I intended to stay in Granada only a couple of days. It was in from the coast and meant a return to the oppressive heat I'd fled Seville to escape from. A week later, as I finally decide to take my leave, I feel there is much, much more to uncover in this small but compelling city.
The first morning I was very happy, with the two day call; it was surely more than enough time to see the place. The city centre on day one, maybe the cathedral as well, and the following day I'd do the obligatory Alhambra and its Palacios Nazaries; which for some reason I'd had to book days in advance to get a ticket despite a daily capacity of 8,000 visitors. Weird and surely there was a clue in there for me somewhere.
The city was entirely nice. The Gran Via Colon and Calle Reyes Catolicos that dissect the centre are impressive and wouldn't look out of place in the European Mecca that is Madrid. Michelle Obama even made a cameo appearance leaving the Cathedral with her daughters. I'm sure Bo was around too; somewhere amongst the cavalcade of jeeps and national police cars flashing their blue lights, or perhaps hiding in the jackets of the not so subtle American undercover agents patrolling the sidewalks in their cargo pants and pastel polo shirts.
The afternoon was spent with a couple of beers in an air-conditioned bar airing the fútbol, free tapas didn't go astray either. Totally pleasant and enjoyable and I could see why the first lady might have come to keep the kids occupied for a couple of days over their summer holidays.
Then after siesta time as I strolled from the grand madrileño city along the Carrera del Darrio in search of new restaurant for dinner everything changed. The sun had set, the air had dropped to bearable, people were emerging and bringing life, and I entered another land. The narrow and worn carrera on which I walked snaked over the Rio Darrio. The river, which at one time served a purpose as a life source as well as a moat, divided the Alhambra, it's walls and palace windows now glowing an awe inspiring lit red, and the seemingly untouched Moorish barrio that is the Albayzín; forged of indistinguishable white houses in that classic Spanish style you would expect to see on your travels. And as I slowly passed above the streaming Rio, under the eternal gaze of the Red Fortress I began to realise I actually had no idea where I was. This place, out of nowhere, was somewhere else.
At the top of the road was a small plaza where people dined in restaurants under terraced vines. Others were content to mill around the fountain and sit along the riverside avoiding the orange warmth of the sparse light. Musicians roamed the square searched for a euro or two. All the while taking in the majesty of the Alhambra and the isolation induced from the dark mass that hid the Albayzín.
Back down in the city and a slight exploration down the maze of back streets revealed cheap bars offering their free tapas with beer specials; multiple kebab shops asking to be recognised as the local specialty; and Moroccan style, deep and dungeon-like, tea houses where everything seemed to be made from beautiful sequined faded fabrics.
As for the Alhambra itself; if you can avoid the hottest hours and stand the mass excess of people, there is much to appreciate in how the finest in Islamic culture did business. They created a heaven on earth and it's a most alien and eerily beautiful experience. From which limitless conclusions and inspirations can be drawn.
I leave the romance of Granada, a place where east met west and surely won, knowing I've been affected. I will undoubtedly return.
Wednesday, August 11, 2010
Monday, August 9, 2010
Seville has not abandoned me.
His footing slid on the gleaming cobbles as he struggled to keep a decent pace. He cursed the afternoon rain that had turned the stone to ice and the lingering cloud that sent the dry summer heat to a screaming humidity. He knew it wasn't far, no where in town was far, but once in the labyrinth of the streets it could take hours to find yourself. He knew it as he stopped, wiping the sweat from his forehead with the rolled sleeve of his white shirt, to observe the fork in the road.
There was no sight of the Giralda as he studied his vacant surroundings; even in which direction it stood he did not know. It was buried somewhere beneath the suffocating walls that defined every street and alley. Behind the faceless shutters and iron doors, that frustrated him so endlessly, that hid the life of the town he was searching for. Follow the Giralda, it was the last thing they'd said to him before he left and he feared time; that it would sound again soon.
He'd strolled the endless maze without care since choosing to find his own way after lunch. Leaving his friends en route to the hotel for their routine siesta to explore the streets of their newest destination; the culprit of a sudden combined burst of energy, curiosity and a strong coffee. He most enjoyed the country at the hottest hours when all activity ceased and people dispersed to places unknown and he was able to wander undisturbed in the tranquility of his thoughts and his surroundings. But now the time for siesta had long since passed with the glare of the sun and he felt a growing anxiousness that the barrio hadn't burst into life around him.
