Brazilian
for a night
Thiago’s
English was as broken as my Spanish, but with a generous dose of sign language
and spanglish, we established a conexión in the wee hours at O.R. Tambo International in Jo’burg,
my stopover between Mauritius and Cape Town. Thiago was from Brazil, the only
country on the American continent to speak Portuguese, but he spoke Spanish
too. The lawyer from São Paulo seemed pleased that Brazil has
such a following in Isla Mauricio. And
impressed when I showed off my knowledge of the minutia along Brazil’s path to
glory or tears in world cup history. Dunga’s seleção just ousted Chile (3-0) for the third time in the world
cup, and crazy Brazilians supporters swarmed the impressive airport like noisy yellow
wasps, with Vuvezelas in lieu of antennas. With this as backdrop, I was ceremoniously
adopted in Thiago’s home town following of the proud five-time world cup
winners. I was gifted a splendid
yellow Brazilian jersey, and promised free accommodation for 2014 edition, in
Brazil. Obrigado amigos!
This
time for Africa
I have been watching the availability of
tickets on fifa.com fluctuate like stock values for weeks. I initially planned
for USA-Algeria, after predicting that the qualification of the Yanks, my
favourite team, will narrowly hang on that ultimate first round game. But when
I watched the actual drama unfold at Loftus Versfeld Stadium (Landon Donovan
scored the only and decisive goal in injury time), I felt a little like Paul
the Octopus, and I wished I was in Pretoria.
And when I found myself humming Shakira’s wonderful waka waka at a
high-profile meeting, recalling the synchronicity of the intoxicating tune with
her non-lying hips, I started thinking what to pack. Also, I found comfort and
inspiration in my colleague Kevin’s words of wisdom: it’s now or never!
Prices are “tuant, tuant, je te dis”, a travel
agent told me. She hinted that I should get real about flying within the next
few days to catch second round games - without digging too deep in my pockets. “People have booked 6 months in advance”. She
misjudged my determination. After a long night online, I was all set for a
weeklong pilgrimage for the beautiful game – keeping my budget sane by backpacking,
dormitories and bus travels. Three cities in six nights, with copious walking,
I stretched the limits of light travel – everything with a slight chance of
underutilisation got the axe, except for underwear and an unfittingly fat 600-page
Dan Brown.
The
backpackers spirit of Ubuntu
In hindsight, I was glad hotel prices were outrageous.
So, dorms and bathrooms were not the only things that were shared: backpacking
was the chance to meet real people looking, speaking, and behaving so
differently – but all eager to share, given prevailing Ubuntu. It’s no cliché:
sports unite and level.
Joe, my room-mate at Riverlodge Backpackers in
Cape Town was a longhorn (i.e. alumnus from University of Texas), archrivals my
own university, Texas A&M. Talking of a small world. Eva, a German was
spending six months in South Africa, working at the lodge to pay for the trip.
She was not supporting Germany though. “Too mechanical; they don’t play, they
work soccer”.
I showed off my multi-lingualism given half a
chance, until I met Andreas, who spoke English, French, Spanish, Italian and
even Japanese – only to realise that he was actually German. Or the Portuguese
I befriended on the way to the Victoria & Alfred Waterfront (the most
visited place in South Africa) - I thought he knew all European languages, only
to find him casually switch to Zulu, to greet friendly hosts.
I was glad when the Spaniards in the airplane
told me “no inglés”,
for it was a chance to practise my Spanish. But when I turned out to be among the
few English speakers, and thus an obligation to be seated at the exit door in
case of emergency, I panicked a little a bit, and wondered what is the Spanish
version of “how the hell do we get out here?”.
The whole week felt like a cheerful UN gathering,
with encounters of people of all colours of the rainbow, including the Trinadian-born
Canadian, married to a Spaniard, and cheering for Argentina.
Ronaldo
plays like a girl
It was cold and rainy on my first day in Cape
Town. But this stunning coastal city at the foot of the awe-inspiring Table
Mountain, was alive and vibrant, anticipating a sumptuous battle of European
neighbours and historical conquerors, Spain and Portugal. The Fan Fest was the
ideal place for pre-game warm up, and to purchase essential equipment like Vuvuzelas,
and maybe get a chance to talk to Nelson Mandela. The most popular man at Green Market Square sported
a huge hat made of broken eggs and a claim to be in touch with the most
revered man alive, on the phone or through facebook! I finally could not chat with Mandela, but tipped
the “egg-man” nonetheless, after queuing up for a picture.
