Saturday June 19 2010--------->-------->Durban Walkabout followed by Holland v Japan

In the short time spent at the B&B, I had gotten very comfortable. My room had 2 beds, adequate bathroom/shower, television and ceiling fan. The house was in tip top shape and had several indoor and outdoor lounge options. The kitchen was proper for a house of its size and driven by the 2 to 3 African housekeepers who busied themselves cleaning rooms, doing laundry, and cooking breakfast. 3 days into my trip and I finally get a nice, slow sit-down breakfast! After a yawn and a stretch, I sat myself in the small dining room and read several local newspapers while eating eggs, sausages, bacon, tomato, and toast. The Oj was fresh and the coffee rich. The sun was full by mid-morning and a new climate emerged.....what a pleasant morning!

While very much enjoying the warmer weather, I planned my day : I wanted to walk around and locate a few resources in my area and get my bearings, as I was to be there for 4 more days. At 1:30 and after my little walkabout, I was to attend the Holland v Japan match at the snazzy new stadium a mere 5 minutes from the B&B. Following the match, I planned to walk to the beach fan fest which was already gaining the reputation of best fan fest at the 2010 games. I reckoned I could hang out at the beach for the second round of games in the afternoon and then adjourn to the B&B at dusk. Sounds like a good day, right?

Directly in front of the Sommersby B&B was erected a shopping mall iced with apartments. It was not an obnoxious, sprawling thing.......it went up like a wedding cake, not out like a cheap ass kid's birthday cake. The mall on the bottom 3 floors had a grocery store, card shops, sweets shops, cell phone service counters, liquor store, fast food, biltong (jerkey) shop and any other goods or services available in such a place. More and more malls in far away places predictably resemble one another. In the grocery store I bought water, fruit, juice, and garlic (a few raw slices a day helps to ward off cold symptoms). At the liquor store I bought a 6 pack of Castle lager and some peanuts. Across the street I went to drop off my goods and then head in the other direction to survey the bar, restaurant, and internet cafe scene.

Two blocks behind the B&B was Florida Road, which guide books revealed to be endowed with many places to eat and drink, maybe watch a game, and get onto the internet. I walked up and down the mile long stretch and made my way into an internet cafe. After a little facebook here and some email there, I returned back to my room for a beer and shower. The time was 11:30 or so.

After a rinse and relaxation I found myself chatting with other guests on the back patio over cigarettes and Castle. There was a bright Canadien fellow who was blogging daily for some site or other. Next to him was a fun Afrikaaner from Joburg who was working the Coca Cola booth at the fan fest.....this guy's Afrikaaner accent was very strong and unexpectedly pleasant, in spite of popular Anglopinion. There was a German guy as well, but language barriers being what they are, the German was silent. House owner Chris was inconsolable with respect to England's awful showing the night before. The Canadien was also going to the game, and as excited as I to see the class of Europe take on the class of Asia. Holland was a sound bet, as Japan had lost all of its warm up matches leading to the cup. This disappointed me a bit as I had liked Japanese football since the early 90's. I offered that I had a ticket* to sell if anyone was

interested, else I would soon split to sell the thing outside the stadium. No takers.

*(In the second phase of ticket sales in May of 2009, I had purchased 2 tickets each for 2 matches in Durban for a total of four tickets. At the time or purchase there was the real possibility that I was going to either be traveling with my mom or another friend and wanted to be prepared. As it turns out, I was overprepared.)

I left for the stadium about 12:30 on foot in a northerly direction. 3 blocks past the mallcake, over the bridge next to the train yard, and then down a slanted walkway to the stadium security............but first, the ticket. I posted up on a corner just getting off of the bridge and turning towards the stadium. All fans had to pass this spot and there was (virtually) no security. For about half an hour I eye-contacted

