A Mild Winter's Bitter Revenge

FIFA worked with the host country to set up 10 fan parks around the country for soccer fans seeking stadium-style atmosphere for each and every game. Admission is free, food and drink vendors are scattered across a vast lawn, and the games are broadcast on a gigantic screen. Emcees keep the crowds engaged between halves and between games, sparing the viewers from an otherwise aimless broadcasting team with way (read: waaaayyyy) too much downtime between matches.

Today we chose to watch the first game from the famed "group of death" between Ivory Coast and Portugal. We expected large crowds. After enjoying a stroll through the Sandton City Mall, we trekked through Jo'burg's financial district to set up at the fan park. While the skies remained clear and blue, the temperature dipped into the low 50s. With the near-freezing wind chill, which often sliced through our jeans, the day started to feel like a battle of wills. Until now, winter in South Africa had been closer to October in Sacramento.


The large crowds we hoped to find must have read the weather report.
The soccer supporter scarf is normally a trendy addition to one's outfit. Today it was a lifesaver.

We sampled some of the food options today, which gives me a chance to discuss some of the fare we're finding in Jo'burg. For the most part, the options are similar to what we're used in the states, with some subtle tweaks. Thin, naturally rising breads and doughs are used for sandwiches and pizzas. We find panini-style concoctions, but they're not called paninis. Unfamiliar hard cheeses are put in salads and certain plates. Much of the vegetable options look familiar but go by different names (they offer a variety of strange peppers, it seems). The ketchup and pasta sauces are sweeter, and Ben reports the mustard is nearly neon. He also does not endorse the South African Lay's potato chips. Brewed coffee seems a specialty item; much of what I've had comes from a powder.

Yesterday, Stephanie and Ben ordered fantastic smoothies at a quaint restaurant in the zoo that contained familiar fruits but in different combination. Stephanie had apple mint passion fruit, for example, and Ben had something called Gummiberry. I went out on the farthest limb today, ordering mutton curry from a woman at the fan park. The food seems modern, even European (chips instead of fries, cafe con leche instead of regular joe). Overall, however, I must admit we're not eating terribly risky, but loving nearly every minute of what we find.

We have now returned to our hotel to watch Brazil take on North Korea in a much warmer environment. We were once again transported by Arrive Alive, this time by Collen. On the way out of the mall parking lot in the dark, Ben told Collen that his "lights" were off. Collen didn't seem to register this. When we approached a stoplight, another driver pulled up next to Collen, honked, and made a flashing-light gesture with her hands. Ben again told Collen that his lights were out when he didn't seem to understand what was being communicated. Collen said, "What about them?" and proceeded to punch the hazard lights, then turn off the interior lights somehow. Ben finally said "headlight" and Collen got it, gesturing and smiling enthusiastically at the other driver for helping him out. We arrived home alive.

By the way, if you'll remember from yesterday's post, Ben was dispossessed a bed. Well, either the staff is reading the blog, or they have a sense of humor. When we returned home tonight, this is what we found:

Monkey Business

Sleep patterns have been affected once by a 15-hour flight and twice by soccer celebrations. After sleeping until 12:30 following the U.S. v. England game, Ben and I both found ourselves awake at 3:00 a.m. Monday. It turns out the wee hours of the South African morning are the best time to upload photos to a blog and check in on the Sunday action in the NBA Finals in the states. Who knew?

We each managed to get some more shut eye eventually. By late morning we had nailed down an itinerary for the better part of the trip. We cross-referenced worthwhile sights from our travel books with our Bible, a FourFourTwo World Cup guide filled with team profiles and game schedules. Interrupted as it was, it turned out to be a very productive morning.

Our hostess Tumi provided a cab for an afternoon trip to the expansive Johannesburg Zoo. We rode in a small Toyota driven by a man named Stephen. Although taxi services are required to run by meter, Stephen's service did not use one. However, his business card read, "Arrive Alive Services," a title that needs no criticism or review from we three. A trip to the zoo is a must if you have time while visiting the city, although we certainly lucked out with the crowds since most guests in South Africa spent the afternoon watching the Denmark v. Holland game. Ben and I took ample pictures and video of the zoo attractions, but to spare you a tour of the animals, I've posted some funning in its place.

Welcome to the Johannesburg Zook.

Ben getting his against the ubiquitous FIFA World Cup mascot.

This one showed off for company.

Stephanie being greeted by a zoo local.

Going down gave me quite a fright.

And then there's this guy, who decided he get a little to friendly with his welcoming.


