It's been a while since I last had a blentry because I've been busy traveling and whatnot (and for those who have never whatnotted, it's a lot of fun). Instead of boring you with the details, I'll limit myself to a discussion of my four days in Mozambique.
I took a “bus” from “Johannesburg” to “Maputo” and this “bus” took “eight hours” to “reach” “Maputo.” Maputo, for those who don't know, is the capital of Mozambique, as well as home to the country's tallest building, a 33-story whopper whose name, when translated from Portuguese to English means “thirty-three.”
Now, Mozambique is much poorer than South Africa. Much. It was visible the second I crossed the border. Or, rather, as I walked towards the border. See, we had to deboard the bus, walk about half a kilometer, get our passport stamped by the one person working the border on the South African side, and then cross into the much poorer Mozambique and wait about 15 seconds until one of the eight agents on the Mozambique side was available to check my visa and stamp my passport, allowing me into the country. Of course, on the way back, I learned why there was only one person working the passport control: the other 2,000 or so agents were all checking every single bag that entered the country for contraband. We waited for over an hour coming back while they rifled through everything since, you know, there's a huge drug smuggling ring from Mozambique (actually, I bet there is, but I really had to use the toilet so waiting outside the bus for an hour in the cold was not fun).
Anyway, I got into Mozambique right around the time when the sun was setting, which is called “evening.” The weather was nice, yadda yadda. I walked three blocks to Base Backpackers and asked for a bed and what do you know, they had one bed available. For 220 meticais. Which, when converted to dollars, is about $7. So I booked for three nights.
That night, I realized that I had a Texas drivers license, had been to a French-speaking country (Canada), German-speaking country (Austria), and now Portuguese-speaking country (Mozambique), but never a Spanish-speking country (Hialeah doesn't have an official language).
There's a couple of things everyone should know about Maputo, so I'll tell you in my patented ten numbered list approach:
1. This is an eight-pronged thing, so I'll do it in my patented eight lettered list approach:
a. Every cop has an AK-47
b. You will listen to anything a cop yielding an AK-47 asks you to do
c. He will ask you for your passport
d. You will have your passport with you, because it is the law
i. Or you will bribe him to let you keep going
e. When he tells you something is wrong with your passport, you tell him to take you to the police station
f. He will tell you to keep moving, and leave you alone
g. You will then follow said cop at a distance, watch him walk by every black person until he comes across someone else with non-black skin, and he will ask that person for his or her passport
h. You will then be able to say you have been racially profiled
2. Even though most of the city is run down, there is a lot of very nice old Portuguese colonial architecture
3. “Obrigado” (or obrigada if you are of the fairer sex) means “Thank you” in Portuguese.
4. “No falla Portuguese” means “Don't talk to me in that language because I ain't gonna understand.”
5. Half the people are still bitter at Portugal for its oppressive and unwavering control over the land longer than any other country was willing to hold onto its African possessions (other than Spain, which still has cities on the Moroccan coast, but no one cares about Spain). The other half have forgiven Portugal and were sad to see them lose to Spain in the World Cup (or maybe they're like everyone else and still hate Portugal, just don't like Spain because no one likes Spain).
6. There's a big ex-pat population in Maputo, which means there's a night-life, which means there are people on the streets after dark, which means it's a lot different than Jo'Burg, where people don't go out at night unless they:
a. want to get mugged
b. want to mug
7. There will be rotting garbage on random sections of the pavement.
8. Rotting garbage smells very unpleasant.
9. You know how all Super Bowl championship gear for the losing team gets sent to Central American countries? Well, all relocated franchise gear gets sent to Mozambique. I saw seven different Charlotte Hornets items in Maputo, as well as two Los Angeles Raiders jackets. I also saw an Oakland Raiders jacket, which makes me thing that that's probably from when they first moved in the 1980s. Or maybe Maputans are just bitter that their beloved Hornets left Charlotte for New Orleans, Oklahoma City, New Orleans/Oklahoma City, and finally New Orleans. Speaking of which, they like basketball in Mozambique.
10. If you pick a random street block during the hours between 8am and 8pm and walk slowly down the block, you will hear at least 16,323 people scream “MY FRIEND!' at you, 14,808 run after you, with 13,770 of those trying to sell you a Mozambique phone sim card, and the rest trying to sell you some random piece of woodwork they claim they made. All 16,323 will then say “I give you good price.” You'll say “I already have” and wave them off, and 16,299 of them will then repeat “I give you good price.” The other 24 will find another white person to say “MY FRIEND!” to.
All-in-all, Maputo was quaint, which makes it the first person, place, or thing I have ever called quaint. The museum of natural history holds the Guiness World Record for largest collection of Elephant Feti (or is it fetuses?). Now, now, I'm not sure that they actually hold that record, but find me another museum that has 14 80-year old elephant feti ranging in size from one month to 22 months (it takes 24 months from conception to birth of an elephant) and then we'll talk.
I'd like to have gone up north to Tofo beach, which is supposedly nice, but I did not have time. I'll have to return to Mozambique some day. I still have 1300 meticais to dispose of, and banks in Cape Town won't buy meticais.
