NEW YORK-- Apparently, I slept so peacefully, no one wanted to wake me up Saturday morning.
Petrified of missing my flight back to the States waking up was never going to be an issue. Being coherent enough to not mess up my girlfriend’s meticulous planning was.
Half asleep, I see an unclear but a woman of caramel complexion in a towel not too much darker than her rummaging for clothes. I looked at my watch, found my glasses and rubbed my eyes before I realized it was Lauren and she was preparing for church.
Lauren suggested I stay at her place and pack my things while they attended church so we could head to the airport. Just as I thought about doing just that, I remembered the “special circumstances” that led to a wild few nights and included going to church on a Saturday morning one of my many only in Africa rules.
As Lauren reminded me that her church was “conservative” when it came to attire, I pulled on some dress slacks, picked out a blue dress shirt and found my blue and red tie. Her surprise was evident, but something one could tell was a pleasant occurrence.
Having never attended a Seventh Day Advantest church, I relished the opportunity to see and experience something new. Each day on my trip was marked by emotional or educational growth. It was fitting it concluded with some spiritual nourishment — even if it was winter in South Africa.
Lauren took me to the Oliver R. Tambo Airport for my mid-afternoon flight. In route we joked about the French and Italians who left South Africa before I did. Apparently the running joke being sent to inboxes across the country was “In 2006 France and Italy met in the World Cup final. In 2010 they met at the O.R. Tambo airport after early elimination.”
I bought a handful of vuvuzelas for my nieces, my brothers and sister and a book for my 20+ hour flight. Lauren and I took one final picture, gave each other a grand hug and I thanked her one final time for all her hospitality.
At 1:57 p.m. I possessed a broad smile of completion. At that moment, the clerk had taken my baggage claim form and I walked down the runway to complete my two weeks in South Africa.
That sunny Saturday afternoon was the antithesis of the dark and ominous skies that met me in Durban 16 days prior. The stark difference in the weather illuminated the difference in my confidence about my grand adventure. It was the perfect setting to say goodbye to a beautiful place that will forever be part of me.
Nelson Mandela is the person who inspired me to see his country with his autobiography. It’s only fitting that I close my blog with a quote from the Nobel Peace Prize winner an icon of the unified and dignified South Africa.
“I have discovered the secret that after climbing a great hill, one only finds that there are many more hills to climb.”
Tuesday, June 29, 2010
Ending on a high note
Watching the United States fight its way into the knockout phase of the World Cup satisfied my soccer fix.
There were a trio of matches I thought about attending, but as I told a few Americans at my hostel after the dramatic victory, “I’m going to end my World Cup experience on a high note, why ruin it by going to another game?” As it turned out the Slovakia-Italy match proved to be an exciting one; however, my company trumped being with thousands of stunned Italians in Ellis Park.
Lauren, a former au peair for my older sister, picked me up from a mall on the eastern edge of Johannesburg. I was in South African version of Wal-Mart looking for another bag to fit all the possessions I bought for myself and others when she walked up in all black with a big smile and a larger hug.
She was my company for the afternoon and evening and the one who showed me a side of Johannesburg few tourists (intentionally) see.
The plan was to spend my final two days in South Africa hanging out with Lauren and her friends and catch a few museums.
Once she told me that the museums feature things that South Africans learn in school, I was not as enthusiastic about going—since, I was under the false assumption that the museums were a supplement, not a complement, to education. Nevertheless, we did make our way to Soweto to walk through the house Nelson Mandela returned to, albeit briefly, following his imprisonment.
We made our way to Rosebank, her favorite part of town, to watch the exciting finale to Italy’s reign as world champions before grabbing a few drinks at a nearby bar. (As much as I resemble my mother with my non-existent drinking habits, I told Lauren my hard rule was bent in special circumstances.)
Thursday Lauren and I went to a bar in Melville to enjoy what South Africans call a Puza (check the spelling) Thursday. I had a couple more drinks and went into the lower level of the bar where there was dancing and other excitement. (Usually, I do not drink, go to bars/clubs and above all dance, but as I said it was a “special circumstance.”)
Friday was more of the same. I met Lauren’s brother Verny, who is my age and the center of attention. Everyone seemed to know Verny and the relationship appeared mutual.
Verny and his boy Leroy took me for a drive through Eldorado Park where they all grew up. For a few hours I spent time with the fellas, eating, getting a tour of the hood and a deeper appreciation for truth in my reporting. (Both thought Americans had notions that were not completely true because the media in this country highlights the worst of Joburg and doesn’t bother to fill in the edges that were scribbled over in journalistic crayon.)
I told the two that the only difference between Eldos and some areas of the U.S. was not as many people had grass on their front lawns. Eldorado Park had some nice houses and some that needed a lot of work. It was a township of people who not only owned their homes, but lived in them for generations.
I felt like a novelty in that I was “the American” but it was a friendly novelty. Verny and Leroy introduced me to their crew and encouraged me to get comfortable in Eldorado Park. Time leads to intricate details of our conversation being lost to activity, but as we drove through the neighborhood, I couldn’t help but think it was very similar to the area surrounding my grandmother’s house.
To cap off a Friday with the fellas, we all went out to a club in central Johannesburg. Le Mix Room recently opened, but the vibe in the two-level club was an inviting one for conversation, drinking, dancing and “other things.” I partook in all of the above with my motto being “what happens in Africa stays in Africa.”
(Earlier in my trip, someone else mentioned the same line. My instant retort at the time was “except AIDS.” However, there was little possibility of that happening at Le Mix Room Friday evening.)
What can be reported is I dressed up like a preppy American in khakis, a white button down shirt, a red sweater — apparently South Africans call them jerseys — and white and red shoes finish off the motif. Eventually the police shut down the party a little after 3 a.m., but not before I had a few drinks, bought a few more, listened to DJ Fresh and enjoyed a relapse into undergraduate impulsiveness.
The temperatures, and the cops, were not temperate after the party concluded but everyone stopped long enough to take a few pictures to remember the night and the time an American got a true taste of Johannesburg.
There were a trio of matches I thought about attending, but as I told a few Americans at my hostel after the dramatic victory, “I’m going to end my World Cup experience on a high note, why ruin it by going to another game?” As it turned out the Slovakia-Italy match proved to be an exciting one; however, my company trumped being with thousands of stunned Italians in Ellis Park.
Lauren, a former au peair for my older sister, picked me up from a mall on the eastern edge of Johannesburg. I was in South African version of Wal-Mart looking for another bag to fit all the possessions I bought for myself and others when she walked up in all black with a big smile and a larger hug.
She was my company for the afternoon and evening and the one who showed me a side of Johannesburg few tourists (intentionally) see.
The plan was to spend my final two days in South Africa hanging out with Lauren and her friends and catch a few museums.
Once she told me that the museums feature things that South Africans learn in school, I was not as enthusiastic about going—since, I was under the false assumption that the museums were a supplement, not a complement, to education. Nevertheless, we did make our way to Soweto to walk through the house Nelson Mandela returned to, albeit briefly, following his imprisonment.
We made our way to Rosebank, her favorite part of town, to watch the exciting finale to Italy’s reign as world champions before grabbing a few drinks at a nearby bar. (As much as I resemble my mother with my non-existent drinking habits, I told Lauren my hard rule was bent in special circumstances.)
Thursday Lauren and I went to a bar in Melville to enjoy what South Africans call a Puza (check the spelling) Thursday. I had a couple more drinks and went into the lower level of the bar where there was dancing and other excitement. (Usually, I do not drink, go to bars/clubs and above all dance, but as I said it was a “special circumstance.”)
Friday was more of the same. I met Lauren’s brother Verny, who is my age and the center of attention. Everyone seemed to know Verny and the relationship appeared mutual.
Verny and his boy Leroy took me for a drive through Eldorado Park where they all grew up. For a few hours I spent time with the fellas, eating, getting a tour of the hood and a deeper appreciation for truth in my reporting. (Both thought Americans had notions that were not completely true because the media in this country highlights the worst of Joburg and doesn’t bother to fill in the edges that were scribbled over in journalistic crayon.)
I told the two that the only difference between Eldos and some areas of the U.S. was not as many people had grass on their front lawns. Eldorado Park had some nice houses and some that needed a lot of work. It was a township of people who not only owned their homes, but lived in them for generations.
I felt like a novelty in that I was “the American” but it was a friendly novelty. Verny and Leroy introduced me to their crew and encouraged me to get comfortable in Eldorado Park. Time leads to intricate details of our conversation being lost to activity, but as we drove through the neighborhood, I couldn’t help but think it was very similar to the area surrounding my grandmother’s house.
To cap off a Friday with the fellas, we all went out to a club in central Johannesburg. Le Mix Room recently opened, but the vibe in the two-level club was an inviting one for conversation, drinking, dancing and “other things.” I partook in all of the above with my motto being “what happens in Africa stays in Africa.”
(Earlier in my trip, someone else mentioned the same line. My instant retort at the time was “except AIDS.” However, there was little possibility of that happening at Le Mix Room Friday evening.)
What can be reported is I dressed up like a preppy American in khakis, a white button down shirt, a red sweater — apparently South Africans call them jerseys — and white and red shoes finish off the motif. Eventually the police shut down the party a little after 3 a.m., but not before I had a few drinks, bought a few more, listened to DJ Fresh and enjoyed a relapse into undergraduate impulsiveness.
The temperatures, and the cops, were not temperate after the party concluded but everyone stopped long enough to take a few pictures to remember the night and the time an American got a true taste of Johannesburg.
Wednesday, June 23, 2010
Mass Hysteria!!!
PRETORIA-- The cacophony of noise began an hour before kickoff.
The knowledge that the United States and Algeria had to go for the victory here brought the excitement into and around the Loftus Versveld Stadium. There was chanting and flag waving but most importantly there were people from both sides playing their vuvuzelas.
American fans far outnumbered their Algerian counterparts. The hope from those in red, white and blue was the result would be as lopsided as supporters of both teams.
With the South African sun illuminating the proceedings there was American optimism—which bordered on cockiness—that Landon Donovan and Co. would advance. It was considered a formality that the US would score a goal, or two, and move on to Rustenburg Saturday to play the winners of Group D.
My seats in the East stands were about 10 rows up from the field, just about 30 yards away from the goal the United States defended in the opening half. That meant , I saw the Algerian chances in the opening 45 minutes and the Donovan goal that sent many of the 35,000 people in the stadium into euphoria.
Algeria may be an African side, but most South African indicated to me that they are supporting the United States as their secondary team behind the Bafana Bafana.
The United States had a pair of golden opportunities in the first half. When Jozy Altidore missed from eight yards away in the first half my entire section put our hands on our heads wondering how on earth someone could miss from such range.
When Herculez Gomez’ goal was ruled offsides people were wondering aloud whether someone had an agenda against the United States. It was the second straight goal that was disallowed, after a howler of a call in the Slovenia match Friday.
The disallowed goal just set up the high drama that was to ensue.
Unlike the previous two contests American fans did not debate the changes Bob Bradley made to the team. The introduction of Benny Feilhaber, Edson Buddle and finally DaMarcus Beasley excited section NN of the stadium as there was the hope that one of the three would unlock the Algerian defense.
When the fourth official notified the crowd that the United States was four minutes away from potentially going home, the optimism in the crowd remained, but it was mixed with more worry than before. People were nervously hopping up and down—no one was sitting at that point—hoping, wishing and praying that someone would put the ball in the back of the net.
As the Algerians raced down the field in the first minute of extra time, my belief started to wane. But Tim Howard — the only American who was universally praised by fans in all three group contests—was there to start the attack.
When the ball left Howard's hand, there was a collective gasp in the East stands, as American fans hoped his outlet would reach Donovan. It did, and the No. 10 raced right in front of me before whipping the ball inside for the mad scramble in front of goal.
