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.
Showing posts with label Bafana Bafana. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Bafana Bafana. Show all posts
Wednesday, June 16, 2010
Sunday, June 13, 2010
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.
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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