Thanks to a pay-phone call to Stephen, we "arrived alive" back home to watch Japan shock Cameroon, then tried to stay awake through a slow Italy v. Paraguay match. To our knowledge, the staff of our motel has no way of knowing our sleeping habits. That didn't stop them from stealing half of Ben's bed at one point, though.


Tomorrow we'll be at the FIFA Fan Park in Sandton to watch the colossal Ivory Coast v. Portugal match.

You Win Some, You Lose Some

Our paths crisscrossed Chris's around mid-day. Like us, he wandered through Melrose Arch in his USA gear, ostensibly killing time before a trip to Rustenburg for our opener against England. When we returned to our apartment for lunch, Chris arrived in a Range Rover, trying to figure out how his initial transportation had failed him (foreshadowing, anyone?). We learned that Chris was from the states, went to East Carolina, was currently stationed with the USAF in England, and was traveling in South Africa alone. Since his lodgings had been secured at another location, he was only at our motel to catch the bus to the game. We kindly told him where the nearest liquor store was located and that we hoped to chat more on the bus to Rustenburg.

We ate lunch and eagerly prepared our faces and bodies with as much red, white, and blue as would fit in a suitcase. We overheard a familiar voice in the hallway checking in for the bus, and invited Chris in to have a drink and watch the end of the South Korea v. Greece match. He gave us USA bracelets, offered us Peronis, and kept the conversation moving. We painted our faces with stars stripes (I threw a '76 on my left cheek), and assembled our provisions for the celebratory ride north.

Our bus held a mixture of old and young, but most were know-it-alls of some annoying capacity. A handful of middle-aged men in the back of the bus drank beers and stood in the aisles, some Southerners debated the finer points of the SEC to our left, and our new foursome remained as quiet as we could, conserving our energies for an explosive evening.


We mostly watched the sun set.

We hit traffic at two toll stops, then again as we neared the stadium. Each time, the shoulder became a second lane, and the members of our bus took to flag waving, back-and-forthing with other vehicles, and reveling in hopes that the end of the near three-hour trip was at hand. As we four shed our silences, this reveling involved drinking South African Vitamin Water (Johnny Walker Red in a Vitamin Water bottle), while Chris drank Crown Royal from the bottle. We became the happiest section of the bus as Chris, being the nice guy that he is, passed his bottle to the SEC boys once or twice.

The coach driver, an amazingly astute man, parked the bus on a dirt road leading to the stadium. It is amazing: The Rustenburg facility is a state of the art sports complex in the middle of nowhere. It's flanked by rural Africans living in nothing more than cinder-block houses or shanties. Passengers (like us) unaware of our surroundings took pictures of the coach number in case we got lost on the return. We marched off toward the stadium, and as we reached the gate, Chris told us he needed to go back to the bus to fetch his ticket. He was not sitting near us, so while we felt bad for his blunder, we pressed on.

The stadium was beautiful; the pitch, pristine. We sat (stood) in the second tier just south of midfield. Three amicable Brits sat to the right of Ben, and four South Africans born in Britain were behind us. Three men in Uncle Sam duds, one of whom spent years on Tahoe's north shore, sat in front of us. Our bloc largely represented America, and though the vantage point of the broadcast likely showed England flags lining the lip of the second deck, the American fans--the fan base who bought the most tickets for this cup--outnumbered the England supporters.



At American sporting events and concerts, most people despise two things: buying alcohol and using the restroom, as both involve unruly people in outrageous lines. The restrooms, even the ladies' facilities, involved no lines whatsoever. Lines for beer (Budweiser in plastic bottles) vendors moved rapidly, as American and English customers saw no problem with paying 30 Rand (roughly 4 bucks--remember restaurants charge between R15-R20) a beer, a bargain considering what they're charged back home. The major flaw--be it a result of a night game, fans who drank on the ride in, or one aspect of life at a stadium in rural Africa--was the food situation. A shoving match for beef dogs, lamb dogs, soft drinks and chocolate bars took 45-60 minutes to procure.


The game started with four beers, and I hoped to seize an opportunity to get us a meal just before the announcement of stoppage time. (By the way, there was no operational scoreboard, so we had no idea how much time remained in each half other than loosely guessing using Ben's watch). You hopefully saw the first half (or highlights of it), so I will not describe the details of our fourth minute wake-up call, Green's condemning boof of Dempsey's strike, or the cleats Howard took to the ribs that led to a halftime Cortisone shot.