When Donovan got on the end of the ball that sent the US into the Round of 16, not a single person in red, white or blue was in their seat. Everyone was hugging people they didn’t know, shooting pictures of the scene, waving flags, shouting at the top of their lungs or playing their vuvuzela.
To the credit of the Algerian fans, they were not belligerent and gracious in defeat. If anything the Desert Foxes and their fans were in utter disbelief that the U.S. finally broke through their defense.
Those who went to the US-England game had little positive to say about Rustenburg, or its stadium. Then again those comments were made before the United States won its group, and a date in the Round of 16...in Rustenburg.
The knowledge that the United States and Algeria had to go for the victory here brought the excitement into and around the Loftus Versveld Stadium. There was chanting and flag waving but most importantly there were people from both sides playing their vuvuzelas.
American fans far outnumbered their Algerian counterparts. The hope from those in red, white and blue was the result would be as lopsided as supporters of both teams.
With the South African sun illuminating the proceedings there was American optimism—which bordered on cockiness—that Landon Donovan and Co. would advance. It was considered a formality that the US would score a goal, or two, and move on to Rustenburg Saturday to play the winners of Group D.
My seats in the East stands were about 10 rows up from the field, just about 30 yards away from the goal the United States defended in the opening half. That meant , I saw the Algerian chances in the opening 45 minutes and the Donovan goal that sent many of the 35,000 people in the stadium into euphoria.
Algeria may be an African side, but most South African indicated to me that they are supporting the United States as their secondary team behind the Bafana Bafana.
The United States had a pair of golden opportunities in the first half. When Jozy Altidore missed from eight yards away in the first half my entire section put our hands on our heads wondering how on earth someone could miss from such range.
When Herculez Gomez’ goal was ruled offsides people were wondering aloud whether someone had an agenda against the United States. It was the second straight goal that was disallowed, after a howler of a call in the Slovenia match Friday.
The disallowed goal just set up the high drama that was to ensue.
Unlike the previous two contests American fans did not debate the changes Bob Bradley made to the team. The introduction of Benny Feilhaber, Edson Buddle and finally DaMarcus Beasley excited section NN of the stadium as there was the hope that one of the three would unlock the Algerian defense.
When the fourth official notified the crowd that the United States was four minutes away from potentially going home, the optimism in the crowd remained, but it was mixed with more worry than before. People were nervously hopping up and down—no one was sitting at that point—hoping, wishing and praying that someone would put the ball in the back of the net.
As the Algerians raced down the field in the first minute of extra time, my belief started to wane. But Tim Howard — the only American who was universally praised by fans in all three group contests—was there to start the attack.
When the ball left Howard's hand, there was a collective gasp in the East stands, as American fans hoped his outlet would reach Donovan. It did, and the No. 10 raced right in front of me before whipping the ball inside for the mad scramble in front of goal.
When Donovan got on the end of the ball that sent the US into the Round of 16, not a single person in red, white or blue was in their seat. Everyone was hugging people they didn’t know, shooting pictures of the scene, waving flags, shouting at the top of their lungs or playing their vuvuzela.
To the credit of the Algerian fans, they were not belligerent and gracious in defeat. If anything the Desert Foxes and their fans were in utter disbelief that the U.S. finally broke through their defense.
Those who went to the US-England game had little positive to say about Rustenburg, or its stadium. Then again those comments were made before the United States won its group, and a date in the Round of 16...in Rustenburg.
Tuesday, June 22, 2010
A promise is a promise
Before I left the States, I told my parents “I promise not to get eaten by lions.”
(My dad also made me swear not to mess around with the women here, but there was always a better chance of my death coming from a lion than someone wearing lion print!)
Nevertheless, the comment was aimed to poke holes in the myth that lions and other predators roam the streets of African cities, but to ensure my anxious family, and girlfriend, that I would be safe over here.
Monday’s safari, was my first chance to live up to that promise, as it was the closest I was going to get to lions. This time there were eight of us; five Americans and three Serbians.
We met Stuart, our tour guide, at a quarter to five so we could arrive at Kruger National Park when gates opened an hour later. Our open-air truck was absolutely frigid as temperatures hovered around freezing and we were traveled at close to 80 kilometers an hour.
Stuart took the time to explain the predators and diet of each animal we saw at Kruger. He even provided the reasons for each species color but being in the back of the truck I rarely heard those detailed explanations.
(Arguably the most interesting was his note that hyenas are scavengers only 10 percent of the time. The rest of the time these grey, brown and black creatures that are 40 inches high when standing on all four legs find their own food.)
The day was a blur. It was the only day of my entire South African adventure that could not be chronicled with words.
The sight of wild zebras, antelopes, elephants, gnus and a half dozen other creatures were too much for me to describe. My observations that day were behind a lens. When I was not snapping pictures, my camcorder captured the sights and sounds of Africa.
We were like school children tempting fate as we asked Stuart to take us to places inside the park where there have been lion sightings. We saw hippopotamuses, impalas, vultures and hyenas before we finally hit the jackpot 10 minutes before 11.
Not only did we see lions, we saw two lionesses and a cub eating on a wildebeest under the shade of a tree. The lions were about 50 yards from the road, but in full sight of the cars that cautiously gathered to watch this feast with their own perspective — and recording equipment.
No one dared leave our truck. Armed with enough electronics to make me an attractive target in central Johannesburg I started shooting the incredible pictures. One of my videos captured one of the larger lions tearing into the flesh for a late morning meal.
Stuart told us lions have white bellies when they are full. On this morning all three lions had their own personal Thanksgiving.
Surely, my parents were thankful the meal those three lions ate was a wildebeest, not the person who was once dubbed Wilterbeast.
(My dad also made me swear not to mess around with the women here, but there was always a better chance of my death coming from a lion than someone wearing lion print!)
Nevertheless, the comment was aimed to poke holes in the myth that lions and other predators roam the streets of African cities, but to ensure my anxious family, and girlfriend, that I would be safe over here.
Monday’s safari, was my first chance to live up to that promise, as it was the closest I was going to get to lions. This time there were eight of us; five Americans and three Serbians.
We met Stuart, our tour guide, at a quarter to five so we could arrive at Kruger National Park when gates opened an hour later. Our open-air truck was absolutely frigid as temperatures hovered around freezing and we were traveled at close to 80 kilometers an hour.
Stuart took the time to explain the predators and diet of each animal we saw at Kruger. He even provided the reasons for each species color but being in the back of the truck I rarely heard those detailed explanations.
(Arguably the most interesting was his note that hyenas are scavengers only 10 percent of the time. The rest of the time these grey, brown and black creatures that are 40 inches high when standing on all four legs find their own food.)
The day was a blur. It was the only day of my entire South African adventure that could not be chronicled with words.
The sight of wild zebras, antelopes, elephants, gnus and a half dozen other creatures were too much for me to describe. My observations that day were behind a lens. When I was not snapping pictures, my camcorder captured the sights and sounds of Africa.
We were like school children tempting fate as we asked Stuart to take us to places inside the park where there have been lion sightings. We saw hippopotamuses, impalas, vultures and hyenas before we finally hit the jackpot 10 minutes before 11.
Not only did we see lions, we saw two lionesses and a cub eating on a wildebeest under the shade of a tree. The lions were about 50 yards from the road, but in full sight of the cars that cautiously gathered to watch this feast with their own perspective — and recording equipment.
No one dared leave our truck. Armed with enough electronics to make me an attractive target in central Johannesburg I started shooting the incredible pictures. One of my videos captured one of the larger lions tearing into the flesh for a late morning meal.
Stuart told us lions have white bellies when they are full. On this morning all three lions had their own personal Thanksgiving.
Surely, my parents were thankful the meal those three lions ate was a wildebeest, not the person who was once dubbed Wilterbeast.
How the leopard avoided tourists
HOEDSPRUIT--Throughout my two days exploring the South African wilderness, I kept thinking of a Rudyard Kipling-inspired name to describe our search for leopards. After spending two hours in search of the most elusive of the Big Five, I concluded with “How the leopard avoided tourists.”
I never did find out a definitive answer about why the lion, elephant, rhinoceros, water buffalo and leopard were called the Big Five. The most credible story I heard was those animals pose the biggest threat to humans.
For nearly 18 hours over three days, I went on three separate safaris on the eastern edge of South Africa. Neither the cold, nor the lack of leopard sightings or minimal sleep deterred me from enjoying seeing animals in their natural settings.
Sunday we were taken on a night drive through Kruger National Park. Without the interruptions of rural life the moon and the stars appeared brighter. (Apparently the park is the size of Israel. An added bonus was there were not blockades — on the animals from neighboring game reserves.)
Our guide for the evening turned off the lights to the truck and allowed us to sit beside a tree without any lights or any sounds for nearly five minutes. It was then the park began to come alive as crickets, rustling in the neighboring bushes and the flight of birds could all be heard without amplification.
Sunday night we saw elephants, wildebeests, desert foxes, jackals and white rhinos during our drive. There were about 18 of us on the safari truck Sunday. Most of us were disappointed we did not see the mysterious leopard, which we were told primarily comes out at night.
Our guide told us to be optimistic as we drove to the park’s Orpen entrance to leave for the night. He said people have seen members of the Big five on the way back to their accommodation. ...
My extremities were nearly numb when we met our safari organizer to take us back to our lodge in Hoedspruit. With most of my focus expended on finding a warm seat and enjoying it, I nearly missed what was right in front of me.
A heard of nearly 100 water buffalo were crossing the road at a frantic pace. Their jaywalking blocked the road, but also allowed everyone to get pictures close to the beasts. It was too dark to take any pictures that could distinguish the dark, mud-colored buffalos from the night, but that did not stop anyone from trying.
Before our driver could get up to speed again he slammed his brakes just as quickly. There was a pride of lions on the left of the road! There were at least two females, an adolescent male and a full grown lion — and its full-grown mane — in the group, just 15 feet away from the road.
Again, it was too dark to take salvageable pictures. The awe at being so close to the king of beasts was depicted an image for a story that will be told thousands of times before I die. It’s a near-certainty the tale will get taller as the years go on because there was not photographic evidence to weigh down such a meaty story.
There was still not a sighting of the leopard. With a full 12 hours of sightseeing scheduled for Monday, spotting the last of the big five was considered, at the time, a matter of just that.
I never did find out a definitive answer about why the lion, elephant, rhinoceros, water buffalo and leopard were called the Big Five. The most credible story I heard was those animals pose the biggest threat to humans.
For nearly 18 hours over three days, I went on three separate safaris on the eastern edge of South Africa. Neither the cold, nor the lack of leopard sightings or minimal sleep deterred me from enjoying seeing animals in their natural settings.
Sunday we were taken on a night drive through Kruger National Park. Without the interruptions of rural life the moon and the stars appeared brighter. (Apparently the park is the size of Israel. An added bonus was there were not blockades — on the animals from neighboring game reserves.)
Our guide for the evening turned off the lights to the truck and allowed us to sit beside a tree without any lights or any sounds for nearly five minutes. It was then the park began to come alive as crickets, rustling in the neighboring bushes and the flight of birds could all be heard without amplification.
Sunday night we saw elephants, wildebeests, desert foxes, jackals and white rhinos during our drive. There were about 18 of us on the safari truck Sunday. Most of us were disappointed we did not see the mysterious leopard, which we were told primarily comes out at night.
Our guide told us to be optimistic as we drove to the park’s Orpen entrance to leave for the night. He said people have seen members of the Big five on the way back to their accommodation. ...
My extremities were nearly numb when we met our safari organizer to take us back to our lodge in Hoedspruit. With most of my focus expended on finding a warm seat and enjoying it, I nearly missed what was right in front of me.
A heard of nearly 100 water buffalo were crossing the road at a frantic pace. Their jaywalking blocked the road, but also allowed everyone to get pictures close to the beasts. It was too dark to take any pictures that could distinguish the dark, mud-colored buffalos from the night, but that did not stop anyone from trying.