Speaking of which, I'm now in Cape Town. But Cape Town is for next blentry.
Yours truly,
The Ambassador
Sunday, July 4, 2010
Tuesday, June 22, 2010
Soweto
If I offended anyone in the last entry, all apologies. Warning in advance: paragraphs 9-11 discuss FIFA's promotion of condom use. If you want to avoid said discussion, please skip paragraphs 9-11.
Moving on, on Sunday I went to Soweto, or South West Township as it is less commonly knowned as. And I was disappointed. Not in Soweto, no. But Soweto is such a cool name and to think it's just a contraction of South West Township was a huge letdown.
We went to the Hector Pieterson museum, which was surrounded by a decent-sized outdoor market with people selling “home-made” African craftwork and artwork that for the most part were probably just mass-produced for $0.10 a piece considering no one had any idea of what type of wood they used to make the little people. Nonetheless, the things were pretty cool, so I decided to splurge and spent 20 rand and bought an ice cream.
Back to the museum. Hector Pieterson was one of the thousands of school children who took park in the Soweto student strike in 1976. The ruling government mandated that all students in Soweto must study both English and Afrikaans on a 50/50 basis, as opposed to just English, since 50 percent of the taxpaying whites spoke Afrikaans. Despite protests from school principals and parents, as well as the fact that most of the teachers in the schools barely knew Afrikaans anyway, the government went ahead with the policy, and that May the students decided to stop going to class.
On 16-June, thousands of students planned to march through Soweto to gather and write a proposal to remove Afrikaans from their schools. While on their way, the police opened fire on the students, killing hundreds of young boys and girls, including Hector Pieterson. The image of one of his friends carrying his bloodied body out of the chaos was shown across the world and became quite possibly the most iconic and lasting image of Apartheid. Economic sanctions followed from many of the west's powers as well as the east, and the beginning of the collapse of the Apartheid government was underway.
The museum itself was extremely well put together. There was background information on the formation of Apartheid and organized protest movements, as well as an in-depth look into the history of student activity. While it was a lot of reading, it was well worth it. I made it most of the way through the museum when I got to the funeral room, where there were pictures of body bags and poems and sermons. At this point, I completely lost it and couldn't go on. I went out and bought another iced cream. Knowing just how awful everything was in the United States, to think that it was even possible for things to be worse, let alone as unthinkable as they were under Apartheid is really just too much to handle.
After that, we went through Soweto. We walked past Nelson Mandela's house, but it would have cost 80 rand to go in, and I was not paying 80 rand to go into the house of a former convicted criminal. His house was on the same street as Desmond Tutu, making it the only street in the history of mankind to have two non-related Nobel Prize winners living on it at the same time. Sorry Pennsylvania Avenue.
Afterwards, we found ourselves in the back of a police car getting an escort to the mall. People were staring at us as the officers let us out of the car at the front entrance. Wiley asked if he could handcuff us before he let us out, but they said no. Oh well.
WARNING: This is paragraph number nine. That night, I went to the Didier Drogba dive-fest, which has also been called the Brazil-Cote d'Ivoire match. I don't really remember much about the match not because I was drunk but because the play was so mediocre that I've blocked it out of my mind, but I do remember the huge box of free condoms in the men's bathroom.
Now, I understand that FIFA has teamed with the RSA government in the campaign against HIV/AIDS in Africa, but are really that many people having sex in the men's bathroom of World Cup matches that a box of free condoms is a good use of funds? Considering the vast majority of the AIDS victims are in the poorer sections of the country, AKA the people who can't afford to go to games, exactly what does FIFA think it is accomplishing? Couldn't the money its using to put huge boxes of free condoms in world cup bathrooms be better used putting huge boxes of free condoms in grocery stores? But I digress.
Moving on, you may remember that I said at the beginning to skip paragraphs 9-11 if you have a problem with the discussion, and if you listened to me, you'd be skipping this paragraph. Since I have nothing more to say about FIFA condom use but I still have a paragraph to spare, I'll use this paragraph to tell you where you can find the pictures I've been promising for some time. If you go to worldcupwinter.blogspot.com click “sign in” at the top, crack my password, log into my account, threaten to delete all my blogs if I don't post pictures, and sing the official 1986 FIFA World Cup song in correct pitch with matching harmony from a world reknown recording artist that rhymes with Tilly Pole, and then I'll upload the pictures.
Tomorrow, I return to Pretoria for the day to watch the United States beat Algeria to qualify for the Round of 16, where we could go against any of four undereachieving teams.
Until then, be safe.
Your's truly,
The Ambassador
Moving on, on Sunday I went to Soweto, or South West Township as it is less commonly knowned as. And I was disappointed. Not in Soweto, no. But Soweto is such a cool name and to think it's just a contraction of South West Township was a huge letdown.
We went to the Hector Pieterson museum, which was surrounded by a decent-sized outdoor market with people selling “home-made” African craftwork and artwork that for the most part were probably just mass-produced for $0.10 a piece considering no one had any idea of what type of wood they used to make the little people. Nonetheless, the things were pretty cool, so I decided to splurge and spent 20 rand and bought an ice cream.