Just before the half I fought my way through the massive mob (there was no "line") for food, finally reaching the counter. A woman, who appeared to be in charge of corralling her young South African workforce, informed me the following three facts upon my uncomfortable arrival: 1.) The beef dogs would be ready in ten minutes; 2.) The 200 Rand bill in my hand would not be accepted because of counterfeit warnings; and 3.) The Visa payment device had lost its signal. A South African behind me asked where I got my Rand. When I told him the U.S., he cursed his own country for their unwillingness to accept good money. Miraculously, the woman in front me (Nidia) bought our dinners. In turn, I gave her the only non-200 I had, a 50 and a 20, which she used to quickly buy two beers. I returned to my seat (by walking on the chairs since no one was sitting in them) to find that Stephanie had once tried to find me to tell me to give up. I had missed some of the second half, but we had something to sustain our appetites.

Fast forward to the end of the match: The English players couldn't leave the pitch fast enough. The Men's National Team walked to the corner of the field to wave and thank the fans. The atmosphere was euphoric.




The US fans clearly felt they'd made an important statement by responding to the early goal and playing tough football. The English fans felt dejected. As Ben and I celebrated on the concourse and waited for Stephanie to use the facilities, England fans angrily scowled at our joy. One made a gesture of confrontation, and Ben and I fought back in question: "Why so angry?" It felt like a genuine query considering the game ended in a draw.


I can't see how we might have provoked it...

We took two wrong routes to the bus, falsely retracing our steps based on direction of the stadium and the quality of the road beneath our feet. After watching two military helicopters land, we found the correct road and the correct bus. Our coach director counted heads and cleared the driver for departure. Chris was nowhere to be found.

We arrived at the apartment at 2:30 am. It was a long ride full of people who love hearing their own voices. Some were drunk, but all were annoying. Poor things were said about the man who passed the Crown Royal around to his fellow fans. Judgments were made. We worried.

Riding a wave of energy and needing to nurse our throats with hot water and appease our stomachs with late-night snacks, we checked the reports on the game and re-watched footage on the television. Some time early this morning, Ben suggested finding Chris on Facebook (he mentioned using his burner phone to access his account on the bus). This morning, I received a response. Chris made it back to Jo'burg. We'll no doubt hear his version of the US v. England game. After all, he'll be back in our room with his Peronis before the US meets Slovenia on the 18th.

The Countdown Ends

It's very convenient that we have wireless internet access. All three of us return to the room and pass around the laptop, checking email and Facebook, downloading pictures and uploading messages. It's funny though, the wifi is almost like speedy dial-up. We open a page, then sit and wait for everything to upload, often moving around the room to find the best spot for the network. I mention this because tonight's intermittent service has resulted in no uploaded photos for this version of the blog (pictures have since been added). As you read, bear in mind that all the days and times I reference are South African, which is nine hours ahead.

South Africans, at least the ones watching football, seem very friendly. We walked over to the market today and were greeted by nearly all passersby. Right outside the gate of our complex, a young woman stopped us, saw our Team USA scarves, and told us, "You MUST beat the English! You must!" We replied with the same request for their game versus Mexico, the team they played in the opener today (which concluded in a 1-1 draw). We and the South Africans may be citizens from different worlds, but we still hold a common grudge against our former British colonizers. Outside the Woolworth market, we went to the nicest liquor store any of us have ever seen. We have provisions "for days."

We staked out another lunch spot at a Melrose Arch restaurant called Primi. It was very trendy, almost like a Joe's Crab Shack or Dick's. Over time the place filled with people in spirited Bafana Bafana (the nickname for the national team) yellow and green, blowing their horns at each other and the television. The customers cheered at footage of their national team exiting the bus. They blew vuvuzelas as the players walked onto the field. Everyone stood and sang the national anthem. It was an amazing experience unlike anything you'd see for any sport other than soccer in any other country.


After lunch, we ordered a string of beers to keep the table for the first half of the match. In America this would be quite costly; but in South Africa, the beers, sodas, and spirits all cost roughly the same price (15-20 Rand, roughly $1.75-$2.00 American). Needless to say it was a task we each enjoyed.

We spent the second half outside in a courtyard staring at a big-screen television. It was packed--what I imagine parts of Mardi Gras must feel like. Having not yet attended a fan park, my only comparison to the watching the game here is celebrating New Years in South Lake Tahoe, except everyone here shares a common mission and purpose, and everyone is drunk on national pride (as well as alcohol). At the game's conclusion, everyone continued celebrating, charging through the stores and streets of Melrose Arch. A band started playing below the big screen to keep the crowd energized for the next game, which only started about 20 minutes ago. We tried to stick it out, but quickly realized it'd be warmer, safer, and calmer back in our room.