prospects while chanting I got a ticket! The only responses I got were from others in the same position wondering about my ticket seat and price.......they cost me about USD $120 each and were decent seats in the second tier, but towards the center. No takers, no worries. I even thought about giving the thing away, but that was a diminishing option; time was close, and people were already prepared. Lesson learned: group stage tickets not so sought after. I got in line at the south entrance security post. After a polite pat down and bag check I proceeded through the commercial booth area (banks, McDonalds, mobile phone companies having interactive booths or whatever ...... young kids seemed to like them). On the short walk to the second security and ticket check closer to the stadium, it occurred to me that the approach to the stadium and time spent in line at security was much less of an ordeal than I had expected. Either there would be many unclaimed seats, or the planning of the event was more than adequate, or both. Also apparent was the beauty of the Durban stadium in the bright African sun. After my scanned ticket went 'beep' I went through the turnstyle and approached the arena. My Ajax Pienaar 10 strip drew comments from mzansi and oranje alike as I headed for my seat.

I was seated in the middle or the second tier somewhat towards the center line, and facing east. The winter sun was up high and casting elegant shadows of the arched handle transiting the stadium. On my right sat an older gentleman, maybe in his fifties; on my right the empty ticket. The section held blues and oranges alike, with a smattering of impartial locals. I took photos as I chatted with my older neighbor, leading to his giving me one of his beers. Nice!

Noel spoke with a more pronounced British accent and was born in Ireland but been in Durban for 40 years or more. Noel owned a local business and was more likely to watch rugby than soccer. As the referees (including my neighbor from the flight) and teams emerged from the catacombs, my new guide spoke of all things local: economy, social changes, effects of the World Cup on Durban and the country as a whole. Noel seemed to be enjoying the social aspect of the cup just fine, but like many others wondered at the price tag and its legacy. Noel was also quite the randy old man; repeated pleas for the long legged Indian vixen a few seats down to sit on his lap went unanswered, though the girl's father found the humour. He was also very active in heckling the Indian South Africans in front of us for poor national cricket form. I got video of the line-up and the Holland national anthem, and then a still of the kick-off. The stadium was 5 butts shy of full; the place was packed. What a glorious day for a match!

I don't know which fans I like better: Dutch or Japanese. Both sets of fans are ready to ride or die, but are also known to be of a more non-hooligan nature. NI-PON! to the left ....... HUP! to the right. There were some vuvuzelas thrown in there too for an altogether cracking atmosphere. Both teams came out cautious, with a few forward movements here and there to the crowd's giddy delight. Japan was surprisingly strong and cohesive front to back and maybe had the more creative midfield in the first half. Fans were having a great time and the Mexican wave made itself known!

Seconds before the half, I slid into the restroom and then off for a cigarette. I talked with a few Japanese folks and then got in line for chips and beer. Not forgetting his favour, I passed Noel a cold beer and continued chatting about Durban. As it turns out, Noel's son is 16 and loves American football......so much so that he is intent on going to a certain southern California division 1 football team bearing school. This disappoints Noel and I both.

I assure Noel that I am no fan of American football or the culture that surrounds it and that his son must change his direction immediately! Rugby folks look down on both American and Association football, so he was at least pleased with my reluctance to support gridiron. This led to Noel giving me his home phone number and insisting that I visit for dinner and he would take me on a tour! I wasn't sure that I was going to make good on the offer, but I was very appreciative of the hospitality. In hindsight, I'll bet it would have been a fun and interesting time. The teams came out for the second half.

Japan was resilient, but was starting to crack under presure. Against the run of play however, they did have a shot or two on goal.......then in the 55th minute, Wesley Sneijder sent a bullet of a shot right at the keeper. In a spectacular blunder, the Japanese keeper made contact with the swerving ball but only to divert it into the other side of the Japanese net. All witnesses agree that the keeper should have dealt with it, but he did not; 1 - nil to the Dutch! After 5 minutes it became apparent that the Dutch were content with the one goal lead and sat back while the Japanese contrived to breach the opposing box. In history, this technique has left Het Oranje out in the cold but on this day it would serve them well with a second win and group topping full points. Holland fans rejoiced; Japanese fans clapped in austere reverence.........日本人 did not disgrace themselves on this day.

Upon the final whistle, we said our goodbyes and Noel implored me to call him the next afternoon though I knew I probably wouldn't. I then filed slowly out of the stadium and headed east for the 15 minute walk to the beach. The sun was big, the temperature comfortably warm.