Before our driver could get up to speed again he slammed his brakes just as quickly. There was a pride of lions on the left of the road! There were at least two females, an adolescent male and a full grown lion — and its full-grown mane — in the group, just 15 feet away from the road.
Again, it was too dark to take salvageable pictures. The awe at being so close to the king of beasts was depicted an image for a story that will be told thousands of times before I die. It’s a near-certainty the tale will get taller as the years go on because there was not photographic evidence to weigh down such a meaty story.
There was still not a sighting of the leopard. With a full 12 hours of sightseeing scheduled for Monday, spotting the last of the big five was considered, at the time, a matter of just that.
Apartheid is where it belongs — in a museum
My itinerary noted the day was one of the coveted free days on my trip. I did not have to travel, there was not a game to go see, in fact there was nothing planned for June 19.
It was in that absence of activities that I decided to go to the Apartheid Museum in Johannesburg. This country, and the city of Gold in particular, has a dark history of racism and segregation that South Africans tell me is still being cleansed from society.
Apartheid is at the fulcrum of the past that South Africa proudly displays in history museums as opposed to its statutes.
As someone who was born after the most violent demonstrations against the practice, in kindergarten when Nelson Mandela was released from prison and nine-years old when South Africa held its first democratic election
Apartheid was an opaque ideal that I never understood.
Saturday’s trip to a museum depicting South Africa’s inhumane divisions clarified all the news reports, books and other information I consumed about apartheid growing up.
It was a 150 minutes of balancing stoic emotions with utter shock at the 40 years of minority rule, the undercover murders of political protestors, the division of communities, the reservation of well-paying jobs for whites only and the list of 148 laws the country established between 1948 and 1990 directly, or indirectly, segregating the people and resources of South Africa.
Immediately visitors are reminded of the divisions that gripped South Africa. Every entrant is given a black card with white words that says either “white” or “non-white” in English and Afrikaans. Those cards determined which entrance someone entered the museum.
The cards are given to entrants at random: hence the five-minute walk through the entry being the only time in my life I have been classified white!
Pictures were not allowed inside the museum. People broke that rule, especially to take a picture of the Johannesburg skyline in the background.
(The only time I allowed myself a chuckle during my afternoon trip was when I took a picture of a group of six people—four white people, a black man and an Asian woman arms locked and smiling—with the Joburg skyline in the background.)
The museum provided a 15-minute video of the history of South Africa, which served as a backdrop for how a distinct minority could rule union so forcefully.
From there, I spent the next two hours reviewing newspaper clippings, video clips, pictures and other artifacts from the apartheid era. Unable to take pictures I scribbled as much as I could feverishly in a notebook so I would etch my own history about apartheid.
The stain of apartheid is still being undone. Until it is, the legacy of such an inhumane practice can be reviewed in a museum — a place befitting the past.
It was in that absence of activities that I decided to go to the Apartheid Museum in Johannesburg. This country, and the city of Gold in particular, has a dark history of racism and segregation that South Africans tell me is still being cleansed from society.
Apartheid is at the fulcrum of the past that South Africa proudly displays in history museums as opposed to its statutes.
As someone who was born after the most violent demonstrations against the practice, in kindergarten when Nelson Mandela was released from prison and nine-years old when South Africa held its first democratic election
Apartheid was an opaque ideal that I never understood.
Saturday’s trip to a museum depicting South Africa’s inhumane divisions clarified all the news reports, books and other information I consumed about apartheid growing up.
It was a 150 minutes of balancing stoic emotions with utter shock at the 40 years of minority rule, the undercover murders of political protestors, the division of communities, the reservation of well-paying jobs for whites only and the list of 148 laws the country established between 1948 and 1990 directly, or indirectly, segregating the people and resources of South Africa.
Immediately visitors are reminded of the divisions that gripped South Africa. Every entrant is given a black card with white words that says either “white” or “non-white” in English and Afrikaans. Those cards determined which entrance someone entered the museum.
The cards are given to entrants at random: hence the five-minute walk through the entry being the only time in my life I have been classified white!
Pictures were not allowed inside the museum. People broke that rule, especially to take a picture of the Johannesburg skyline in the background.
(The only time I allowed myself a chuckle during my afternoon trip was when I took a picture of a group of six people—four white people, a black man and an Asian woman arms locked and smiling—with the Joburg skyline in the background.)
The museum provided a 15-minute video of the history of South Africa, which served as a backdrop for how a distinct minority could rule union so forcefully.
From there, I spent the next two hours reviewing newspaper clippings, video clips, pictures and other artifacts from the apartheid era. Unable to take pictures I scribbled as much as I could feverishly in a notebook so I would etch my own history about apartheid.
The stain of apartheid is still being undone. Until it is, the legacy of such an inhumane practice can be reviewed in a museum — a place befitting the past.
A South African Vagabond
As the first week of my trip came to a close so did my one-night cameos. It was not until Durban that I slept in the same place for two consecutive nights.
The constant movement allowed me to see the interesting sections of a city and move on before that image could be sullied by potential burglars, poor service, the weather or anything else that organizers of the tournament feared would torment tourists during the World Cup.
Each accommodation and each city was a new learning experience. Not only was I learning about historical and cultural events, I was learning about myself.
Johannesburg was a lesson in discernment and trust, as well as a massive metropolis to find oneself lost physically or otherwise. Vereeniging and Rustenburg exemplified the kindness of others and the dismantling of any lingering stereotypes I had of South Africa and specifically Africans.
Cape Town was the most beautiful city I have ever seen. It also featured some of the ugliest reminders of apartheid. The paradox between those two was an African reminder that things are not as glossy as the surface appears. (To me that was different from not judging a book, or person, by its cover because I did not have any preconditioned thoughts about the edge of the Atlantic and Indian Oceans.)
Port Elizabeth is a sleepy city. No matter how beautiful the Nelson Mandela Bay Stadium may be, how much money the city spends on a shuttle service for the World Cup, how many flags fly from the Boardwalk and the condos along the beach, or the activity of its port PE still has the feel of a small town by the sea. Such intimacy was lost during my jet-setting, which is why perspective is a powerful tool when reviewing anything in life.
If there is one thing I was told about Durban was that it was warm and it was South Africa’s version of South Beach. Neither could accurately describe my two days there, as the strong winds made a 70 degree day feel cooler and the public debauchery — even on a Match Day — was more comparable to Daytona, not Miami.
The “warmest place to watch the World Cup” did not conclude my traveling. A dip in the Indian Ocean simply put cold water on my jet-fueled journey through South Africa.
The constant movement allowed me to see the interesting sections of a city and move on before that image could be sullied by potential burglars, poor service, the weather or anything else that organizers of the tournament feared would torment tourists during the World Cup.
Each accommodation and each city was a new learning experience. Not only was I learning about historical and cultural events, I was learning about myself.
Johannesburg was a lesson in discernment and trust, as well as a massive metropolis to find oneself lost physically or otherwise. Vereeniging and Rustenburg exemplified the kindness of others and the dismantling of any lingering stereotypes I had of South Africa and specifically Africans.
Cape Town was the most beautiful city I have ever seen. It also featured some of the ugliest reminders of apartheid. The paradox between those two was an African reminder that things are not as glossy as the surface appears. (To me that was different from not judging a book, or person, by its cover because I did not have any preconditioned thoughts about the edge of the Atlantic and Indian Oceans.)
Port Elizabeth is a sleepy city. No matter how beautiful the Nelson Mandela Bay Stadium may be, how much money the city spends on a shuttle service for the World Cup, how many flags fly from the Boardwalk and the condos along the beach, or the activity of its port PE still has the feel of a small town by the sea. Such intimacy was lost during my jet-setting, which is why perspective is a powerful tool when reviewing anything in life.
If there is one thing I was told about Durban was that it was warm and it was South Africa’s version of South Beach. Neither could accurately describe my two days there, as the strong winds made a 70 degree day feel cooler and the public debauchery — even on a Match Day — was more comparable to Daytona, not Miami.
The “warmest place to watch the World Cup” did not conclude my traveling. A dip in the Indian Ocean simply put cold water on my jet-fueled journey through South Africa.
Saturday, June 19, 2010
Casual Friday 2.0
JOHANNESBURG-- Friday was perhaps the longest day of my trip to date.
My day started in Durban at 4:45 a.m. and ended here a little before 2 a.m. In between I caught a flight, met a new friend, watched a tremendous soccer match at Ellis Park, got lost on the streets of Joburg and caught up with some Americans at my accommodation.
It was an incredible pace, but one that has made my adventures here in South Africa absolutely incredible so far.
After losing my cool at the airport, I ran into a woman from New York who was the most fun a person traveling could ask for. We went to the mall to buy warmer clothes, at lunch together and caught a taxi to Ellis Park for the US vs. Slovenia match.
Dominique and I were truly two Americans abroad. We laughed about our families, friends, and our love for the sights we have seen on our respective journeys.
As for the match, it was arguably the most exciting group match to date. Both teams attacked, both scored goals, there were crunching tackles, play acting from the Slovenians after being dispossessed, and an atmosphere that was unique to the World Cup.
Fortunately for me all the goals were scored on the north end. My seats were about 10 rows up on the East side of Ellis Park in an even line with the penalty area on the North end. (I was no more than 70 feet away from the pitch.)
With the United States in search of two second half goals, my perch was perfect for seeing the runs people were making off the ball, watching Jozy Altidore develop as a target striker and watch in pure euphoria when Michael Bradley scored the tying goal. (Had Altidore's goal counted, I would still be drenched in beer from the spraying that took place in my section!)
Unlike the game in Rustenburg, I didn't lose my voice after the match. I was too busy shooting pictures and videos to truly lose my voice this time. Plus, I was trying to watch my mouth because the referee from Mali was out of his depth in the match and it was evident to everyone in the stadium.
It took 90 minutes for me to set up my transport from the game out to my accommodation, but it allowed me to grab some food and speak with a few more South Africans. The longer I stay here, the more I think South Africans could be honorary southerners for all the hospitality they have shown me.
It would be fashionable to complain about the cold weather here, but I later found out that Johannesburg experienced record low temperatures during the first week of the World Cup. (For once, something here that FIFA had no control over, nor could they take the credit away from South Africa!)
Durban was billed as the "warmest place to watch the World Cup." It may have been a true statement, but the cold, dry air of Johannesburg is what got my blood going for a Friday unlike any other.
My day started in Durban at 4:45 a.m. and ended here a little before 2 a.m. In between I caught a flight, met a new friend, watched a tremendous soccer match at Ellis Park, got lost on the streets of Joburg and caught up with some Americans at my accommodation.
It was an incredible pace, but one that has made my adventures here in South Africa absolutely incredible so far.
After losing my cool at the airport, I ran into a woman from New York who was the most fun a person traveling could ask for. We went to the mall to buy warmer clothes, at lunch together and caught a taxi to Ellis Park for the US vs. Slovenia match.
Dominique and I were truly two Americans abroad. We laughed about our families, friends, and our love for the sights we have seen on our respective journeys.
As for the match, it was arguably the most exciting group match to date. Both teams attacked, both scored goals, there were crunching tackles, play acting from the Slovenians after being dispossessed, and an atmosphere that was unique to the World Cup.
Fortunately for me all the goals were scored on the north end. My seats were about 10 rows up on the East side of Ellis Park in an even line with the penalty area on the North end. (I was no more than 70 feet away from the pitch.)
With the United States in search of two second half goals, my perch was perfect for seeing the runs people were making off the ball, watching Jozy Altidore develop as a target striker and watch in pure euphoria when Michael Bradley scored the tying goal. (Had Altidore's goal counted, I would still be drenched in beer from the spraying that took place in my section!)
