A Nigerian immigrant juggles the ball in the Jamestown neighbourhood of Accra, Ghana. (Photo by Anjali Nayar)

 

Accra, Ghana - In a lot of African cities the divide between rich and poor is hard to miss.

 

Shanty towns are squished between the majestic monuments and manicured lawns. This week I ventured into one such area, Jamestown, with Ghanaian journalist Isaac Kpelle.

 

From a cinematic perspective Jamestown is absolutely gorgeous - crumbling colonial buildings, a tattered lighthouse, crowded alleyways and brightly coloured wooden fishing boats. Originally settled by the coastal Ga people, it was turned into a British fort (James Fort) in the 17th Century.

 

Today it's a hardened shanty area with a working port and home to many of Ghana's best boxers (You can see more about the boxing here).

 

As soon as we descended into the neighbourhood, we were pointed to a shaded concrete slab, where greying round men were hauled out like bull sea lions, kings and guardians of their slum rock.

 

They pointed to their simple beaded bracelets, a symbol of their stature as the local fishing chiefs (see my photo essay). With their "customary" approval and an appointed security guard, we weaved in and out of the dusty lanes with ease.

 

We played with the kids until the ball got stuck in channels of oil and human waste. We played between the women stirring vats of stew until they scolded us. We even found some women boxers with great football skills.

 

Ball Magic

 

Eventually we made our way down to the docks where men sat playing games of checkers in the shade. "Do you want to play ball?" I asked a large man with muscles rippling out of his white tank top.

 

My offer was met with less than enthusiasm. I didn't even see a flicker of an eyelash. I started juggling the ball with a couple stray children and one by one the checker players joined the game. Within minutes even Mr. Strong came over to watch the play.

 

Ah, the magic of a soccer ball.

 

We moved the game to the fishing boats - juggling between the old men repairing their nets. And before I knew it, the ball was a couple hundred meters offshore. A few enthusiastic teens ventured out on a rescue mission. Afterwards, we played two-on-two in the surf.

 

By the end of it, the soccer ball was a little worse for wear, with a new gnarly gash straight through the leather (I foresee another rescue mission in the books). I had equally been marinated in seawater, seasoned with sand and seared in the sun. My body felt like a piece of crispy fried chicken.

 

Anjali's trip across Africa

 

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"Let's get out of here," said Isaac, breathing a sigh of relief as we pulled out of Jamestown a couple hours later. "This place is dangerous."

 

My sigh of relief only came when the policeman got out of our car just down the road.

 

After four years on the continent, I've had run-ins with a number of questionable characters: cult militias, AK-47-toting warriors and ghetto gangsters, to name a few. But the thing I still fear most is the police.

 

In Canada, we speak badly about policemen - how they sit in cafes, munching on donuts. But there is still that glimmer of humanity, that willingness to help when you are lost, the possibility of a second chance when you goof up.

 

But here the police's goal isn't to protect the law or people - it 's to collect enough cash for a good night on the town with the boys. The only time I've been robbed in Kenya was within 50 metres of the central police station and within 20 metres of two armed police officers. After the fact, the local newspaper vendor told me that the policemen got a cut of my belongings.

 

The police hide like predators behind bushes or in busy intersections plotting their ambush. One wrong turn, one indicator broken, one licence plate rusting and they pounce: "Busted!"

 

In Kenya, the police are so creative (greedy) that even if you haven't violated the law, they will make you believe you did.

 

"You don't have fire extinguisher," I've been scolded, though there's no law in Kenya that passenger cars need to have a fire extinguisher.

 

"You've turned right through a solid yellow line," I've been accused, despite the fact that there are no lines painted on the roads in my neighbourhood.

 

Then, like any good predator, when a police officer knows he's won, he likes to toy with his prey.

 

"I'm taking you to station. You will have to pay $100 bail or sleep there overnight." Then comes the clincher: "Or, we can settle this here."

 

Shudder.

 

When passing police check-points on this continent, I hold my breath just like I did when passing graveyards in primary school.

 

Going in for the kill

 

So you can imagine my terror when a cop pulled over our car near Accra's Independence Square just down the road from Jamestown. Isaac and I had been chatting in the car and drove straight through an intersection, despite being in a turning lane.

 

A cop appeared and waved us to pull over. He popped his head through the open window. "You should have turned right," he said. Sweat was beading off his grinning face.

 

All of a sudden the door swung open and he jumped in the back seat. "Pull over up here," he said confidently.

 

Isaac fought back: "You are sitting on my computer. Get up, arrange it nicely and close the door properly."

 

As we pulled out of the intersection, the wind caught the collection of press passes hanging from Isaac's rear-view mirror. The cop took notice. If there is one thing policemen fear, it is the people who write about how corrupt they are: journalists.

 

"You are a press man," the police officer acknowledged.

 

"We are on our way to do a story," Isaac said over his shoulder.

 

"OK, good luck with your work," said the police officer barely waiting for the car to stop before jumping out of the back seat.

 

"I forgot to lock the doors," Isaac looked over at me with a smile.

 

I caught my breath.

 

If you have suggestions of people and places I should go visit during my trek to South Africa for the World Cup, please just leave a comment on this blog or send me a direct message on Twitter at www.twitter.com/anjalinayar.

 

Next up: more police officers on the chaotic journey to Togo's capital, Lome.

 

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Canadian journalist Anjali Nayar is travelling across Africa by train, bus and foot (and when necessary by plane), and will arrive in South Africa just before the World Cup. Along the way, Anjali will tell the continent's stories through its favourite sport: soccer.

 

For the trip, Anjali will bring only the essentials on her back (camera, flip video, computer) and in her hand - a soccer ball. Every day, Anjali will play soccer, whether she's on the beaches of Accra or stuck in one of Lagos' impenetrable traffic jams. Sometimes she'll play with children in the sprawling slums and refugee camps, other times she'll play with adults in the rich diplomatic quarters of major cities.

 

Through her Destination: South Africa blog, Anjali hopes CBCSports.ca readers will discover Africa and what the World Cup and the game of soccer means to the continent.