Sinterklaas

As I mentioned previously, the hospitality at our Mokopane guesthouse was outstanding. The place is owned by a tall, retired Afrikaner with a white-brimmed knit hat and wispy white chin beard whom Bill almost immediately dubbed "Sinterklaas." The resemblance is certainly there, though neither the beard nor the gut is as robust. And the real Sinterklaas doesn't wear sweat pants and Crocs, I am told.

Sinterklaas is a self-described "Bushvelder," meaning he is originally from the area around Mokopane in what is now officially called the Limpopo Province in northern South Africa (formerly the Northern Province). The guesthouse represents an investment he made a few years ago after retiring from his career as an accountant in the mining industry and convincing his wife to move with him from Johannesburg to Potgietersrus. Sinterklaas says he needs the extra income because his pension is "modest." Moreover, he likes people and figured the guesthouse would be a perfect way to meet them. He really does seem to take a personal interest in all of his guests, taking it upon himself to wake up at all hours to check in late arrivals and personally cook breakfast for early risers.

Sinterklaas gave us a peak into old-school South Africa. As I'm sure is common in his cohort, he continues to use the Afrikaans place names: he lives in Potgietersrus and took us to the game in Pietersburg. The very cold weather was not what he is used to, so he drank hot coffee while waiting for us at the game in a Pietersburg coffee shop. On the way home, when another driver swerved in front of our van on the highway, Sinterklaas half-jokingly lashed out at "another baboon with a license." Awkward, nervous laughter. Upon arriving back at the guest house, he invited us to join him for late night sips from his beloved Sedgwick's Old Brown Sherry--which he had been talking up ever since we'd arrived. When she visits, his daughter supplies him with refills from the Eastern Cape Province.
Over sherry, we asked him whether or not he had traveled much outside of South Africa. He told us that, "officially," no, he had never been outside of South Africa. Not letting a qualifier like that pass, we asked, "And unofficially?" He explained that "as a younger man under the old system," he was a member of the Citizens' Active Force (or something like that), an organization similar to our National Guard. In that capacity he had gone on missions in the neighboring countries Namibia, Botswana, Zimbabwe, and Mozambique. "What sort of missions?" we asked. He replied, "We were looking for members of the...um...current government." Wow! So he participated in the Apartheid regime's efforts to capture and jail political dissidents, particularly the members of the ANC. Okay! Reflecting on how times had changed, he made the interesting observation that the National Party actually had developed a lot of respect over the years for their black counterparts in the ANC, and that was an important factor in the peaceful transition of power in the early 1990's. The years of plotting each others demise ironically led to peace.

To Bill and me, the conversation epitomized the immediate nature of history in South Africa. The defining events of the nation's struggle are very recent, so you get a chance to ask questions of real people rather than reading about it in a book. You also get to hear the language they use, whether stubbornly using the Afrikaans names or calling Apartheid "the old system." Such a description seems to absolve whites of their part in perpetrating a horrible regime, like, "Hey, it was just another system of government that didn't work out too well, so now we're trying a new system." It avoids having to talk about all of the baggage that went it.

Sinterklaas could have invested a little more of his nest egg in some insulation for his guest house rooms. As the temperature dipped to freezing or below that night, it was just as cold inside. I didn't take off my jackets from the game, slept under a blanket, and stilled shivered all night. After the restless night, Bill and I wolfed down a home-cooked Sinterklaas breakfast and headed out back to the N1 for the ride down to Johannesburg. We were tired but psyched for USA-Slovenia that afternoon.

Mexican for a Day: El Tri vs. Les Bleus

The hospitality in Mokopane was great. Not only did our guesthouse hosts arrange for a VW Vanagon ride to the Peter Mokaba Stadium park-and-ride in Polokwane--about 60 km away--but they cooked us dinner as well. Thank God, too, because we had a limited turn-around time after getting in from our long drive from Durban. We washed down our Boerenwurst (farmer sausage) and hearty banana-chicken curry with Windhoek Lagers, from Namibia.

Along the way we picked up a pair of father-son combos from the Sonora, Mexico, just across the border from Arizona. Amazingly, this trip represented their 11-year-old sons' maiden voyage on an airplane; their first trip was from Phoenix to London, followed by two days in London, and then the London-Johannesburg leg. The kids didn't say much--I'm guessing they were still in culture shock.

If nothing else, the weather had to have been a shock to those kids. It was freakin' cold. At about 1,280 m above sea level and in a dry climate, a typical Polokwane day is warm during the day and chilly at night. With the cold front that had blown through, temps were about 5C below normal. Bill went with a fleece under his Mexico jersey and pajama bottoms under his khakis, while I layered on ski underwear, a cotton hoodie, a windbreaker, and a Mexico t-shirt. We were still cold. Here we are at the stadium all kitted out...
Yes, we went as Mexico fans. Viva Mexico! Bill's lovely wife Norma is from Aguascalientes, "El Corazon de Mexico," meaning Bill's son Mickey is semi-Mex. As for me, I figured, "What the heck. It'll be more fun than being French for a day." At this point, my Spanish is better than my French anyway. Plus, we thought it was appropriate to support our CONCACAF brethren. It was like rooting for a college football team from your school's conference in a bowl game against a school from another conference. The better Mexico does, the better the USA looks for winning the CONCACAF qualifying.