Unlike the game in Rustenburg, I didn't lose my voice after the match. I was too busy shooting pictures and videos to truly lose my voice this time. Plus, I was trying to watch my mouth because the referee from Mali was out of his depth in the match and it was evident to everyone in the stadium.
It took 90 minutes for me to set up my transport from the game out to my accommodation, but it allowed me to grab some food and speak with a few more South Africans. The longer I stay here, the more I think South Africans could be honorary southerners for all the hospitality they have shown me.
It would be fashionable to complain about the cold weather here, but I later found out that Johannesburg experienced record low temperatures during the first week of the World Cup. (For once, something here that FIFA had no control over, nor could they take the credit away from South Africa!)
Durban was billed as the "warmest place to watch the World Cup." It may have been a true statement, but the cold, dry air of Johannesburg is what got my blood going for a Friday unlike any other.
Wednesday, June 16, 2010
The Youth of a Nation
Apartheid had devastating effects on all elements of South African life. Many people lost their rights, freedoms, livelihoods and even lives as they struggled to overthrow this divisive and racist form of governance.
One of the most telling such instances took place in Soweto on this date in 1976. Scores of youths, school-aged children, were killed as they protested apartheid and their requirement to learn Afrikaans. To remember their commitment to “the struggle” South Africa considers June 16 Youth Day.
It’s a holiday that caught many foreigners completely by surprise. But as President Jacob Zuma said in a nationally televised speech today, the World Cup allows the country to share this unique day in its history with the world.
Every country knows that its prosperity is tied up in the fortunes of its youth. For South Africa a country less than a generation into democratic rule the youth take on a broader significance to the health of the republic. People and politicians agree about this, more so the people than the politicos.
During breakfast Wednesday morning in Port Elizabeth Linda and Joe, a couple on holiday from Johannesburg, spoke about the importance of youth and how much South Africa has changed in just 16 years.
South Africa still has its issues, but the vacationing couple was insistent that so much has changed since democracy usurped divisiveness here. Maybe South Africans are playing nice for the tourists, but there is not as much readily apparent division here as there is in the United States. Linda and Joe buttressed that observation with their comments over omelets and toast.
Sports have brought this country together even more.
Sports always have a way of bringing people together, but this World Cup will likely have more of a lasting impact here, even if the Bafana Bafana don’t qualify for the knockout stages, than victory in the 1995 Rugby World Cup (think of the movie Invictus) or winning the 1996 African Cup of Nations on home soil.
So what does soccer, and its long history of inclusiveness, have to do with Youth Day?
Wednesday night in Durban a little boy, no older than four, was dancing and playing his vuvuzela. No one bothered to mention or care that he looked any different from them — with the exception his Bafana Bafana shirt was smaller.
One of the most telling such instances took place in Soweto on this date in 1976. Scores of youths, school-aged children, were killed as they protested apartheid and their requirement to learn Afrikaans. To remember their commitment to “the struggle” South Africa considers June 16 Youth Day.
It’s a holiday that caught many foreigners completely by surprise. But as President Jacob Zuma said in a nationally televised speech today, the World Cup allows the country to share this unique day in its history with the world.
Every country knows that its prosperity is tied up in the fortunes of its youth. For South Africa a country less than a generation into democratic rule the youth take on a broader significance to the health of the republic. People and politicians agree about this, more so the people than the politicos.
During breakfast Wednesday morning in Port Elizabeth Linda and Joe, a couple on holiday from Johannesburg, spoke about the importance of youth and how much South Africa has changed in just 16 years.
South Africa still has its issues, but the vacationing couple was insistent that so much has changed since democracy usurped divisiveness here. Maybe South Africans are playing nice for the tourists, but there is not as much readily apparent division here as there is in the United States. Linda and Joe buttressed that observation with their comments over omelets and toast.
Sports have brought this country together even more.
Sports always have a way of bringing people together, but this World Cup will likely have more of a lasting impact here, even if the Bafana Bafana don’t qualify for the knockout stages, than victory in the 1995 Rugby World Cup (think of the movie Invictus) or winning the 1996 African Cup of Nations on home soil.
So what does soccer, and its long history of inclusiveness, have to do with Youth Day?
Wednesday night in Durban a little boy, no older than four, was dancing and playing his vuvuzela. No one bothered to mention or care that he looked any different from them — with the exception his Bafana Bafana shirt was smaller.
The Friendly City...sans the Internet
PORT ELIZABETH--Having burned through most of my rand in Cape Town, I was hoping I could enjoy a day in Port Elizabeth on the cheap. But as one person told me on a bus ride Tuesday night: “You’re an American. The conversion rate makes you rich.”
In South Africa weather goes up the cape from west to east. Meaning, the rain and cold I enjoyed in Cape Town was also here in PE.
Our bus arrived a few moments before 7 a.m. With the rain exacerbating the chilly air, I was not in a mood to explore the city in search of breakfast before taking a taxi to my bed and breakfast. The first three times I called my accommodation to set up a taxi the phone rang for eternity.
After beginning to lose the veneer of patience and arriving within a dangerous proximity of showing how much of an American ass I can be when annoyed, I asked whether the bus company knew of a taxi service. In what can only be described as an angel looking out for me, a woman behind the Intercape counter told me she would catch a taxi for me that would take me to the Park Plaza Bed and Breakfast.
A conversation with the taxi driver allowed me to remember why I was in Port Elizabeth in the first place—to see a pair of world class soccer players in the World Cup.
Tuesday’s game between Cote d Ivoire and Portugal was the talk of the town. Featuring Didier Drogba and former World Player of the Year Cristiano Ronaldo, as well as other players who are known throughout the soccer world, the match was one of the most anticipated of the group stage.
I dropped off my big bag at the bed and breakfast and went to see the city and find food. The wind was whipping in off the Indian Ocean, making it paramount I figured out PE’s public transportation sooner (warmer) than later (chillier).
The Beachfront is a popular place with locals and tourists alike, so I spent a few hours there. I bought a brunch that was twice as much as I thought it would be because I didn’t speak clearly. So much for the South African perception that Americans enunciate more than they do; or the thought of me saving money during my day here.
I went to the hotel to take my first shower in two days. After reading my professor’s Facebook post about Cote d Ivoire this spring, I put on warm clothes and found as much orange and green as possible so I could show my support for the Elephants, even if my hands were in my pockets and my vuvuzela remained quiet.
(No one here asked me what FAMU meant, but it didn’t matter. I’m too proud a Ratter to travel internationally and not let people know who educated me.)
I met George, a Lisbon resident who lived for Jacksonville for three years, on a bus that took us to Nelson Mandela Bay Stadium. He showed me a couple pictures from the time he spent earlier in the week playing with a six month old tiger. We spoke about his team’s chances, Ronaldo’s penchant for unnecessary diving and how the U.S. surprised a lot of people with its draw against the Three Lions.
Our bus approached the beautiful stadium, which is no more than two kilometers from the bay, about an hour prior to kickoff.
George excitedly ran inside to see how his Portuguese side looked in training. Meanwhile, I meandered about taking it all in and snapping pictures of the stadium and the city in the background. I arrived at my seat—in the upper deck, but right at midfield—just in time to shoot pictures of both teams training.
Had I brought more clothes, I would have been more demonstrative about the contest. Nevertheless, I was very happy to be in a stadium with so many world class players. Fortunately, for me and the Elephants, Cote d Ivoire captain Didier Drogba recovered enough from an arm injury to take the field for the final 25 minutes of the match.
The game was a stalemate that ended scoreless. Neither team really tested the opposing goalkeepers as Ronaldo won Man of the Match almost solely on reputation alone.
It took a while, but I made it back to my bed and breakfast in time to catch the prime time contest between Brazil and North Korea. Knowing I had to give the bed and breakfast R625 for my room, I left at halftime in search of an Internet cafe or a wireless hotspot to make a seamless transfer.
But things were not as they seemed.
Port Elizabeth may have Internet connectivity, but it’s certainly not comparable to what is available in the United States. The more places I went, the more I became frustrated. Finally, after losing enough cool to chill the seaside city by myself, I stormed back to my hotel fuming at the prospect of the dearth of online options.
My girlfriend and I worked it all out. As I said my prayers Tuesday, I expressed thanks for the trials placed before me that day.
That adversity led to a conversation Wednesday morning that once again highlighted the differences between South Africa and America. This time it was South Africans who were wondering aloud why things were unintentionally complex.
In South Africa weather goes up the cape from west to east. Meaning, the rain and cold I enjoyed in Cape Town was also here in PE.
Our bus arrived a few moments before 7 a.m. With the rain exacerbating the chilly air, I was not in a mood to explore the city in search of breakfast before taking a taxi to my bed and breakfast. The first three times I called my accommodation to set up a taxi the phone rang for eternity.
After beginning to lose the veneer of patience and arriving within a dangerous proximity of showing how much of an American ass I can be when annoyed, I asked whether the bus company knew of a taxi service. In what can only be described as an angel looking out for me, a woman behind the Intercape counter told me she would catch a taxi for me that would take me to the Park Plaza Bed and Breakfast.
A conversation with the taxi driver allowed me to remember why I was in Port Elizabeth in the first place—to see a pair of world class soccer players in the World Cup.
Tuesday’s game between Cote d Ivoire and Portugal was the talk of the town. Featuring Didier Drogba and former World Player of the Year Cristiano Ronaldo, as well as other players who are known throughout the soccer world, the match was one of the most anticipated of the group stage.
I dropped off my big bag at the bed and breakfast and went to see the city and find food. The wind was whipping in off the Indian Ocean, making it paramount I figured out PE’s public transportation sooner (warmer) than later (chillier).
The Beachfront is a popular place with locals and tourists alike, so I spent a few hours there. I bought a brunch that was twice as much as I thought it would be because I didn’t speak clearly. So much for the South African perception that Americans enunciate more than they do; or the thought of me saving money during my day here.
I went to the hotel to take my first shower in two days. After reading my professor’s Facebook post about Cote d Ivoire this spring, I put on warm clothes and found as much orange and green as possible so I could show my support for the Elephants, even if my hands were in my pockets and my vuvuzela remained quiet.
(No one here asked me what FAMU meant, but it didn’t matter. I’m too proud a Ratter to travel internationally and not let people know who educated me.)
I met George, a Lisbon resident who lived for Jacksonville for three years, on a bus that took us to Nelson Mandela Bay Stadium. He showed me a couple pictures from the time he spent earlier in the week playing with a six month old tiger. We spoke about his team’s chances, Ronaldo’s penchant for unnecessary diving and how the U.S. surprised a lot of people with its draw against the Three Lions.
Our bus approached the beautiful stadium, which is no more than two kilometers from the bay, about an hour prior to kickoff.
George excitedly ran inside to see how his Portuguese side looked in training. Meanwhile, I meandered about taking it all in and snapping pictures of the stadium and the city in the background. I arrived at my seat—in the upper deck, but right at midfield—just in time to shoot pictures of both teams training.
Had I brought more clothes, I would have been more demonstrative about the contest. Nevertheless, I was very happy to be in a stadium with so many world class players. Fortunately, for me and the Elephants, Cote d Ivoire captain Didier Drogba recovered enough from an arm injury to take the field for the final 25 minutes of the match.
The game was a stalemate that ended scoreless. Neither team really tested the opposing goalkeepers as Ronaldo won Man of the Match almost solely on reputation alone.
It took a while, but I made it back to my bed and breakfast in time to catch the prime time contest between Brazil and North Korea. Knowing I had to give the bed and breakfast R625 for my room, I left at halftime in search of an Internet cafe or a wireless hotspot to make a seamless transfer.
But things were not as they seemed.
Port Elizabeth may have Internet connectivity, but it’s certainly not comparable to what is available in the United States. The more places I went, the more I became frustrated. Finally, after losing enough cool to chill the seaside city by myself, I stormed back to my hotel fuming at the prospect of the dearth of online options.