Back to the museum. Hector Pieterson was one of the thousands of school children who took park in the Soweto student strike in 1976. The ruling government mandated that all students in Soweto must study both English and Afrikaans on a 50/50 basis, as opposed to just English, since 50 percent of the taxpaying whites spoke Afrikaans. Despite protests from school principals and parents, as well as the fact that most of the teachers in the schools barely knew Afrikaans anyway, the government went ahead with the policy, and that May the students decided to stop going to class.
On 16-June, thousands of students planned to march through Soweto to gather and write a proposal to remove Afrikaans from their schools. While on their way, the police opened fire on the students, killing hundreds of young boys and girls, including Hector Pieterson. The image of one of his friends carrying his bloodied body out of the chaos was shown across the world and became quite possibly the most iconic and lasting image of Apartheid. Economic sanctions followed from many of the west's powers as well as the east, and the beginning of the collapse of the Apartheid government was underway.
The museum itself was extremely well put together. There was background information on the formation of Apartheid and organized protest movements, as well as an in-depth look into the history of student activity. While it was a lot of reading, it was well worth it. I made it most of the way through the museum when I got to the funeral room, where there were pictures of body bags and poems and sermons. At this point, I completely lost it and couldn't go on. I went out and bought another iced cream. Knowing just how awful everything was in the United States, to think that it was even possible for things to be worse, let alone as unthinkable as they were under Apartheid is really just too much to handle.
After that, we went through Soweto. We walked past Nelson Mandela's house, but it would have cost 80 rand to go in, and I was not paying 80 rand to go into the house of a former convicted criminal. His house was on the same street as Desmond Tutu, making it the only street in the history of mankind to have two non-related Nobel Prize winners living on it at the same time. Sorry Pennsylvania Avenue.
Afterwards, we found ourselves in the back of a police car getting an escort to the mall. People were staring at us as the officers let us out of the car at the front entrance. Wiley asked if he could handcuff us before he let us out, but they said no. Oh well.
WARNING: This is paragraph number nine. That night, I went to the Didier Drogba dive-fest, which has also been called the Brazil-Cote d'Ivoire match. I don't really remember much about the match not because I was drunk but because the play was so mediocre that I've blocked it out of my mind, but I do remember the huge box of free condoms in the men's bathroom.
Now, I understand that FIFA has teamed with the RSA government in the campaign against HIV/AIDS in Africa, but are really that many people having sex in the men's bathroom of World Cup matches that a box of free condoms is a good use of funds? Considering the vast majority of the AIDS victims are in the poorer sections of the country, AKA the people who can't afford to go to games, exactly what does FIFA think it is accomplishing? Couldn't the money its using to put huge boxes of free condoms in world cup bathrooms be better used putting huge boxes of free condoms in grocery stores? But I digress.
Moving on, you may remember that I said at the beginning to skip paragraphs 9-11 if you have a problem with the discussion, and if you listened to me, you'd be skipping this paragraph. Since I have nothing more to say about FIFA condom use but I still have a paragraph to spare, I'll use this paragraph to tell you where you can find the pictures I've been promising for some time. If you go to worldcupwinter.blogspot.com click “sign in” at the top, crack my password, log into my account, threaten to delete all my blogs if I don't post pictures, and sing the official 1986 FIFA World Cup song in correct pitch with matching harmony from a world reknown recording artist that rhymes with Tilly Pole, and then I'll upload the pictures.
Tomorrow, I return to Pretoria for the day to watch the United States beat Algeria to qualify for the Round of 16, where we could go against any of four undereachieving teams.
Until then, be safe.
Your's truly,
The Ambassador
Sunday, June 20, 2010
Seriously, Fuck Rustenburg
So, I've now been in the RSA for almost two weeks, and there's a couple more things I've learned. Well, at least one.
What we call traffic lights or stop lights or just plain old lights are not called traffic lights or stop lights or just plain old lights in the RSA: they're called robots. Why are they called robots? Who the fuck knows. But they are.
Anyway, you may remember from a week ago how I complained that Rustenburg was a disaster. Well, it still is. While we got out of the car park in under three metric hours this time, it still took me the entire length of half time to find a bathroom. Not just to go to the bathroom; no, of course the line was long for the toilet, but just to fucking find a fucking bathroom. I walked half way around the stadium, asked people, begged people, threatened to castrate people, and no one knew where one fucking bathroom was. Then I found a bathroom, (or was it THE bathroom), and it was impossible to get to because right next to it was THE food concession selling place, and the lines were so long and the area so cramped that you couldn't fanegle yourself through the area to actually get to the area where you could wait in an area to use the bathroom. I mean seriously, how good was the halucinogen that the FIFA executives must have been on when they decided, “Boy, Rustenburg really is the shit! Let's use that as one of the ten host sites for the world's third-largest international sporting event.”
But I digress.