As he faced yet another decision between left and right he felt his first flash of fear. It was not a conscious fear but one built over time of knowingly incorrect decisions; a growing understanding the streets were capable of defeating him accompanied a growing sense of weakness. He felt the left was right somehow, indeed it looked the more inviting; the stone reading copper in the diminishing light. The other way already covered in the deep shadow that had done little to cool him. He made left driving purposefully down the middle of the desolate road.
The emerging darkness was bringing no relief. The heat seemed to be stuck low in the street. Trapped without the usual gentle breeze to chase it out of the town. Convinced his friends would be waiting for him his anxiousness had turned to frustration and he ducked down an alley. Employing his blind sense of direction he continued in this fashion taking turns where he saw fit. Willfully challenging the streets, determined not to succumb to its oppression.
Then, as space materialised, he was forced a moment to realise the futility of his methods. Velázquez stood someway in front of him proud and forgotten. No sight or sound of life. He knew where he was. He had been here earlier. Despair began to creep forth from the shadow enveloping plaza. He wildly scanned the many exits, desperate to recall some piece of lost information, a lost clue, that would inform him of the way. Anything. Anything but the incessant insanity of the empty, lifeless, winding streets.
A blast disrupted his impending doom. The Giralda! The chimes swept across the plaza, piercing his ears, and down the avenues behind him hunting the silence. He ran as the bells rang again, and then again. There was no need to wait out the count, he already knew it, and he streamlined for a new exit in the general direction of the benevolence. He dashed down a narrow way that lent right, then took a side street and scrambled madly up a flight of stairs in an effort to keep true to the sound. He knew he was running out time and stole another hundred meters or so before the ultimate ring finally faded away into the obscurity.
The silence tore at him as he surveyed the darkness. There was just enough moonlight to make out the stones at his feet but he was convinced this was the right path. Convinced to keep the veil of madness at bay. He knew now he was homecoming and his stride broadened and his spirit restored. He continued a while. The abandoned streets took on a new look. For the first time he appreciated a cool beauty in the way the white moonlight infiltrated the greys and yellows of the stone creating a serenity that previously escaped him. He settled in the comforting thought.
Time passed and he felt progress. He envisioned the elevated bell-tower guiding him out. As if an actual brilliant shining light illuminated his return to the world. After an eternity the night finally opened in front of him and, relieved, he broke into a run toward the abyss. Then he stopped, skidding to a halt on the smoothed stones, his face a picture of horror. It was Velázquez; proud and forgotten.
There was no sight of the Giralda as he studied his vacant surroundings; even in which direction it stood he did not know. It was buried somewhere beneath the suffocating walls that defined every street and alley. Behind the faceless shutters and iron doors, that frustrated him so endlessly, that hid the life of the town he was searching for. Follow the Giralda, it was the last thing they'd said to him before he left and he feared time; that it would sound again soon.
He'd strolled the endless maze without care since choosing to find his own way after lunch. Leaving his friends en route to the hotel for their routine siesta to explore the streets of their newest destination; the culprit of a sudden combined burst of energy, curiosity and a strong coffee. He most enjoyed the country at the hottest hours when all activity ceased and people dispersed to places unknown and he was able to wander undisturbed in the tranquility of his thoughts and his surroundings. But now the time for siesta had long since passed with the glare of the sun and he felt a growing anxiousness that the barrio hadn't burst into life around him.
As he faced yet another decision between left and right he felt his first flash of fear. It was not a conscious fear but one built over time of knowingly incorrect decisions; a growing understanding the streets were capable of defeating him accompanied a growing sense of weakness. He felt the left was right somehow, indeed it looked the more inviting; the stone reading copper in the diminishing light. The other way already covered in the deep shadow that had done little to cool him. He made left driving purposefully down the middle of the desolate road.
The emerging darkness was bringing no relief. The heat seemed to be stuck low in the street. Trapped without the usual gentle breeze to chase it out of the town. Convinced his friends would be waiting for him his anxiousness had turned to frustration and he ducked down an alley. Employing his blind sense of direction he continued in this fashion taking turns where he saw fit. Willfully challenging the streets, determined not to succumb to its oppression.