Our van driver, Gideon, misinterpreted the lousy signage near the park-and-ride and ended up parking outside of a mosque. We stopped, disembarked, and popped open our remaining Windhoeks while I finished my curry. After getting some dirty looks from the Imam and the other arriving worshippers, we determined that this probably was not the park-and-ride; indeed, it was just down the road. We joked that it was a good thing we weren't wearing USA jerseys. Here's a mediocre shot of the empty mosque parking lot...
After finding the park-and-ride and agreeing to rendezvous with our van mates after the game at the corner of Khyber Pass Street (what is going on here?!?), we hopped on a vuvuzela-heavy bus to the stadium. The scene outside was a little muted from the cold, but still festive, with a lot more sombreros than berets, and more tequila than champagne.

Some revelers with a Tricolore flag...
The sign outside the newly constructed stadium...
The real action was in the relative warmth of the stadium concourse, where the Mexicans held court...

More singing and dancing here...

We were psyched to discover we had great seats, six rows up, 30 yard line, and in the midst of a gaggle of Mexicanos. Some of our colorful neighbors included a mariachi...
Freezing Montezuma...
Lucha Libre...
And a couple more...

On the pitch, the first half was lousy. Mexico picked it up in the second half, however, when Javier Hernández somehow avoided an offside call and wound up all alone behind the French keeper. Cuauhtémoc Blanco then nailed a penalty kick goal in the 79th minute to ice the victory, literally. Here's the video I took of the PK...

América del Sur contra el Mundo

All of the second round results are in, with an unprecedented four South American teams making it through to the quarterfinals. In fact, Peru's 1978 squad was the last South American team not from Brazil or Argentina to make it this far. This year, the two superpowers are joined by not one but two 'Guay's: Para and Uru.

Each South American team faces a country from across the Atlantic. Here are my picks:

• Brasil vs. Nederland - This is a rematch of their classic 1994 quarterfinal tilt, deep in the heart of Texas at the Cotton Bowl in Dallas. After a scoreless first half, Romario and Bebeto put the Seleção up 2-nil. But the Oranje's Dennis Bergkamp and Aron Winter shot back to equalize with about 20 minutes to go. Ten minutes later, aging veteran Branco settled things with a sick, 35-yard free kick to win it for Brasil. My pick: Brasil - you'd have to be mad to pick against the most complete team, both offensively and defensively, so far this Cup.
  
• Argentina vs. Deutschland - The history is rich between these two soccer-mad countries. They split consecutive World Cup finals in 1986 (Maradona's Albiceleste) and 1990 (Klinsmann's Mannschaft). More recently, Ballack und der Manner eliminated the Argies from the last World Cup on penalties after Miroslav Klose equalized with about ten minutes to go in regulation. My pick: Deutschland - I know Argentina has Messi, Tevez, and revenge on it's mind, but no country is so consistently excellent at the World Cup as Germany. Plus, they appear to have the better defense and Maradona is insane.
  
• Uruguay vs. Ghana - Though Uruguay's population is just 3.4 million people, the Charrúas have a rich soccer tradition, having won both the 1930 and 1950 World Cups. However, they have not advanced this far since 1970 in Mexico, when they finished fourth after losing to Brasil, 3-1 in the semis. Meanwhile, the Black Stars are just the third African side to venture this far (Cameroon '90, Senegal '02). My pick: Ghana - The continent is 100% behind this team, and the 88,000+ at Soccer City will have an effect. Plus, Ghana has too much speed and offensive firepower for Diego Forlan and company.
  
• Paraguay vs. España - If you can believe it, this quarterfinal result matches the furthest la Furia Roja have advanced in a World Cup in 60 years, when they finished fourth in Brazil. They have a history of underachieving. Something tells me 40 years under Franco didn't help. La Albiroja, on the other hand, is in uncharted territory, having advanced to the quarterfinals for the first time. It helped that they faced Japan, rather than one of the major European powers (England, France, Germany), who knocked out Paraguay the last time they got that far. Will Spain administer a similar beat-down? My pick: España - David Villa and Co. will find just enough room to maneuver through the tight defensa Paraguaya.
  

Silver Lining

Ghana got the best of us. They out-ran us, exploited our shaky defense, and walked away with a well-deserved win. I am now rooting for them to win the Cup.

It's easy to feel heartbroken for the US team and, indeed, the whole country. But that's what makes soccer, and especially the World Cup, so great. As a fan, you walk a very thin line between agony and ecstasy. It's high risk, high reward. We didn't win the Cup, but this year, as a nation, we got to experience a wonderful moment we'll never forget. Donovan's goal against Algeria was one to savor. Here are two slightly different angles on the goal and the moment:

(1) Legendary Miami-based, Spanish-language announcer Andres Cantor seems to weep towards the end of this extra-long embellishment of his signature call. The best part: you don't need to know Spanish to understand what he's saying...