Jo'Burg is not as bad as everyone says. Sure, much of the streets and buildings are run down, people are everywhere begging for money, armed security personnel walk the streets, but there are no 0-16 football teams here, so it's slightly more well off than Detroit. Most everyone is really friendly, the roads are much better paved than in Houston, and so long as you keep your wits about you and don't flaunt 100 rand bills (or 5 cent coins in Berea) down a back alley (or anywhere in Berea) at night (or any time of day in Berea) by yourself (or in any size group in Berea) you'll be fine (except in Berea).
In other news, I've been to three games in three days in three different stadia in two cities and two provinces. I saw Argentina sexually abuse the Korea Republic 4-1, I saw a Malian referee sexually abuse the United States in a 2-2 draw against Slovenia, and then I saw the logistical nightmare of Rustenburg sexually abuse 32,000 fans who went to watch Australia draw Ghana 1-1.
On the bright side, I will only head back to Rustenburg no more than one time during the World Cup and no more than zero times after the World Cup.
Fuck Rustenburg.
But I digress.
I really don't have much more to say. I just need to vent after two trips to a place no one in his or her right or left mind would ever consider making a voyage to. Rustenburg really is terrible. I mean seriously. It's horrible.
Today, I'm going to go watch Brazil and Cote d'Ivoire in Soccer City, but first I'm going on a tour of Soweto. Should be fun. If you haven't figured it out yet, you'll get pictures when you get pictures, which will probably be when I get back to the U.S. because I really don't care enough about you to give you the pictures you want.
Your's Truly,
The Ambassador
What we call traffic lights or stop lights or just plain old lights are not called traffic lights or stop lights or just plain old lights in the RSA: they're called robots. Why are they called robots? Who the fuck knows. But they are.
Anyway, you may remember from a week ago how I complained that Rustenburg was a disaster. Well, it still is. While we got out of the car park in under three metric hours this time, it still took me the entire length of half time to find a bathroom. Not just to go to the bathroom; no, of course the line was long for the toilet, but just to fucking find a fucking bathroom. I walked half way around the stadium, asked people, begged people, threatened to castrate people, and no one knew where one fucking bathroom was. Then I found a bathroom, (or was it THE bathroom), and it was impossible to get to because right next to it was THE food concession selling place, and the lines were so long and the area so cramped that you couldn't fanegle yourself through the area to actually get to the area where you could wait in an area to use the bathroom. I mean seriously, how good was the halucinogen that the FIFA executives must have been on when they decided, “Boy, Rustenburg really is the shit! Let's use that as one of the ten host sites for the world's third-largest international sporting event.”
But I digress.
Jo'Burg is not as bad as everyone says. Sure, much of the streets and buildings are run down, people are everywhere begging for money, armed security personnel walk the streets, but there are no 0-16 football teams here, so it's slightly more well off than Detroit. Most everyone is really friendly, the roads are much better paved than in Houston, and so long as you keep your wits about you and don't flaunt 100 rand bills (or 5 cent coins in Berea) down a back alley (or anywhere in Berea) at night (or any time of day in Berea) by yourself (or in any size group in Berea) you'll be fine (except in Berea).
In other news, I've been to three games in three days in three different stadia in two cities and two provinces. I saw Argentina sexually abuse the Korea Republic 4-1, I saw a Malian referee sexually abuse the United States in a 2-2 draw against Slovenia, and then I saw the logistical nightmare of Rustenburg sexually abuse 32,000 fans who went to watch Australia draw Ghana 1-1.
On the bright side, I will only head back to Rustenburg no more than one time during the World Cup and no more than zero times after the World Cup.
Fuck Rustenburg.
But I digress.
I really don't have much more to say. I just need to vent after two trips to a place no one in his or her right or left mind would ever consider making a voyage to. Rustenburg really is terrible. I mean seriously. It's horrible.
Today, I'm going to go watch Brazil and Cote d'Ivoire in Soccer City, but first I'm going on a tour of Soweto. Should be fun. If you haven't figured it out yet, you'll get pictures when you get pictures, which will probably be when I get back to the U.S. because I really don't care enough about you to give you the pictures you want.
Your's Truly,
The Ambassador
Wednesday, June 16, 2010
Jo'Burg
Well, I'm in Jo'Burg now. Jo'Burg is the largest city in South Africa and home to the largest stock exchange on the continent. But it's not the capital. Pretoria, where I been, is one of the three capitals, being the administrative capital or something like that. Bloemfontein, where nobody in his right mind would go unless driving through to Cape Town, is the judicial capital. Cape Town, where I will have been next month (that is grammatically correct when you think of it: I will have been there), is the legislative capital.
Anyway, when I said Jo'Burg is not the capital, I kind of lied. It is the capital for all intents and purposes (or whatever that saying really is). It is the economic capital, the capital of Guateng Province, as well as the murder capital. It's also the rape capital, mugging capital, violent non-lethal crime capital, and arson capital. Sounds fun, eh? And for the next few weeks, it'll also be the football, er, soccer capital of the world, and therefore where I need to be if I am truly going to be the American Ambassador to Soccer.