Then, as space materialised, he was forced a moment to realise the futility of his methods. Velázquez stood someway in front of him proud and forgotten. No sight or sound of life. He knew where he was. He had been here earlier. Despair began to creep forth from the shadow enveloping plaza. He wildly scanned the many exits, desperate to recall some piece of lost information, a lost clue, that would inform him of the way. Anything. Anything but the incessant insanity of the empty, lifeless, winding streets.
A blast disrupted his impending doom. The Giralda! The chimes swept across the plaza, piercing his ears, and down the avenues behind him hunting the silence. He ran as the bells rang again, and then again. There was no need to wait out the count, he already knew it, and he streamlined for a new exit in the general direction of the benevolence. He dashed down a narrow way that lent right, then took a side street and scrambled madly up a flight of stairs in an effort to keep true to the sound. He knew he was running out time and stole another hundred meters or so before the ultimate ring finally faded away into the obscurity.
The silence tore at him as he surveyed the darkness. There was just enough moonlight to make out the stones at his feet but he was convinced this was the right path. Convinced to keep the veil of madness at bay. He knew now he was homecoming and his stride broadened and his spirit restored. He continued a while. The abandoned streets took on a new look. For the first time he appreciated a cool beauty in the way the white moonlight infiltrated the greys and yellows of the stone creating a serenity that previously escaped him. He settled in the comforting thought.
Time passed and he felt progress. He envisioned the elevated bell-tower guiding him out. As if an actual brilliant shining light illuminated his return to the world. After an eternity the night finally opened in front of him and, relieved, he broke into a run toward the abyss. Then he stopped, skidding to a halt on the smoothed stones, his face a picture of horror. It was Velázquez; proud and forgotten.
Saturday, July 31, 2010
Viva the boys, the boys!
We could feel the tension as we weaved through the explosion of gold. And, kindly, a couple of white guys downing castles shared their table with us. They were happy to meet some foreigners; even if we were Australians. Milo, the younger of the two, jumped up to include us in the next round and ran off to the bar. The other, who's name passes me by, sat back cigarette in hand as if tranquilly admiring the chaos around him. I looked up at what I could see of the screen; the boys, the boys were just stepping off the bus.
Milo returned with beers in hand and we began a pre-match analysis, 'well most importantly we can't lose', he added, 'we just can't afford it'. There was fear in his voice throughout the discussion. He talked of overrated players, the skill of Mexico and some less than impressive performances from the team in recent years (they haven't qualified for any recent major tournaments). However, a change of manager in the form of Brazilian Carlos Alberto Parreira and his six month training camp in the altitude of Johannesburg with the unfriendly jubalani ball had seen an undefeated run in their last 11 matches and had given rise to hope of success across the nation.
The players simply looked overwhelmed as they marched to the pitch for the ceremonies. Soweto's Soccer City provided the scene. The orange calabash turned yellow for the occasion. Over 90,000 were packed in, most with a vuvuzela. The stadium's design was deliberate: it was a reflection of Africa; the tournament's centrepiece; and a multi-billion Rand investment in a country that faces many crises; including extreme poverty and crime and corruption.
There had been on-going discussion in the press regarding the value of the World Cup considering the scale of investment. But it seemed that on the eve of the opening every South African had found a common ground for approval. Sepp Blatter, the FIFA president, was speaking, though intermittently when he found space between the vuvu blows, and championing Africa. He spoke it was proof South Africa can achieve anything, that to be here tonight was a victory already. The roar in the bar was deafening.
When the new democracy was united under the Springbok banner as they lifted the Rugby World Cup the players didn't know the words to their national anthem. Right now, it seemed every single South African was singing as if they held nothing dearer. Some players had tears rolling down their cheeks as they sang the trilingual tune and I suspected there wasn't a proper dry eye around us either. I had known it already and now I felt it: tonight had stopped being about football a long time ago.
Since the Rugby World Cup 15 years ago the hope of the nation had been in a slow decline because of a primary underlying problem evident in every aspect of life: every South African is still not equal. The laws of apartheid were banished and its physical aspects relegated to the horror pages of history but its influence has continued. Apartheid is not about the physical segregation; that is a by-product. Apartheid is a mentality, a mechanism to “divide and conquer”.