(2) This mashup of goal reaction videos is making the rounds because it is funny, moving, and inspirational...

What a moment! Sure beats fussing about the oil spill and the economy.

(HT, Chris Diebold for both.)

You say, "Potgietersrus." I say, "Mokopane."

South Africa is a country with great place names. From an American perspective, both the Afrikaners and the natives endowed the country with distinctive, fun-to-say places. Potgieterrrsrrrus. That's great. Mhlambanyatsi. Awesome.

Various municipalities are in the midst of an ambitious effort to change many of the existing place names throughout the country. It seems to go above and beyond similar efforts in other countries. China (Canton to Guangzhou) and India (Madras to Chennai) appear to have made more marginal changes around the edges. As could probably be expected in a post-Apartheid era, South Africa's name changers seem determined to eradicate all vestiges of Afrikaans, a language with heavy historical baggage. For the most part, cities with English-derived names like Cape Town and Durban do not appear to be on the chopping block, but plenty of cities with Afrikaans names are:

• Pretoria --> Tshwane
• Bloemfontein --> Mangaung
• Pietersburg --> Polokwane
• Potgietersrus --> Mokopane
• Eastern Transvaal --> Mpumalanga
• Naboomspruit --> Mookgophong
  

The name changes do not stop at the city or province level. In Durban, lots of street signs were crossed out and a new sign with a new name was juxtaposed next to it. It made it hard to find certain addresses.

The whole enterprise can't be cheap to implement. But perhaps such a cost is necessary for a group of people to break the metaphorical yoke of their oppressors. Not all people can or want to adapt so quickly. Many Afrikaners continue to use their old names; however, it is unclear if their reluctance is due to hostility, intransigence, or simply force of habit. Probably some of each, depending on the person.

Heading North

Mexico and France played on June 17 at 8:30 pm in Polokwane. And we had tickets! The only problem was that we awoke that morning in Durban. We had to go 876 km up the N3 and N1 to the northernmost World Cup site in the middle of rural Limpopo. South Africa may not necessarily look that big on a map, but it's almost twice the size of Texas. If you've ever driven across Texas, it's huge! South Africa is the same way.

We rolled away from the Blue Waters Hotel just after 8:30 am. Since Bill had driven all the way from Rustenburg to Durban under trying circumstances, we agreed that he would use his wrong-side driving skills to get us out of the crowded city. An hour north of Durban, we pulled a quick switcheroo and I found myself behind the wheel on the right (wrong) side of the car.

There wasn't much to do on a sunny Thursday but hook up the iPhone to the radio, blast some tunes, and lock in the cruise control. Further down the road, Bill caught some shut-eye, and then we listened to Michael Abrahamson's call of Argentina-South Korea on the radio (he kept calling him "Maxi Rodrigs"--not so great with the Latin surnames). Growing up, our annual family car trips from DC to Hilton Head had prepared me for such a day. Stopping is for weaklings; fortune rewards those who power through. We stopped just twice during my turn at the wheel, once for gas just north of Harrismith, and once for a quick bio break an hour-and-a-half later. Not to toot my own vuvuzela, but after that, I got into the "zone" and took us all the way to Mokopane, site of our guest house (below). We pulled in just after 4:30 pm, during the first half of Nigeria-Greece. It was a drive my dad would appreciate.

The only downside is that we may owe the South African traffic police a hefty bill for our excessive speed. They have cameras with speed guns set up every so often and apparently don't even bother to pull you over; they just send you a bill. We're only going to pay if they come collect it from us in person.

Magnificent

I love this ESPN World Cup commercial featuring U2's "Magnificent" and narrated by Bono.

June 16

The date of June 16 has taken on historical significance in South Africa. It marks the anniversary of the 1976 student uprising in Soweto, which served as a global flashpoint for the anti-Apartheid movement. I'll have much more to say about the student uprising in a future blog entry.

June 16, 2010 had the potential to be historic for South Africa in another way. Bafana Bafana, the yellow-jerseyed home side, had a key Group A encounter with Uruguay. With both countries having drawn their first matches (Uruguay vs. France at nil, South Africa vs. Mexico at one), the winner of this one would take control of the group. No host nation had ever failed to make it past the group stage in the World Cup, so there was considerable pressure on Tshambalala, Pienaar, and the rest of "The Boys, The Boys."

The atmosphere in Durban on our last night there was electric. The weather cooperated nicely, beckoning 30-40,000 people to the promenade to watch on large public televisions at the Fan Fest. Of course, Joe Cool's packed them in too. Here's some video of the party scene at halftime (they sure do love their dance remixes over there)...

This being sport, the game did not stick to the script the home side so badly hoped for. Diego Forlan screamed one off the defense and over the Bafana keeper before halftime...

...and followed it up with a PK midway through the second half. At that point the air went completely out of the balloon. Bafana supporters were even caught on television leaving the stadium early! Needless to say, the African announcers on SuperSport were aghast and ashamed after the game. With Uruguay getting one more in garbage time to extend their winning margin to 3-0, Bafana Bafana were all but eliminated from the tournament.

