Upon my return from South Africa my newspaper asked me to write a feature story about my big trip. Now that it can no longer be accessed on our Web site I am posting this July 11 feature in the Tallahassee Democrat onto my blog.
By Will Brown
It may have taken a soccer tournament to illuminate the world's perceptions of a continent.
Hundreds of thousands of tourists flooded South Africa over the past month to watch the World Cup. Action concludes today when Spain and the Netherlands meet in Johannesburg for the final at 2:30 p.m. on ABC.
The world's largest sporting event has allowed both the country and the continent to shed some misconceptions — chiefly, that it is a dark continent where depravity and despair dominate.
Americans made the journey more than fans and tourists from any other nation. To residents in the proud nation of 49 million people, it's those same Americans who are responsible for the stereotypes and connotations that are as much a part of the country's past as apartheid.
From Johannesburg to Durban to Cape Town, and in the many cities in between, South Africa is a country that definitely has its warts. That is undeniable, and its residents are up-front about them.
Across the country, South Africans possessed a genuine interest in having visitors go home with an accurate picture of their country — which is an incredibly diverse one with 11 official languages, a culture that tightropes between being Western and serving as the beating heart of Africa, and the only place where a visitor can see one World Heritage site after another.
Going solo to South Africa
Afraid I was going to be trounced playing the American version of football, my parents introduced me to soccer when I was 4 years old. They expressed a similar trepidation when I told them I wanted to travel to South Africa in June for the World Cup — alone.
After being challenged by a college professor to read Nelson Mandela's autobiography in 2007, I was determined to see the beautiful veld for myself during the World Cup. Reading Mandela's potent, yet simple, words empowered me to look beyond the surface and thus enter his country with a clean slate of opinions waiting to be freshly colored.
Years of saving and months of planning paid off when I touched down, without a hitch, in Johannesburg. The humbling thought of being on the African continent, especially as an African-American, was surreal. So much time was spent soaking up everything in front of me that I didn't even think about a World Cup tournament favorite when I stepped off the plane June 10.
Cape of cold
Cape Town is the city by the sea that instantly commands the attention of tourists with its spectacular views from atop Table Mountain, the historic District Six neighborhood that was leveled during apartheid, a vibrant nightlife scene and proximity to world-class wineries.
Cape Town turned out to be more exciting than residents had promised.
My sole reason for traveling to the city nicknamed "The Cape of Storms" was to see Robben Island, one of eight World Heritage sites in South Africa. Mandela was housed there for more than a quarter century because he had the audacity and courage to espouse the belief that South Africans should all be treated equally by a representative government.
Robben Island is 10 kilometers, or 6.2 miles, off the coast. Visiting this site is completely weather-dependent, as storms, especially in the winter, can whip up seas reaching 30 feet. The seas are actually warmer in the winter, as the swirling winds from the Indian and Atlantic Oceans push the summer waters out to sea.
Persistent rainfall and strong winds made visiting Robben Island an impossibility for me, but it did provide an opportunity to take a two-hour bus trip around the city and its nearby beaches.
The two-hour drive took visitors up to Table Mountain to view the unique and exotic flora that can be found nowhere else in the world. We were told there are more unique species of plants and trees in the Table Mountain National Park than in the entire British Isles.
Images from atop Table Mountain provided a reminder that whatever method one takes to get into Cape Town, it's always a good idea to have a camera in hand.
Any flight into the city will take travelers over the breathtaking landscape at a low enough altitude to appreciate the metropolis tucked between the mountains and the sea. Those traveling via car will have the great visual privilege of taking the scenic Garden Route.
The Garden Route, like the Autobahn in Germany or the Pacific Coast Highway in California, is one of those must-do-before-you-die drives. It's not one that can be made at night, however, as there are few interruptions, and fewer lights, along the road that took me from Cape Town to Port Elizabeth. Had I known about the Garden Route before I visited Cape Town, I would have scheduled my bus trip during the day.
Up the coast
Coastal cities such as Cape Town, Port Elizabeth and Durban have a more relaxed vibe than the rest of the country.
Port Elizabeth is colloquially called PE by residents and is the breeziest of the three. The busy port city along the Indian Ocean is the fifth-largest city in South Africa, but it retains the atmosphere of a cozy beach-side town.