A majority that is oppressed, when united will overcome its oppressor. But a majority segregated further (by family, location, level of darkness) is prevented from doing so. By dividing the black, coloured and Indian populations into multiple miniature faux races the whites were the majority and thus were able to occupy the country. Nelson Mandela turned this around without the logical (seemingly inevitable) repercussion of a civil war and will forever be one of the great men of history. But now it is down to education, time and moments like these to banish apartheid for good.
And as the referee blew his whistle, and the boys kicked off, and the vuvuzelas roared, the country cheered. And there was hope.
Milo returned with beers in hand and we began a pre-match analysis, 'well most importantly we can't lose', he added, 'we just can't afford it'. There was fear in his voice throughout the discussion. He talked of overrated players, the skill of Mexico and some less than impressive performances from the team in recent years (they haven't qualified for any recent major tournaments). However, a change of manager in the form of Brazilian Carlos Alberto Parreira and his six month training camp in the altitude of Johannesburg with the unfriendly jubalani ball had seen an undefeated run in their last 11 matches and had given rise to hope of success across the nation.
The players simply looked overwhelmed as they marched to the pitch for the ceremonies. Soweto's Soccer City provided the scene. The orange calabash turned yellow for the occasion. Over 90,000 were packed in, most with a vuvuzela. The stadium's design was deliberate: it was a reflection of Africa; the tournament's centrepiece; and a multi-billion Rand investment in a country that faces many crises; including extreme poverty and crime and corruption.
There had been on-going discussion in the press regarding the value of the World Cup considering the scale of investment. But it seemed that on the eve of the opening every South African had found a common ground for approval. Sepp Blatter, the FIFA president, was speaking, though intermittently when he found space between the vuvu blows, and championing Africa. He spoke it was proof South Africa can achieve anything, that to be here tonight was a victory already. The roar in the bar was deafening.
When the new democracy was united under the Springbok banner as they lifted the Rugby World Cup the players didn't know the words to their national anthem. Right now, it seemed every single South African was singing as if they held nothing dearer. Some players had tears rolling down their cheeks as they sang the trilingual tune and I suspected there wasn't a proper dry eye around us either. I had known it already and now I felt it: tonight had stopped being about football a long time ago.
Since the Rugby World Cup 15 years ago the hope of the nation had been in a slow decline because of a primary underlying problem evident in every aspect of life: every South African is still not equal. The laws of apartheid were banished and its physical aspects relegated to the horror pages of history but its influence has continued. Apartheid is not about the physical segregation; that is a by-product. Apartheid is a mentality, a mechanism to “divide and conquer”.
A majority that is oppressed, when united will overcome its oppressor. But a majority segregated further (by family, location, level of darkness) is prevented from doing so. By dividing the black, coloured and Indian populations into multiple miniature faux races the whites were the majority and thus were able to occupy the country. Nelson Mandela turned this around without the logical (seemingly inevitable) repercussion of a civil war and will forever be one of the great men of history. But now it is down to education, time and moments like these to banish apartheid for good.
And as the referee blew his whistle, and the boys kicked off, and the vuvuzelas roared, the country cheered. And there was hope.
Tuesday, July 6, 2010
The Procession.
The parade of people flowed from the city centre, beneath the omnipresent table mountain and out to the ocean; to the stadium. We met the flow someway along and stepped in to be carried the rest of the way. There was not anything you could do but shuffle to the mass beat of it all. We walked a while before our destination materialised in the distance. We were beginning the approach. There was a change in the atmosphere; the vuvuzelas became more consistent; drums and music floated around us; people danced and Africans busked in the street. High above on either side people hung out of windows; waving, shouting, cameras flashing. In temporary slits through the crowd I could make out rows of people, perhaps three deep, here just to witness the spectacle in the afternoon sun – it was a Saturday after all. They applauded us as we walked. The excitement grew: we were the lucky ones, we were here to participate.