My girlfriend and I worked it all out. As I said my prayers Tuesday, I expressed thanks for the trials placed before me that day.
That adversity led to a conversation Wednesday morning that once again highlighted the differences between South Africa and America. This time it was South Africans who were wondering aloud why things were unintentionally complex.
Cape of Storms lives up to billing. (36 Hours in Cape Town part II)
Sunday night was spent writing and learning more about South Africa. Since it’s pretty easy for South Africans to spot an American abroad, I chose to exploit being a Westerner. I asked the staff at the Backpack and Travel Center a handful of probing questions about Cape Town, South Africa and perceptions of both.
South Africa is a beautiful combination of cosmopolitan cities like here and Johannesburg as well as the rural bush too many people think is prevalent here. Before I left I knew the Big Five did not roam the streets of any city, but my conversation with Melanie, Caroline and Brandon in Cape Town ensured any lingering perceptions akin to that were complete rubbish.
Unfortunately it was during my conversation with Brandon that my hopes of going to Robben Island were dashed. He told me that when it rains in Cape Town the Atlantic Ocean swells to as high as 30 feet—making it impossible and unsafe for a ferry to carry people 10 kilometers into the sea.
I called my girlfriend to see if we could organize a return trip to the Western Cape during my final two days in South Africa. We looked up flights, accommodations, whether there was a game here and the availability of everything before I resigned myself to the fact I was not going to Robben Island—on this trip.
Monday, I slept in. In search of a museum or something colorful I was told about a sightseeing bus that would take me through Cape Town and the surrounding beaches for R120.
This bus took people up Table Mountain for the pictures of a lifetime. Then through the suburban beaches that are popular with photographers—of the personal and professional variety. Finally my two-hour tour concluded with a jaunt through the heart of the city.
Driving by the white building that created, then dismantled apartheid was surreal. To add to the mix of emotions was driving past the District 6 neighborhood, which is less than a quarter mile from the origin of South African bigotry.
District 6 was a predominately black neighborhood that was razed in the 60s because the government wanted to redevelop this part of Cape Town. Our guide told us 85 percent of District 6 remains uninhabited. More than 40 years later there are still patches of land that are little more than grass and weeds—quiet symbols of the once vibrant community that had homesteads here.
(I couldn’t help but think of New Orleans and the Lower Ninth Ward as I snapped pictures of District 6. It wasn’t until days later that my mind allowed me to realize that District 6 was completely a man-made wasteland.)
I took the sightseeing tour twice, once to see the city and a second time to avoid having to pay a taxi to take me from my hostel to the bus station. With the Italy-Paraguay game kicking off later Monday evening traffic downtown was as thick as a stereotypical Italian defense.
Eventually, I caught my bus for the 12-hour trip up to Port Elizabeth. My 36 hours in Cape Town were over. My adventures battling the rain, wind and cold were just beginning.
South Africa is a beautiful combination of cosmopolitan cities like here and Johannesburg as well as the rural bush too many people think is prevalent here. Before I left I knew the Big Five did not roam the streets of any city, but my conversation with Melanie, Caroline and Brandon in Cape Town ensured any lingering perceptions akin to that were complete rubbish.
Unfortunately it was during my conversation with Brandon that my hopes of going to Robben Island were dashed. He told me that when it rains in Cape Town the Atlantic Ocean swells to as high as 30 feet—making it impossible and unsafe for a ferry to carry people 10 kilometers into the sea.
I called my girlfriend to see if we could organize a return trip to the Western Cape during my final two days in South Africa. We looked up flights, accommodations, whether there was a game here and the availability of everything before I resigned myself to the fact I was not going to Robben Island—on this trip.
Monday, I slept in. In search of a museum or something colorful I was told about a sightseeing bus that would take me through Cape Town and the surrounding beaches for R120.
This bus took people up Table Mountain for the pictures of a lifetime. Then through the suburban beaches that are popular with photographers—of the personal and professional variety. Finally my two-hour tour concluded with a jaunt through the heart of the city.
Driving by the white building that created, then dismantled apartheid was surreal. To add to the mix of emotions was driving past the District 6 neighborhood, which is less than a quarter mile from the origin of South African bigotry.
District 6 was a predominately black neighborhood that was razed in the 60s because the government wanted to redevelop this part of Cape Town. Our guide told us 85 percent of District 6 remains uninhabited. More than 40 years later there are still patches of land that are little more than grass and weeds—quiet symbols of the once vibrant community that had homesteads here.
(I couldn’t help but think of New Orleans and the Lower Ninth Ward as I snapped pictures of District 6. It wasn’t until days later that my mind allowed me to realize that District 6 was completely a man-made wasteland.)
I took the sightseeing tour twice, once to see the city and a second time to avoid having to pay a taxi to take me from my hostel to the bus station. With the Italy-Paraguay game kicking off later Monday evening traffic downtown was as thick as a stereotypical Italian defense.
Eventually, I caught my bus for the 12-hour trip up to Port Elizabeth. My 36 hours in Cape Town were over. My adventures battling the rain, wind and cold were just beginning.
36 Hours in Cape Town (pt. I)
THE GARDEN ROUTE--The problem is where to begin when describing a city that has world-class beaches, infamous landmarks, scenic beauty, an underreported history, a uniquely South African vibe and incredible people.
That is what comprises the greater Cape Town area and also what makes it irresistible to visitors. This city did not need the World Cup to highlight its winter, but the folks at FIFA are not as foolish to neglect South Africa’s third largest city and home to some stunning man-made and natural images.
The dichotomy between man and nature is visible from the Cape Town Stadium, which will host eight games during the World Cup. Visitors can easily see Table Mountain rising above the city in the background. In the foreground, one a clear day, they can also see the inhumanity that was Robben Island 10 kilometers off the shore.
Robben Island is where the apartheid government banished Nelson Mandela for 27 years for his acts of non-violent political dissent. It was also my sole reason for seeing this city—at least before I touched down.
Unfortunately, my timing was as impeccable as a Robert Green blunder. My flight from Johannesburg just happened to be on the coldest day of the winter to date. When the seas get choppy the ferries out to Robben Island are closed because the waves can reach as high as 30 feet.
At least the weather cooperated long enough for me to take in the city’s picturesque sights as we approached the Cape Town International Airport. The pilot flew across this metropolitan area of 5 million people, into the Atlantic Ocean for a low profile view of the turquoise-blue waters, before landing just after 10 a.m. Sunday morning.
My hostel, The Backpack and Travel Center, is one of the best in Africa and HostelWorld.com has previously named it one of the ten best on the planet. It certainly lived up to its billing. (Writer’s note, don’t be surprised if you see that sentence again, but in a different contest.)
The goal was to update my blog, book a trip to Robben Island for Monday and go see the city. Little did I know how much my supposedly intricate plans depended on the weather.
Packed and prepared to go on a mini-adventure, I started watching a soccer match. Originally, I was going to stay 10 minutes...then until halftime...then until the first goal before resigning to waiting until the end of the match.
The lure of the Ghana-Serbia match is what allowed me to catch up with a handful of Americans who were also at The Backpack and Travel Center. We all ate, shared which matches we were attending and where we were from. Later, we found out that our hostel usually doesn’t have so many Americans there at one point, but it was a welcome change of pace.
We made plans to eat, but the Germany-Australia match was coming on, so three dozen people watched the game on two screens and cheered that the World Cup finally had a back-and-forth contest that produced goals.
That is what comprises the greater Cape Town area and also what makes it irresistible to visitors. This city did not need the World Cup to highlight its winter, but the folks at FIFA are not as foolish to neglect South Africa’s third largest city and home to some stunning man-made and natural images.
The dichotomy between man and nature is visible from the Cape Town Stadium, which will host eight games during the World Cup. Visitors can easily see Table Mountain rising above the city in the background. In the foreground, one a clear day, they can also see the inhumanity that was Robben Island 10 kilometers off the shore.
Robben Island is where the apartheid government banished Nelson Mandela for 27 years for his acts of non-violent political dissent. It was also my sole reason for seeing this city—at least before I touched down.
Unfortunately, my timing was as impeccable as a Robert Green blunder. My flight from Johannesburg just happened to be on the coldest day of the winter to date. When the seas get choppy the ferries out to Robben Island are closed because the waves can reach as high as 30 feet.
At least the weather cooperated long enough for me to take in the city’s picturesque sights as we approached the Cape Town International Airport. The pilot flew across this metropolitan area of 5 million people, into the Atlantic Ocean for a low profile view of the turquoise-blue waters, before landing just after 10 a.m. Sunday morning.
My hostel, The Backpack and Travel Center, is one of the best in Africa and HostelWorld.com has previously named it one of the ten best on the planet. It certainly lived up to its billing. (Writer’s note, don’t be surprised if you see that sentence again, but in a different contest.)
The goal was to update my blog, book a trip to Robben Island for Monday and go see the city. Little did I know how much my supposedly intricate plans depended on the weather.
Packed and prepared to go on a mini-adventure, I started watching a soccer match. Originally, I was going to stay 10 minutes...then until halftime...then until the first goal before resigning to waiting until the end of the match.
The lure of the Ghana-Serbia match is what allowed me to catch up with a handful of Americans who were also at The Backpack and Travel Center. We all ate, shared which matches we were attending and where we were from. Later, we found out that our hostel usually doesn’t have so many Americans there at one point, but it was a welcome change of pace.
We made plans to eat, but the Germany-Australia match was coming on, so three dozen people watched the game on two screens and cheered that the World Cup finally had a back-and-forth contest that produced goals.
Sunday, June 13, 2010
Congratulations for dodgy goalkeeping
RUSTENBURG--The much-hyped match between the United States and England did not disappoint anyone who filed into Royal Bafokeng Park here.
The US may have been outnumbered 5:1 in fans inside the stadium, by a similar ratio when it comes to world-class players; however, the 1-1 result was all that mattered.
The clocks did not work on either end of the field, but just about everyone in the stadium had a sense of how much time was left in the two halves. A scoreboard was surplus to requirements as the noise in the stadium was the best indicator of not only which team won possession but who was closer to breaking the deadlock.
The television may have shown pictures different from what people inside this loud stadium witnessed, but it was a match where the result was deserved—even if the method in achieving it was not.
England dominated the game in the early going, exploiting space between the two American central defenders. Goalkeeper Tim Howard rightfully screamed at his defense for the lapse that allowed English captain Steven Gerrard to walk in and score on the Three Lions first shot of the game.
Howard eventually made his presence known with his commanding play in goal. The difference between Howard and fellow English Premier League goalkeeper Robert Green was stark—and the Americans I sat with made a point to mention that to the two English men who were in the row in front of us.
(Interestingly: another EPL player was in our midst. Sunderland defender Anton Ferdinand, whose brother Rio is the English captain, sat in the row in front of us watching the game with a handful of people from England. That’s Anton who is in the background in my picture after 90 minutes in Rustenburg.)
There were some disagreements about which team got the better of their opponent. But most people in the stadium said the result was a fair one. The U.S. only had two real scoring chances, but in the same context England had more opportunities and squandered them.
When the Brazilian referee finally blew the whistle to indicate the match was over there were handshakes from both sides—of fans—for a good job on the evening and wishes for good luck against the perceived minnows of the group Slovenia and Algeria.
Unfortunately the person who brought a sign indicating all the important victories over the English (1776, 1812 and 1950) will not have another date to add to his banner.
The solace in the draw may be the congratulations many American supporters received from South Africans and many soccer fans about how far the team has progressed since they last saw the stars and stripes at the Confederations Cup.
The US may have been outnumbered 5:1 in fans inside the stadium, by a similar ratio when it comes to world-class players; however, the 1-1 result was all that mattered.
The clocks did not work on either end of the field, but just about everyone in the stadium had a sense of how much time was left in the two halves. A scoreboard was surplus to requirements as the noise in the stadium was the best indicator of not only which team won possession but who was closer to breaking the deadlock.