Yesterday, I go to Jo'Burg in time to go to the Brazil-DPR Korea match, but since A. I did not have tickets, B. it was fucking freezing, and C. I was already going to see Brazil in a real match anyway, I decided to watch it at the hostel. And Brazil won by a goal, I think, since I dreamt that Brazil scored four goals in extra time. But either way, everyone was shocked at how the DPR Korea actually played with Brazil, arguably the strongest team in the world and unquestionably the most accomplished in World Cup history. That said, the DPR Korea lost, which means there's a good chance ¼ of the team will not be alive come kickoff for their second match against Portugal, whih is not a DPR.
Today, of course, Bafana Bafana play their second match, and today, of course, Bafana Bafana will be the entire thing 81 percent of this country cares about. The other 19 percent, being white, will care about the rugby match in Cape Town that was brilliantly scheduled to be played concurrently with the soccer match. Doesn't that make sense.
I'll do some Jo'Burg touring today. Maybe go to the Apartheid museum. Maybe schedule the tour of Soweto. Who knows. But I'll also watch a bit of soccer.
I swear pics are coming when I stop being lazy.
Yours truly,
The Ambassador
Anyway, when I said Jo'Burg is not the capital, I kind of lied. It is the capital for all intents and purposes (or whatever that saying really is). It is the economic capital, the capital of Guateng Province, as well as the murder capital. It's also the rape capital, mugging capital, violent non-lethal crime capital, and arson capital. Sounds fun, eh? And for the next few weeks, it'll also be the football, er, soccer capital of the world, and therefore where I need to be if I am truly going to be the American Ambassador to Soccer.
Yesterday, I go to Jo'Burg in time to go to the Brazil-DPR Korea match, but since A. I did not have tickets, B. it was fucking freezing, and C. I was already going to see Brazil in a real match anyway, I decided to watch it at the hostel. And Brazil won by a goal, I think, since I dreamt that Brazil scored four goals in extra time. But either way, everyone was shocked at how the DPR Korea actually played with Brazil, arguably the strongest team in the world and unquestionably the most accomplished in World Cup history. That said, the DPR Korea lost, which means there's a good chance ¼ of the team will not be alive come kickoff for their second match against Portugal, whih is not a DPR.
Today, of course, Bafana Bafana play their second match, and today, of course, Bafana Bafana will be the entire thing 81 percent of this country cares about. The other 19 percent, being white, will care about the rugby match in Cape Town that was brilliantly scheduled to be played concurrently with the soccer match. Doesn't that make sense.
I'll do some Jo'Burg touring today. Maybe go to the Apartheid museum. Maybe schedule the tour of Soweto. Who knows. But I'll also watch a bit of soccer.
I swear pics are coming when I stop being lazy.
Yours truly,
The Ambassador
Sunday, June 13, 2010
England-USA
USA and England played Friday night in Rustenburg. The game was fun. Eventually I'll upload pictures. I promise. In the mean time, let me bitch about something that is truly worth bitching about.
It took THREE HOURS to get out of the parking lot. THREE. The game ended at 22:30. We were 110 km from the hostel. And we weren't home until a few minutes before 04:00. How does that happen?
Well simple: there's a parking lot with 15,000 cars, and the brilliant minds for the planning committee and FIFA thought that one exit out of the parking lot would be enough to funnel out 15,000 cars at the same time, 14,999 of which would be heading the same way on a two-lane highway back to either Jo'Burg or Pretoria. And in the one long year since Rustenburg's Royal Bofakeng Stadium played host to the 2009 FIFA Confederations Cup, it seems like they did nothing at all to figure out the logistics of something that the Dallas Cowboys had no problem doing for a stadium that seats and stands 100,000 on the first try.
But I digress.
The disaster that was the postgame was inexcusable. Even the local police had no idea what was going on and struggled mightily to control traffic or even control anything at all. The busses that were supposed to transport everyone from the stadium to the parking lot were turned in the wrong direction, causing jams and gridlock that was not solved for hours. I was on one of the first busses to get back to the parking lot, and even still I was sitting on the bus for more than an hour before the bus did as much as turn a wheel. In the parking lot, for 90 minutes, not a single car moved in the row we were parked in. A bunch of people, myself included, just decided to sit back and open a few brews and tailgate. Others just sat in their cars, heat turned up, listening to music or the complaints of other drivers on 1600 AM. The host on 1600 AM went as far as to pull a Sarah Palin, saying this disaster would confirm many people's ignorant beliefs that “Africa is a third-world country.”
Every caller had his or her own simile to give, but none could sum it up. One person compared it to a new neighbor (or neighbour in metric spelling) moving in, inviting you over, and after a lovely dinner having a huge fight right at the doorway as you tried to leave.
Nonetheless, at about 01:30, we got out of the parking lot, and by 04:00, we were back in Pretoria and I was able to get some sleep.
That said, Tim Howard is the greatest American since George Washington, or at least James Polk.
Some cheers from the game:
London bridge is falling down, falling down, falling down
London bridge is falling down on John Terry.