The fan fest was right on the beach and had activities for a day's worth of fun! There was swimming, surfing, beach soccer, live music, drum lessons, a skatepark, and other activities for younger kids with fuzzy mascots and stuff. There were delicious food vendors offering sausages, curries, pasties, kabobs, and chicken burgers. Me being a curry fanatic, I ordered a 'chicken bunny,' short for chicken curry bunny chow. Bunny chow is a Durban specific curry dish served in a hollowed out half loaf of bread. Evidently, this dish idea developed decades ago in an Indian community at 'Buni's Curry Shack' or something like it. Bunny is not the meaning of rabbit, but rather a convenient Anglicization of an Indian language proper noun. 'Chow's meaning more obvious. Curry to go in a bread bowl : Brilliant! Coupled with a frosty Castle draft, I was well ready for the next match, that of Ghana v Australia from Rustenburg.

For the next two hours I wandered up and down the boardwalk, out on the pier, and out in front of the enormous screen in the sand showing the match. Australia already looked demoralized after Germany handed them their asses in their first match. One worse, talisman Tim Cahill was wrongly sent off and would not be playing in the Ghana game. In spite of Ghana being the superior team, the teams shared the points, 1-1. I hopped a cab back to the B&B; the time was 6:15 or thereabouts and the African sun was disappearing behind the mountain ridge just west of the city.

Back at my room, I showered and set myself for the 8:30 match between Cameroon and Denmark. Others at the house said they were going out to the bars to watch the game, but I wanted a quiet night at home. I slipped out to get an English pie and prepared salad from the grocery and returned to watch the lacklustre event. Denmark looked like they wanted it more, though both teams were guilty of playing a boring match. I spent much of the time keeping in touch with my schedule and trip notes or chatting with the Afrikaaner cola booth worker from the day before. He and his girl were hanging out having drinks before going out to the bars. In time, the match ended and the locals departed. I retired to my room.........fun day! Sleep was had in no time; my data center thinking ahead to tomorrow, a day in which I had NO PLANS!

Friday June 18 2010--------------------------------------------->Onward to Durban

The ride back to Joburg was fast and unspectacular. I chatted with Henrick's second friend who is from Mexico City, but lives in Munchen. He talked at length about how hot German girls are and who could blame him? We paid a few tolls, stopped for gas and a stretch (got me some meat pies too!) and were in Joburg by about noon. Hendrick and I were the only two who had been to the hostel in Kempton Park, but we were hardly sure exactly how to get there. We made it to Kempton Park okay, but spent another 45 minutes scraping the bowl for any trace of something familiar. Purple Palms Hostel is at the corner of Boompeiper and Maraboe roads, but none of our maps show these; wish we'd had GPS!

Towards the end of the ordeal, we had hailed

down a local. The man got out of his car holding his jaw and mentioned in a muffled voice that he had just gotten out of the surgeon's office (dentist) and would try his best to help us. He had no idea, but was working hard to find other people to ask........some more aimless driving happened, and then we ditched him and tried to get back closer to where we thought we needed to be, where ever that was. Our delayed intuition led us right to Maraboe, and then to the gate of the hostel. The time was 12:30. Proper checkout was at 10:00, my flight was at 4:00.

Walking into the house, I was greeted by staff members Cynthia and (another really nice girl; from Zimbabwe whose name escapes me) who didn't seem too surprised or concerned that I hadn't been there all night. I had made nice with them the morning before, talking about my plans to be in and out of town, and my unusual itenerary. I had also already paid in full for my reserved time there, so all was gravy and chips. The plan: shower, pack up bags (still left on the top bunk disorganized but untouched), get a ride to the airport, eat at airport, fly to Durban! Showered and packed, Hendrick agreed to give me a lift to the airport too as he and his friends had business to tend to there. At the airport we said our goodbyes and exchanged information. Hendrick was a fantastic travel buddy and football supporter and I was glad to make it to the game and back with him and his friends. Good times.