I watched Japan lose to Paraguay on penalties
at the Waterfront bar, over beer, calamari and chat with an Englishman working
in Washington, who held a ticket for the final. We discussed the fine points of the game, and
shared our preference for Japan, which along with South Korea, have shown West
Asian efficiency, realism, poise in their games. “Just like they run the
countries”, he remarked.
On the way to the brand new and artistically
appealing Green Point stadium in Cape Town, Vuvuzelas were getting louder, and
allegiances more vocal. “Ronaldo is gay; he plays like a girl”, a Spanish
enthusiast claimed. Portuguese fans took the political incorrectness in stride.
And finally, my first world cup game
live. It was a really special moment; a small part of African history in the
making. I decided to support the Spaniards, despite my disappointment of not
seeing the Brazilian-born defensive midfielder, Marcos
Senna, the team's unsung star instrumental in Spain’s European glory two years
back.
But being a Manchester United fan, I switched
my allegiance after Villa’s 63rd minute goal that sealed the fate of
the Iberian rivalry. During the game, my eyes were on Ronaldo, not to double
check his sexual inclination, but to see how he moves without the ball. Placement
and motion for receiving a pass is as important that the actual ball-passing,
something not adequately appreciated on TV. I was perplexed to see Ronaldo’s detachment
from mid-field play. He was too far ahead, inaccessible. Clearly though, every
ball he touched smelled danger. But there was a lack of belief on the
Portuguese side, and my prayers for more goals, extra time, penalties, and
drama were not answered. I made up by once again switching side to España, an
excuse to join the fiesta in restaurants and clubs.
The
perfect day
If I were to choose a day to live over and
over gain, like Bill Murray in the witty Groundhog Day, my 24 hours in Port
Elizabeth would be among the top candidates.
I was greeted by a marvelous weather, a delightful city and some great
Dutch hosts, ready for the battle of continents against Brazilians. Koen, who
checked me in Kaya Kaya Lodge earlier, came out with a beer can on the balcony
early in the morning, and stared at the magnificent sea view told me:
“Wonderful weather, Netherlands beats Brazil, what else can you expect?” He
seemed sincere about his life expectations.
After a lazy stroll along the Kings Beach, I
took a free ride to the official FIFA Fan Fest at St. George Park, where the famous
Netherlands supporters held a pre-game party. It was a “Hup Holland Hup” all-
orange costume party: air hostesses, farmers, ostriches, tigers, and my
favourite: an orange pope, the slightly less pious version managing lager,
cigar, and clinging hostesses with Casilla’s dexterity with the ball. The great
organisation among fans was a sign to me. The clockwork orange is at work.
Nonetheless, I stuck by Brazil and headed to
the iconic and spectacular Nelson Mandela Bay Stadium, to join the yellow wave
of support. It was thrilling. Sunshine, gorgeous Brazilian girls, friendly fans,
samba, electricity in the air, and more gorgeous Brazilian girls. Fans were in ecstasy
when Robhino, who often seem like indulging in diski dance moves with the ball, scored early in the first
half.
But then the second-half saw a metamorphosed
team oranje, and the Brazilian euphoria
gave way to despair. The unconceivable was happening: no world cup to bring
back home. Cheers gradually yielded to desolation, as Wesley Sneijder buried
the ball twice. When the linesman decided that playmaker Kaká was
offside, or the flying Robben was in genuine agony after an alleged illegal
tackle, he was called “puta, puta” in choir-like unison. My Portuguese got a
little better.
As the final whistle was blown, it clearly
sounded more painful than the most irritating Vuvuzela. Brazilian men cried
openly, women busy comforting the mates like children, with a clear lie: it is
just a game. Because whoever thought that football is a matter of life and
death must be crazy: it’s more important than that! But soon there was recollection. Orange fans
were embraced and congratulated with incredible sportsmanship. The party must
go on.
Does
size matter?
I had the luxury of watching eventual
finalists Spain and Netherlands, not to mention Brazil and Ronaldo. But my
favourite game was in a cricket stadium in Port Elizabeth, turned into a Fan Fest
with a giant screen, with a crowd united behind Ghana’s and the continent’s
claim on history: a berth to the semis. I did not know much about Ghana: it was
somewhere in Africa, and means terribly unfashionable in Mauritius. But I
cheered every attack of the Black Eagles, agonised when the sensational Diego Forlán
got into shooting range. I never switched allegiance this time.
The elation of the last minute penalty, the distress of Gyan’s miss, made up a
real roller-coaster of emotions.