June 16, 2010 turned out to be a historically bad night for Bafana Bafana and South Africa.

Clickin' at the SunCoast Casino

The night of the cold front, we decided to take our rand to the SunCoast casino, just down the oceanfront from the Blue Waters Hotel. After a delicious dinner at the Silverani Indian restaurant, we headed down to the gaming area.

The scene at the blackjack table was a little strange. I sat down next to a guy about my age, maybe a little older, with an African National Congress track jacket and a scar on his face. He proceed to lay bets all over the table, including several on my hand. He bet with me--more than I bet myself--on my hand, as well as on little circles with an "S" in them. Those bets only payed off if I received a pair from the dealer; more if it was the same suit. So on any given hand, I had 25 rand in play, and he had more than 200--much of which was on MY hand. And then he was playing a couple of hands on his own, and betting on the hands of the people at the other end of the table. At every other casino I've ever been to, this kind of thing is unheard of. It's nice to know that he had faith in me, a complete stranger, but why on earth anyone would play those bets is beyond me. Then, when I made a mistake and hit when I shouldn't have and lost a hand, he snarled at me. Dude, don't bet on me! I don't know you, and you don't know me!

So I won a few rand, picked up my chips, and headed over to the bar area where the Brazil-North Korea game was on. The plucky subjects of despotic rule somehow played the mighty Brazilians to a standstill until the great Brazilian defender Maicon overlapped the midfielder, received a ball in the box near the baseline, and curled in a goal from an impossible angle. Rather than describe it, I'll provide video here...incredible...best goal of the Cup so far (until Landon Donovan)...

Right around that point, Bill and I struck up a conversation with a Zulu couple. She works for Nedbank, and he is "self-employed." When we probed further into what that meant, he said he is in the "bidding" business. Well, usually you bid to get business. He didn't elaborate further, and we were left to speculate that it was something sketchy related to South Africa's BEE (Black Economic Empowerment) policies.

We got them to teach us a few Zulu words:

• Sawubona = hello
  
• Ngabonga = thank you
• Yebo = yes
• Xha = no
• Mabele = breasts
• Ipuongo = butt
• Ingozi = danger

(Why those particular words? Ask Bill.)

Then I asked them to demonstrate the clicks that we had heard about and that are so distinctive in their language. They proceeded to say the word "Axhoxho." What it means is not important. What is important is that the "xh" indicates a click from the middle of their mouth. They have four main clicks, which represent four new consonant sounds that are above and beyond those common to western languages. And then they say the vowel sound immediately afterwards. It sounds like you say, "Acoco," but the c's are clicks. Bill and I are both pretty good with languages--especially Bill--but we were physically incapable of repeating the sound they spoke to us. Fascinating. Other "xh" words like "xha," above, and "Xhosa," Nelson Mandela's tribe's name, also require clicks to make the consonant sound.

We enjoyed speaking Zulu as much as possible, though we shied away from the "xh" sounds and stuck with words we could say. Here's Bill inadvertently caught on camera (I didn't realize I had it in video mode), saying "yebo" at the USA-Slovenia game a few days later (sorry, Bill, I had to)...

After the game, our new Zulu friends weren't up for blackjack, but we returned to the tables for a few hours of playing. Bill treaded water and I won a few bucks. Along the way, we met a fun group of people (some of whom are pictured below) from the US, Canada, Kenya, and South Africa. We went to the casino's nightclub for a little while after gambling and got back to our room by 3:00 am. Good times!

Standing Around

Service in South Africa is sometimes spotty. It could be cultural, or it could be the 35% unemployment (estimated at 50% in the black population), but we often saw large groups of would-be service providers just standing around doing nothing helpful. At the Blue Waters hotel, a manager ripped into a group of his employees within earshot of Bill, saying, "Well you might as well go have a drink at the bar if you're not going to do anything!" Awkward.

This picture from the security line outside the Germany-Australia game depicts some standing around among the event staff. Do something!

Bunny Chow on Florida Road

Durban is home to a large population of immigrants, particularly from India. A marketing slogan you see around town is, "Durban: Hot Beaches, Hot Curries." In Durban, Indian curry meets up with Wonder Bread in a delightful combination called Bunny Chow. To make it, they take a loaf of bread, chop in a third or a quarter, hollow it out to form a bowl, and ladle curry into it. So it's a bowl you can eat! Delicious.

We sampled our Bunny Chow at a restaurant called A Taste of India on Florida Road, a pleasant restaurant and bar neighborhood up the hill a bit from the beach. They wrapped up trees Africa-style for the World Cup festivities...

And the restaurants welcomed the world...

After watching the Netherlands defeat Denmark at the Europa Cafe, we returned that night to a Greek restaurant called Santorini. The proprietor is a super-nice guy who took care of us while we watched Paraguay take an early lead over Italy only to see the Azzurri get a late equalizer. Florida Road is a very nice section of the city.

Vuvuzela-Konzert

The Ravel is better than the Brahms. Love the German sense of humor.



Hat tip Binta.

Durban Beachfront: Atlantic City or Santa Monica?