The television may have shown pictures different from what people inside this loud stadium witnessed, but it was a match where the result was deserved—even if the method in achieving it was not.
England dominated the game in the early going, exploiting space between the two American central defenders. Goalkeeper Tim Howard rightfully screamed at his defense for the lapse that allowed English captain Steven Gerrard to walk in and score on the Three Lions first shot of the game.
Howard eventually made his presence known with his commanding play in goal. The difference between Howard and fellow English Premier League goalkeeper Robert Green was stark—and the Americans I sat with made a point to mention that to the two English men who were in the row in front of us.
(Interestingly: another EPL player was in our midst. Sunderland defender Anton Ferdinand, whose brother Rio is the English captain, sat in the row in front of us watching the game with a handful of people from England. That’s Anton who is in the background in my picture after 90 minutes in Rustenburg.)
There were some disagreements about which team got the better of their opponent. But most people in the stadium said the result was a fair one. The U.S. only had two real scoring chances, but in the same context England had more opportunities and squandered them.
When the Brazilian referee finally blew the whistle to indicate the match was over there were handshakes from both sides—of fans—for a good job on the evening and wishes for good luck against the perceived minnows of the group Slovenia and Algeria.
Unfortunately the person who brought a sign indicating all the important victories over the English (1776, 1812 and 1950) will not have another date to add to his banner.
The solace in the draw may be the congratulations many American supporters received from South Africans and many soccer fans about how far the team has progressed since they last saw the stars and stripes at the Confederations Cup.
On the way to Rustenburg
June 12 is the reason Americans traveled en masse to South Africa.
On the 60th anniversary of the greatest upset in World Cup history the United States faced the English in their first game of the 2010 World Cup. Multiple South African media outlets have reported that no other country had more residents purchase tickets to the bottom of the world than the United States.
Rustenberg is nowhere near the country’s three biggest cities, which is where most Americans are based. The two hour drive between Rustenburg and Johannesburg made getting there difficult, but not impossible, for the thousands of fans who not only made the trip, but scored a coveted ticket.
Stefan and Peter Galich saw an opening and organized a bus trip to take more than 200 supporters from Johannesburg to Rustenburg for the contest. The two brothers, who grew up in Pasadena, Calif., have attended every World Cup since it was in the U.S. 16 years ago.
The group met in the Nelson Mandela Square in the Sandton neighborhood of Johannesburg six hours before kickoff. Residents said the area is not just the most affluent in town, but on the entire continent.
Saturday, the square was awash in colors as Argentines wore the colors of La Albiceleste, hundreds of excited Americans were decked out in red, white and blue and people from all walks of life were in Sandton shopping and soaking up the atmosphere that was punctuated with the sound of vuvuzelas.
Moments before the busses were to depart Stefan stood up to announce the plans for the six busses to a loud and deserved ovation.
It was no coincidence the busses were coordinated to coincide with important years in America’s relationship with the English: 1776, 1812, 1950, 1994 and 2010. The sixth bus was called The Short Bus, but was long on revelry.
Everyone wore something that was red, white and blue whether it was a T-shirt, a replica jersey, hats, pants, shoes and anything else one could imagine. There were jerseys, Landon Donovan shirts, Clint Dempsey shirts. One person even wore a Ricardo Clark jersey though the Georgian midfielder will likely not feature in the starting lineup.
If the result atmosphere of the contest rivals the pregame festivities of the rowdy American crowd here the only people who will be disappointed will be the English—after being the latest victim of the giant-killing Americans.
On the 60th anniversary of the greatest upset in World Cup history the United States faced the English in their first game of the 2010 World Cup. Multiple South African media outlets have reported that no other country had more residents purchase tickets to the bottom of the world than the United States.
Rustenberg is nowhere near the country’s three biggest cities, which is where most Americans are based. The two hour drive between Rustenburg and Johannesburg made getting there difficult, but not impossible, for the thousands of fans who not only made the trip, but scored a coveted ticket.
Stefan and Peter Galich saw an opening and organized a bus trip to take more than 200 supporters from Johannesburg to Rustenburg for the contest. The two brothers, who grew up in Pasadena, Calif., have attended every World Cup since it was in the U.S. 16 years ago.
The group met in the Nelson Mandela Square in the Sandton neighborhood of Johannesburg six hours before kickoff. Residents said the area is not just the most affluent in town, but on the entire continent.
Saturday, the square was awash in colors as Argentines wore the colors of La Albiceleste, hundreds of excited Americans were decked out in red, white and blue and people from all walks of life were in Sandton shopping and soaking up the atmosphere that was punctuated with the sound of vuvuzelas.
Moments before the busses were to depart Stefan stood up to announce the plans for the six busses to a loud and deserved ovation.
It was no coincidence the busses were coordinated to coincide with important years in America’s relationship with the English: 1776, 1812, 1950, 1994 and 2010. The sixth bus was called The Short Bus, but was long on revelry.
Everyone wore something that was red, white and blue whether it was a T-shirt, a replica jersey, hats, pants, shoes and anything else one could imagine. There were jerseys, Landon Donovan shirts, Clint Dempsey shirts. One person even wore a Ricardo Clark jersey though the Georgian midfielder will likely not feature in the starting lineup.
If the result atmosphere of the contest rivals the pregame festivities of the rowdy American crowd here the only people who will be disappointed will be the English—after being the latest victim of the giant-killing Americans.
How to spot an American abroad
JOHANNESBURG-Apparently it’s very easy to spot an American.
Not only do we walk differently, but our English is vastly different from the English that is spoken here in South Africa. The way we carry ourselves in public spaces and walking about the host cities is so unique that South Africans can instantly spot that we are not just a Westerner, but an American.
For most people here our unique characteristics are not an issue. Far more people are welcoming and accommodating than the popular belief back home.
That’s how I found out about the differences between a South African and an American from Thabile, one of the people who worked at the tent city I slept in Friday night. We spoke until 3:45 in the morning about our cultures, our families and our experiences as 25-year olds separated by 8,200 miles.
Thabile told me Americans have a distinct accent. Whether it’s a Floridian, a New Yorker, or someone from Wisconsin we all enunciate more than South Africans. The way we pronounce words is also a stark contrast to people in greater Johannesburg.
We joked about our families, specifically our cousins, and our incredible bond with them.
She told me about her cousin who is infatuated with American culture. Thabile told me her cousin curses to emulate American movies and music, wears his pants off his behind because it’s allegedly popular here and has a poster of Beyonce in his room—for reasons I never found out because I was too busy laughing.
For most of the night, I looked Thabile in the eyes. Our eye contact kept the conversation going during the dull periods. It also debunked the most evident attribute of an American abroad—looking up directly in front of me.
Not only do we walk differently, but our English is vastly different from the English that is spoken here in South Africa. The way we carry ourselves in public spaces and walking about the host cities is so unique that South Africans can instantly spot that we are not just a Westerner, but an American.
For most people here our unique characteristics are not an issue. Far more people are welcoming and accommodating than the popular belief back home.
That’s how I found out about the differences between a South African and an American from Thabile, one of the people who worked at the tent city I slept in Friday night. We spoke until 3:45 in the morning about our cultures, our families and our experiences as 25-year olds separated by 8,200 miles.
Thabile told me Americans have a distinct accent. Whether it’s a Floridian, a New Yorker, or someone from Wisconsin we all enunciate more than South Africans. The way we pronounce words is also a stark contrast to people in greater Johannesburg.
We joked about our families, specifically our cousins, and our incredible bond with them.
She told me about her cousin who is infatuated with American culture. Thabile told me her cousin curses to emulate American movies and music, wears his pants off his behind because it’s allegedly popular here and has a poster of Beyonce in his room—for reasons I never found out because I was too busy laughing.
For most of the night, I looked Thabile in the eyes. Our eye contact kept the conversation going during the dull periods. It also debunked the most evident attribute of an American abroad—looking up directly in front of me.
For Honor and for Alcohol
VEREENIGING- All I know is this neighborhood is an Afrikaans word.
Pronounced Ver-reen-a-hing it’s an area in the south end of Johannesburg that was occupied by the Portuguese during Apartheid. These days, it’s being transferred from farm land to middle and lower-middle class housing for all races.
The Klipriviersberg Nature Conservation Area is here. Klipriviersberg is home to a tent city that brought an interesting collection of men and women, who were mostly young professionals in their respective countries. It’s where I spent my Friday evening.
A pair of Guatemalan brothers invited me to watch the France-Uruguay game. It was a fairly dull affair as the South Americans didn’t have too much fire power beyond Athletic Madrid forward Diego Forlan, and retreated into a shell after a substitute picked up his second yellow card with 10 minutes remaining.
There was not much conversation. Soccer has a tendency to do that to folks, the game is all the communication fans need. Though, we all got a laugh when Thierry Henry—of all people in the world—tried to claim a Uruguayan defender handled the ball inside the penalty area late in the match.
The contest in Cape Town didn’t produce a goal, but the one in Vereeniging produced enough to make up for that.
A bunch of us who slept at the tent city found a ball and started to play indoor football. There were South Africans, Israelis, Mexicans, English and a couple Americans kicking around the ball.
My team featured a Juan Carlos, a Mexican who was a very good goalkeeper; George, a 16-year old from England, who was quite skilled and the ball; Lebo, a South African who shared many stories about his countries culture and one other person whose name escapes me.
We lost without scoring a goal. Unlike the Uruguayans, we had some real chances on goal.
We may have each lost R10 paying for drinks, but the experience of playing football in South Africa—well, that’s priceless.
Pronounced Ver-reen-a-hing it’s an area in the south end of Johannesburg that was occupied by the Portuguese during Apartheid. These days, it’s being transferred from farm land to middle and lower-middle class housing for all races.
The Klipriviersberg Nature Conservation Area is here. Klipriviersberg is home to a tent city that brought an interesting collection of men and women, who were mostly young professionals in their respective countries. It’s where I spent my Friday evening.
A pair of Guatemalan brothers invited me to watch the France-Uruguay game. It was a fairly dull affair as the South Americans didn’t have too much fire power beyond Athletic Madrid forward Diego Forlan, and retreated into a shell after a substitute picked up his second yellow card with 10 minutes remaining.
There was not much conversation. Soccer has a tendency to do that to folks, the game is all the communication fans need. Though, we all got a laugh when Thierry Henry—of all people in the world—tried to claim a Uruguayan defender handled the ball inside the penalty area late in the match.
The contest in Cape Town didn’t produce a goal, but the one in Vereeniging produced enough to make up for that.
A bunch of us who slept at the tent city found a ball and started to play indoor football. There were South Africans, Israelis, Mexicans, English and a couple Americans kicking around the ball.
My team featured a Juan Carlos, a Mexican who was a very good goalkeeper; George, a 16-year old from England, who was quite skilled and the ball; Lebo, a South African who shared many stories about his countries culture and one other person whose name escapes me.
We lost without scoring a goal. Unlike the Uruguayans, we had some real chances on goal.
We may have each lost R10 paying for drinks, but the experience of playing football in South Africa—well, that’s priceless.
Don’t get jacked in Johannesburg
It’s hard to appreciate the size of a city like Johannesburg.
It’s one thing to hear that a city has a few million residents or has a high crime rate, but Friday was proof that some of the best lessons in life must be taught through observation. After spending most of my day in the heart of South Africa’s largest city I left with deeper insight about what drives South Africans.
As much as my two weeks in Africa are a soccer foray, I wanted to learn more about this country and continent with my own eyes and own experiences rather than what others have seen and written. Well aware that my blog is doing exactly what I am decrying I was not in search of the truth, or facts, but an opinion about one of the world’s most dangerous cities.
I woke up in the suburb of Hillside 20 minutes before my alarm went off excited to witness one of the biggest days in South African history without the help of a television.
