June 17 Day 8
Argentina 4 Korea 1 Soccer City
Again we arose at 5:45 am. World Cup business combined with South African touring is not for sleep-lovers. We hit the park exit road by 6:30 am, stopping to photograph one last elephant group, munching on a tree branch breakfast.
We budgeted 5 hours to reach the Joburg train station where we planned to park, and take the train to Soccer City for the 1:30 pm game. We immediately ran into setbacks. First, we expected rural roads, like the north entrance nearest to Faan's farm. However, we traversed a series of small town roads, where the speed limit was 30 to 50 MPH, and there was traffic. We also saw many Africans along the highway dressed in simple, colorful garb, , many walking, most catching a ride in the vans which seem to be the mass transit mode in South Africa. Public transport as we know it is rudimentary.
Another problem was that navigator Brian discovered the actual distance to our destination was 25 miles farther than his maps showed. Such is Africa.
Still further, though we found a toll road within an hour or so, it was two lanes for a couple hours. We lost time behind numerous trucks. For this pleasure, we ultimately paid about $10.
When we finally hit a four-lane road and then the beautiful expressway, time was running down. Unfortunately the 1:30 pm kick-off, was the day's early game. I began driving South African style.......fast. The speed limit is 75 MPH on open roads, even two lanes, but many people go 85 - 90 MPH and faster. I stayed with 85+-MPH. Our little Chevrolet Aero ran well. In all our time on the South African roads I only saw one driver getting a ticket.
When our arrival target 11:30 am passed, we were still well outside Joburg and we hit a construction area. Joburg traffic was heavy as usual.
I had looked forward for a long time to seeing Argentina, now the only world power I had never seen.
We wound our way around the construction barriers and the traffic. We exited the expressway into central Joburg, looking for the train station. Our intent was to take a train to the stadium.The streets were crowded as usual. The 1:30pm kickoff was approaching relentlessly.
We made our way to the train station parking lot entrance. To our dismay, the lot was jammed full. The attendants told us to drive around the block and enter the lower lot. Traffic was by now very thick but we made our way into the alternate lot entrance. A young man took tickets from the gate machine and handed them to the entering drivers. We drove on, unsure where to park. Soon we came across more attendants, all waving their arms. They were telling us and everyone behind us there were no more spaces, though cars were still passing through the entrance gate! This too is Africa.
We snaked out of the lot. Noon passed, with the kick-off time growing ever closer. Yet, we had nowhere to park. "No problem," we thought, we will simply pull onto a downtown parking garage (called "Parkades" here). However, there was a major obstacle--though we drove around and around, we could not find a public lot. The garages we saw were all for pre-arranged private parking. We began yelling and swearing at our plight. No place to park for the World Cup....yet again. Kick-off time approached relentlessly.
In frustration, Brian snapped that he did not want to attend the game. I yelled, "I have spent too much time and money to see this [expletive deleted] game--if I only see FIVE [expletive deleted] minutes, I am still going." Just as were shouting and cursing FIFA for even thinking of holding the World Cup in Africa, Brian spotted a sign for the World Cup "Westgate Park and Ride." Despite his research he had never heard of this facility. Somehow, the World Cup parking gods magically, as always, had guided us. Still, we did not know where to find the Westgate lot; we only knew it was close. All the while, the time to kick-off was counting down.
Suddenly, we spotted a crude, open dirt and stones lot, where some other fans were parking. A rather run-down African man in his 60's clutched a small notebook. "Can we park here?" I asked breathlessly. "Yeah," he said, "that'll be 10 rand [and I thought he added] for now." The neighborhood was quite dilapidated. We had no idea whether this man was even authorized to collect money. However, for a mere $1.30 and with 1:00 pm then approaching, these were desperate times. We gladly paid and parked.
The next crisis: how to get to Soccer City. We thought about walking but we did not know how far nor how to get there. Various coarsely dressed African men were loitering on the sidewalks, with apparently nothing to do, staring at us. Could it have been more obvious that we were foreign fans, with money and other goodies in our possession, such as a nice camera?
Nevertheless, we pushed on. FIFA's kick-offs are never late. It's the TV money, you know. We spotted some traffic attendants, and there are hundreds and hundreds here on game days. "How can we get to the stadium," we asked anxiously. They gestured vaguely at a "bus" a couple blocks away. We dashed to the spot they indicated, having no idea what we would find or whether we would be mugged on the way.
