After polishing off breakfast in Melville we managed to buy tickets for the USA v Ghana game from an Englishman who had been over optimistic about England’s final position in group. We chucked out all out sightseeing plans for the day with the exception of the South African Military Museum where I discovered Ash’s unhealthy obsession with tanks. The signs in the museum warned not to climb on any of the exhibits but said nothing about fondling and caressing them sadly.
When we got back to the hotel I was finally going to have a wash in the see through shower while Ash had a few pints at the bar. However, we found that the travel agent had neglected to book that particular night so we had to grab our gear and check out. During a normal vacation this is fixable but during the World Cup, unless you want a 700 dollar a night room in Sun City, and we did not, you’re screwed.
We decided to head straight for Rustenburg where the match was being played which a local assured us was a beautiful drive. I’m not sure during what geological period this man had last driven to Rustenburg but it was singularly one of the ugliest drives I had ever taken and I had been to Pittsburgh in the late seventies.
The earth was dry and raw and dug up and the whole drive enshrouded in smoke from the grass fires. My vision of driving off the road after the match and spending the night in the African wild was smashed. Our friend back in Joburg must have been a pyromaniac.
Royal Bafokeng Stadium is possibly the most remote of all World Cup stadiums. Its major shareholders are the Bafokeng tribe. They had us park the car about 7 kilometers away and bused us to the stadium. Royal Bafokeng is a very modern, comfortable stadium surrounded only by shanty towns where the residents have built dwellings ranging from very small stucco and tile houses to corrugated aluminum shacks that came no higher than my chest. Even the smallest, meanest dwelling had electricity so at least it didn’t seem completely obscene that the stadium would be blaring its lights right there amongst them. Have I mentioned that Royal Bafokeng is in the middle of nowhere? It is. I have no idea what they are going to use this stadium for once the Cup is over but hopefully there are some local soccer leagues (yes they call it soccer here).
We sat inside the stadium and watched th sun go down behind the surrounding hills. The floodlights came on and the smoke from the grass fires took on a ghostly hue. The staff and volunteers at Bafokeng were very nice. In fact, so far, South Africans of all backgrounds have been very sweet, helpful and accomodating and full of smiles. There was one strapping guy in Jozi who tried to force his telephone number on Ash (long story) not realizing his pathological obsession with tanks and the guy at Royal Bafokeng who has made me now forever associate the phrase “Wakka! Wakka!” with the image of an ice cream vendor humping his cooler (short story).
The temperature had dropped, the vuvuzelas were sounding off, the mood in the stadium was jovial with the exception of the English fans who hadn’t been able to sell their tickets. South Africans had divided their loyalties between Ghana and the U.S., some going so far as to paint their faces and wear large Uncle Sam hats. The Americans were in fine spirits. Then the match started.
I don’t know how it looked on television but the Ghanaians out classed us in every way. They worked in commando groups, two players protecting the man with the ball, while our guys held their positions; the Ghanaians were situationally aware while the Americans appeared solely focused on the ball; the Ghanaians first touches were exquisite, the ball obeying them in every way when it dropped from their chests to their feet. Our men seemed clumsy in comparison. For the first 15 minutes I was afraid we might never get possession. When Kevin Prince Boateng scored the first goal our defensive line was nowhere to be found. Tim Howard can only do so much. Sometimes our guys don’t play a 4-4-2 formation but a 2-4-What the fuck are you guys doing? formation.
The US started carving through the Ghanaians in the second half but there was one problem; Jozy Altidore. A lot is made of him but he is too raw for competition at this level. How many times do I have to see him in front of a perfectly empty net only to flub the ball off to the side or rocket it straight up into the air? He always looks completely surprised when a team mate passes him the ball. He is agonisingly slow. There was no one on the pitch that night that he could outrun with the ball.
Unfortunately it became hard to appreciate our opponents after a while since in overtime, after they had scored their second goal, they embarked on a diving extravaganza so epic I thought we were playing the Italians. Now I know this aspect was impossible to catch on television since Ghanaians would drop to the ground in front of their own goal post even when the rest of the players were clear across the other side of the pitch. They would be stretchered off and then would hop right back up at the side line and into play with nary a limp.
Later Ash drove us back through the smoke and darkness while I slept in defeat, the last minute reprieve having never arrived. Still it was exciting and intoxicating to be watching a World Cup match in the African wilderness at the edge of the Magaliesberg Mountains. It took twice the time to get away from the stadium so Ash parked us at an all night gas station just outside of Jozi where we cat napped until around 5am. Then I took over for our 6 hour drive to Durban which, unlike the drive to Rustenburg, was indeed scenic.
As the sun came up it lit the sandstone faces of the kopjes rising from the plains. The road twisted down the mountainous regions until we reached the shores of the Indian Ocean and our destination, The Blue Marlin Hotel in the beach town of Scottburgh, just outside of Durban. The Marlin is a sixties era relic at the end of the world (maybe not physically but metaphorically) that caters almost exclusively to English tourist. With its cracked stucco walls, sign ups for walks and aerobic sessions that seem to never be signed up for, the Marlin is a time machine; a British time machine. It is set atop a steep hill that drops precipitously onto rail tracks and then recovers to lead to the beach. The beach extends along a curved sickle of hills that ends in a promontory where a light house winks in the night. In the interior of the hotel is the Zulu Ladies Bar which somehow manages to cross intimacy and African kitsch. Perfectly glorious. The Blue Marlin is a place that not only could you imagine was haunted but that you were the ghost.
As we crossed into the lobby for the first time the manager looked up and said, “Ah, Mr. Woodward and Mr. Craig. Welcome.”
We watched the England v Germany game at the Fuzzy Duck, the bar at the front of the hotel that was tended by a white haired Indian gentleman with mutton chops. If I was right about one World Cup prediction it was that the Germans were going to be a threat.
In the back of the hotel there was a sign that warned you not to feed the monkeys. Oooooooooo! I know what I am doing.