As I dragged my beer-burdened body to bed after having witnessed an historical and grossly ignominious defeat of Bafana Bafana, I somehow still managed to ponder the deeper things of life - How will I ever be able to work off my slowly-developing beer boep? Hahahahaha, no seriously, apart from being forlorn over excess and over-indulgence it dawned on me that this is it, it's now over. Well, it's over for those of us pure bred South Africans,recently inducted into soccer fervour and an alien, perfunctory sense of patriotism. If you fit into this category, like I do,your World Cup is over.
I slouched off to bed after the Uruguay/Bafana game (which shall be referred to from here on in as 'that game') and even amid my fatigue (brought on by booze and despondency) I noticed distinct silence which pervaded the streets of Cape Town (or at least my street). The vuvuzela had died. It had been slaughtered, chopped up into pieces and was now stewing in a crucible of national despair along with our country's pride and freedom. In the dying minutes of that game, it was agonising and embarrassing to see the stands at Loftus Versfeld slowly empty as disgusted former-Bafana supporters evacuated the stadium, fleeing to hide and lick the wounds on their misguided, desperate national pride.
Questions like: Was it a fair game? Who the fuck does that referee think he is? Will grow into stentorian groans and replace the bleating vuvuzela from here on in. Sure there'll be the odd bleat, but will it be from a South African-owned vuvuzela? Yes and no. As a country we know how to get up off the ground, dust ourselves off and to move on. We've been doing it for much of the country's history. The fact we had our arses and pride handed to us by a soccer team from a country barely the size of the Free State will make the wounds sting a little more. But we have little choice but to get over it and to drink more, eat more, have more sex, do more drugs, anything to numb the pain and the hatred for this small little South American nation and an even smaller Swiss referee. The vuvuzela will still sound off liberally throughout the World Cup, but it will have a desperate tone added to it. A tone which will only be able to slightly raise our spirits. It will become an instrument of drunken whimsy, employed by fans who've had one too many and think blowing a vuvu off is still fun. It can also now be used as an instrument of torture. Imagine a vuvuzela enema being performed on that red-card happy Swiss referee. Zealous Bafana fans can use it as a knobknierrie, wielding it with rage. I'm opting for the latter alternate use of our national musical instrument. At least with violence we see definitive results
Thursday, June 17, 2010
Sunday, June 6, 2010
The New Colonialism
Where did our country go? Just a few days ago it was ours, as in a country which belonged ostensibly and at least in theory to South Africans (and those of our brethren lucky enough to have procured illegal I.D. documents).
I've been out of the country for 10 days, which in World Cup time and dog years is like a decade, so excuse me if I seem a little shell-shocked by this new nation of ours or as I like to call it 'The United Nations of FIFA'.
From Cape Town International Airport, an obvious rallying point for bug-eyed foreigners (most of whom have fallen prey to myths of marauding machete-wielding heathens awaiting them in the shadows of the tournaments, poised and ready to strike all in the name of dollars, pounds and euros, all the way along the N2 into the Mother City's belly you are never allowed to forget about this precariously daunting sporting event.
Let me go back to the point-of-origin for me as I was welcomed back into this beautiful nightmare, which is now just days away. I was pleasantly shocked by the smile on an immigration officials face at passport control at the airport. 'Welcome back' the official mumbled through a forced grin (Why is he smiling? Does he know something I don't?!). This was after I was made to stare at a camera which checked my body for disease and pestilence. But at least the woman manning the camera managed a slight smile, to at least assure us we won't die then and there if a piggish type flu is detected.
Then came the barrage of marketing. The advertising around the World Cup oscillates between the garish and mundane ('Welcome to the beauty of Africa' puked one ad) to the smarter choice in marketing (I'm still trying to decide if a giant, downright terrifying vuvuzela, precariously set up on Cape Town's infamous 'unfinished highway' counts as innovative advertising)the gauntlet of capitalism asserting its supreme dominance over the tournament is overwhelming, over-the-top and pricey, but in some ways, perhaps nevessary.
The city's CBD is foreign to me. There are traffic lights where there shouldn't have been. Road markings and signs which I still can't decipher. New bridges have mushroomed, along with billboards, vendors stands and Christmas lights festooned across the city. Then there is this new found patriotism, which I believe will be short lived if your are actually contemplating supporting Bafana Bafana. Flags flutter from vehicles like flies around soon-to be carcasses. And those rear view mirror covers, what the fuck, man?! Apparently they go for a hundred rand a pop! Vuvuzelas are our nations call to arms these days and challenge the good old-fashioned human cheers and singing which once marked soccer games in this country. Vvvvvrrrrrrrrroooopppppp, they belch. And this is not just at a soccer game, I'm talking about 7am on any given morning these days, they bark at you around every corner. It's not uncommon to have some of my work colleagues blow one of those Satanic instruments off in the office. I can't understand why, but they do. I call it muscial Tourettes syndrome. As I snatched one away from a colleague the other day I threatened him with an auditory enema if he ever blew it in my presence again. He slumped off, sulking and mumbling something about getting into the spirit.
I went out for dinner the other night and the range of accents flitting through our streets is discernible. 'Hulloh, good sir. Vould you know hauw to get to ze stadium?' asked a German tourist, resplendent in his white socks and sandals. They are the ones clutching maps and aimlessly wandering the streets, usually in the opposite direction to where they actually want to go. I've come across a few Brazilians as well. They are easy to spot. Just look out for the women who wear very little in the way of clothes. Their hair styles are follicular explosions and they smoke as if it the Nicotine World Cup. I overheard an English couple examining a menu the other night. 'Look love, they have Coca-Cola', the prawn-coloured Brit exclaimed. I was rather confused by this. Did he think there would be no soft drinks in South Africa? Do we only have sorghum beer and witblits to offer? We can only wish.
