iHooligan

Well that was ugly. You might as well have put a traffic light in the midfield for all the stop and go that occurred in the World Cup final between the Netherlands and Spain. You would have thought Christo was trying to cover Soccer City in yellow and red. This game might have won new converts from the NFL crowd.

Last night’s third place playoff between Germany and Uruguay was clean, beautiful, open, attacking football from both sides – everything you hope a final will be. It was gripping all the way to the end when Forlan’s scorcher pounded on the woodwork and went out.

The US might have crashed out but I take a small victory home since Uruguay’s Diego Forlan has won the Golden Ball.  He was an impressive and a consummate sportsman.

One more thing. A lot of South African’s tried to tell me that they all hate the Shakira song but whenever it gets played and no matter how many times it gets played in a single evening they all go batshit insane and sing and dance.

Winston is a little sad about Final but happy Forlan got the Golden Ball

7/2

Melrose Place is a swanky overpriced mall done in the California style of indoor / outdoor malls (oh hell, I don’t know where that style of mall originated but that is where I saw it first. Truth be told the whole place looked like it was unpacked from an Ikea box). It is there where we watched the Netherlands square off with competition favorites Brazil. After a long pass by Melo that cut through the entire Dutch team like a hot knife through butter resulting in a Robinho goal, the Brazilians did something they had not done all month and completely lost their composure. Robinho and Maicon could both be seen yelling at the refs and Melo was finally sent off for kicking Robben in the ribs after he was already down reducing the Brazilians to ten men. Perhaps the Brazilian need for individual flare and Dunga’s insistence on systematic, defensive football finally boiled over in this match. If the country of Brazil didn’t like it (and they did not) then surely the team didn’t as well.

The Dutch went into high gear after their first goal and kept the heat on as a Brazil reduced to ten men should still be considered a threat. After Holland scored a second goal the Orange supporters around us were elated. The last ten minutes of the game must have been agonizing for both sides but it became apparent that an overly frustrated Brazil with one man down wasn’t going to be making any comebacks and the Dutch knocked them out.

As soon as the match ended we jumped into the car and set off for Soccer City but that is where our night began to resemble Franz Kafka’s The Castle. Joburg was a madhouse preceding the Uruguay v Ghana game as Ghana had been sold relentlessly as Africa’s last hope in the World Cup. However, the closer we got to Soccer City the farther away we were and finally had to settle on take out pizza and the television back at the guest house.

Unlike other cities, Johannesburg is often a lock you don’t want to pick.

7/3

We finally said goodbye to the rental car and took a cab from OR Tambo airport driven by an old gentleman who did not know where he was going. It is pretty common among the locals that since they have sequestered themselves to their own neighborhoods, almost imprisoned themselves really, that they do not know other parts of the city very well. Joburg’s residents give possibly the worst directions in the world but, fair warning, they will give them.

Finally, after much fruitless driving in circles, our man called the Drifter’s Inn in Northcliff and from there ensued a comedy of utter miscomunication. The people at the inn would ask the driver where we were and he would reply with either McDonald’s or the Caltrex gas station of which, like many countries, there are millions, instead of picking out a more singular landmark or intersection. The problem began to dawn on me. I pulled a thick, detailed map book of Johannesburg out of the back seat pocket and looked up the street we needed to be on and showed it to the cab driver.

“You should use this thing man, “I said. “Maps are your friend.”

“Nooooo, I don’t think so,” he drawled with a slight chuckle.

Our man could not read. Obviously he was born well before Apartheid ended and had probably been one of those kids who had to work full time instead of going to school in order for their families to survive. At this point we offered to have Ash drive, me navigate and him sit in the back seat which he found uproariously funny so we settled on calling out instructions to him. So nervous was the poor man at this point that he flicked on the hazards and drove at a crawl toward our destination to make sure we did not miss the turn. After dropping us off he basically thanked us for not being mean.

In a way Joburg reminds me of the show The Wire where everyone is caught up in a big unwinnable system. Still the carnival mood of a World Cup is almost impossible to suppress. Outside of a World Cup I think many tourist prefer Cape Town and the coast and Joburg is embracing its temporary influx of visitors clumsily.

In the suburb of Northcliff people were much more intergrated, shopping at the same grocery stores and eating at the same restaurants. In other parts of Johannesburg the walls, visible and invisible, have been staggering – division as an emotion, a palpable force, fear and suspicion as a natural mode. The people at the Italian restaurant we ordered our pizzas at were constantly jerking their heads away from their meals and toward their cars, sometimes running out to check on them. The US had a long road to walk after desegregation but not as far as South Africa will have to walk. As long as the physical walls remain up the mental walls will stay up as well. The break in this edifice will have to come from an unexpected quarter of the city. There will have to be an outbreak of equality and arts and song and culture and freedom from one’s own prison.