The warmth Derek and Cathy Smith showed me upon my arrival to the country and during my stay at their bed and breakfast would illustrate the dichotomy that so many “Westerners” don’t see or read about when they hear of Johannesburg. What many people hear about is the small park about 1,000 feet from the Johannesburg Park Station where a handful of men were interested in robbing me as I enjoyed a mid-afternoon snack.
The Smiths operate a bed and breakfast from their home where the names of the rooms they provide to visitors all have women’s names. It’s on top of a hill that allows visitors to see most of the city of gold and the new Soccer City stadium that upon completion became the African mecca of soccer. Even the conversations I had with other visitors — all of whom were from Canada — we warm encounters.
Derek dropped me off in downtown after I expressed interest in watching the game from a pub or sports bar. It wasn’t until later that I remembered different countries have different cultures and sports bars may not be the popular or safe thing to do in South Africa.
I wondered about for about 45 minutes searching for the bus depot, observing the downtown, watching people blow their vuvuzelas, and soaking up the atmosphere that those in the streets hoped would encourage their boys later in the afternoon. The first thing I did was buy a newspaper to see how South Africa would chronicle the event.
The pictures, colors, graphics and size of the newspaper were all bigger and broader than what I was used to in the U.S. And on a day like June 11, 2010 I was appreciative for that.
There was not much time to read the paper. For starters there was nowhere to sit in the downtown. The places that did have seating did not look like an appealing option for an American traveler.
Thinking a park just outside the depot would be a nice place to sit and eat a bite and enjoy the scenes I was approached by a man who wanted me to take a picture of him and his dice-rolling friends. He spoke of many things including my “spectacles” and about my thoughts about living in France. The more we spoke the less comfortable I felt telling him anything of consequence about who I was, why I was in South Africa and most importantly my nationality.
It was not until three gentlemen in orange bibs approached me and asked whether I was a tourist that I got away from the gaggle of men who I was later told would have robbed me had I stayed in their presence much longer.
The three men, who were security guards at the tournament, walked me the half mile to Joubert Park to watch the opening ceremony as well as the first match of the World Cup between the hosts and Mexico. The long-awaited game started at 4 p.m. We arrived at Joubert at 2:20 so I could find a seat and get ready for a colorful opening that only Africa could produce.
Not prone to repeat the same mistake, I kept my camera and camcorder in my pocket, with my hands on both while at Joubert. The incredible noise of the vuvuzelas and the explosion of pride in the Bafana Bafana were a sight to see—and certainly one to record.
The match ended a little after dark. Armed with more sense than earlier in the day, I walked back to the bus depot with someone.
She was a tournament volunteer who is in her third year at the university studying urban and regional planning. I didn’t catch her name, but we spoke about safety in Johannesburg, perception versus reality in South Africa and why the suburbs like Sandton have all the money and amenities while the central city does not.
I made my way back to the bus station and connected with my transport to Vereeniging (pronounced: v-air-reen-a-hing) on the far south end of the city and completed my day in Johannesburg. It’s probably the last time I will spend any considerable hours in the central city.
Considering I left with my possessions, my money and a new opinion...the first day of the FIFA World Cup at least produced one victory — one for South Africa.
It’s one thing to hear that a city has a few million residents or has a high crime rate, but Friday was proof that some of the best lessons in life must be taught through observation. After spending most of my day in the heart of South Africa’s largest city I left with deeper insight about what drives South Africans.
As much as my two weeks in Africa are a soccer foray, I wanted to learn more about this country and continent with my own eyes and own experiences rather than what others have seen and written. Well aware that my blog is doing exactly what I am decrying I was not in search of the truth, or facts, but an opinion about one of the world’s most dangerous cities.
I woke up in the suburb of Hillside 20 minutes before my alarm went off excited to witness one of the biggest days in South African history without the help of a television.
The warmth Derek and Cathy Smith showed me upon my arrival to the country and during my stay at their bed and breakfast would illustrate the dichotomy that so many “Westerners” don’t see or read about when they hear of Johannesburg. What many people hear about is the small park about 1,000 feet from the Johannesburg Park Station where a handful of men were interested in robbing me as I enjoyed a mid-afternoon snack.
The Smiths operate a bed and breakfast from their home where the names of the rooms they provide to visitors all have women’s names. It’s on top of a hill that allows visitors to see most of the city of gold and the new Soccer City stadium that upon completion became the African mecca of soccer. Even the conversations I had with other visitors — all of whom were from Canada — we warm encounters.
Derek dropped me off in downtown after I expressed interest in watching the game from a pub or sports bar. It wasn’t until later that I remembered different countries have different cultures and sports bars may not be the popular or safe thing to do in South Africa.
I wondered about for about 45 minutes searching for the bus depot, observing the downtown, watching people blow their vuvuzelas, and soaking up the atmosphere that those in the streets hoped would encourage their boys later in the afternoon. The first thing I did was buy a newspaper to see how South Africa would chronicle the event.
The pictures, colors, graphics and size of the newspaper were all bigger and broader than what I was used to in the U.S. And on a day like June 11, 2010 I was appreciative for that.
There was not much time to read the paper. For starters there was nowhere to sit in the downtown. The places that did have seating did not look like an appealing option for an American traveler.
Thinking a park just outside the depot would be a nice place to sit and eat a bite and enjoy the scenes I was approached by a man who wanted me to take a picture of him and his dice-rolling friends. He spoke of many things including my “spectacles” and about my thoughts about living in France. The more we spoke the less comfortable I felt telling him anything of consequence about who I was, why I was in South Africa and most importantly my nationality.
It was not until three gentlemen in orange bibs approached me and asked whether I was a tourist that I got away from the gaggle of men who I was later told would have robbed me had I stayed in their presence much longer.
The three men, who were security guards at the tournament, walked me the half mile to Joubert Park to watch the opening ceremony as well as the first match of the World Cup between the hosts and Mexico. The long-awaited game started at 4 p.m. We arrived at Joubert at 2:20 so I could find a seat and get ready for a colorful opening that only Africa could produce.
Not prone to repeat the same mistake, I kept my camera and camcorder in my pocket, with my hands on both while at Joubert. The incredible noise of the vuvuzelas and the explosion of pride in the Bafana Bafana were a sight to see—and certainly one to record.
The match ended a little after dark. Armed with more sense than earlier in the day, I walked back to the bus depot with someone.
She was a tournament volunteer who is in her third year at the university studying urban and regional planning. I didn’t catch her name, but we spoke about safety in Johannesburg, perception versus reality in South Africa and why the suburbs like Sandton have all the money and amenities while the central city does not.
I made my way back to the bus station and connected with my transport to Vereeniging (pronounced: v-air-reen-a-hing) on the far south end of the city and completed my day in Johannesburg. It’s probably the last time I will spend any considerable hours in the central city.
Considering I left with my possessions, my money and a new opinion...the first day of the FIFA World Cup at least produced one victory — one for South Africa.
Thursday, June 10, 2010
The prologue...to an upset stomach
Wednesday began with my stomach grumbling and concluded that way. All the excitement of going to South Africa was replaced with a timid faith that I would really be traveling 8,000 miles away to fulfill the most ambitious dream of my life.
My girlfriend and I drove to the airport unusually quiet. Both of us were nervous for totally different reasons. After waking up late, she was flying toward Jacksonville International Airport so I did not miss my flight.
Meanwhile, I was collecting my thoughts and internalizing my nerves.
We arrived with enough time to exhale, take a picture and give each other one final hug before I went through the security maze and over the cliff in the biggest test of faith in my life.
Moments before my 6:15 flight, I sent a text to the 10 tech-savvy people I am closest to. "The prologue: Jacksonville to New York."
Maybe, it's because I do not fly that frequently, but the precursor to my first international traveling was more accommodating than any domestic flight I had ever taken.
At John F. Kennedy, I truly acted like a tourist. From looking around, getting my bearings, to finding baggage claim, to wasting three trips--and 20 precious minutes--at the currency exchange to looking harried during the security checkpoint I was releasing all the habits I was warned not to exhibit in Johannesburg or Cape Town in the friendly confines of New York City.
The layover in New York was probably the best thing that could have happened to me. I have always had the stereotype that New Yorkers are not the type to pity, or tolerate, foolish people. The people at JFK were true to form.
I grabbed a quick breakfast just as my flight was going to board after giving final assurances to my girlfriend and my brother and his wife that I would be safe. It was obvious Emirates was making a killing off the World Cup, specifically my 11,469 kilometer flight from New York to Dubai.
On my flight I saw a handful of Argentina jerseys, a man wearing a Ji Sung Park jersey, a bunch of Mexico fans, someone who had the number 10 shaved on both sides of his head, two Cameroon fans, a man in a Bafana Bafana jersey and a few people in the U.S. track jacket that I wanted to buy but would have made me a walking target.
At 11 a.m. Wednesday my life changed forever when I walked into the gate and on my way to Africa. After 23 hours and 54 minutes I finally landed on African soil — albeit in Durban, not my final destination Johannesburg.
The flight to Johannesburg was quick. Finding my luggage was not. If I had not already purged half the food I ate on my three flights en route to the City of Gold, I would have done so when South African Airlines told me they could not locate my bag.
Eventually, my bag was located — with just a slight bit of stress. Hopefully my appetite and stomach will follow suit.
My girlfriend and I drove to the airport unusually quiet. Both of us were nervous for totally different reasons. After waking up late, she was flying toward Jacksonville International Airport so I did not miss my flight.
Meanwhile, I was collecting my thoughts and internalizing my nerves.
We arrived with enough time to exhale, take a picture and give each other one final hug before I went through the security maze and over the cliff in the biggest test of faith in my life.
Moments before my 6:15 flight, I sent a text to the 10 tech-savvy people I am closest to. "The prologue: Jacksonville to New York."
Maybe, it's because I do not fly that frequently, but the precursor to my first international traveling was more accommodating than any domestic flight I had ever taken.
At John F. Kennedy, I truly acted like a tourist. From looking around, getting my bearings, to finding baggage claim, to wasting three trips--and 20 precious minutes--at the currency exchange to looking harried during the security checkpoint I was releasing all the habits I was warned not to exhibit in Johannesburg or Cape Town in the friendly confines of New York City.
The layover in New York was probably the best thing that could have happened to me. I have always had the stereotype that New Yorkers are not the type to pity, or tolerate, foolish people. The people at JFK were true to form.
I grabbed a quick breakfast just as my flight was going to board after giving final assurances to my girlfriend and my brother and his wife that I would be safe. It was obvious Emirates was making a killing off the World Cup, specifically my 11,469 kilometer flight from New York to Dubai.
On my flight I saw a handful of Argentina jerseys, a man wearing a Ji Sung Park jersey, a bunch of Mexico fans, someone who had the number 10 shaved on both sides of his head, two Cameroon fans, a man in a Bafana Bafana jersey and a few people in the U.S. track jacket that I wanted to buy but would have made me a walking target.
At 11 a.m. Wednesday my life changed forever when I walked into the gate and on my way to Africa. After 23 hours and 54 minutes I finally landed on African soil — albeit in Durban, not my final destination Johannesburg.
The flight to Johannesburg was quick. Finding my luggage was not. If I had not already purged half the food I ate on my three flights en route to the City of Gold, I would have done so when South African Airlines told me they could not locate my bag.
Eventually, my bag was located — with just a slight bit of stress. Hopefully my appetite and stomach will follow suit.
Monday, June 7, 2010
You can’t spell globalization with out “Gooaal!”
Like so many boys I wanted to play our version of football. I saw the gladiators pummel each other on the television. The sport that taught me how to multiple by three and by seven was captivating.
Unfortunately, my parents feared I was too small to play football. Their belief was I was not big enough and didn’t display an aptitude for hitting people or being hit.