I just tried to imagine how it would be like
if Mauritius was in Ghana’s boots. I proudly bought a quadricolore at Plaisance, but it looked so small once off our
shores - and this has nothing to do with our 728 square miles (Uruguay, twice
world champions and semi-finalist this year has just 3.5 million people). When
asked about the favorite sport in Mauritius, I lied and said “football”. The
truth, of course, is that our favorite is gambling, and athletic horses are more
popular than their human counterparts. It dawned on me: I do not know any team
or player in our premiere league, or whatever it is called. The situation is
pathetic, and I wonder when we shall be blessed with the chills of that game
that can send us to the World Cup.
Need
tickets?
FIFA warned about non-transferability of tickets
and identity checks at the stadia. This was hardly enforced, and actually
tickets were widely available for most of the games. So my appetite for a
sumptuous Argentina-Germany showdown grew – but then that meant curtailing post-game
festivities in Port Elizabeth. I finally stayed on the aptly named Friendly City,
but reached Cape Town on time to watch German celebrations – although it was a
little morose at Backpackers on Castle, where I stayed with stunned Argentineans,
waking up painfully to the fact that Maradona relied too much on individual
skills at the expense of sound tactics.
The
good, the bad and the ugly
Overall the organisation was magnificent:
world-class infrastructure along with world-class service, with a personal
touch. When I enquired about the office to pick up my precious tickets at
Jo’burg airport, the official climbed up two floors to drop me right there,
like locating an item in an obscure supermarket aisle.
Istar came down to Cape Town from Spain to
work at the restaurant and enjoy the world cup. She echoed a popular sentiment:
“It is simply fabulous. No problems at
all with fans. No incidents. And I am happy South Africa at least beat France.”
Both Istar and owner Sacha were delighted about business: “Sales have gone up
several times”. Not surprising, given that the restaurant is on Long Street,
the busiest place for food, and late-night partying after the games at Green
Point stadium.
Nonetheless, the ugly side of South Africa was
never too far away. When I missed my train stop, and landed in nowhereland, I
was scolded like a teenager by the train driver for being careless and exposing
myself to danger, as if it’s the duty of muggers to punish naïve tourists. I
grew a little more understanding, when along the scenic garden route, what really
stuck to my mind were shacks and shanty towns, many of them being the
unfortunate impact of the World Cup.
I hesitatingly boarded my taxi back to the
airport, still considering an extra couple of days to a potential semi-final in
Cape Town. Like all South Africans I talked to, the taxi driver was really proud.
Complacent about Bafana, Bafana, happy for the black eagles, happy for Africa.
When I asked about business, it has not been as good as he expected. “World Cup
was good, but 77% of the benefits went to politicians, 35% to big businesses,
and the poor like me: just 2%”. I doubted the scientific validity of his economic
analysis. But I understood what he meant: the reality of capitalism, where opportunity
knocks louder at the fortunate.
Olá Brasil
On the flight back, I started making my
calculations: how much would it cost for World Cup 2014, in samba style, with
the event going back to Brazil after 64 years. Two less drinks a day for the
next four years – you should be able make it. If the traffic to Port Louis gets
magically fluid, that too would save you enough (if the traffic situation has
not yet gotten you furious, maybe this perspective will!). Anyway, any excuse
for more unforgettable futebol
moments will do.
World
Cup 2010 lingo guide
Ayoba: Multipurpose slang, adaptable to mean:
agreed, fun, awesome, goodbye, or cool (like Puyol’s hair).
Bafana Bafana: South African national men football team; literally, “the
boys, the boys” (for South Africa's senior women's team, Banyana Banyana).
Diski: Dance with soccer-based moves. Like the
Macarena - only much, much better with an imaginary ball.
Jabulani: controversial Adidas ball, which literally means “rejoice” or
“celebrate”. With apparently a mind of its own, it never lived up to its name.
Ke Nako: It’s possible. It’s time. Indeed, it
was time for Africa, a message ingrained in our minds through Shakira’s tunes.
Waka waka:
Do it, do it. Yet another double take. Anyway, you did it, you did it,
Africa.
Ubuntu: humanness, interconnected among
people, in South African Bantu language.
Vuvuzela: Metre-long plastic trumpet shaped on an antelope horn,
and sounds like angry bees after losing on penalties. Previous incarnation used
to summon villagers to meetings. Nowadays, no self-respecting football fan
should be without one.
Zakumi: Official anthropomorphic sporty leopard
World Cup mascot - with an attitude. Starting with ZA (as in domain name suffix
for South Africa), and “kumi” means ten, as in the year 2010.
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