Though 1:00 pm had then almost arrived, an oasis appeared. We came across a "Rea Vaya" bus line platform, just outside the Westgate lot. The platform was new. The red buses were new. I had seen the Rea Vaya platform outside the stadium, but did not know about this bus line. We had, however, read in the newspapers how fans leaving the Monday game we attended had been stranded, as the drivers walked off the job in a wildcat strike. Still, I only cared about Argentina versus Korea. Getting home was not then on my radar. We dashed up the ramp, bought tickets and jumped on board a bus. The ride took less than 10 minutes. Even better, the exit ramp was near the stadium pedestrian bridge. We ran down the ramp and over to the security perimeter. Guards put us through the usual metal detectors and casually looked in my carry bag. Then we scurried across the bridge to the ticket-checking gates. The light flashed green when we inserted our tickets into the machine. That is always a moment of relief. The turnstiles swung and we were in, and none too soon.
Fortunately this time, though our seats were on the highest level, we were on the entrance side, so all we needed to do was hustle straight up the ramps. We jogged up. Brian headed for our seats. I made the mandatory pre-game stop. Then I noticed there was no concession line. Game time was just minutes away. Luckily, in a minute I was able to purchase the standard World Cup meal, hot dogs and soda, for Brian and I. Thanks to the wonderful stadium designers and the multiple rest rooms and concessions, I reached my seat in time for the big show, Argentina and my friends, the Koreans. Argentina, at last!
The weather was once again sunny but this time brisk, with a breeze and a low 50's temperature. The low humidity made things tolerable. The day felt like an October afternoon American football game.
We sat in corner seats similar to where we have watched for Redskin games. Before me, finally, was the team which had escaped me for so many years. Argentina! Yes, it really, truly was Argentina. They wore their usual black pants, with light blue and white vertically-striped jerseys. Coach Maradona stood in front of the team bench, now bearded. Korea, known as "The Reds," wore their traditional all red.
Korea's teams are always disciplined, consistent, play together, stay within themselves and have legendary fitness. However, Argentina functions in another skill level universe. Outstanding players for big European clubs sit on the bench. Argentina's big drawback is the coach, Diego Maradona, one of the greatest all-time players. As so often happens, supremely gifted people have problems in ordinary society. Maradona has had drug abuse issues in the past, among other screw-ups. Yet, because of his revered status, incredibly to us, he landed the Argentina coaching job. However, not totally surprisingly, this superbly talented group barely qualified for the World Cup. Oh, what The Old Coach himself could do with that wonderful talent!
This day, however, Argentina came to play. We felt we were watching "men among boys." The Argentines are so skilled in their footwork that they do not need intricate passes. They simply get the ball to any one of several midfielders or forwards, who then deftly dazzle defenders with amazing ball control. On the other hand, Korea could do little to get near Argentina's goal. Only a stupid Argentine defensive mistake gave Korea an opening moments before half-time. As the Koreans do so well, despite relatively few chances, once again they "finished" successfully. Korea closed to 2 -1. Hope arose.
In the second half, all hope was dashed. The Koreans could not keep pace with the skillful South American ball wizards. I saw what I had come for, and it was worth the harrowing 300-mile dash from the bush country. I was sorry for Korea, but the truth was, they were simply not in the same class as Argentina.
After the game, since we were on the stadium side closest to the pedestrian bridge, we moved quickly over and on to the Rea Vaya bus platform. With little wait, we were taken back to the Westgate parking area, in that not-so-desirable Joburg neighborhood.
However, an available parking lot is an invaluable World Cup asset. Indeed, we marveled how the Westgate lot was almost empty. We wondered whether we could actually use the lot in the future. Was it an undiscovered treasure or not available to us ordinary fans?
Some attendants were lounging at the gate. We approached them. "Can we park here tomorrow?", we asked anxiously. They shrugged, "Yeah." No big deal.
Then we returned to the scuzzy lot where we had parked our car. We held our breath, wondering if our vehicle was still there and intact. We found it in perfect condition. Then we laughed. Adjacent to us was a Mercedes. No way would our plain little automobile have been touched!
We navigated the congested streets to the expressway and back to Sandton, the close-in suburb very much akin to Atlanta's Buckhead. We had little time to rest. We changed clothes and hustled over to the Sandton Square Mall, where we met Stana and Angelo for dinner.
The mall is a huge complex, crowded with affluent local people and foreign fans. There are many Africans but the overwhelming proportion is white, reversing the country's demographic mix. Interestingly virtually all the employees in restaurants and stores are African.
We ate at a large restaurant much like our Clyde's. The temperature had dropped to around 40 with brisk winds. Such conditions, we understand, are the winter depths in South Africa.
World Cup fever surmounts any weather. The weather certainly did not matter to us--we had arrived at the Promised Land, an accessible parking lot! World Cup life could not be better.
