Ke Nako – from our correspondent in South Africa
We’ve seen some rotten sporting decisions. We’ve touched the shame of Wayne. We admired Fabio in his sharp M&S suit. We watched the neglected Crouchy bobbing around in the warm up area. We met Mick McCarthy. We felt the loyalty of the fans undulating like a Mexican wave. We did it on South African soil, around the very grass that still steams with hot English tears.
Sorry, it’s not a good time to boast. I assure you, the sorrow of England’s crummy demise was ever more excruciatingly felt at close range. But it’s still wonderful being in South Africa. This is my first home, though my tickets were for England.
We got here the morning of the match vs USA. My little old car, now used by my brother in law’s mum, had been returned for my arrival. It was plumed with two flags: a big SA one and a little England one. You soon get used to the mad flapping noise. Everyone has them. The South African supporters also sport little mittens on the backs of their wing mirrors.
In Rustenburg I was almost decapitated by the volume of the vuvuzelas. Them Americans and Englishers can blow like pro’s. I was fresh off a plane, no sleep, wasn’t ready. Then I got my own vuvuzela.
Everyone’s itching to hit the stands. You get in a line, you get on a bus, you wish you’d remembered earplugs. You enter the stadium and arm yourself with a hysterically expensive Budweiser. You talk to people, exchange numbers, you do a weird American bottom-bumping things in the air. You float in and out of the sponsors’ tents. You get to know the songs. The best one is “Give me freedom” used by Coke. Is this on in the UK? You should have seen me getting down. They have a great ad too of a little boy on the shoulders of giant deft-footed robots.
The local war cry is AYOBA which means something like “Hell yeah!” or “Let’s go!” The atmos is tremendous, and then it’s time. Here come the flags, laid religiously on the pitch. Then the streams of the teams and their little marching mascots. Then everything kicks off and actually it’s a bit boring. Then it’s really good. Then it’s a bit boring. But then it’s good.
There are also fan parks. We first experienced one of these in Cape Town. They feel like a tiny concrete festival. They are free to enter, with security as hefty as at the stadiums. The finger of Bud has rubbed the branding off every can of lager. It’s the local Castle lager, with the simple moniker “South African Beer.”
People stand around draped in their flags, cradling their unbranded lager, worshipping the big screens. On the stage, some lunatic in a yellow boilersuit stirs up the crowd. Another guy walks around offering sticks of dried sausage. In half time there are games to play – such as, the screen becomes an interactive pitch, with footballs falling from the top. The crowd waves and jumps to knock the balls into the opponents’ goal.
If you’re not getting a bus back straight away, you walk miles to the pub with your new friends, singing songs by the Smiths and the Jam. Everyone gets along and invites you to come. Met a nice German fellow travelling with two British backpackers. No aggro. I did find the jingoism of some of the English songs a bit distasteful. Far more fun sometimes to stick with the Saffers and watch them convert a vuvuzela into a device for administering pints. “Smash it down your beak, bru”, is the invitation. No thanks, pal.
In between games, there is gentle sunshine, wildlife, family, and plenty of food. It’s fantastic in South Africa. You should all visit here most definitively. Until then, I’m hoping that heatwave is fast evaporating those tears.