We had heard Durban described as the "Miami of South Africa." Being from Miami, Bill and I believed we were well-placed to opine on this characterization as a major modern city integrated with a beautiful beach. In reality, it was grittier and more industrial than we expected. Once you get off the beachfront, the Apartheid-era architecture and train tracks are not so nice.

The beachfront showed us both of its personalities during our stay. During the second night, a cold front blew in across all of South Africa, and Durban was not spared. The city's World Cup marketing slogan, "The Warmest Place to Be in 2010," became an ironic joke. Does this guy look warm?
As a result, beachfront seemed like a dark and dreary place. Here's the view southwest from our hotel room; note the dearth of pedestrians and the palm trees blowing in the wind:
Nobody was having any fun at Joe Cool's, the famous restaurant/bar/club where people supposedly come as a vacation destination. So we hiked back to the Internet cafe near the hotel, and then proceeded to take naps. Bill aptly grumbled, "This place is like Atlantic City," a dingy, dilapidated beach town if there ever was one.

The following day, the weather took a turn for the better...much better. Few clouds, bright sunshine. The promenade was packed with Spaniards and Swiss in town for that day's matchup at Moses Mabhida, and the locals were out in full force too.

Furia Roja...
Die Schweizermannshaft (sounds better than L'Equipe de la Suisse)...
A local rickshaw driver, with tons of flair. We observed that many Zulus do not like having their picture taken. Sorry, dude...
Joe Cool's was packed and serving burgers, sandwiches, and brats from the grill. Whoohoo! Party!
They were offering massages and Bill was buying...
From the top deck of Joe Cool's on a beautiful day, it felt a lot less like Atlantic City and a lot more like Santa Monica...
We met these fun Mancurian lads out on the promenade and compared vuvuzela skills...
Durban redeemed itself with an assist from Mother Nature. Good times!

Mamadou Gaye, Pan-Africanism, and the Black Stars

During our time in Durban, Bill and I spent a fair amount of time watching SuperSport's World Cup coverage. They have an outstanding crew of announcers and studio analysts. Our favorite was a guy named Mamadou Gaye (left), from la Côte-d'Ivoire. Gaye shoots from the hip and offers his unvarnished opinion, which is often critical, a nice break from announcers who demur from criticizing the athletes they cover. He is also an unabashed homer. His pick for the matchup in the final game of the World Cup is Côte-d'Ivoire vs. Ghana, and he wore a Nigerian track suit on the air.

Mr. Gaye personifies the general feeling of solidarity among the African nations at this World Cup. Sure, every African wants his or her own country to do well. But if that does not work out, his or her next choice is one of the other African countries, especially one south of the Sahara (putting Algeria in a somewhat awkward position). They really view this as the Cup for the whole continent. The advertising for the Brazil-Côte-d'Ivoire match billed it as "a massive game for the continent."

My sense is that Africans suffer from a general inferiority complex, not just in soccer, but in all world affairs since the first Europeans arrived and the first slave ships sailed. Their rich land has been plundered and exploited, their people subjugated and enslaved, their traditions rejected. All they want is a measure of respect and dignity. All of Africa feels like this is truly a chance to show the world that they CAN DO IT!, both on and off the pitch.

Off the pitch, they're doing great. Millions of visitors, including myself, will leave Africa with a newfound appreciation for all things African: the friendly, welcoming people; the dramatic and beautiful landscape; and the rich history and culture. It's not all famine and AIDS; the continent's billion-plus people have a lot more on the positive side of the ledger. And the tournament itself has been well-run, albeit with a few logistical issues (i.e. Rustenburg post-game, running out of beer at Germany-Australia).

On the pitch, the six African nations in the Cup (one more than normal because they are hosting) have not lived up to their fantastic nicknames:

• The Indomitable Lions of Cameroon were swept out with three losses
  
• The Super Eagles of Nigeria only managed one draw and blew their match against Greece
• The Desert Foxes of Algeria did not score a single goal, drawing only once against England
• South Africa's Bafana Bafana (Zulu for "The Boys, The Boys"; didn't get a straight answer for why they say it twice) drew with tough Mexico and slayed France, but sandwiched in between was a crushing, deflating 3-nil loss to Uruguay that ended their hopes
• Les Eléphants de la Côte-d'Ivoire, the strongest African team on paper, got stuck in the "Group of Death" with Brazil and Portugal where a draw and a 3-0 over North Korea were not enough, despite having Africa's best player, Didier Drogba
  

That leaves the Black Stars of Ghana to carry the torch for all one billion Africans into their match against the United States tomorrow. Ghana is tough, having eliminated the USA 2-1 in the 2006 Cup. Many of its players ply their trade in the top leagues in Europe. But the game tomorrow in Rustenburg is vastly different than that game four years ago in Nuremberg. The stands should be almost entirely pro-Ghana, with a lot of Bafana Bafana supporters blowing the vuvuzela for their African brethren. Will the home crowd help the Black Stars rise to the occasion and take down the USA one more time? Or will the pressure and expectations be too much, leading the team to be nervous and tentative?

