Algerian Poules

After a reasonable nights sleep, even with the coffee table beds, I got up refreshed after eight hours and made my way to breakfast. I had a reasonably light breakfast of cereals and fruit and still had an hour or two before we left for the venue. I headed back to my room to relax and prepare my equipment.

When the time came to leave I got on the bus with the French team. We waited on the bus for the best part of half an hour for whatever reason I don't know. I guessed that we were perhaps waiting for a police escort which never arrived as this was the one trip we took without and armed escort. Ingeniously enough this was also the one trip we took with a driver that had no idea where he was going. This gave us ample oppurtunity to see the Algerian countryside from the motorway. Every junction we passed without fail had several policemen with Kalashnikovs doing absolutely nothing apparently.

We drove and drove. None of us had any idea where the venue was but we were begining to get quite frustrated given the entry forms claims that it was 5 minutes from the hotel. After 45 minutes we reached the back gate of what was we hoped the venue. The driver drove through a make-shift shickane and up to the security gate. A heated exchange followed where the driver, I presume was telling him that this was a team for the competition and the security guard was telling him he'd have to use another gate and beckoning in a large oval indicating where the gate was to this large complex.

In the end the security guard would not give in and the bus began to slowly reverse out through the shickanes to rapturous applause from the French team. It was now only 5 minutes before the scratch. Just as we had negotiated our way backwards through the shickane another car drove up, presumably someone from the organising comittee. He berratted the security guard and beckoned to the driver to come through the gate. A series of varying salutes were given to the security guard as we eventually passed.

...

There we were the entire French and Irish teams should have been disqualified from the competition because of the incompatence of our hosts, for arriving after the scratch. Standing at the entrance of the venue it was possible to see our hotel.

The venue itself was a bizarre circular arena, shaped somewhat like a giant short white mushroom on the outside. Inside seating sourounded a large circular floor. Where eight pistes were set up (four of which were to be used for the competition). Despite there being plenty of room on the competition floor that was only open to competitors it was insisted that we leave our bags in the bleechers that were completely open to the public. Many school kids had been brought in for the day for the event and it was hard not to feel that this was not the best place for our bags.

As it happened I was to be in the second batch of poules and so our late arrival didn't make that much difference. I headed to weapons check straight away nonetheless, where the great inefficiencies of Algerian society were further displayed to me. I waited in line with Alex Rouseau and Nourdin Marouf from the French team. We had arrived at the weapons check behind the large Italian contingent. Aldo Montano, the Olympic champion, was before us in the queue. His hair gelled back, his armani jeans almost around his knees barely held up by his sparkly D&G belt. This was his comeback tournament after 3 months of injury. Right at the minute he was changing the visor in his mask.

The Algerian, the one singular Algerian, who was running weapons check was in no hurry with dealing with the Italians. He laughed and joked with Aldo, saying something about knowing his father. After each, piece of equipment was given a cursory glance, his cigarette hanging precariously from the side of his mouth as he squinted at Lamés or masks. Several of the Italians body-wires actually failed but after a series of "EH!" and some convicing shrugging of shoulders they were given there weapons mark.

Eventually my gear was inspected and past, one of my body wires checked and tagged twice and I went about warming up for the competition.

...

I should have seen the warning signs. My poule was completely mixed up. While the other poules all had a smattering of African fencers two or three in all of them, mine had only one Senegalese and no Algerian. Instead we had a Algerian referee (i.e. a crap one!)

ROSE Julien (GBR), MAROUF Nourdin (FRA), AIBOUCHEV Dmitri (RUS), ANNIBALDI Daniele (ITA) and OUEDRAOGO Julien (BUR) made up my poule. By no means an easy one particularly when compared to some of the others in the tournament.

Rose was my first match. He's a very decent fencer and highly ranked in Britain. The match went to 4-4 all. At this point rather than attacking I drop back and made him fall short. My final attack was just milliseconds to slow though and he was able to get me with a counter attack. That was a match I could have one and I knew I'd be hard pressed among the other fencers to find one that I could beat.

The ref was refusing to call the next match up and expected everyone to constantly look at the poule sheet for the next match. After getting a wrap on the knuckle I'd taken my glove off to have a look. I was surprised then to hear my name being called to the piste. When I arrived on the piste without my glove the ref summarily gave me a yellow, despite the protests that this wasn't necessary from my opponent Nourdin. While this is in the rules it is very rarely enforced and I was somewhat taken aback by the pettiness of this ref who then went on to make a balls of every second call in the whole pool.

My match against Marouf was very different to my first. Marouf is quite a short but lightning fast fencer, who's very entertaining to watch. On the other end of the piste however, I hesitated to much in my attacks and let his speed dictate the match from the start. It was a somewhat dissappointing bout and over too quickly.

Aibouchev the Russian had been frustrated by some absolutely awful refereeing decisions from the terrible referee which had handed the Burkino Fassoan an unlikely victory. By the time he reached me though he was in full flight and against my stumbling form tore me to pieces.

Annibaldi the lanky Italian was always going to be a difficult prospect and with my chances of going through beocoming slimmer by the second my spirit was whaning. Faulty electrics which I was almost certain was the cause of dodgy Italian body-wires that were allowed to pass by the dodgy Algerian doing the weapons check were the cause of us eventually moving piste. Where the faults continued but the result was never really in question.

Ouedrago - a consolation match against the bunny in the poule is not a very pleasing place to find yourself but nonetheless I tore into him and proved that I could fence to anyone watching and salvaged some dignity. My single victory of the tournament.

...

One victory is rarely going to be enough to secure passage to day two of a world cup and this was to be no exception. For the second week in a row I was to miss out on indicators with some one win fencers going through. I think I was the first or second elimination again.

I was thuroughly depressed after the poules and for the rest of the day really. Lunch didn't particularly help, when I found that the 3 day old greasy chicken was raw in the inside and the potatoe was all but entirely butter. I drank the juice and ate the bannana, the rest wasn't fit for much except the bin.

The novelty of the women's sabre WC poules did not entice me to stay at the venue for the afternoon and I soon left for the hotel after the lunch.

...

Drowning myself in the swimming pool crossed my mind but when I arrived in the pool in my hotel I was informed this was only for women and that the mens pool was over in the other hotel building. Somewhat adgitated by the news I left for the other hotel to see if I was bothered having a swim. When eventually I found the other pool in the other hotel building (which was incedentally, far nicer and much more populated than our own) the pool was so crowded mustachioed men and boys that I really couldn't have brought myself to go for a swim.

I went back to my room for the evening, only to emerge for dinner from the buffet alone. I wrote about the tournament in my fencing journal, watched some French TV and then went to bed on the rock hard bed, wiching I was back in Ireland at the Nationals that I might have won.