Argentina 4 Korea 1 Soccer City
Again we arose at 5:45 am. World Cup business combined with South African touring is not for sleep-lovers. We hit the park exit road by 6:30 am, stopping to photograph one last elephant group, munching on a tree branch breakfast.
We budgeted 5 hours to reach the Joburg train station where we planned to park, and take the train to Soccer City for the 1:30 pm game. We immediately ran into setbacks. First, we expected rural roads, like the north entrance nearest to Faan's farm. However, we traversed a series of small town roads, where the speed limit was 30 to 50 MPH, and there was traffic. We also saw many Africans along the highway dressed in simple, colorful garb, , many walking, most catching a ride in the vans which seem to be the mass transit mode in South Africa. Public transport as we know it is rudimentary.
Another problem was that navigator Brian discovered the actual distance to our destination was 25 miles farther than his maps showed. Such is Africa.
Still further, though we found a toll road within an hour or so, it was two lanes for a couple hours. We lost time behind numerous trucks. For this pleasure, we ultimately paid about $10.
When we finally hit a four-lane road and then the beautiful expressway, time was running down. Unfortunately the 1:30 pm kick-off, was the day's early game. I began driving South African style.......fast. The speed limit is 75 MPH on open roads, even two lanes, but many people go 85 - 90 MPH and faster. I stayed with 85+-MPH. Our little Chevrolet Aero ran well. In all our time on the South African roads I only saw one driver getting a ticket.
When our arrival target 11:30 am passed, we were still well outside Joburg and we hit a construction area. Joburg traffic was heavy as usual.
I had looked forward for a long time to seeing Argentina, now the only world power I had never seen.
We wound our way around the construction barriers and the traffic. We exited the expressway into central Joburg, looking for the train station. Our intent was to take a train to the stadium.The streets were crowded as usual. The 1:30pm kickoff was approaching relentlessly.
We made our way to the train station parking lot entrance. To our dismay, the lot was jammed full. The attendants told us to drive around the block and enter the lower lot. Traffic was by now very thick but we made our way into the alternate lot entrance. A young man took tickets from the gate machine and handed them to the entering drivers. We drove on, unsure where to park. Soon we came across more attendants, all waving their arms. They were telling us and everyone behind us there were no more spaces, though cars were still passing through the entrance gate! This too is Africa.
We snaked out of the lot. Noon passed, with the kick-off time growing ever closer. Yet, we had nowhere to park. "No problem," we thought, we will simply pull onto a downtown parking garage (called "Parkades" here). However, there was a major obstacle--though we drove around and around, we could not find a public lot. The garages we saw were all for pre-arranged private parking. We began yelling and swearing at our plight. No place to park for the World Cup....yet again. Kick-off time approached relentlessly.
In frustration, Brian snapped that he did not want to attend the game. I yelled, "I have spent too much time and money to see this [expletive deleted] game--if I only see FIVE [expletive deleted] minutes, I am still going." Just as were shouting and cursing FIFA for even thinking of holding the World Cup in Africa, Brian spotted a sign for the World Cup "Westgate Park and Ride." Despite his research he had never heard of this facility. Somehow, the World Cup parking gods magically, as always, had guided us. Still, we did not know where to find the Westgate lot; we only knew it was close. All the while, the time to kick-off was counting down.
Suddenly, we spotted a crude, open dirt and stones lot, where some other fans were parking. A rather run-down African man in his 60's clutched a small notebook. "Can we park here?" I asked breathlessly. "Yeah," he said, "that'll be 10 rand [and I thought he added] for now." The neighborhood was quite dilapidated. We had no idea whether this man was even authorized to collect money. However, for a mere $1.30 and with 1:00 pm then approaching, these were desperate times. We gladly paid and parked.
The next crisis: how to get to Soccer City. We thought about walking but we did not know how far nor how to get there. Various coarsely dressed African men were loitering on the sidewalks, with apparently nothing to do, staring at us. Could it have been more obvious that we were foreign fans, with money and other goodies in our possession, such as a nice camera?
Nevertheless, we pushed on. FIFA's kick-offs are never late. It's the TV money, you know. We spotted some traffic attendants, and there are hundreds and hundreds here on game days. "How can we get to the stadium," we asked anxiously. They gestured vaguely at a "bus" a couple blocks away. We dashed to the spot they indicated, having no idea what we would find or whether we would be mugged on the way.