The grass was a brilliant green. It appeared perfect; flat and sharp. The goals stood at each end, beckoning action. Encircling up, the white seats were filled; Argentine and German colours overpowered the scene. Straight beyond my view of the opposite corner flag, between the corrugated roof and the top tier was the silhouette of Table Mountain – seeing to it that perspective is duly maintained throughout. Behind me, behind the stadium gates, sat the Atlantic ocean and views to the horizon. Above, the sky was pure, a gentle sea breeze maintained a freshness.
The Argentine shirts were bouncing, their anthem had began. Thousands in the blue and white jumped to the rich tune. Then the vuvuzelas blared; time for the Germans and apparently an Opera. A deep voice bellowed a couple rows behind us, emphatically pounding out every word with all his might was an aging German. Skye took his photo. The stadium backed the man as those rough, harsh words sounded down to players below. Again the vuvuzelas; time for kick off.
The dream was over quickly. But down eight minutes in, it was always going to be tough. Those in La Albiceleste colours were resilient and continued to stand and to deliver support and the team came out determined in the second half. But they were ultimately silenced. So was Di Maria and Tevez and Messi and Higuain and then Aguero. Maradona consoled his former number and favourite though not the legal son as we looked on. A blur of the Germans and their fans celebrated on the peripheral. Though Skye seemed pretty happy with himself. It was my second time seeing Die Mannschaft and it was the same scoreline. My two teams had been done. I was done, twice. It's personal now... so come on Spain - my boys!
We slinked out to greet the night sky, Skye's German scarf ruffled in the cool sea breeze in some kind of symbolic victory. His friend had an apartment nearby, just off the foreshore. We farewelled Darryl and River and made for the braai. The scene was spectacular; the balcony offered endless views of the Atlantic on one side and on the other, green point stadium lit up in its brilliant best. It stood in great reverence, looking as if it was the sole culprit for its country's energy crisis. Though having been constructed by Germans it was apparently happy just to bask in its victory of a job well done, awaiting the next match.
The grass was a brilliant green. It appeared perfect; flat and sharp. The goals stood at each end, beckoning action. Encircling up, the white seats were filled; Argentine and German colours overpowered the scene. Straight beyond my view of the opposite corner flag, between the corrugated roof and the top tier was the silhouette of Table Mountain – seeing to it that perspective is duly maintained throughout. Behind me, behind the stadium gates, sat the Atlantic ocean and views to the horizon. Above, the sky was pure, a gentle sea breeze maintained a freshness.
The Argentine shirts were bouncing, their anthem had began. Thousands in the blue and white jumped to the rich tune. Then the vuvuzelas blared; time for the Germans and apparently an Opera. A deep voice bellowed a couple rows behind us, emphatically pounding out every word with all his might was an aging German. Skye took his photo. The stadium backed the man as those rough, harsh words sounded down to players below. Again the vuvuzelas; time for kick off.
The dream was over quickly. But down eight minutes in, it was always going to be tough. Those in La Albiceleste colours were resilient and continued to stand and to deliver support and the team came out determined in the second half. But they were ultimately silenced. So was Di Maria and Tevez and Messi and Higuain and then Aguero. Maradona consoled his former number and favourite though not the legal son as we looked on. A blur of the Germans and their fans celebrated on the peripheral. Though Skye seemed pretty happy with himself. It was my second time seeing Die Mannschaft and it was the same scoreline. My two teams had been done. I was done, twice. It's personal now... so come on Spain - my boys!
We slinked out to greet the night sky, Skye's German scarf ruffled in the cool sea breeze in some kind of symbolic victory. His friend had an apartment nearby, just off the foreshore. We farewelled Darryl and River and made for the braai. The scene was spectacular; the balcony offered endless views of the Atlantic on one side and on the other, green point stadium lit up in its brilliant best. It stood in great reverence, looking as if it was the sole culprit for its country's energy crisis. Though having been constructed by Germans it was apparently happy just to bask in its victory of a job well done, awaiting the next match.
Thursday, June 10, 2010
CR7.
Portugal playing here. This afternoon. I had to go! I pitched it to Alex and he was as keen as I. We emptied our pockets save for a couple of hundred Rand, conscious of the scenes that transpired last Saturday on the other side of Johannesburg between Nigeria and North Korea: a stampede before the match had resulted in hundreds of people trampled on as fans had tried to get in... Though, we did grab Laura's camera on the way out.
