distraction for him from the nasty realities of frontline politics as it is for the poor on the street. Everyone in the room stands for a rendition of Haiti’s national anthem as President Martelly counts them in:

  For Haiti, the Ancestors’ Country

  We must walk hand in hand

  There must not be traitors among us!

  We must be ourselves, unique master

  Let’s walk hand in hand

  For Haiti can be more beautiful.

  Let us, Let us put our heads together

  For Haiti in the name of all the Ancestors.

  The room is filled with the sound of wailing. Martelly is the loudest and it is clear that whatever singing talent he had has deserted him while in office. Mercifully, they do not attempt all five verses. ‘I must tell you in the past we have beaten all the teams in the region,’ he says proudly, almost a little offended, when I ask him afterwards whether he thinks Haiti can qualify for the World Cup. His nervous looking security guards scope the room, resting their hands on their guns, eager to take him away to his next appointment. ‘We have not structured ourselves, we have not prepared ourselves,’ he begins. ‘We have been barely making it. I believe there’s a new movement. There’s a new will to show a new face of Haiti. We have natural talents here coming from all around the world. Haiti is ready to show that new face. In the past we have mainly talked about our problems and our issues. Today is an opportunity to show that Haiti can be a great nation and can be victorious.’ His armed guards nod. It is time for the president to leave for the match. ‘I couldn’t express in words what Haiti would be like if ...’ He corrects himself. ‘When, not if, we qualify for the 2014 World Cup in Brazil.’

  **

  A riot is about to break out. It is one hour before kick-off and 10,000 Haitians, maybe more, are trying to crush through the single open door into the Stade Sylvio Cator. A police blockade has been thrown around the stadium, causing traffic chaos for miles on every side. Warped Creole rap music is being played from huge speakers at an ear-splitting level. The clouds above are dark and heavy as the crowd of supporters wait in line, as they have done since the morning. As the clock counts down, and only a trickle are allowed through the only door, they begin to get desperate and push forward in the hope of getting in. The police use their shields and clubs to beat them back. Children perched on their fathers’ shoulders cry as those at the front are crushed against the blue metal gate. Those who can scramble up the walls, grabbing on to the razor wire atop them, leaving trails of smeared blood as they go. I am in the crush, too, pressed in at all sides. ‘I am very happy, we will have our victory. This will be a victory for all of Haiti,’ shouts Johnny, an engineer and translator from Pétionville who is waiting in line with me; he seems untroubled by the deteriorating situation around him. ‘Life is very hard here,’ he cheerily explains. ‘With God everything is possible. But this is the reason why football can change something. I hope Haiti scores ten goals.’

  It is now, amidst the fermenting riot, that the US Virgin Islands team bus arrives, as if timed for maximum intimidation. The police somehow hold off the angry crowd long enough for them to enter the stadium. The faces of the players are fixed in wide-eyed horror as they glide past, presumably believing that the anger must have been organised and directed at them. As soon as the heavy blue metal gate is dragged shut, two dozen policemen with sticks wade in to try and break up the angry mob, flailing at people indiscriminately. An army truck even tries driving through, but that does little to disperse the crowd either. They simply part like a sea, and, once it has passed, crash back together to assume their assault on the gate. Just when it looks like something quite bad is about to take place, God intervenes. The rain comes, slowly at first, before growing into a torrential downpour. It dampens the anger and the fans run to take cover.

  Inside the stadium is now full as President Martelly takes to the pitch. A team of soldiers, some of them with the faces of young boys, hold machine guns and watch him from the touchlines. He is no longer in the suit and tie he was wearing a few hours ago but has donned a blue national team jersey and a red baseball cap. He receives rapturous applause from the crowd, applause that only the recently elected politician will ever recognise. Sweet Micky smiles at the reception and runs on to the pitch with a ball at his feet. He begins spinning with it and performing tricks to the delight of the crowd. A pack of journalists try to follow him, but they are not in as good shape as Sweet Micky and can barely keep up as they try to film and take photos. Eventually the president tees up the ball and boots it into the crowd.