I had an hour or more until I had to check in at the gate, so I had a beer, salad, fish and chips. I walked around a bit and found a place to get on the internet and check email, facebook, news and stuff. Johannesburg Tambo International Airport is actually very high quality: plenty of cheap food options, internet/computer access, banking/exchanging, big screen TVs showing live matches, free luggage carts that go on escalators, transportation options (lacking effective train to and from central train station, however). Good thing that the airport was well equipped, as I went in and out of the airport like it was a 7-11 convenience store. Ticketed and screened, I boarded the SAA jet and sat in an exit row next to two tall gentleman in official FIFA coats: dark blue blazer with FIFA Official embroidered on the left breast pocket. Later I would learn that the man to my immediate right was Swedish referee Martin Hansson. Just

before the seat belt demonstration, the stewardess asked the three of us in our row if we were prepared and able to help the flight crew with the emergency exit; we each answered verbally with 'yes' though the official sitting in the window seat intimated that he was a fireman back home in Smugbastardland and that we were all in good hands. I didn't bother chatting up the referees

during the hour and a half flight, but did observe almost military precision in their posture and movements. They each had a small bottle of wine and read seemingly important documents. I was tired, I slept a bit. Once landed and in the baggage claim of King Shaka International Airport, it was learned that Argentine veteran referee Hector Baldasi was also on the flight! He was gladly taking pictures with fans waiting for their luggage and politely chatting with those interested. I scooped my bags and headed for the door.

Outside, I smoked a cigarette while watching USA play Slovenia through a restaurant window. It looked like a surprisingly competitive match, me not knowing much about either team. At halftime, I hopped into a cab bound for town and looking for Sommersby Bed and Breakfast, a highly recommended little spot located quite close to the Durban stadium. The driver was unsure of exactly where the place was, so asked for the place's number so as he could get directions. Chris, the owner answered and said that unfortunately nobody was at the house right now, but that we could go to the bar he was at and I could use his keys to get into the house......it sounded like it was going to be an ordeal, but the opposite was true. The cabbie brought us to the bar, called Chris, Chris came outside to meet us just as I saw the US be denied a perfectly good goal on the bar TV. Chris is a very nice maybe-forty English guy that spends a few months of the year in Durban. He gave me his keys and advised me as to how to get in, which room was mine, and where to leave the keys. He apologized for the unusual procedure, but I understood that he was thinking about his England match coming up within the hour. Fair play. The helpful cabbie delivered me to the empty B&B where I found my room, showered, and then turned on the game. What a terrible World Cup for England. Thinking forward to the beach and Netherlands v Japan the next day, sleep was eventually had.

Thursday June 17th 2010-------v---------------------------> Mexico v France in Polokwane

The instant after my eyes opened, I started to plot my course to Polokwane: first, the options. I had seen in the airport an 'official' World Cup kiosk buzzing with attendants and offering rides to different stadiums, that's one option........I could also rent a car from the airport and make the drive as I plan to do for games in Nelspruit and Bloemfontein, but I had no reservation so this seemed a more distant option. The third and probably strongest option was to loiter at the airport and talk my way into a seat on a chartered bus, or get a ride with random Mexico supporters; Mexico was in full effect in airports from San Francisco to Washington Dulles to Amsterdam...... Johannesburg was to be no different as El Bandera Tricolor was proudly waving all over the place, propped up or worn as a thin national snuggie by hopeful Mexicans......before getting out of bed I decide to head for the airport. I then got up, washed my face, and put on my Mexico jersey in eager anticipation of my first World Cup match twelve hours away! ......and maybe my favorite national team, no less! Of course I am American, but between Lalas, Donovan, Musburger, Arena, Harkes, Garber.......and just a number of obnoxious American soccer personalities and slogans, I still find the US men's national team boring. In contrast, I find Mexico to be thoughtful, elegant, and purposeful on the ball. Mexican fans understand the rules and history of the game more than Joe MLS and I have enjoyed being with them at El Tri games here in the Bay Area.....maybe 5 times at this point have I seen Mexico's national team play in SF and Oakland. How would tonight's match compare? Anyways, I'm in my Mexico jersey and walk out of the room into the hallway......