The USA will be focused and ready; our team thrives on going into the hostile environments of CONCACAF. (The Mexican have thrown bags of urine on the Americans at Estadio Azteca.) Can Ghana seize the moment? That's why they play the games. Should be fun! U-S-A!!!

Arrivederci, Azzurri! Au revoir, Les Bleus!

Italy and France have given us some of the great art the world has ever seen, from Da Vinci to Moliere. So why are they both so lacking in creativity in putting blue jerseys on their players and calling them, "The Blues?" Well, we don't have to ponder that question any longer because both World Cup finalists from 2006 are done. Kaput. Eliminated from this year's competition.

The flame-out for France was particularly melodramatic. First off, they only got into the tournament on a handball goal from Thierry Henry in their home-and-home playoff with Ireland, pictured at left. At the World Cup itself, the drame started when striker Nicolas Anelka cussed out the coach, Roman Domenech, during halftime of their match against Mexico (which we attended; more on that later). Domenech subsequently, and justifiably, yanked Anelka out of the game and dismissed him from the team a day later. The next day, the rest of the team refused to get off the team bus before a practice in protest of Anelka's dismissal. After the press lashes out at the team as "cowards" and "deserters," French President Nicholas Sarkozy asked his Minister of Sport, Roselyne Bachelot, to read the team the riot act. She complied, asking them to display "dignity and responsibility." Finally, they crashed out in their final game against South Africa, losing to the second lowest-ranked team at the World Cup, 2-1. French bank Credit Agricole suspended its sponsorship of the team, and other corporations are expected to follow suit. Oh mon dieu. Quelle horreur.

The Daily Show on USA-Algeria

John Stewart played soccer at William and Mary in the '80's. This is pretty funny.

The Daily Show With Jon Stewart	Mon - Thurs 11p / 10c
World Cup 2010: Into Africa - US Beats Algeria
www.thedailyshow.com
Daily Show Full Episodes Political Humor Tea Party

Deutscher Mannshaft vs. Socceroos

Germany and Australia squared off at gorgeous Moses Mabhiba Stadium in Durban. I can't think of a nicer, more fan-friendly stadium that I have ever been to, and we were fortunate to have great seats too (thanks, FIFA lottery). The archway along the top of the stadium is designed to evoke the post-Apartheid South African national flag--in particular the fork-shaped green part.

Here are some shots. From afar...

As a sand castle...

The roof from the inside...
The crowd from our seats...
This section tried to make the shape of a soccer ball with black and white plastic bags. It probably looks better from another angle on television...
The atmosphere was loud and full of anticipation, with two proud beer-drinking nations cheering on their teams in a full-throat roar. Here's a little video I took to illustrate the buzz in the crowd when the teams walked out for introductions. Lots of vuvuzelas!...

After the third minute, when Australia failed to convert a golden opportunity in the mouth of the German goal, Germany took over. Even without injured Ehrenspielerfuhrer Michael Ballack, Philip Lahm and Lukas Podolski controlled the midfield and carved up the Australian defense with surgical precision. They were so good that even the aging*, washed-up striker Miroslav Klose got numerous opportunities and crashed through for a gorgeous header goal on a perfect ball from Lahm (note: updated video)...

Ultimately, the scoreboard said Germany 4, Australia 0, but the damage could have been much worse. It was a privilege to watch a team play so well.

* He's a day older than Shelby, my little sister. Don't I feel old.

The N3 to Durban

After getting a shower and little breakfast to ease some of the pain from the Rustenburg car-sleeping debacle, we hit the road again for the 580-km drive from Pretoria to Durban. We had tickets to the Germany-Australia match at 8:30 that evening, and it would take us a full six hours to reach Durban (and another 45 minutes once we got there). Bill won "Man of the Match" that day for taking us the whole way despite his fatigure. I was (a) incredibly tired, and (b) as yet a novice at left-hand-side driving, so Bill got the nod.

The drive was surprisingly beautiful. Surprising because we just thought it would be a straight shot through the country. We didn't count on going through the foothills of the Drakensburg Mountains and encountering winding roads and breathtaking views. The landscape was not unlike Texas, but with mountains popping up here and there.

Owing to his fatigue, Bill needed to stop often. Some of the rest stops were mom-and-pop affairs, like this one in the middle of nowhere with the funny architecture and exotic house pets walking around.

The proprietor is a very nice Afrikaner who took an interest in our trip and asked us where we planned to stay in Durban. He was able to dispel the rumor we heard in Rustenburg that our destination, the Blue Waters Hotel, is a brothel. He also introduced us to his home made biltong, a type beef jerky that is not quite as dry as we are used to but quite delicious. At another rest stop down the highway, we picked up a second bag of biltong after finishing the first. Yum!

We discovered soccer on the radio for the first time on this leg, catching the end of Slovenia-Algeria and the whole Serbia-Ghana game. I've always enjoyed sports on the radio; it gives your imagination a workout. And the English-speaking South African announcers, particularly Michael Abrahamson, were top-notch. The Zulus may have been great too, and we could make out some of what they were saying, but we really can't opine on their play-by-play skills.