6/28

Day two at the Blue Marlin and there is a distressing lack of monkeys.

The included breakfast was pallid looking, some watery eggs, a hot dog posing as a sausage, cooked ham pretending to be bacon and, of course, stewed fruit. There were sign ups for all sorts of walks and other outdoor activities, including films shown on the premises. The place mainly catered to English tourist and South Africans down from Joburg. None of these groups bothered to sign up for anything and the sheets were always blank. It didn’t matter to us as we had tickets to the Netherlands v Slovakia game.

Durban is right by the sea and as a city it seemed a little less locked up and walled off than Joburg. The entire KwaZulu-Natal region was much more scenic than anything near Joburg’s raw urban sprawl.

The Moses Mabhida stadium was all light and curves and sea breezes; one of the most pleasant places to be sitting with 60,000 other people, most of whom were wearing orange although there was a smattering of Slovakian fans.

The game it self was terrific with both teams playing beautiful football without vicious fouls or operatic diving. And this time the team we were supporting won even though I feel like the Netherlands have not gotten into high gear yet. After the match it was back to the Fuzzy Duck to watch the Brazilians dismantle Chile. The pundits had spent entirely too much time trying to convince their audience that this was actually going to be some kind of contest but we just chuckled and drank our beers.

6/29

The monkey situation here is untenable. Why put up all these signs about not feeding the monkeys if they’re aren’t any?

We went back to Durban to see some sights. After dealing with the emergency of me not having any coffee we visited the Durban aquarium. Instead of the sedate, modern decor of other aquariums I have been to this whole place was modeled after the interior of a sunken ship complete with creaking noises coming from the ceiling. There was a wonderful selection of local sea life, the Indian Ocean not being a slouch in that department. The sizable gnarly toothed sharks followed us around their tank like puppies or perhaps it was nearing lunch time.

We went to the maritime museum next but it consisted of two tugs and an inaccessible gun boat which put Ash in a serious funk as he had been expecting the full on nautical experience (armored ships are a serious contender for his affections right after tanks).

Back at the Fuzzy Duck there were the matches to watch. The agony of Japan going out on penalty kicks to Paraguay and Spain transcendent over Portugal. Then it was just the night and the sea and one more watery breakfast before the drive back to Joburg.

Honestly, despite the monkey situation, the Blue Marlin Hotel was one of the best museums I had ever been to.

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.

For our first full day in Johannesburg we headed straight for the Apartheid Museum. Ash was driving being our resident left hand side of the road specialist. Even though it looked like a straight shot on the map highways here tend to make you exit endlessly onto other highways. Also Jozi is not all that into informative signs. Signs on the highway have six or seven long arrows, some bending off to the right or left and signifying your need to yet again exit onto another highway or perhaps drift to another part of the highway that you are on. We do have a GPS unit for the car but yesterday we realized that the Apartheid Museum has no street address. We decided to use the crappy guidebook map when we exited the highway and feel our way there. Most streetlights in southern Joburg are mainly decorative so arriving at a four way intersection can be unsettling for the visitor.

Happily we found the museum despite our efforts. The museum was constructed on the old gold fields of Johannesburg. Curiously it was built and is still owned by the Gold Reef Casino next door.

At the entrance Ash and I were separated and given cards telling us to go either into the blacks or whites only entrance. The initial walk way consist of blown up identity cards and lots of steel and wire. When you are reunited with your party there is more wire encasing a solid wall of rocks. The two main exhibitions are of Nelson Mandela and then the rise and fall of Apartheid itself.

I’m not just being politically correct when I say the the Apartheid Museum is worth a visit, it really is, but it still feels like a work in progress. The introductory film was blurry and it is not always clear what hallway you should walk down first even though the exhibitions are chronological. And no, the irony was not lost on me how the lack of direction in the museum somewhat mirrored the maze of Joburg itself. I could not help think that having visited holocaust museums and places like Dachau that had groups of people in tears that the Apartheid Museum might have benefited from hushed lighting and less didacticticism. Sure, dim lighting is a cheap gimmick but it works.