Nelson Mandela Bay, which Port Elizabeth neighbors, is just as majestic as its namesake. The calm, clear waters extend beyond the horizon. Though not as popular with professional photographers as Cape Town beaches, the amateurs that filled the pier and braved biting winds to walk the beaches left with spectacular pictures.
Durban, a city of nearly5 million residents, billed itself as the "warmest place to watch the Word Cup." Residents and fellow tourists billed it South Africa's alternative to South Beach. The truth was somewhere in the middle, as this Indian-influenced city was warmer than the nine other host cities, and not nearly as flamboyant as Miami.
Winter did not deter people from getting into the water, where waves ran as high as 12 feet. The surf at Durban's multiple beaches was choppier than that at Port Elizabeth, but the trade-off was the fact that the water was warmer.
Nearly a fifth of Durban's residents are of East Indian descent. A century ago, the city was home to a young lawyer who returned to India to be the change he wished to see in the world. Mohandas K. Gandhi honed his legal skills in Durban, fighting injustice and racism before returning to India in 1915.
Perception versus reality
Durbanites are quite proud of their city and were very eager to show it off to the tourists from Spain, Brazil, the Netherlands and other soccer powers that were in town to watch their teams play.
Only Johannesburg residents were more vocal in correcting American opinions about such notions as wildlife roaming free in the streets, whether Africa was a "civilized" continent and safety in South Africa being substandard to other countries.
Johannesburg is like New York, London, Rio de Janerio, Jakarta, Tokyo or any other metropolis that's also the country's financial center. There are areas that are affluent and others where it's nothing short of stupid to walk alone flouting anything of value.
Tallahasseeans would appreciate the sheer amount of trees liberally scattered throughout the "City of Gold." Johannesburg has the largest urban forest in the world — the city has hundreds of parks and open spaces filled with jacaranda, oak, palm and pepper trees.
Home to the biggest soccer stadium in Africa, Johannesburg is also home to a wealth of cultural opportunities.
The Apartheid Museum in the Gold Reef City section of Johannesburg is a must for any visitor to South Africa. Taking photographs inside the museum is strictly prohibited, but the damning videos, pictures, propaganda and artifacts from that era of segregation and subsequent racial division will engrave images on the mind's eye more vivid than a 35-millimeter camera could capture.
Visitors should also take a township tour through Soweto. On the southwestern outskirts of the city, Soweto has been exploited by foreign media outlets for years to illustrate the depths of despair and depravity that many falsely presume exists throughout the entire country.
Soweto will never be confused with the upper class Sandton suburb, but it's a township that is not much different than some inner city or working class neighborhoods in the U.S.
This township of 4 million people features the best and worst of Johannesburg — and any description of the city that lacks both is decidedly inaccurate. There are some incredibly poor families that live in shanties, and there are others that live in brick homes with immaculate lawns.
Fitting conclusion
It's appropriate that the first World Cup held in Africa will also crown a new champion, as neither the Dutch nor the Spanish have won the tournament, after decades of fielding teams with the talent to do so. The orange of the Netherlands and the red of Spain that instantly come to mind whenever I saw someone from either country will stick with me.
When people were not attending soccer matches, they were watching them in bars, hostels, hotel lobbies or in the designated Fan Fest areas FIFA set up in the 10 host cities. During my 16 days in South Africa, only two did not include watching a match — as I even found a way to catch the Spain-Honduras match while out on a safari.
Watching Argentina demolish South Korea while flat on my back on a Durban beach under the bright sun and perfect weather was a highlight. As raucous as the atmosphere was at the first three U.S. matches I attended, the tranquility of enjoying a warm day, soccer and the beach was more than this native Floridian could have asked from a trip abroad.
Being in Pretoria for the American's dramatic — though completely unnecessary, if their matches had had competent refereeing — comeback against Algeria was a perfect conclusion to four distinct game atmospheres that surpassed my grandest expectations.
Fair or not, Africa's reputation was on the line at this World Cup. Soccer broadcasters would routinely speak of the South African squad and the five other African teams in the tournament as a collective.
If that is the method of judgment for the hosts of the 2010 World Cup, they surpassed all expectations and were a unique, and appropriate, host for the world's largest sporting event — vuvuzelas included.
Contact reporter Will Brown at 599-2172 or wbrown@Tallahassee.com.
Wednesday, July 21, 2010
Tuesday, June 29, 2010
The Long Road Home
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.”
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.”
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.
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