If the queen's not on your money, clap your hands
If the queen's not on your money, clap your hands
If the queen's not on your money, if the queen's not on your money
If the queen's not on your money, clap your hands
America... FUCK YEAH!
1950 (clap, clap.... clapclapclap)!!! 1950 (clap, clap.... clapclapclap)!!!
Next blentry when I feel like it.
It took THREE HOURS to get out of the parking lot. THREE. The game ended at 22:30. We were 110 km from the hostel. And we weren't home until a few minutes before 04:00. How does that happen?
Well simple: there's a parking lot with 15,000 cars, and the brilliant minds for the planning committee and FIFA thought that one exit out of the parking lot would be enough to funnel out 15,000 cars at the same time, 14,999 of which would be heading the same way on a two-lane highway back to either Jo'Burg or Pretoria. And in the one long year since Rustenburg's Royal Bofakeng Stadium played host to the 2009 FIFA Confederations Cup, it seems like they did nothing at all to figure out the logistics of something that the Dallas Cowboys had no problem doing for a stadium that seats and stands 100,000 on the first try.
But I digress.
The disaster that was the postgame was inexcusable. Even the local police had no idea what was going on and struggled mightily to control traffic or even control anything at all. The busses that were supposed to transport everyone from the stadium to the parking lot were turned in the wrong direction, causing jams and gridlock that was not solved for hours. I was on one of the first busses to get back to the parking lot, and even still I was sitting on the bus for more than an hour before the bus did as much as turn a wheel. In the parking lot, for 90 minutes, not a single car moved in the row we were parked in. A bunch of people, myself included, just decided to sit back and open a few brews and tailgate. Others just sat in their cars, heat turned up, listening to music or the complaints of other drivers on 1600 AM. The host on 1600 AM went as far as to pull a Sarah Palin, saying this disaster would confirm many people's ignorant beliefs that “Africa is a third-world country.”
Every caller had his or her own simile to give, but none could sum it up. One person compared it to a new neighbor (or neighbour in metric spelling) moving in, inviting you over, and after a lovely dinner having a huge fight right at the doorway as you tried to leave.
Nonetheless, at about 01:30, we got out of the parking lot, and by 04:00, we were back in Pretoria and I was able to get some sleep.
That said, Tim Howard is the greatest American since George Washington, or at least James Polk.
Some cheers from the game:
London bridge is falling down, falling down, falling down
London bridge is falling down on John Terry.
If the queen's not on your money, clap your hands
If the queen's not on your money, clap your hands
If the queen's not on your money, if the queen's not on your money
If the queen's not on your money, clap your hands
America... FUCK YEAH!
1950 (clap, clap.... clapclapclap)!!! 1950 (clap, clap.... clapclapclap)!!!
Next blentry when I feel like it.
Friday, June 11, 2010
Some things are awesome, and most of those things are called World Cup football. Now, now, I know a decent amount of my blogging clientelle are from Mexico, and I hold nothing against you since at least you are not from Canada, but for the next few paragraphs please understand why your soccer team has done everything in its power to try and ruin the entire World Cup. Or so I thought at the time.
No one wanted Mexico to win. No one. Not France, not the United States, not even the DPRK. Okay, I'm sure some people from the Texan territory of Mexico wanted Mexico to win, but let's be honest: they're alone. These are AFRICA'S games, SOUTH AFRICA'S games, and Mexico was trying to steal from everyone else what was rightfully there's: a win in the first game of the World Cup. And like Duke basketball and the poachers in Bambi, the villain won, or at least drew, much to the chagrin of every other decent person on Earth.
Here I am in a country wrought with racial turmoil for decades and yet again sport was bringing everyone together. I saw white South African football fans chest-pumping black South African soccer fans, hands on each other's shoulders chanting “Ole! Ole, ole, ole! Ole! Ole!” over and over again. I heard screams of "Bafana Bafana!" left and right, thousands of teenagers and young adults blowing into their horns to the tune of the national anthem or to no tune at all, just pure jubilation. I heard “OOOOOHHHHHHHHH” and “AHHHHHHHHHHHH!” more times than Fox News has claimed to be Fair & Balanced while airing its own online poll as scientific proof that the Obama administration has mishandled the spoiled pudding crisis in Des Plaines, Ill. And then I heard silence when Rafael Marquez put away a brilliant ball in from Andres Guardado and even more silence when Katlega Mphela was denied by the woodwork in the dying minutes of the match. Certainly Mexico had ruined everyone's fun.
But nonetheless, the party resumed at full time, the horns yet again blown at full-throttle, a horde of car horns being “hooted” in unison with the plastic ones from the passersby, and millions of exstatic people of all races, ages and nationalities cheering that South Africa had managed to salvage a point against CONCACAF's most storied federation.
Which brings me back to my first point. This is Africa's games, Africa's World Cup, but it is also the world's. Most of the favorites, from England to France to Spain to Italy to Germany to Portugal, were imperialist powers, and through both stubborn racism and a misplaced sense of duty held on to their stranglehold over Africa in some cases well into the 1970s. And even in South Africa, the regime that had taken over at independence kept the dictatorial reign in place for a further two decades until the dawn of the 1990s. Yet in many cases Africa is emerging now in the world despite the fierce detrimental remains of imperialism, and for 90 minutes today Africa and as a result the world emerged on the pitch too.