As we left to go get lunch the staff in the parking lot made Ash turn the engine off and then turn it back on. At first I had no idea why but this morning I can’t help but wonder if it was to make sure that we hadn’t hot wired the car. After they let us out we headed for Joburg’s hipster neighborhood of Melville.

Southern Joburg is scarred by industry. There are fences, walls and barbed wiring around everything. Bare patches of land break up the landscape and ugly architecture is prominent. It hasn’t quite cast off its original character as a gold field and no man’s land between prosperous Johannesburg and the township of Soweto, which grew from Africans being evicted from Johannesburg by the white settlers and the machinery of Apartheid.

Once you get to the more fashionable parts of town barbed wire is replaced by electrical wiring and higher walls.

We checked out Melville’s bookstores and bars and I ate a Durban lamb curry at a place called Wish. Portuguese food joints are every where and there is even a chain called Nando’s that serves Portuguese and a spicy peri-peri chicken that Ash informs me is all over Australia as well. It was a fitting area to later watch the Brazil v Portugal game while trying the local beer and ciders and pizza with biltong jerky.

Soon after this though beer and jetlag claimed us both and we went back to the hotel to watch the last match and fall asleep.

Today we are getting up even earlier as the winter days here, although absolutely gorgeous and sunny, are short. The US v Ghana game is today and if the US wins then we will be seeing them in person at one of the matches we have on our schedule. I’ll be on pins and needles as watching the US team play is exciting and something like having a 90 minute heart attack plus extra time for more cardiac arrest and shortness of breath.

Thus Politely Spake the Heathrow P.A. system. They would never do that in the US of course since it would ruin the fun of taking you back to a small interrogation room for a full inquiry on why you left your bags 20 yards away to get a drink or go to the bathroom.

The flight from Heathrow to Johannesburg was delayed due to turmoil in the French airspace, no doubt something to do with France’s early exit from the World Cup. Eventually we had to fly around France. Thanks a lot Raymond Domenech.

We flew over the northern coast of Africa with the sun bright off desert. A massive dust storm was the last thing I saw before I dosed off for a while. Sometime while I slept my legs were sawn off and then sloppily sewn back on. It was night and and the only light below us was the grasses that burned in lines and circles for thousands of miles.

At what I am sure was several days of polite British service and tortuous seating we landed in Jozi and Ash was waiting for me at the airport with a vuvuzela hand and a book on the Boer War.

The airport hotel tended toward airport decor which included oxygen masks hanging from the elevator, from the bar, the bathroom, everywhere really.  Our room had a completely see through shower and a towel arranged like a puppy head complete with canine eyes, nose and lolling tongue pasted on.  You could get drunk at the bar and then walk over to the full size flight simulator in the lobby and virtually put many lives in danger. One of the drunken Slovakian fans at the bar kept tooting on his vuvuzela – those things are literally inescapable. We were both exhausted and went to collapse in a heap on the bed although the Do Not Disturb tag I put on the door suggested otherwise.

Anelka is being sent home and has retired from international football.  The squad refuse to train.  Fitness coach Robert Duverne quit and threw his stop watch into the pitch.  French Football Federation official Jean-Louis Valentin was in tears and resigned.

If you watch the World Cup on your PC you can now download a free program to filter out the vuvuzela. This little number was written by Jeff Bargmann of Stardock who got together with the Centre for Digital Music at QUeen Mary, University of London.

Pick it up here.

You might also want to grab this handy World Cup Results Calculator.

Slovenia vs USA 2-2

Here is a partisan post for you. We were robbed by that ref. It was exhilarating watching the yanks come back from a 2-0 deficit but that incredibly bad call by the ref that disallowed the third US goal was a disgrace. No one could figure out the reasoning behind most of his calls.  No US players were offside and, if anything, it was Slovenian players holding down and grabbing the jerseys of the US team.  So confusing were referee Koman Coulibaly’s calls that neither side even knew it when he ended the match. Between him and the referee of the Serbia v Germany game, who apparently thought it was Loft Cards into the Air Day, we have two new World Cup villains.

Having left New York and its embrace of the World Cup I have had to leave behind the excitement and energy of watching the matches in pubs. Baton Rouge, Louisiana is barren of World Cup fever. There are no jersey of any stripe in sight. No one has a clue that there is a really big game of soccerball  going on. After seeing the ostentatious start of the Lakers and Celtics game last night, which seemed to include strobe lights, lasers, fog machines and video projected onto falling curtains (a World Cup match would have been 20 minutes in by this point) , I found this video extra hilarious:

No matter, I’ll be off to South Africa on the 23rd.