The car radio advised the road around Wanderers was already closed. It was 2:30 and we feared we may have left our run too late. As we closed in on the stadium, waiting at a traffic light, we saw a man in a fluro safety vest jump into the back of a maroon jeep up ahead. Then, hanging out the window, he waved Alex and I and the cars behind to follow. We did, turning off into the backstreets. It was wild. Cars covered the footpaths, gardens, driveways, every piece of earth possible. Fans making their way to the ground, many donning the red and yellow of Portugal, weaved in and out of the steady stream of cars of which we were a part. While dozens more ‘parking officers’ beckoned the drivers to follow them. There was just enough space to squeeze through as we inched along in the dense chaos of it all.
We caught the attention of another parking guy and were directed off another way. He fashioned us a park in a garden bed off a side street. ‘Pay me, pay me,’ he shouted. As I went to tip him, the initial guy from the maroon jeep, appeared out of nowhere. This guy waived a small scrap bit of paper stating ‘parking R50’ along with some other text I couldn’t quite make out, ‘you followed me didn’t you, pay me!’ I nodded, though the other guy was still expecting payment, ‘I showed you the park, give me something!’ Figuring the last thing we wanted was a vendetta against our lovely new rental car, I satisfied the jeep man’s piece of paper and gave a fraction of that to the second guy. They both ran off content, in search for more cars to park. Satisfactorily ripped off, we make sure the car was locked and alarmed and followed the flow of football jerseys to the stadium.
The road out front was sectioned off at the top by a massive gate and a ton of security. We muscled our way through the sea of red and yellow up to the front. ‘Ticket’s please.’
‘We don’t have any, can we buy tickets?’
‘Sold out.’ The guard gestured for us to move aside. Alex and I looked to each other - what now? ‘Move,’ we were told.
We turned around, a police car with lights flashing headed our way leading a massive bus. I could hear the fans. They were bouncing. It was Portugal! Deco, Nani, right there through the windows! Waving! Oh! The bus drove past without pause down toward the stadium. We needed a ticket! Wandering through the Portuguese fans I saw up on the street corner, near a market stall selling rip off Portuguese merchandise, a Socceroos jersey.
There were four Aussies in all and they had only just got their hands on tickets. The guy in the jersey handed me his sign, it was poorly scribbled on a piece of note-book paper reading, “BUY TICKETS x2”. Another gave a similar sign to Alex. ‘We were only here for 20 minutes, good luck!’ They waved and were off. Galvanised we stood on the corner, waving our signs about and yelling out like spruikers: ‘Tickets, any one got any tickets?', 'Spare tickets?', ‘We’re looking for tickets!’ We had no takers, no interest, apart from laughs and smiles; we were apparently the pre-match entertainment. There was another one who came, a young guy attired head to toe in the Portuguese gear, keen on a ticket and he was simply waving around money. Concerned about our competition, we split up; Alex went back down to the front gate whilst I kept on at the corner. He returned a while later with nothing, still nothing.
We were determined not to concede defeat: we had seen the bus; heard the fans; we were totally swept up in the fever. I turned around to see Alex talking to a man in a Zimbabwe shirt. He was saying that a guy up the road had been trying to sell tickets to the cars. Hope! We thanked him and grabbed the money waving Portuguese guy. We were walking up the road when a voice in front of us shouted, ‘what do you want!’ It was one of those ‘parking’ guys.
‘Tickets, tickets,’ we shouted back in unison as we caught up with him.
‘Well, I have two,’ He ducked down, hiding behind his car, and took two, and then three tickets from his pocket ‘Wait, three.’
‘They’re good?’
‘Yeah, check them, check them.’
Good enough! We each handed over a hundred Rand a ticket, thanked him, and headed for the stadium.
As we passed through that front-gate the feeling of satisfaction is hard to describe: We did it! We were on our way! Though, as the road sloped downward toward the stadium, we could see thousands of fans still waiting to enter the ground. The usual multiple entrances around the Wanderers had been closed in lieu of a sole entrance and we hit the human traffic a good few hundred metres before the next gate. It was 3:30 but our tickets told kick-off was still an hour away so we happily waited out the bottleneck. We had our tickets checked three more times before we were in.