  As Martelly warms up the crowd, the Haiti national team await their cue. They are standing in the white tunnel underneath the stadium waiting to enter the pitch in the same blue shirts that Martelly now sports. The floor has been flooded by the recent downpour. The players cough and blink hard. The smell of fresh paint is so strong that it stings the eyes and burns the throat. The blue gate at the end of the tunnel eventually creaks open. ‘Ayiti! Ayiti!’ they shout together in Creole before they walk out on to the pitch to sing the national anthem for the second time that day. The US Virgin Islands are already there, wearing white jerseys with yellow and blue hoops, warming up by running from touchline to touchline. The crowd, rather unfairly given their status as ‘extreme underdogs’, viciously boos them. A band in the crowd plays incessantly. I stand behind the US Virgin Island’s goalkeeper and wait for the deluge of goals. The crowd behind me is screaming. They are not being complimentary.

  From the kick-off it is clear that Haiti have vast technical superiority. They create a dizzying carousel of passing and movement. They pluck one impossible ball after another out of the air from head height and distribute it to a blue shirt in a single, beautiful, fluid movement. In the thick humidity, surrounded by the terrifying noise of the crowd, the US Virgin Islands are chasing shadows. They are exhausted after ten minutes. The ball has become a mirage, visible for only a second, but by the time they have sprinted to it, it has gone. Even touching it is a rarity. When they do so it is blasted high and long. None the less, it takes eighteen minutes for James Marcelin to score Haiti’s first goal. The crowd make a noise like an aeroplane crashing into a cathedral, the sound of hysteria and twisted metal. The goals keep coming and Haiti are soon 6-0 up. But somehow the US Virgin Islands hold out for the last twelve minutes without conceding. For the extreme underdog, this is a victory of sorts. The next day one of Haiti’s main newspapers, Le Nouvelliste, puts the result on the front page: ‘Haiti stomps on the Virgin Islands 6-0’. It could have been worse. Haiti hit the post three times, too. Steward Ceus, the American-born goalkeeper, is a virtual spectator until the final whistle. ‘I did touch the ball once,’ he says with a wink as he comes off the pitch. ‘But not with my hands.’

  The Haiti team lines up and walks to the steps where the president is standing, beaming with happiness. He greets each and every player, knowing that this is a rare good day. It won’t have hurt him electorally either. Sweet Micky leaves in his motorcade as the thousands of people who had earlier threatened to riot before the rains came now celebrate, running down the str
eet waiving Haitian flags as they mob his car. Several of his aides stand on the sidelines making the most of the situation. They hold big stacks of campaign stickers. They cannot give them away quickly enough. The stickers are gleefully peeled and stuck to foreheads, arms, posts and walls. They read: ‘Prezidan Martelly: Viktwa pou pep la.’ President Martelly: Victory for the People.

  **

  Willemstad, Curaçao, constituent country of the Kingdom of the Netherlands. Three days later.

  Compared to the hellish pressure in Port au Prince, Willemstad is light and calm. It might as well be on the moon. The capital of Curaçao, part of the Kingdom of the Netherlands, is a UNESCO World Heritage Site. Its huge natural harbour welcomes cruise liners from the United States, depositing tourists on to its pretty quayside. Tall-fronted, multicoloured colonial houses line its perimeter. They are unmistakably Dutch and would not be out of place in Amsterdam or The Hague. But this harbour used to deposit a very different kind of visitor. Curaçao was a central hub for the Dutch slave trade. Until the mid-eighteenth century as many as half a million slaves were shipped here. They would be held on Curaçao to recover from the appalling journey from West Africa, before being processed and moved on to the rest of the Caribbean, Brazil or the plantations of the American South. Its colonial rule over the local, Papiamentu-speaking black population was not benign. Today, in the smart old town and along the quayside, the faces are white and well fed. The shops are full of designer shoes and jackets. Oil was discovered here in the early twentieth century, enough for everyone. The stains of the past appear to have been rubbed clean.

  Edson Tavares is relieved to have returned to something approaching normality. He is now in a sea-front café, ceiling fans fluttering above. ‘We have a few problems concerning the organisation but it is always like that,’ he says of his journey getting here. The Haitian federation couldn’t afford a chartered flight for the whole team. Some left by the Dominican Republic’s capital, Santo Domingo, while the rest flew to Miami and then back to Curaçao. They were all here now, awaiting what they see as their first real test of World Cup qualification. ‘This was a training, it is not a match,’ Tavares says dismissively of his last opponents. ‘The other team was completely out of fitness. It was good for our team to get our things together. This was a weak match.’ The 6-0 scoreline hadn’t impressed Tavares, nor had the atmosphere generated by the crowd in Port au Prince. It was more a situation to manage than an atmosphere to luxuriate in. ‘They were excited. Haitian people are very emotional,’ he explains. ‘It is up to us to control the emotions of the local players. We have to care about this point.’