In the hallway I spy a fellow also in a Mexico jersey packing a bag. I initiate polite morning chatter in my barely passable Spanish: Buenas! Como estamos? Usted vas al Polokwane esta noche por el gran partido? Oh si? Como te vas? Quieres con su amigo renta (I know, I know) un coche d'el aeropuerto? Tienes espacio por uno mas? Oh si?!?! CHINGON! I had spent more time in bed thinking about my options than spent opening the door to the hallway and finding my ride to Polokwane!

My new acquaintance Hendrick is a Mexican national living in Mexico City and working as a travel agent for a leading international travel agency. He had secured reasonable air passage to South Africa using his industry resources, had already seen a game or two and was looking forward to France v Mexico in a big way. I would guess his age to be similar to mine, and when my Spanish often failed, his perfectly good English bridged the gap. Hendrick was packing his things in preparation to leave when I chatted him up. His plan was to get a ride with Blasi (hostel driver) to the airport in order to meet his friend and rent the car; he had 2 reservations just in case......good thinking; trust a travel agent. It was by now 11:00 am, the game was 4 hours drive away, and the game was to begin at 8:30 Pm......it was decided to leave for the airport about noon and to be on the road in the rental by 2:00 pm. This plan also provided me time to scoop my match tickets from the ticket kiosk at the airport. I chatted to some of the hostel workers for a sec and then went outside of the compound (It seems that the greater majority of houses in the suburbs of Joburg are surrounded by a tall security gate) and down the road to the grocery store for some supplies. The drive would require water (3 liters), chips (potato), juice (orange), biltong (beef jerkey!), and a pack of Lucky Strikes (filthy habit), what the hell. "OH and one of those pepper steak pies, please! Thank you." This was my first sighting of English-style meat pies in South Africa. It would not be my last.

Back to the hostel I went, checked my email and facebook on the antiquated on-site computer,and waited with Hendrick for Blasi to float us to the airport. I had my heavier jacket and small Barca backpack with me, leaving my 2 bigger Jansport bags at the hostel on the upper operating table in the dormroom. My bags were half unpacked and strewn about the bed, but it was only clothes and books......"I'll deal with it later tonight." (HA! that was never to happen.) In due time, we split.

Ten minutes and 150 rand later (guidebook was wrong;no free rides to airport) we get to the airport and break in different directions: Hendrick to meet his friend and me to fetch my match tickets......we'd meet up in the Europcar rental office on the 3rd floor in 20 minutes. Now I had applied for and received assurances about these match tickets as long as 15 months ago, and added 2 more tickets in the last month for a grand total of 10 tickets! To be able to finally see and hold these mythical things was very exciting and I went straight upstairs next to the

'Firearms Check and Customs' area (!) and swiped my credit card on the strip and the chin-high red postbox looking thing buzzed and whirred then dropped all of my freshly printed tickets into my willing hands! A satisfied grin followed immediately by a scowl and miserly ticket tuck into my hidden jacket pocket........anybody thinking about separating me from THESE tickets is in for it. Don't look at me, don't talk to me, don't even f***in* think about it! While I was thinking critically, I probably still had the dopey satisfaction grin on the whole time. I had the tickets on my person and this is real. Now on to the car rental to

meet up......

At the rental window upstairs, I meet up with Henrick and his friend (whose name escapes me) .....they are camped out at the front desk trying to verify one of their credit cards over the phone; I sit and watch highlights of yesterday's games on the flat screen behind the desk. After 30 minutes or so, all details sorted out--------> 3 of us in car and on road just past 2:15..... on schedule.

The ride was pleasant and unhurried. Hendrick was learning to drive on the right side of the car and road but easily adapted after half an hour or so. Every time he tried to lane change though, he would engage the windshield wipers as they had swapped sides with the turn signal blinkers........we laughed at that while marveling at the enormous township just off of the highway. There is an odd neatness about the appearance of a township whizzing by you off of the highway: uniform differentiation in plank material and usage, save for metal sheets always being the roof. Many colors. Everything squared with sharp corners. Nothing built over 10 feet. We do not have poverty on this scale in North America.