It was a shame that Mexico stole Bafana Bafana's hard earned almost-victory from their teeths, but in the end nothing would steal victory from their hearts. South Africa may not have won the match, but even had they been defeated, which thankfully did not happen, there was no way South Africa would have lost. Had the score been 10-1 to Mexico, there would have been no less horn blowing, no less chants of Bafana Bafana, no less jubilation. The game was a victory for South Africa, a victory for Africa, a victory for the world, regardless of whether it was victory in the Group A table.
It might not been the most fitting scoreline at full time, but it was not the scoreline that told the story. I thought Mexico was trying to ruin the match when Marquez equalized, but I was wrong. No matter what happened, South Africa was still victorious. That's what I will remember. That's what I will one day tell my children.
P.S. I will attach pictures in a few minutes
No one wanted Mexico to win. No one. Not France, not the United States, not even the DPRK. Okay, I'm sure some people from the Texan territory of Mexico wanted Mexico to win, but let's be honest: they're alone. These are AFRICA'S games, SOUTH AFRICA'S games, and Mexico was trying to steal from everyone else what was rightfully there's: a win in the first game of the World Cup. And like Duke basketball and the poachers in Bambi, the villain won, or at least drew, much to the chagrin of every other decent person on Earth.
Here I am in a country wrought with racial turmoil for decades and yet again sport was bringing everyone together. I saw white South African football fans chest-pumping black South African soccer fans, hands on each other's shoulders chanting “Ole! Ole, ole, ole! Ole! Ole!” over and over again. I heard screams of "Bafana Bafana!" left and right, thousands of teenagers and young adults blowing into their horns to the tune of the national anthem or to no tune at all, just pure jubilation. I heard “OOOOOHHHHHHHHH” and “AHHHHHHHHHHHH!” more times than Fox News has claimed to be Fair & Balanced while airing its own online poll as scientific proof that the Obama administration has mishandled the spoiled pudding crisis in Des Plaines, Ill. And then I heard silence when Rafael Marquez put away a brilliant ball in from Andres Guardado and even more silence when Katlega Mphela was denied by the woodwork in the dying minutes of the match. Certainly Mexico had ruined everyone's fun.
But nonetheless, the party resumed at full time, the horns yet again blown at full-throttle, a horde of car horns being “hooted” in unison with the plastic ones from the passersby, and millions of exstatic people of all races, ages and nationalities cheering that South Africa had managed to salvage a point against CONCACAF's most storied federation.
Which brings me back to my first point. This is Africa's games, Africa's World Cup, but it is also the world's. Most of the favorites, from England to France to Spain to Italy to Germany to Portugal, were imperialist powers, and through both stubborn racism and a misplaced sense of duty held on to their stranglehold over Africa in some cases well into the 1970s. And even in South Africa, the regime that had taken over at independence kept the dictatorial reign in place for a further two decades until the dawn of the 1990s. Yet in many cases Africa is emerging now in the world despite the fierce detrimental remains of imperialism, and for 90 minutes today Africa and as a result the world emerged on the pitch too.
It was a shame that Mexico stole Bafana Bafana's hard earned almost-victory from their teeths, but in the end nothing would steal victory from their hearts. South Africa may not have won the match, but even had they been defeated, which thankfully did not happen, there was no way South Africa would have lost. Had the score been 10-1 to Mexico, there would have been no less horn blowing, no less chants of Bafana Bafana, no less jubilation. The game was a victory for South Africa, a victory for Africa, a victory for the world, regardless of whether it was victory in the Group A table.
It might not been the most fitting scoreline at full time, but it was not the scoreline that told the story. I thought Mexico was trying to ruin the match when Marquez equalized, but I was wrong. No matter what happened, South Africa was still victorious. That's what I will remember. That's what I will one day tell my children.
P.S. I will attach pictures in a few minutes
Wednesday, June 9, 2010
New Computer!!! Which means less money!!!
So for those of you who have followed this blog since it's infancy about two days ago, you'd know that I was suffering from computer problems. Well, they were fatal and I had to buy a new computer. Don't worry, I'll get the 14 percent VAT back when I leave the country, so it'll only be slightly more expensive than buying it in the United States as opposed to extremely more expensive.
That said, as the first full-length Blentry from the RSA, as well as the first with a working keyboard, I will sum up my first ten hours here.
Now, you might be thinking something to the affect (or is it effect?) of “But he's been here a day!” and you are right. But you're forgetting one key thing: South Africa uses the metric system, so there are ten hours in a day. There are also ten days in a week and ten weeks in a year. South Africa doesn't have months. Of course, the metric system is also stupid. Which makes more sense: 1,000 metres in a kilometre, or 1,760 yards in a mile? The latter of course. Plus, metre and kilometre are mispelled. God damn the metric system even affecting spelling.