Our Hyundai Tucson served us well and never gave us any problems even though we extracted our pound of flesh from that poor car. Later, in Durban, this local guy tried to convince us that the correct pronunciation of the car is "Tuk-sun." Despite our protests that it is named after a city in Arizona that is pronounced very differently, he stuck to his view. Here it is stopped for gas and a blustery and cold rest stop. Check out our South African flag fully extended.

The Blue Waters Hotel is located at the end of the Marine Parade on the Durban oceanfront, within walking distance of the stadium. Because of its proximity to that night's Germany-Australia game, the police closed all the streets approaching the hotel. We drove around getting lost and misdirected until we figured out that we had to show our printed out hotel reservation to the right cop. Hungry and extremely tired, we almost ran out of patience, but fortunately they let us through. Fist pumps and cheers all around. The day's journey had come to an end at long last.

USA-England Commercial

I learned after I got home that this ad appeared immediately before the USA-England game to roaring approval. Got to say, it's pretty good. If there's one thing we as a country do well, it's advertise. Oh, and cars and freedom. U-S-A!!!

Rustenburg Post-Game Logistics

The US is through to the Round of 16! The next match is against Ghana, the team that knocked us out of the group stage in 2006, at Rustenberg's Royal Bafokeng Stadium.

Bafokeng means "people of the dew." The earliest Setswana-speaking settlers came down from Botswana and Zimbabwe around the 12th century AD, took note of the heavy dew that settles every morning, and figured it would be a fertile region in which to drop anchor. The Royal Bafokeng Nation had the savvy to enlist white Lutheran ministers as a front to enable them to purchase the land legally and prevent the Boers from taking over the area in the 1800's. It turned out to be one of the great real estate acquisitions in history, as their dewy land sits on top of the world's richest platinum mines. The discovery of such mines led to further legal fights over ownership of the land, but the RBN had the wherewithal to prevail. Thus, they receive an estimated $63 million annually from mining royalties (per Wikipedia).

The RBN spend a lot of their money on infrastructure. One thing they built is a mediocre stadium complex about 13 km outside of Rustenburg, reachable via a two-lane road. Somehow (probably as the result of bribes), FIFA visited this place and decided that it would be an appropriate World Cup venue, despite serious traffic issues and the lack of hotel rooms.

The aftermath of the USA-England game exposed these shortcomings to Bill and me. Upon leaving the stadium grounds, traffic going to the stadium was at a standstill and the crowd of people exiting was chaotic. There seemed to be no way to find the bus driver who brought us to the game who was supposed to meet us on the other side. Thus began the "death march" of thousands of people in the same situation trekking back to town. After about twenty minutes of walking, a bus pulled up and we squeezed in; we didn't even know where it was going. After about 15 minutes, it stopped in a park-and-ride field somewhere far from both the stadium and town. We were going to have trouble getting back to town unless we hitched a ride from a random or bribed the bus driver to forego his park-and-ride responsibilities and drop us off at the Palm Lodge. That's where we were parked and Pudding had offered up his hotel room floor for us to crash. We chose bribery, and 500 rand later (hey, demand outstripped supply), our bus driver delivered us to the Lodge. Ouch.

Unfortunately, our rendezvous with Pudding at the Lodge's bar was closed. Boo! We went by their room, and they weren't back yet. After briefly considering driving back to Pretoria, we reminded ourselves that Chris had described late-night on the N4 as a "death trap." So we couldn't stay in Rustenburg, but we couldn't leave. In a pickle, one option remained: sleep in the car. At least it was in a lit, gated, barbed-wired parking lot.

So, we leaned the seats back and raced to see who could fall asleep first and who would have to hear the other snore. Bill won, and I listened to him snore for about two hours before sleep took me over. If you're keeping score, I spent three consecutive nights (1) in a plane; (2) waking up pretty early after the late-night trip to Presley's; and (3) in a car. Needless to say, I was pretty knackered by the time we left Rustenburg around 7:00, sped past the quite lovely Bafokeng morning dew, and made it back to the Pretoria guest house just after 8:00.

The lesson is: if you plan on going to the USA-Ghana game, take an RV and camp out at the park-and-ride. There don't seem to be any other options. And, be careful doing any real estate deals with the Bafokeng people.

Landon Donovan, Talisman

Soccer writers often have a romantic view of the game that is foreign to American fans. For example, they love referring to some players as "talismanic," a fantastic description for a team's best and most iconic player. A description I found on the web describes it thusly:

"Talisman: Something producing apparently magical or miraculous effects. Often in soccer a player is deemed a talisman for the team. Think Ronadlinho for Barcelona or Henry when he was with Arsenal. With that player the team can win, without that player they will often lose." (www.soccer-training-info.com)

Traditionally, the talisman wears #10. While it does not use the word talisman, this clip from ESPN sums up the concept pretty well.



Historically, the United States National Team has never really had a talisman. None of our players has ever been a big international star in one of the top-flight leagues in England, Italy, Germany, or Spain. A typical American viewpoint is that are one or two such transcendent players from being able to contend in a World Cup, and we're constantly speculating about which young players out there might fit the bill.