.....and then the wipers go on again and we laugh. We pass through hours of rolling African countryside: a toll here and there, a few farms, and increasingly hilly terrain. Hendrick and pal chatter in Spanish beyond my level while I take photos of the unfolding sunset.......at some point we stopped for food and bathroom use, stretched our legs and then proceeded. Shortly after, we started seeing signs for Polokwane and the 'park and ride' area that we would use to get to the match. The cars on the road at this point are mostly

football supporters, and we follow traffic into park and ride lot about a mile from the stadium; the stadium in its fully lit glory was visible in the near distance, but we needed to get onto a bus to get there. We make mental notes of where the car is, trunk our leave-behind-items, and get on the bus. Five minutes later and walking up to the ticketing gate, we decide to meet at so and such an area after the game so that we can get back to the car together. We part again, but not before exchanging hand smacks followed by fist bumps......'Enjoy the match, I'll see you in a few hours!' Ticket in hand, I get in the security line.

There were Mexicans partying everywhere. The most heard fan song was Cielito Lindo (the 'ay-yay-yay-yay' song) punctuated with the gruff, repetitive iME-XI-CO! or vuvuzela blast. French fans? Not much of a showing. Those that were there must have felt quite intimidated by the numbers and energy of the Mexico fans surrounding the stadium. France lost the supporters' competition in the lot outside hours before the game began; too much Mexicanissima.

1st line of security: ticket authenticity is checked by a free-standing agent using black light and hologram scrutiny, then through metal detector, my bag checked out by uninterested 'officer.' 2nd line of security: ticket bar code was then swiped by an agent.....if it beeped, you could proceed through the 7 foot revolving steel door and you were in. No beep equals fake ticket I was told......BEEP!......then I was in! For all the hullabaloo, the security was polite and somewhat cosmetic ..... and efficient. In fact, as I started to survey the scene, I noticed that there were not as many people there as I thought might be. I think in the back of my mind I remember headlines of African stadium disasters where 200,000 people show up to a stadium that holds 50,000, not to speak of closer tragedies at Heysel, Hillsborough, or Ibrox. F******g low quality American news information does infect the brain even if you try to ignore it. Of course US news on Africa is never good, and that I was not greeted by a humanitarian disaster at my first World Cup match in Africa was a win for the home team. Peter Makoba Stadium holds a paltry 40,000 spectators, just less than AT&T Park here in San Francisco. Considering that the capacities of Candlestick (69,000+) and The Oakland Coliseum (63,000) are greater, and Polokwane's organized event management effort......movement in and around the stadium was comfy. Beer lines were long, but that is a given.

30 rand, 12 oz Budweisers were sold in plastic bottles and not poured into cups, which is odd given that beer bottles at football matches are known to be converted into piss missiles to be launched at match officials, players and coaches alike. I got a beer, walked around a bit and had a cigarette while taking in the spectacle: red, green and white everywhere, but mostly green. Luchdor masks, sombreros, tribal eagle headdresses, face paint, vuvuzelas, Chivas jerseys, Club America jerseys........I think I saw a French national chemise, but it was already faded.

My seat was in the second tier half way up, not far from the half-line. On the opposite side of the field was the sizable press box area which was topped with a white cherry moon, nearly full. The helicopters swirling about took away a bit of the charm, but the moon was big and pretty; it presided over much of the match. There were mostly green supporters in my section, save for the South African family of Indian extraction behind me and 2 African fellows to my right. The time was 7:50 or so, meaning a short wait for the team presentations and national anthems ......talked with some of my neighbors, took some pictures, helped wave an enormous Mexican flag, used the bathroom, and before I knew it, the teams were coming out on the pitch. Mexico fans go nuts. Cheering, whistling, vuvu blowing, and singing followed. Cielito Lindo makes itself known again and is loud......as for the French: night crickets, tumbleweeds, an owl hoos, and a coyote cries in the distance. While being announced individually, the loudest noises for the French team were from Mexican sources and were not very polite. Jeers, hisses, whistles and the ever-versatile 'puto!' greeted each French player after his name was read. Mexican players were celebrated with an iOle! In a classy turnabout, the Mexican crowd was respectful during La Marceillaise. El Himno Nacional Mexicano was sung with gusto, right arm crossing chest, and fingers extended..... and more chanting followed: Me-Xi-Co! Me-Xi-Co! Me-Xi-Co! Si se puede! A la bio a la bao, bim bom ba.....Mexico, Mexico Ra Ra Ra!!!!! and the return of Cielito Lindo......that one's never too far off.

