The Landing.

I landed at 5am, after a 14 hour flight, on an hour or two’s sleep; predominately due to periodic awakenings by zealous South African Airways staff offering from a seemingly infinite supply of bottled water. The flight was also shared with the company of a rather lovely and slow moving old lady from Pretoria who had just been about Australia visiting her grandchildren. She apparently thought I was one of her own and that I might have been requiring constant hydration between the hours of 1 and 5 am. Still, it was pleasant enough and I sat back to enjoy the in-flight movie – ‘harry met sally’ or ‘you’ve got mail’.

My connecting flight, Melbourne to Perth, I had sat next to an Australian by the name of Mark, it turned out he was doing the World Cup and then traveling on by himself to London. The grand irony we both felt, after embarking on massive solo journeys, only to sit next to someone doing the same thing! We drank beer and killed time in the Perth terminal; killing really, the only thing to be done in the Perth terminal. As a country girl from NSW who was also on our flight, going on to work in Kenya at a Safari Lodge, put it: ‘We just flew four hours and we’re still in the same bloody country.’

I was greeted with a Mr. James sign after I’d passed customs, always a good feeling though I feel is somewhat cheating in the whole travel spectrum of things, held by a thick Boer Commander looking fellow named Morne; flak jacket, cargo pants and heavy negro-kicking boots, even an earpiece; though looking suspiciously like an iPod headphone. After a serious and firm handshake we were sprinting towards the exit as if a code-red had just blasted through his iPod-equipped ear.

We proceeded to his white panel van; I threw my gear in the boot and jumped up front in just enough time for him to slam it into gear across the car park floor. A black worker of no obvious descript, carrying a massive hessian bag over one shoulder, unluckily happened to be walking through the tunnel of the exit as we entered. Hearing Morne’s revs, he flashed the terrified whites of his eyes at us before running, almost diving, out the other end of the tunnel. Morne didn’t flinch, dropped it into third, and burst out onto the streets of Johannesburg.

It was still dark outside, for some reason I’d expected daylight, and we made swift turns for the freeway paying little attention to street markings and traffic lights. The main road out of the airport was attractively lined with flags of the 32 countries to arrive for the Cup and every roadside billboard somehow accommodated the South African flag, the trophy, Mandela, or the Bafana Bafana.

Then we hit the freeway and Morne cut across four lanes and into the far right, holding a steady 140k’s. He told me in his rough and deep Africana accent it had been built especially for the World Cup but wasn't yet complete. With a week to go until the Opening Ceremony work was now 24/7, even if that meant working through peak hour; which, incidentally, goes from about 5 to 10 every morning.

The car radio lit-up 6:05am as Morne flicked radio stations to find a traffic report. Initially, he found one in Afrikaans but, after a couple of minutes, the morning show began in English: it was your standard overly-enthused-for-dawn hosts, two men and a woman accompanied by inane sound effects - no traffic report and they cut to a Rihanna song.

Morne cut sharply left into the third lane - muttering about some Oak not knowing how to drive and ‘why the bloody hell is this wanker in the fast lane’ - before diving back through a gap on the right without flinching the needle on the speedo.

Then, over a crest in the road, we found the traffic Morne had feared. He hit the breaks hard to avoid smashing into the sea of red lights ahead. It seemed to be endless, four lanes at a standstill until the road wrapped away and out of sight.

Rihanna was muted as Morne reached for his special-ops walkie-talkie, disgusted, he had to tell the base he was going to be late; which he did so in rapid Afrikaans. Next he phoned a friend, another driver, this time in English. He was still seeking that traffic report; the friend wasn’t nearby but said he would let us know if he heard anything.

Morne asked me if I spoke any Afrikaans, as we crawled along in the fast lane, I’d already explained earlier that I was here to visit my family.
‘No, just a few words, goeie more, baie dankie,’ I was surprised he understood.
‘Ah alright that’s good, but you're a proper Aussie,’ he cleverly uncovered, ‘you should study it, it would be good for you to learn.’
'Yeah...' I shrugged. He switched the radio back on.

We were making little progress wading through the sea of red and Morne was still cursing the Oaks in the fast lane in some undoubtedly foul Afrikaans.
'You smoke, you drink?’ He asked, bored with the road.
‘I drink, and you?’
'I smoke, I used to drink a lot but I’ve cut down. I get aggressive you know, I don't want to end up in jail.'
'Yeah...'
'But listen, you take it easy, it’s real beer here, unlike your light Aussie stuff. Take it easy, you don't want to end up in the hospital. The public hospitals here man, they aren’t nice places to be ay.’

Then, for no apparent reason, the freeway opened up and we launched back into 140. Morne was energized again. He weaved in and out of the traffic as the radio started on World Cup news: squad reports, injuries, match info.. The caster presented a strong opinion in agreement with the current Bafana Bafana manager Carlos Alberto Parreira regarding the exclusion of forward Benny McCarthy from the team: ‘He is selfish, he only wants to play for South Africa when it suits him. And we need to be a team united. That is how we will find success.’ It was stirring and poignant, even for the early morning.

Sandton’s streets came into view as we exited the freeway. There were people everywhere; workers in their blue and grey uniforms and heavy boots heading to work; robot sellers at the traffic lights; and the many mini-buses (Maxi taxi like) stopping and starting on the side of the road as men and women hailed their driver down.

We passed the buzz of activity of the main roads and entered Bryanston. Here the streets were empty and alleyway like; lined each side with 8 foot tall stone walls, finished with barbed wire to enclosed each house. It had a different feel. We found our destination and headed up the drive, and into my next home.