We'll be on a bus to Rustenberg tomorrow afternoon, located about an hour or two north of Jo'burg. We're going to spend the morning relaxing and preparing. Our patriotism will be unprecedented. We'll all be wearing team USA jerseys, sweatshirts/windbreakers, scarves, and stars and stripes bandannas. We have some face paint and full-sized flags as well. We're quite confident that no one will call us rednecks.

Day 1 (Day 3)

We arrived in Jo'burg after a jarring travel schedule that left us shuffling weakly through the streets near Melrose Arch, looking for dinner in the middle of the afternoon. It's Thursday night now, but we boarded our first flight in Sacramento at 5:15 pm on Tuesday. The plane, a twin-prop matchbox flying for only 40 minutes, easily stands as the most frightening aspect of our travels thus far.

From SFO, we hopped a red eye to JFK, arriving around 7:45 am (east coast time), enduring another layover and breakfast before boarding the nearly 15-hour flight to Johannesburg. The plane was full of soccer fans, but many of them boasted allegiances to other countries.

Mexican fans were most prominent, already in full regalia for tomorrow's match against their South African hosts. We heard noisemakers and chants in the airport, dodged poncho-clad hooligans in the streets, and saw one man in full Mexican peasantry, prompting Ben to wonder how the guy will ratchet up his spirit tomorrow.


The citizens of South Africa seem noticeably energized for the event (though our driver joked that the heavy traffic period is daily from 7 am to 7 pm due to road construction. It had a completion date that expired three months back, he noted, then jokingly speculating it wouldn't end until 2017). Others we see proudly wear their men's national team jerseys: flight attendants, restaurant servers, room service workers, and many casual fans. The image of the flag is plastered through freeway interchanges in colored stone, and flags themselves fly from autos whose drivers shape them to fit their rear-view mirrors, hoods, and wheels. The upscale shops at the mall in Melrose Arch all contained soccer clothing regardless of normal merchandise.

What's most striking about the fervent spirit remains who shows it (those of the middle and upper class) and who doesn't (those of an impoverished lower class who instead focus on the opportunity to make money in any number of ways). It goes beyond a simplistic division between social classes, however, as we learned when a well-dressed, well-mannered man helped to load our bags into the tour van at the airport. We believed him to be part of our tour caravan so we held our tip, completely willing to offer it once we arrived at our destination. When we did not pay him for his service, he simply walked off through the garage.

At Melrose Arch we found a nice restaurant called Europa, and all decided we could've easily been dining in San Francisco. The food, people, and atmosphere felt posh, urban, and Western. We three can proudly claim that our first meals in South Africa consisted of two salads and a club sandwich with French fries. At the end of such traveling, however, the comfort Europa and its surroundings provided helped ease our transition into life nearby (and made the end of a tiring day very leisurely). After, we strolled through shops until we found a three-story Woolworth's department store. The first level contained the closest (and likely coolest) miniature grocery store to our apartment, and allowed us to stock up on some basic snacks.

We're lodged at an extended stay-style apartment complex north of Jo'burg. There's a kitchenette, small living room, and two bedrooms. We can hear every phone ring, every conversation in the hall or at the front desk, and might just have the grossest fridge in the city, judging from the responses of the maids. Far be it from me to make any unfair judgments before my first night's sleep. I will therefore proclaim that we are happy to finally be in a room, and be awake at what appears to be an appropriate evening hour for sleep.

Like all the houses on this hill, we're surrounded by high walls and electric wire.

Because of these walls, it's difficult to say how beautiful the houses around us might actually be. They're more like fortified villas. Guards sit at gates around properties that line streets manned by stationed guards at fences. It makes for a safe walk, but we couldn't help but question the lengths at which these people have gone to protect their existence.

The best part of the trip so far? Tournament play begins in less than 24 hours! I have never been so eager to paint my face, wave a flag, and cry out in praise of the Yanks.

Until Further Notice: Blog Controlled by Uncle Sam's Army

For the next three weeks, Erasure Dust will be the base of operations for our trip to the FIFA World Cup in South Africa. Published and updated from Johannesburg, the blog will chronicle the sights, sounds, and scenery of South Africa as it hosts the world's premier football tournament. Go USA!

An Open Admission

Registering for graduate courses has been a tricky intersection to navigate. A typical registration period consists a (thankfully shrinking) list of unit requirements, a cadre of professors with varying reputations, a smattering of obscure course titles and foci, and one or two choices that make sense in life beyond outside the university. It's a crap shoot, really, and what I end up studying often reflects the convenience of time slot more than my own interest. Until this last year, that is, when the cosmos harmoniously aligned and gave me Irish-American literature.