Anyway, I've learned ten things in my first ten hours here and here they are:
1. The metric system is stupid – well duh, we don't use it in the greatest country on Earth (Texas).
2. I will never get used to people driving on the left side of the road. Seriously, I almost got rammed when I crossed every intersection, and most of them there weren't even any cars at.
3. Bottled water is cheap. For less than $1, I got a 1.5 litre bottle of water. That's two fifths or almost a full handle of water. Compare that to the tiny little things that you can drink in one gulp that cost $1.25 at a bagel store or $8 at Yankee Stadium.
4. The metric system is stupid – well duh. And don't think this is the last time I tell you that THE METRIC SYSTEM IS STUPID.
5. The Mexican Embassy to the Republic of South Africa is located underneath Brooklyn Bridge. Well, on the lower level of the office building complex called Brooklyn Bridge. But either way.
6. This country is still really segregated. I mean really segregegated. Every person walking on the streets was either A. black or B. me. All the employees in the supermarket were black, with the exclusion of the managers, who were all white. Same at the fast-food burger joint I went to. The disaster of Apartheid will clearly continue to be felt for generations.
7. The metric system is stupid – okay, I promise this is the last time I say that the metric system is stupid in the blentry. But in future blentries, I will gladly tell you that the metric system is stupid.
8. The World Cup is just one huge party for the host country. At every intersection, a bunch of people are standing waving RSA flags and blowing into plastic horns. Then all the cars driving by honk their horns to show their solidarity. It's really a neat sight and one that hasn't yet gotten old.
9. Home security is a MUCH bigger concern here than stateside. There were multiple such stores in the Brooklyn Mall, and one person felt it necessary to not just have an electric fence guarding their house but a sign that informing anyone who survived climbing over into their property that they had “Tropical and Poisonous Snakes.” I'll get a picture of that sign next time I walk by in case you think this is just some bullshit I've made up to sell advertising.
10. I'm a liar. How did I learn I was a liar? Because I promised that I was not going to tell you that the metric system is stupid again in this blentry, and I went ahead and told you the metric system is stupid. So sue me.
Well, pictures to come when I finally upload them. So far it's just pictures of Mogadishu from my airplane and of Dubai International Shopping Mall, er Airport. Until then...
Yours truly,
The American Ambassador to Soccer
That said, as the first full-length Blentry from the RSA, as well as the first with a working keyboard, I will sum up my first ten hours here.
Now, you might be thinking something to the affect (or is it effect?) of “But he's been here a day!” and you are right. But you're forgetting one key thing: South Africa uses the metric system, so there are ten hours in a day. There are also ten days in a week and ten weeks in a year. South Africa doesn't have months. Of course, the metric system is also stupid. Which makes more sense: 1,000 metres in a kilometre, or 1,760 yards in a mile? The latter of course. Plus, metre and kilometre are mispelled. God damn the metric system even affecting spelling.
Anyway, I've learned ten things in my first ten hours here and here they are:
1. The metric system is stupid – well duh, we don't use it in the greatest country on Earth (Texas).
2. I will never get used to people driving on the left side of the road. Seriously, I almost got rammed when I crossed every intersection, and most of them there weren't even any cars at.
3. Bottled water is cheap. For less than $1, I got a 1.5 litre bottle of water. That's two fifths or almost a full handle of water. Compare that to the tiny little things that you can drink in one gulp that cost $1.25 at a bagel store or $8 at Yankee Stadium.
4. The metric system is stupid – well duh. And don't think this is the last time I tell you that THE METRIC SYSTEM IS STUPID.
5. The Mexican Embassy to the Republic of South Africa is located underneath Brooklyn Bridge. Well, on the lower level of the office building complex called Brooklyn Bridge. But either way.
6. This country is still really segregated. I mean really segregegated. Every person walking on the streets was either A. black or B. me. All the employees in the supermarket were black, with the exclusion of the managers, who were all white. Same at the fast-food burger joint I went to. The disaster of Apartheid will clearly continue to be felt for generations.
7. The metric system is stupid – okay, I promise this is the last time I say that the metric system is stupid in the blentry. But in future blentries, I will gladly tell you that the metric system is stupid.
8. The World Cup is just one huge party for the host country. At every intersection, a bunch of people are standing waving RSA flags and blowing into plastic horns. Then all the cars driving by honk their horns to show their solidarity. It's really a neat sight and one that hasn't yet gotten old.
9. Home security is a MUCH bigger concern here than stateside. There were multiple such stores in the Brooklyn Mall, and one person felt it necessary to not just have an electric fence guarding their house but a sign that informing anyone who survived climbing over into their property that they had “Tropical and Poisonous Snakes.” I'll get a picture of that sign next time I walk by in case you think this is just some bullshit I've made up to sell advertising.
10. I'm a liar. How did I learn I was a liar? Because I promised that I was not going to tell you that the metric system is stupid again in this blentry, and I went ahead and told you the metric system is stupid. So sue me.
Well, pictures to come when I finally upload them. So far it's just pictures of Mogadishu from my airplane and of Dubai International Shopping Mall, er Airport. Until then...
Yours truly,
The American Ambassador to Soccer
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