But what if we have an emerging talisman right under our nose? Landon Donovan made the leap today into talismanic territory with his glorious stoppage time goal against Algeria to send the US into the knockout stage. It is certainly the most dramatic and probably the most important goal in our nation's history. (I have not yet tired of watching it.)



Donovan first emerged as a gifted 20-year-old on a team of veterans in the 2002 Cup. That group stunned Portugal in their opening game, got some good breaks in subsequent games, and advanced all the way to the quarterfinals, beating Mexico along the way. It was the best US performance in the World Cup since the 1930 squad made the semis of the inaugural tournament.

In 2006, at 24-year-old Donovan was expected to shoulder the leadership load, a burden he now admits he was not prepared to handle. The team got crushed in its opening game vs. the Czech Republic, and could only earn one point (a draw vs. Italy) in three games. No knockout stage.

Since then, he has undergone turmoil in his personal life, having split from his wife Bianca in 2009. He talks with a new-found maturity and purpose. And his recent stint on loan to Everton in the English Premier League exceeded expectations and earned him international respect. His coach on the national team, Bob Bradley, described it like this following today's game:

"2006 now is, for him, one where he learned a lot. But to have the chance then to come back in the prime of your career, there’s a special feeling when you play on a team where you know people are really counting on you. Your character, your personality is really at the core of how that team does. Some players play their whole careers and never experience that. When you have that, it takes time to get a feel for what that’s all about. But over these years, both on and off the field, I think the fact that he’s grown and matured and accepted these types of challenges has made a huge difference.”

I guess we'll see what happens in the next few games, and I hope I'm not too brazen by making that plural. I told my friend Lyon before the Cup that something was different about Donovan and that I thought he would have a huge tournament. His goal at the beginning of the second half against Slovenia seems to have ignited something special in Donovan and the entire US team. No World Cup game is easy; just look at Algeria and Slovenia proving so difficult to take down. But this quarter of the bracket, with Ghana, Uruguay, and South Korea, is devoid of traditional powers (yes, I know Uruguay has two Cups from 60 and 80 years ago), meaning the US has a golden opportunity to make the semis. After that, anything is possible.

The table is set. I look forward to seeing this guy put the whole country on his back. I think he's up to it. U-S-A!!!

USA-England: Lego highlights

This is brilliant...

Taking on the English

Once we got in a bus and made it to Royal Bafokeng Stadium, USA-England was a big party. Everyone had a Cross of St. George or the Stars and Stripes on their person. The Budweiser line was very popular. These pictures provide some flavor for the scene immediately outside the stadium:


Inside, everyone was just psyched to be there. "Dude, we're in Africa! At the World Cup! Whoooo!"


This chain mail is pretty sweet, though I wonder what it looked like on the security cameras at the airport.


We had tons of fun with the USA fans:


The game started out horribly, with England's Steven Gerrard weaving past our indifferent defense and sending the Jabulani past Tim Howard with the outside of his right foot in the fourth minute. Ouch! Fortunately, England's goalkeeper, Robert Green, was the Three Lions' weakest link, allowing the Jabulani to squirt past him after a 25-mph shot from Clint Dempsey hit him squarely in the chest in the 41st minute. At this point, Bill inadvertently hugged an English fan (don't we all look the same?), resulting in some mild fisticuffs. The English guy tossed Bill's USA scarf over the edge of the stadium in the process (R.I.P; sorry, Lyon). They eventually kissed and made up; the guy even bought Bill a USA t-shirt for his troubles.

The second half mainly featured England probing the USA defense to no avail. Howard racked up quite a few saves and earned Man of the Match for his efforts. The 1-1 draw felt like a win. Woohoo!

USA-England Pregame

Once we figured out Rustenburg's logistical difficulties, we were in business. We met up with Bill's friend Pudding (hey, he likes dessert) at the Palm Lodge and parked our car in their secure parking lot (foreshadowing).


Despite being England supporters, Pudding, his friend Chris, and their mates were totally cool to a couple of unsophisticated-football-fan Yanks. We joined them for 9 rand Castle Lagers and some pub grub as we prepped for the game. South Korea smashed Greece and Argentina edged Nigeria on the telly while we pondered such profound questions as, "Would you rather the Redskins win the Super Bowl or the USA beat England tonight?" (Redskins, of course. USA winning the whole World Cup would trump a Redskins Super Bowl, however.)

During our conversation, we informed Chris of our plans to drive the 1.5 hours back to Pretoria after the game. He looked at us incredulously and said, "That road is a deathtrap [pronounced dithtrip in his South African accent], I reckon. The miners get off at 11 and like to have a few beers after work. Plus, there will be a lot of traffic police." He then verified this point of view with the bartendress, who looked at us like we were crazy. A little shaken, we decided at that point we would crash on the floor of Pudding and Chris's hotel room. Not comfortable in the least, but at least there would be no brushes with death or Johnny Law.

Pudding and Chris took their huge Cross of St. George flag with them and caught the first wave of buses to the game. We hung around to talk to some straggling American fans and a 43-year-old grandmother while waiting for the second wave.