Kickoff. Green fans are up for it and are loud. Vuvuzela pollution will not be a problem on this night and I expect the tv broadcast to show the same. As could be predicted, whenever the French keeper took a goal kick, he was given the old 'heeeeeeeEEEEEYYYYYY PUTO!' treatment. Scoreless 1st half, but Mexico playing beautiful and with attacking purpose. France for all of its star power lacked bottle. Halftime brought time for restroom and cigarette break; I also got another beer. The second half started off more ambitious for both teams, and when Javier Hernandez was served up by Marquez and then juked the keeper, the stadium exploded. 2 words: BEER EVERYWHERE! Everywhere around me, beers were shaken and showered upon jubilant fans.......(to the disappointment of the African next to me; he took exception to the sullying of his fresh animal jacket) People were jumping, hugging and high 5ing everywhere ......screaming, vuvu blowing, taunting of the few French supporters diminishing into their seats. At this point I realized that one of Mexico's finest contributions to the sporting world, that of 'the wave' had not made an appearance on this occasion; odd, but then I think it speaks about the passion and focus that the Mexican fans brought to the match. No time for whimsy or cute crowd games, this was a serious competitive match. Blanco later scored a penalty after Barrera was inconvenienced in the box and a more relieved after-party mood prevailed in the stands. 3 whistles= full time. Cheering, chanting, ......much of the same that has not let up all night.

Outside of the stadium I met up with Hendrick and company, which now includes another friend of his who will be with us on the ride back to Joburg. Hendrick's second friend is also Mexican but lives in Munchen. We get a shuttle back to the car, get a coffee at an outside vendor, and discuss the plan. Everyone was pretty tired, so it was decided that we would go to Polokwane airport to relax and sleep in the lounge or wherever. My mind is on the clock: I have a bus ticket to Durban leaving at 8:00 am in Joburg. If I missed that, I did have another day and a half to get to Durban so I wasn't worried. I kinda wanted to drive back right away, but the group preference was clear, so I didn't fight it. While sitting in the lounge watching earlier coverage of Argentina v South Korea on a giant flat screen, Hendrick mentioned that since we were at the airport and I was going to miss the 8:00 Joburg bus, maybe I could check flight availability later in the day. Well, it was an excellent idea with a positive result: I got a flight on SAA for Durban leaving at 4:00 in the afternoon! I think it was $130 US or so, which is reasonable. The trip to Durban would also be more comfortable and faster; less than 2 hours compared to over 8. I got the ticket and went back up to the lounge to rejoin the group. At that point, we were being served free coffee and toast by the cafe staff......I dunno, they were proud to host and eager to please. It was now about midnight and we spent the next 7 hours stretching out on leather couches and telling the security that we were on the first flight out in the morning.....har har har. We finally left at about 7:15 or so, and it is at this time that Hendrick's first friend is talking the newer passenger into supporting a bid to go to a local game reserve instead of right back to Joburg. Friend 2 is receptive, and before long they have spent 10 minutes trying to talk Hendrick into going along with that plan. I wanted to be back in Joburg to check out of the hostel by at least 11:00 am not to mention airport check in by 3, but it was not my call to make and felt bad for being the restriction on that activity. The Mpumalanga reserve and Kruger National Park are near; never would there be a better chance to go, but Hendrick stuck to his original plan to get back to Joburg by mid-morning. He didn't have to make that decision; but he did and it was to my benefit. (Thanks Hendrick!) I couldn't have been upset if he did decide to take us to the game park; after all I was just some sneaky gringo in a Mexico jersey that talked his way into a ride. I would have gotten back to Joburg somehow......

