Tn Manuel Farrusco’s bar, some three dozen men are now crowded around the old col our TV. They are watch ing the first halt of a top game in rhe Angolan first division, Atletico Sport Aviacao againsi Arletico Petroleos de Luanda. Angola is a wealthy country. Some clubs are sponsored by oil companies, are named after them or have a derrick on the club crest. Daily oil production from the offshore oil fields is already almost half that of Kuwait. Fhere is huge potential. Yer the billions end up in die pockets of a corrupt elite. In Oncoeua, far away from rhe capital, Luanda, hardly anything trickles through.
All of a sudden the screen goes black. The wind has picked up and is interfering with the satellite reception. Unperturbed, the men leave the room. Two days later, no one in the village has found out the result. ”During the 2006 World Cup, we even lost the power generator once or twice,” says Farrusco. ”The interest was tremendous, half the village wanted to see the game against Portugal. And we only lost 1-0. We got two draws as well, against Iran and Mexico.” In Oncoeua, they still enthuse about Angola’s first ever World Cup appearance as if it were yesterday.
Standing next to the bar owner is Joao Baprista, the village police chief. He is holding a bottle ol N’Gola, a popular beer named after the countrys former kings. “Angola has been torn apart by the war” the policeman says, “Here, unity begins with football. It unites us.” He doesn’t just say it. He shours it. The fact that the national team went our of the World Cup in Germany at the end of rhe group stage does nothing to dampen his optimism. On the contrary: “In South Africa in 2010, well play much better and well win a few games as well.”
What makes him so sure? Baptista pulls a bundle of kwanza notes from his pocket. He assumes a confident air and taps his finger on the sentence that adorns every Angolan banknote. A sentence like a battle cry that has followed Angolans around for over 30 years. A sentence that sounds like a call for perseverance: A Vitoria E Certa – victory is assured.

More than a million people were killed in the civil war from 1975 to 2002, when the rebels ot UNTTA, the National Union for the Total Independence of Angola, fought against: Marxist government troops. An estimated eight million mines are said to have been buried on Angolan territory. More than 40,000 have been defused in the five years since the war ended. Angola is a young country, having gained independence from its Portuguese colonial masters just 32 years ago. Most people are no older than 25. Many die in infancy; only a few reach old age.
Landmines no longer represent the greatest threat in everyday Angolan life, however. Year in, year out, more people are infected with the epidemic whose name many dare not speak. ”It’s the disease with no name,” says Jochen Cancer of German aid organisation Cap Anamtir. ”People with AIDS are ashamed to admit it.”
Cap Anamur has been battling AIDS in Oncocua for many years. Nevertheless, the virus continues to spread. In Angola, many youngsters have rhcir hrst sexual contact as young as twelve. Some men have several wives. ”Our job is to educate,” explains the 29-year-old social worker.
“Football tournaments arc an ideal way to reach people, especially youngsters.” As on this day: six teams have already arrived, two others are bogged down in the red mud somewhere in the bush. Around 200 spectators are dancing in the stand. The tournament begins. There are condoms for every goal and every victory. Ihe tournament winners are given condoms, too – plus a ball. Every so often, fans and players alike are informed about the disease with no name. “The huge enthusiasm for football helps us to bring AIDS to people’s attention,” says Canter.

Not far from the dimly lit bar, some barefoored boys chase a ball around a small, glass-strewn pitch in the twilight. Hundreds of bats fill the air above. Other boys sit on the touchline playing with faded cards bearing pictures of football stars from a foreign world – Matthaus, the six of spades, Kahn. the seven of diamonds, Deco. the ace of hearts, and Figo, rhe king of clubs.
The men and boys of rhe village garher here no matter what time of day. They come before work in the morning, in the blistering midday heat, ancl in the evening, even if it is pouring with rain. All of them play to forget. And like everyone else, the 13-year-old Joao is a war child. His father was killed when he was six. His mother disappeared in the confusion of the war. When he looks back, it is as if he has been struck by lightning. His smile disappears, and he looks years older. At moments like these, his ragged Porto shirt and a tattered boot that is way coo big for him are a great comfort. He is a good player – in spite of his handicap.
“Never leave the path” is the first rule of life in Angola. Parents drum it into their children’s heads every morning. It is a serious topic of conversation between brothers and sisters. Friends warn one another. And all across the land, posters are a reminder of the most important rule in Angola: Nunca sai estrada – stay on the toaci! But on his way home one evening five years ago, Joao forgot what people had been telling him for years. “All I wanted to do was take a shortcut, just the once.” Instead of staying on the road, he strayed off it – only by two or three metres, but that was all it took. He was just eight years old when the mine tore his right leg apart.