It was the summertime and they were looking for a fall sport for me to play. Then they asked me the seven words that started my obsession and are the root for my upcoming adventure: “Well, William, do you want to play soccer?”
That was 1989. Well before I knew what a World Cup was and why so many people are borderline lunatics around a simple game with even simpler rules.
Mike Shannon was my first coach and the one who convinced me that a game could be played without our hands. We wore blue jerseys with black shorts and played at a field across from the Sarasota-Bradenton International Airport that has since been turned into a Par-3 golf course.
Even as a four year old, I loved everything about the game. Thanks to Coach Shannon, I was even excited to go to practice!
Most of those days playing at Airport Field are a blur, but it was hard not to think of them as the 2010 FIFA World Cup kicks off June 11 in Johannesburg.
I will be there, in South Africa, in part because of people like my parents, Mike Shannon, Skip Arrich, my girlfriend and so many others who encouraged a love for soccer that never left — though my skills as an outfield player eventually did.
There is little questioning that Tallahassee is a football and a baseball town. What I was surprised to find out once I arrived her for college is this place has a soccer undercurrent that will sweep you up, whether one is looking for it or not.
Gadsden County’s obsession is worse than anything here in Tallahassee. The Sunday League games have a cult-like following in part because the word on the street is those are the most competitive games within 50 miles of here.
It has been said countless times that soccer will become the next big thing in America. I have gone from the clueless four-year old, to the indifferent pre-teen to the pudgy goalkeeper as an adolescent, continual bench warmer at the varsity level and weekend warrior as an adult and have yet to see the sport take off in the “mainstream” like some would hope.
It may make for an interesting conversation with my editor when I return, but I have always surmised there have been two glaring reasons why the sport has never become as covered as football, baseball and basketball.
Soccer is not a sport Americans created or dominate, at least at the men’s level. Since hands are not used for scoring—unless you are Thierry Henry—it will never compare with the big three sporting behemoths in this country.
But the game is not why I am going to Johannesburg and Cape Town. Soccer is about the cultural experience that has stopped civil wars (Cote d Ivoire), been a one-finger salute to a fascist (Spain), made national pride acceptable again (Germany) and healed a country like South Africa after years of decades of blatant racism.
Of course the sport has its seedy elements, hooligans, prissy players, uber-capitalistic carnivores and issues with refereeing — “Google Thierry Henry handball” and the hubbub over a perfect game in baseball will seem minute — yet it’s all part of the imperfect beauty of the football.
Many weekends in the fall are still spent following, covering and reading about America’s version of football. But those who know me well know which football has always been my sport.
Unfortunately, my parents feared I was too small to play football. Their belief was I was not big enough and didn’t display an aptitude for hitting people or being hit.
It was the summertime and they were looking for a fall sport for me to play. Then they asked me the seven words that started my obsession and are the root for my upcoming adventure: “Well, William, do you want to play soccer?”
That was 1989. Well before I knew what a World Cup was and why so many people are borderline lunatics around a simple game with even simpler rules.
Mike Shannon was my first coach and the one who convinced me that a game could be played without our hands. We wore blue jerseys with black shorts and played at a field across from the Sarasota-Bradenton International Airport that has since been turned into a Par-3 golf course.
Even as a four year old, I loved everything about the game. Thanks to Coach Shannon, I was even excited to go to practice!
Most of those days playing at Airport Field are a blur, but it was hard not to think of them as the 2010 FIFA World Cup kicks off June 11 in Johannesburg.
I will be there, in South Africa, in part because of people like my parents, Mike Shannon, Skip Arrich, my girlfriend and so many others who encouraged a love for soccer that never left — though my skills as an outfield player eventually did.
There is little questioning that Tallahassee is a football and a baseball town. What I was surprised to find out once I arrived her for college is this place has a soccer undercurrent that will sweep you up, whether one is looking for it or not.
Gadsden County’s obsession is worse than anything here in Tallahassee. The Sunday League games have a cult-like following in part because the word on the street is those are the most competitive games within 50 miles of here.
It has been said countless times that soccer will become the next big thing in America. I have gone from the clueless four-year old, to the indifferent pre-teen to the pudgy goalkeeper as an adolescent, continual bench warmer at the varsity level and weekend warrior as an adult and have yet to see the sport take off in the “mainstream” like some would hope.
It may make for an interesting conversation with my editor when I return, but I have always surmised there have been two glaring reasons why the sport has never become as covered as football, baseball and basketball.
Soccer is not a sport Americans created or dominate, at least at the men’s level. Since hands are not used for scoring—unless you are Thierry Henry—it will never compare with the big three sporting behemoths in this country.
But the game is not why I am going to Johannesburg and Cape Town. Soccer is about the cultural experience that has stopped civil wars (Cote d Ivoire), been a one-finger salute to a fascist (Spain), made national pride acceptable again (Germany) and healed a country like South Africa after years of decades of blatant racism.
Of course the sport has its seedy elements, hooligans, prissy players, uber-capitalistic carnivores and issues with refereeing — “Google Thierry Henry handball” and the hubbub over a perfect game in baseball will seem minute — yet it’s all part of the imperfect beauty of the football.
Many weekends in the fall are still spent following, covering and reading about America’s version of football. But those who know me well know which football has always been my sport.
Saturday, June 5, 2010
The Tweet that made my heart sink
I’m completely new to this Twitter game.
I used to find the short messaging service the most inane waste of time until my girlfriend convinced me it wouldn’t be such a bad idea to get an account to help my chronicle South Africa.
With few ideas about what to do and fewer people following me, I thought my foray into this social medium would be as gentle as the one I will have tip toeing into the Indian Ocean off the coast of Durban this month.
It didn’t take long for two things to come across my radar that made me change my mind and realize how fast word—and in these cases trepidation may spread.
First it was news that American forward Jozy Altidore sprained his right ankle in practice earlier this week. The 20-year old is listed as day-to-day with the injury and few people expect him to miss his team’s opener against England.
First it was news that American forward Jozy Altidore sprained his right ankle in practice earlier this week. The 20-year old is listed as day-to-day with the injury and few people expect him to miss his team’s opener against England.
The other news, which I found more depressing, despite being an American, was the arm injury to Cote d Ivoire captain Didier Drogba. There are conflicting reports about his condition. The Ivorian football federation has not ruled out the possibility the forward, and Vanity Fair cover model, will play in the tournament while other outlets are reporting he is done for the World Cup.
(Then again, how can one trust either source when it was originally reported the Ivoirians opener is June 13 instead of June 15?)
Drogba is the heart and soul of a team that some say have the talent to make the semifinals—or beyond. What was more heartbreaking to me was he was suspended due to yellow card accumulation for the Elephants only victory in the 2006 World Cup.
There are other teams whose captains will miss the tournament, but when one thinks of soccer in England or Germany Rio Ferdinand and Michael Ballack are not instantly the first men to come to mind. The two are very good players and may be in the conversation, but they do not mean as much to their team and their country as Drogba.
British media have castigated the 32-year old forward as a brooding brute on occasion, but there is little denying that Drogba is a predator in front of goal. He’s the type of person who can not only score goals, but win games—attributes many managers preparing for the World Cup would envy.
Of course I have a highly selfish rooting interest in Drogba’s health. I have tickets to see the Ivoirians opener against Portugal—and this guy.
I used to find the short messaging service the most inane waste of time until my girlfriend convinced me it wouldn’t be such a bad idea to get an account to help my chronicle South Africa.
With few ideas about what to do and fewer people following me, I thought my foray into this social medium would be as gentle as the one I will have tip toeing into the Indian Ocean off the coast of Durban this month.
It didn’t take long for two things to come across my radar that made me change my mind and realize how fast word—and in these cases trepidation may spread.
First it was news that American forward Jozy Altidore sprained his right ankle in practice earlier this week. The 20-year old is listed as day-to-day with the injury and few people expect him to miss his team’s opener against England.
First it was news that American forward Jozy Altidore sprained his right ankle in practice earlier this week. The 20-year old is listed as day-to-day with the injury and few people expect him to miss his team’s opener against England.
The other news, which I found more depressing, despite being an American, was the arm injury to Cote d Ivoire captain Didier Drogba. There are conflicting reports about his condition. The Ivorian football federation has not ruled out the possibility the forward, and Vanity Fair cover model, will play in the tournament while other outlets are reporting he is done for the World Cup.
(Then again, how can one trust either source when it was originally reported the Ivoirians opener is June 13 instead of June 15?)
Drogba is the heart and soul of a team that some say have the talent to make the semifinals—or beyond. What was more heartbreaking to me was he was suspended due to yellow card accumulation for the Elephants only victory in the 2006 World Cup.
There are other teams whose captains will miss the tournament, but when one thinks of soccer in England or Germany Rio Ferdinand and Michael Ballack are not instantly the first men to come to mind. The two are very good players and may be in the conversation, but they do not mean as much to their team and their country as Drogba.
British media have castigated the 32-year old forward as a brooding brute on occasion, but there is little denying that Drogba is a predator in front of goal. He’s the type of person who can not only score goals, but win games—attributes many managers preparing for the World Cup would envy.
Of course I have a highly selfish rooting interest in Drogba’s health. I have tickets to see the Ivoirians opener against Portugal—and this guy.
Wednesday, June 2, 2010
One week to go!
It’s hard to imagine that in a week I will be waiting for my plane to take off from New York City.
All the work and the preparation for my big trip to South Africa is seven days away. Shoot, I’ve spent that much time watching soccer games over the past four years.
My parents were justifiably concerned for my safety. Other family members wondered aloud whether I could afford it. My girlfriend wanted to ensure I had a place to sleep. But for me, the one big thing that left me fretting many nights was finalized Wednesday.
How am I going to get tickets to the matches?
Through a Facebook group and an obsession with the FIFA website for ticket availabilities I was able to find tickets to all three United States matches and what may be the most intriguing match of the first round Cote d Ivoire vs. Portugal.
From watching in heartache in 1994 as the US had a golden opportunity against Brazil in the Round of 16, to the embarrassment of 1998. There was the joy of the 2002 quarterfinal berth and the disgust for the loss to Ghana in 2006 I have followed American soccer for quite a while. Being able to see my first US matches in person — at the World Cup to boot — is going to be special.
Or as the person I bought my US-England ticket from told me. The World Cup is the one chance to act unabashedly pro-American and have no shame about it.
There are some minute details to hammer out, but the concerns of my family, friends and cheerful supporters have all be answered in one way or the other. Now all that is left is to enjoy the trip of a lifetime.
All the work and the preparation for my big trip to South Africa is seven days away. Shoot, I’ve spent that much time watching soccer games over the past four years.
My parents were justifiably concerned for my safety. Other family members wondered aloud whether I could afford it. My girlfriend wanted to ensure I had a place to sleep. But for me, the one big thing that left me fretting many nights was finalized Wednesday.
How am I going to get tickets to the matches?
Through a Facebook group and an obsession with the FIFA website for ticket availabilities I was able to find tickets to all three United States matches and what may be the most intriguing match of the first round Cote d Ivoire vs. Portugal.
From watching in heartache in 1994 as the US had a golden opportunity against Brazil in the Round of 16, to the embarrassment of 1998. There was the joy of the 2002 quarterfinal berth and the disgust for the loss to Ghana in 2006 I have followed American soccer for quite a while. Being able to see my first US matches in person — at the World Cup to boot — is going to be special.
Or as the person I bought my US-England ticket from told me. The World Cup is the one chance to act unabashedly pro-American and have no shame about it.
There are some minute details to hammer out, but the concerns of my family, friends and cheerful supporters have all be answered in one way or the other. Now all that is left is to enjoy the trip of a lifetime.
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36 Hours in Cape Town
Safari Time
Ellis Park & Longest Friday Ever
A Day in Durban
Eastern Cape
United States vs. England
Opening Day 2010 World Cup
Photos from June 9-10