Inside the stadium was alive. The vivid red of the Portuguese, curiously vastly outnumbering any Mozambique fans, coloured the entire ground. Our seats weren’t together so we entered the main stand in hope more than anything, just as a great roar and the drone of the Vuvuzelas erupted. The Portuguese team were coming out for their warm-up. We shoved our way through the overcrowded walkways looking for a decent seat. Unsuccessful. Then, next to the grandstand and behind the goal we spied the hill; grass-covered and not too full, it looked like the best spot. We quickly crossed to the end of the grandstand, jumped the fence in front of about six idle policemen, and made our way into the crowd on the grass.
Then an ultimate eruption, emerging from a swarm of photographers was Cristiano Ronaldo to join the team in the warm-up. The whole crowd cheered his every touch, engrossed with his every move. A group of Portuguese standing in front of us fully decked out in their nations’ shirts and scarfs and flags went wild.
When the players took to the field, after the formalities of the anthems were drowned out by the ever-present whine of the Vuvuzelas, the atmosphere was electric. The likes of Deco, Simao, Carvalho right in front of us. There was something special in the crowd. The idea that these fans had travelled so far for this team, just for these guys - it amplifies the emotion. Mozambique weren’t caught up in it, and took the game to the Europeans from the kick-off. They were desperately unlucky too, after hitting the post from a first time strike outside the box. Behind us a group of Mozambiques, who weren’t in colours, went absolutely ballistic. Then again, so did I. It was an awesome hit, inches wide. The Vuvuzelas roared on.
Half time called an end to a scoreless opening, but a fantastic match that was gaining pace as it went along. Alex and I mused over the first half action coffee in hand as the air began to chill and the sun began to set. We noticed a boy, perhaps 15 or 16 and draped in a Portuguese flag, running down to his family in front of us. He was openly weeping. His family launched into flurry of activity; some in shock, some shouting to people around, some holding and consoling him. The boy, tears streaming down his face, was shaking and, as if nothing else were as important, grasping ever-so-tightly to a Portuguese cap. We could just make out on the brim, in a thick black pen, the scribbling of what looked like a C.Ronaldo.
A massive roar went up someway into the second half as if a goal had been scored - it Ronaldo was warming up. A torrent of camera flashes crashed down on the Madrid man as he went through the usual motions. Next another roar and this time it was a goal, Portugal were one up after a nifty through ball, Danny evaded the off-side trap to round the keeper and finish off.
On the 65th minute it was finally his time, a standing ovation as 11 made way for 7, Simao for Cristiano Ronado, captain’s armband and all. His first touch came quickly and it was sharp, followed by a run down the right wing with his token step-over and cross. He was seemingly aware of the attention - and loving it.
Another goal came as Portugal’s class began to shine through. In the first half Deco had struggled to find time on the ball as the Mozambique midfield scrambled to shut him down. Now as the crowd stood totally transfixed beneath the floodlights, he was popping up everywhere stamping his authority on the attack. The entire midfield was enjoying themselves with flicks and dummies and back-heels littering the play.
The third goal came with 5 to go as Portugal countered through Ronaldo. He took the ball on half way, turned and set a direct path to goal. 30 yards out he hit it, early, low and hard at the keepers’ right. It dipped at the last second. It was a Ronaldo strike. The Mozambique number 1 got a hand on it but only enough to knock it into Almeida’s path for his second goal and tap in of the night. Mozambique was done.
So were we. We drifted back out onto the road and retraced our steps to the car. Some swift negotiations and our last 2 rand later, we escaped with our car and took off from the Wanderers’ in total awe at what we had just witnessed.
Viva Ronaldo!
Saturday, June 5, 2010
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.
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.
Friday, June 4, 2010
Life is choice.
It is random collisions of circumstance falling in pieces at our feet as we blindly and naively form our own paths (and affect others), one decision at a time. We can construe would-be horizons based on previous experiences and those observed from others as a guide to mirror a hopeful future, or for some -- damned fates. Yet, of course, nothing is predestined, nothing is fated. Our dreams remain a reflection of our past. Our futures, once realised, the culmination of sequence. The future is contingent on the past, the past a cause of the present; and therein lies the present, forming it all.
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