Wednesday June 16th 2010 ----------------------------> Arrival in Johannesburg

The meaning of 20 hours in the air over 2 flights and the product of almost a year and a half of planning was now at the end of the ramp leading away from the plane. KLM 0591 out of Amsterdam had just landed at around 9:30 in the evening and I disembarked into the Johannesburg arrivals gate. The song playing through the public address system? 'Walk of Life' Dire Straits......somehow I didn't expect that. I wade downstream towards baggage claim thinking about the connections I need to make to get to the Purple Palms hostel in the northern suburbs of Joburg. After collecting my checked bag and going through immigration, I entered the arrivals hall which was fittingly adorned with large WC 2010 posters, taxi touts, info booths and wide eyed footey voyeurs. There were vuvuzela blasts here and there adding to the carnival atmosphere at Tambo airport, but I sensed a bit of local irritation. I later found out that I had landed at about halftime of the group match between South Africa and Uruguay. Uruguay pounded the hosts 3-0, which well explains people at the airport being on edge......enough atmosphere, I gotta make this phone call!

I call the contact number and am told to wait at the 'zebra crossing' outside of arrivals gate A and I would be picked up shortly. I was also told that 3 others were waiting for a ride to the hostel, one being very tall. Now before I even made the phone call, I noted 3 fellows outside (one being very tall) and presumed that they might also be headed to the hostel. Later this hunch would prove correct. What I had trouble finding out was where the heck this 'zebra crossing' was. I walked around a bit in the area of the Gate A pickup area looking for a zebra sign, a zebra curb, zebra painted column.....whatever! After 15 minutes or so chewing on that puzzle, the 3 previously mentioned came back outside and posted up at the curb next to the black and white striped safety crossing----->the 'ZEBRA CROSSING!' ( I felt like an idiot, but then I was tired and ready for sleep; not brain twisters )

The 3 loiterers were now having a little kickabout in a circle with a shiny new Jabulani ball, and when the loose ball came to me, I knocked it back and asked if they too were headed to Purple Palms......sure enough, the 3 Austrailians were waiting for the same shuttle; case solved. After another 10 minutes or so, our driver Blasi greeted us and we followed him back to his beat up Opel station wagon in the airport garage. Polite tired talk happened in the car on the way to the hostel, but I was still just kinda shocked that I had just landed at the World Cup in South Africa!

Arrival at the hostel at maybe 11:30 pm or so; I met the hostel manager Arnold, checked in and was issued a top bunk in a room that sleeps 3. Showering happened and then sleep happened.......in the back of my comatoast mind was the issue of how I was going to get to tomorrow's (June 17th Mexico v France) match in Polokwane. While I had meticulously planned the trip, this ticket was a more recent purchase and I casually left to chance the issue of the 4 hour drive to the north of Johannesburg.......and back. I also needed to visit the official ticket kiosk at the airport to collect the 8 tickets I had paid for.

Fly 9500 miles or 15220 kilometers on 2 flights and survive........check.

Land in South Africa.......check.

Find hostel..........check.

Sleep.........check.

.......so if you're just now tuning in, for the last six months I've been studiously blogging about the upcoming FIFA World Cup 2010 in South Africa. I've tapped out volumes of information covering topics from the 2011 world political climate as affected by possible WC2010 outcomes to the intricacies of even securing match tickets and air passage. I wrote haiku about a leather globe and deconstructed cryptic ESPN broadcast commentary. While I'm at it, I am also enjoying a high rating on Oprah's book list for my recently released fictional research piece entitled "Wha Happon?" I have been nominated for the Pulitzer; no biggie.

The truth is, tomorrow is the drawing for WC2010 live from Cape Town and I'm excited enough to begin thinking about starting the process of getting initiated into an introduction to a window towards a blog-type situation......finally. On Friday morning December the 4th at 9:00 AM San Francisco time will begin the process of filling in the blanks of the group bracket grids.....and as important to me, finding out who I will be seeing live for the three group match tickets I have! I haven't the stamina to calculate all of the juicy possibilities, but it will be a secular blessing no matter what. Fair play.