Though 1:00 pm had then almost arrived, an oasis appeared. We came across a "Rea Vaya" bus line platform, just outside the Westgate lot. The platform was new. The red buses were new. I had seen the Rea Vaya platform outside the stadium, but did not know about this bus line. We had, however, read in the newspapers how fans leaving the Monday game we attended had been stranded, as the drivers walked off the job in a wildcat strike. Still, I only cared about Argentina versus Korea. Getting home was not then on my radar. We dashed up the ramp, bought tickets and jumped on board a bus. The ride took less than 10 minutes. Even better, the exit ramp was near the stadium pedestrian bridge. We ran down the ramp and over to the security perimeter. Guards put us through the usual metal detectors and casually looked in my carry bag. Then we scurried across the bridge to the ticket-checking gates. The light flashed green when we inserted our tickets into the machine. That is always a moment of relief. The turnstiles swung and we were in, and none too soon.
Fortunately this time, though our seats were on the highest level, we were on the entrance side, so all we needed to do was hustle straight up the ramps. We jogged up. Brian headed for our seats. I made the mandatory pre-game stop. Then I noticed there was no concession line. Game time was just minutes away. Luckily, in a minute I was able to purchase the standard World Cup meal, hot dogs and soda, for Brian and I. Thanks to the wonderful stadium designers and the multiple rest rooms and concessions, I reached my seat in time for the big show, Argentina and my friends, the Koreans. Argentina, at last!
The weather was once again sunny but this time brisk, with a breeze and a low 50's temperature. The low humidity made things tolerable. The day felt like an October afternoon American football game.
We sat in corner seats similar to where we have watched for Redskin games. Before me, finally, was the team which had escaped me for so many years. Argentina! Yes, it really, truly was Argentina. They wore their usual black pants, with light blue and white vertically-striped jerseys. Coach Maradona stood in front of the team bench, now bearded. Korea, known as "The Reds," wore their traditional all red.
Korea's teams are always disciplined, consistent, play together, stay within themselves and have legendary fitness. However, Argentina functions in another skill level universe. Outstanding players for big European clubs sit on the bench. Argentina's big drawback is the coach, Diego Maradona, one of the greatest all-time players. As so often happens, supremely gifted people have problems in ordinary society. Maradona has had drug abuse issues in the past, among other screw-ups. Yet, because of his revered status, incredibly to us, he landed the Argentina coaching job. However, not totally surprisingly, this superbly talented group barely qualified for the World Cup. Oh, what The Old Coach himself could do with that wonderful talent!
This day, however, Argentina came to play. We felt we were watching "men among boys." The Argentines are so skilled in their footwork that they do not need intricate passes. They simply get the ball to any one of several midfielders or forwards, who then deftly dazzle defenders with amazing ball control. On the other hand, Korea could do little to get near Argentina's goal. Only a stupid Argentine defensive mistake gave Korea an opening moments before half-time. As the Koreans do so well, despite relatively few chances, once again they "finished" successfully. Korea closed to 2 -1. Hope arose.
In the second half, all hope was dashed. The Koreans could not keep pace with the skillful South American ball wizards. I saw what I had come for, and it was worth the harrowing 300-mile dash from the bush country. I was sorry for Korea, but the truth was, they were simply not in the same class as Argentina.
After the game, since we were on the stadium side closest to the pedestrian bridge, we moved quickly over and on to the Rea Vaya bus platform. With little wait, we were taken back to the Westgate parking area, in that not-so-desirable Joburg neighborhood.
However, an available parking lot is an invaluable World Cup asset. Indeed, we marveled how the Westgate lot was almost empty. We wondered whether we could actually use the lot in the future. Was it an undiscovered treasure or not available to us ordinary fans?
Some attendants were lounging at the gate. We approached them. "Can we park here tomorrow?", we asked anxiously. They shrugged, "Yeah." No big deal.
Then we returned to the scuzzy lot where we had parked our car. We held our breath, wondering if our vehicle was still there and intact. We found it in perfect condition. Then we laughed. Adjacent to us was a Mercedes. No way would our plain little automobile have been touched!
We navigated the congested streets to the expressway and back to Sandton, the close-in suburb very much akin to Atlanta's Buckhead. We had little time to rest. We changed clothes and hustled over to the Sandton Square Mall, where we met Stana and Angelo for dinner.
The mall is a huge complex, crowded with affluent local people and foreign fans. There are many Africans but the overwhelming proportion is white, reversing the country's demographic mix. Interestingly virtually all the employees in restaurants and stores are African.
We ate at a large restaurant much like our Clyde's. The temperature had dropped to around 40 with brisk winds. Such conditions, we understand, are the winter depths in South Africa.
World Cup fever surmounts any weather. The weather certainly did not matter to us--we had arrived at the Promised Land, an accessible parking lot! World Cup life could not be better.
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