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......
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