Fellow South Africans (or at least those as weary, suspicious, fearful and nervous of this World Cup as I am), our nation is no longer just ours. We will be probably be treated as second rate citizens (unless you can pay your way through the next month with dollars, pounds and euros) for the next month. get used to it. Our homes will be colonised, our pubs, bars, restaurants will be foreign battle grounds where we must assert our misguided superiority in consuming booze, singing ridiculous songs and eating ourselves into comas. There can be no giving in to these foreigners. Speak to them in our 10 foreign languages when and if they ask for directions. Fill their heads with urban myths of wild creatures freely roaming our suburban streets. tell them the World Cup has been moved to Australia at the last minute. Fuck with their minds a bit. Why the hell not?
But I implore those of you who will be caught up in this madness to take a moment at least once during this tournament to reflect on yourself, no one else, just you. As you stand there with your Makarapa balanced on your head, donning a Bafana jersey, every inch of your your face painted, your vuvuela at your side and a flag propped into something or other - please ask yourself: Do I look like a twit? Is this really me? Then consider taking a shower a washing away all the insanity.
I've been out of the country for 10 days, which in World Cup time and dog years is like a decade, so excuse me if I seem a little shell-shocked by this new nation of ours or as I like to call it 'The United Nations of FIFA'.
From Cape Town International Airport, an obvious rallying point for bug-eyed foreigners (most of whom have fallen prey to myths of marauding machete-wielding heathens awaiting them in the shadows of the tournaments, poised and ready to strike all in the name of dollars, pounds and euros, all the way along the N2 into the Mother City's belly you are never allowed to forget about this precariously daunting sporting event.
Let me go back to the point-of-origin for me as I was welcomed back into this beautiful nightmare, which is now just days away. I was pleasantly shocked by the smile on an immigration officials face at passport control at the airport. 'Welcome back' the official mumbled through a forced grin (Why is he smiling? Does he know something I don't?!). This was after I was made to stare at a camera which checked my body for disease and pestilence. But at least the woman manning the camera managed a slight smile, to at least assure us we won't die then and there if a piggish type flu is detected.
Then came the barrage of marketing. The advertising around the World Cup oscillates between the garish and mundane ('Welcome to the beauty of Africa' puked one ad) to the smarter choice in marketing (I'm still trying to decide if a giant, downright terrifying vuvuzela, precariously set up on Cape Town's infamous 'unfinished highway' counts as innovative advertising)the gauntlet of capitalism asserting its supreme dominance over the tournament is overwhelming, over-the-top and pricey, but in some ways, perhaps nevessary.
The city's CBD is foreign to me. There are traffic lights where there shouldn't have been. Road markings and signs which I still can't decipher. New bridges have mushroomed, along with billboards, vendors stands and Christmas lights festooned across the city. Then there is this new found patriotism, which I believe will be short lived if your are actually contemplating supporting Bafana Bafana. Flags flutter from vehicles like flies around soon-to be carcasses. And those rear view mirror covers, what the fuck, man?! Apparently they go for a hundred rand a pop! Vuvuzelas are our nations call to arms these days and challenge the good old-fashioned human cheers and singing which once marked soccer games in this country. Vvvvvrrrrrrrrroooopppppp, they belch. And this is not just at a soccer game, I'm talking about 7am on any given morning these days, they bark at you around every corner. It's not uncommon to have some of my work colleagues blow one of those Satanic instruments off in the office. I can't understand why, but they do. I call it muscial Tourettes syndrome. As I snatched one away from a colleague the other day I threatened him with an auditory enema if he ever blew it in my presence again. He slumped off, sulking and mumbling something about getting into the spirit.
I went out for dinner the other night and the range of accents flitting through our streets is discernible. 'Hulloh, good sir. Vould you know hauw to get to ze stadium?' asked a German tourist, resplendent in his white socks and sandals. They are the ones clutching maps and aimlessly wandering the streets, usually in the opposite direction to where they actually want to go. I've come across a few Brazilians as well. They are easy to spot. Just look out for the women who wear very little in the way of clothes. Their hair styles are follicular explosions and they smoke as if it the Nicotine World Cup. I overheard an English couple examining a menu the other night. 'Look love, they have Coca-Cola', the prawn-coloured Brit exclaimed. I was rather confused by this. Did he think there would be no soft drinks in South Africa? Do we only have sorghum beer and witblits to offer? We can only wish.
Fellow South Africans (or at least those as weary, suspicious, fearful and nervous of this World Cup as I am), our nation is no longer just ours. We will be probably be treated as second rate citizens (unless you can pay your way through the next month with dollars, pounds and euros) for the next month. get used to it. Our homes will be colonised, our pubs, bars, restaurants will be foreign battle grounds where we must assert our misguided superiority in consuming booze, singing ridiculous songs and eating ourselves into comas. There can be no giving in to these foreigners. Speak to them in our 10 foreign languages when and if they ask for directions. Fill their heads with urban myths of wild creatures freely roaming our suburban streets. tell them the World Cup has been moved to Australia at the last minute. Fuck with their minds a bit. Why the hell not?
But I implore those of you who will be caught up in this madness to take a moment at least once during this tournament to reflect on yourself, no one else, just you. As you stand there with your Makarapa balanced on your head, donning a Bafana jersey, every inch of your your face painted, your vuvuela at your side and a flag propped into something or other - please ask yourself: Do I look like a twit? Is this really me? Then consider taking a shower a washing away all the insanity.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)