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.
Sunday, June 13, 2010
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.
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