This matters because, at one point during my formative years, I decided--although I likely reported being told at the time--that I descended from Irish lineage. I naively imagined a bloodline imbued by immigrants and emigres. I saw my grandmother's red hair and knew of her Chicago roots and somehow concluded that the old sod was in there somewhere, too.

Now that I think about, I can recall one instance that may have planted the seed of my beliefs. I remember sitting outside the principal's office, staring through tears in a bustling elementary school office, awaiting my punishment. The sole black kid at the school and I had been trading barbs over cadence calls on the football field. His eyes, dry and steeled by the skepticism that others use to regard his differences, stared forward stoically.

The principal did not like the use of the n-word. "You have fair complexion," he said. "Someone might see those freckles and think you're Irish. How would you like it if they called you a Mick, considered your family a bunch of drunks?"

I wouldn't like it, I said. I wanted my punishment. I did not want to cry in front of Jamar anymore.

My mind never drifted from that direction. When my grandmother died, I sought symbols of Celtic remembrance, eventually deciding on a spiral triscele as a permanent reminder of her love and guidance. I matched the triscele two years later. Those around me joined the bandwagon of my myth: a belt buckle from dad; a book mark and candle-holder from an old college girlfriend; a small scroll banner purchased by a friend on his travels; a bracelet. Seeing the symbol gave people a sense of obligation. They bought me trinkets and knickknacks, and the triscele and I became one and the same. I buried any doubts I had about my origins in boxes as I made room for all the relics people kept giving me.

Irish-American literature offered some validation, an academically suitable method of comparison. I could hold my history up to the literary mirror and critique the similarities and differences of the reflection. I quickly realized my naivete, however, as some of my colleagues told of their reasons for taking the course. Some were on pilgrimages, seeking to understand the origins of their mysterious ancestry. Others had seen the green hills, the shantytowns or the Northeast, and needed an educational context for their mind's eye. A few enrolled to avoid good old Catholic guilt. It goes without saying that no one enrolled because it fit into their schedule.

I soon found some fundamental elements missing from my decidedly Irish background. The most glaring seems to be an absence of religion. Catholicism remains the focal point for all things Irish, the marker to which most characteristics--both legitimate and overblown--inevitably link. My grandmother didn't create a clan, didn't put anyone through Catholic school, and didn't implant any fatalist senses in her children or their offspring. She bore no heavy grief, no obligation to educate me on the falsities of wearing green on St. Paddy's Day. The more I considered the content, the more I smelled a rat.

Though I'd known (or learned to know) better, I had clung to an invented identity. As I see it now, it stems in part from the luxuries afforded to a white kid from a small town: I never had to acknowledge that I was a white kid. I had been granted the label of "normal." Only after I grew bored with the complacency and invisibility of normalcy did I undergo a crisis of identity. Only then did I seek refuge in the stereotypical signifiers conveniently available for me to cobble together a heritage.

Like a first draft of a bad term paper, I found myself faced with the (in this case somewhat embarrassing) task of revising my work. So I retraced my steps. I located the only genealogy book I knew of (ironically the one shown to me by my beloved, ink-inspiring grandmother some twenty years prior). And though it only accounts for one-fourth of my familial underpinnings, its contents helped answer my version of the Irish question.

Sadly, my mother's mother did not descend from Irish emigrants. My people did not flee famine or tyranny, did not receive new names at Ellis Island, and did not fortify the strands of the burgeoning urban-American fabric. Members of my family tilled eastern soils in the 17th century, then taught school in the Midwest until, well, now. Turns out I'm more American than America itself. We come from very humble origins that boast pre-Revolution roots. Family lore has it that some of us even helped dumped tea into Boston Harbor.

And so I'm forced to again acknowledge that the truth remains elusive, complicated, and layered. The privileges of not having to deal with racial and ethnic identity (or my social standing, gender, age, ability, or sexual preference) left me with a desire to "fit in" to the ethnic landscape around me. "America is a land of immigrants," the post-racial zealotous overture would have me believe, but I've found it neither rings true nor makes tracing the history of those immigrants any easier.

I'm reminded that the truth is only what one believes it to be. And in just ten years' time, I've managed to invent a history, sell it to those around me, print it on the landscape of my body, and now admit I was wrong. But these actions, these choices, that mindset, they are still who I am. And that makes them true.

(At this point, part of me wants to revisit the issue of my own whiteness and how it gives me the liberty to vacillate between otherwise rigid social, cultural, and ethnic confines without enduring alienation or exile or shame. But if I did, you might think I was making up the truth again.)