This weekend, I buckled and watched Zoolander, a film I'd never seen (or ever wanted to see) in its entirety. I now join the rest in the globe in praise of "Blue Steel".
Something was missing in it for me, though, and my enthusiasm was tepid and fleeting. It was a lot like watching sports.
Later, I stood with a beer on a friend's balcony. In the distance, virgin marshland; below, Slipway Community. Slipway is a shantytown of zinc-roofed shacks and squatters packed so tightly that adults must get stuck in the alleys. And from my perch above Slipway, I watched the Liberia-Nigeria football (err...soccer) match.
I use the term "watched" loosely, however, because I didn't actually see the game. (That doesn't sound like me at all.) Instead, I watched the reactions of the Slipway children, pouring out of their homes at regular intervals, screaming and running with their tiny fists in the air. Every climactic moment yielded the intense collective cry of five dozen kids on a sliver of land. I eventually dragged myself inside to join the dinner party I'd come for and which, through no fault of its own, fell flat in comparison to the scene outside. The match was a draw but it didn't matter: up and down Tubman Blvd, crowds roared. You've never seen a city celebrate 2-2 so proudly for miles. Motorbike drivers did handstands on handlebars. There was spontaneous dancing. Fans trickled out of the stadium on the cusp of religious ecstasy and walked the hour home in darkness. This was my introduction to vicarious euphoria. It's electric. (Boogie woogie woogie.)
In future, I think I'll experience the things I've avoided through the visceral joy of Liberian spectators. It is so much better than watching the real thing.
Now then. How to get a shantytown to watch tennis and Austin Powers...
Something was missing in it for me, though, and my enthusiasm was tepid and fleeting. It was a lot like watching sports.
Later, I stood with a beer on a friend's balcony. In the distance, virgin marshland; below, Slipway Community. Slipway is a shantytown of zinc-roofed shacks and squatters packed so tightly that adults must get stuck in the alleys. And from my perch above Slipway, I watched the Liberia-Nigeria football (err...soccer) match.
I use the term "watched" loosely, however, because I didn't actually see the game. (That doesn't sound like me at all.) Instead, I watched the reactions of the Slipway children, pouring out of their homes at regular intervals, screaming and running with their tiny fists in the air. Every climactic moment yielded the intense collective cry of five dozen kids on a sliver of land. I eventually dragged myself inside to join the dinner party I'd come for and which, through no fault of its own, fell flat in comparison to the scene outside. The match was a draw but it didn't matter: up and down Tubman Blvd, crowds roared. You've never seen a city celebrate 2-2 so proudly for miles. Motorbike drivers did handstands on handlebars. There was spontaneous dancing. Fans trickled out of the stadium on the cusp of religious ecstasy and walked the hour home in darkness. This was my introduction to vicarious euphoria. It's electric. (Boogie woogie woogie.)
In future, I think I'll experience the things I've avoided through the visceral joy of Liberian spectators. It is so much better than watching the real thing.
Now then. How to get a shantytown to watch tennis and Austin Powers...
2 comments:
Did you recognize Eric Northman in Zoolander?
Mouth fell open. Tears streaming down face.
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