If Soccer City is the beating heart of South Africa’s World Cup, deep in the heart of Soweto, then Green Point is its elegant neighbour, rising out of the wealthy suburbs, tucked neatly under Lion’s head, its translucent white exterior glimmering like satin in the Cape Town night. Until recently, Cape Town radiated a European nonchalance about the forth-coming festivities. The neon mile of Long Street had been pumped up for a couple of parades, and there was the draw deep within the walls of the Convention Centre, but aside from that, the intrusion of a vuvuzela or the broad sweep of a marauding Bafana troupe had yet to jolt this wealthy little corner from it’s morning lattes and spinach croissants. Tonight though it is different, and the World Cup is alive and well in Cape Town.
Bafana have just drawn the opening game with Mexico and the nation is buzzing with a new sense of hope and belief. We left Masiphumelele shortly after the Bafana goal in two taxis’s
bound for Sea Point. With no reception and only static, we rely on passing cars and petrol pump attendants to relay the scores. 1-0 becomes 1-1. The final whistle from Soccer City comes as we round Cape Town’s Waterfront and catch our first view of Green Point, enormous and shimmering with a deep sunset behind, everyone goes wild, not just the kids. We are now living in this World Cup.
We reach the roadblocks and encounter a mass of people of all shapes and colours marching north to the beat of drums and vuvuzelas. The police spot our passes and wave us through, we follow the column north and the kids hang out of the windows, greeting the visiting fans that respond with delight and reach for their hands as we pass.
‘Urrrruguuuay! French! French! French!’ scream the kids. They know France, they have never heard of Uruguay.
In the night the stadium looks vast and with the fan parks lit up around the perimeter the stage seems colossal, Olympian, something very important is going on here. The atmosphere is charged and the kids walk in two lines, holding our hands, with wide eyes. We first pass through the outer gate, into the main compound, passed the stands with street soccer demonstrations and competitions.
There are fans from everywhere, not just France and Uruguay, but from every corner of the globe. It’s overwhelming and we walk on trying to take it all in. We reach the gates where we will hand over the tickets. We are met by representatives from Sony who will help us negotiate the massive crowds. The Stadium is now above us, hanging in the night air and radiating to the pulse of thousands and thousands of vuvuzelas, drummers and cheering fans. We catch the odd glimpse of the interior as we walk, huge Uruguayan flags draped over the gangways carrying messages in Spanish as you sometimes see on the TV coverage of the Copa America; another world come to our doorstep.
We reach our zone and start to climb the gangway. I walk at the head of the line, with Lethu and Qamani, their tiny hands in my own. The noise grows and grows and slowly the pitch opens up from the glare of bright white. The stands are washed in colour; the air is a thick and heavy din. It is the greatest stage, and we stand, 46 children and adults from the tiny township of Masiphumelele, two grown men from the UK and one grown lady from South Africa, completely spell bound. Speechless and utterly in awe of the scale of Africa’s first World Cup.
The anthems pass by. The kids prefer the Marseillaise and as it winds its way towards the crescendo they mimic the French supporters and begin to cheer. The French in turn try to coax their vuvuzelas into life but cough and splutter. The kids reply with volley of belching that comes effortlessly, through years of practice. It’s one of many little interactions that play out through the evening.
The match begins, the vuvuzelas drone on, building and falling with the passing passages of play. If the stadium seems modern and whitewashed, the vuvuzelas remind us we’re in Africa. Though their novelty is already wearing thin, their constant and incessant din reaches the furthest corner of the cavernous stadium, adding a richness and gravitas to the already charged atmosphere.
Mexican waves sweep the stadium. The kids spot their heroes; Anelka, Evra, Ribery, Malouda, all the names from the T.V. Henry arrives to a huge ovation and though it transpires that the match is a dud, it doesn’t matter; as non-partisan observers this is a spectacle, a showpiece for an event that’s been building for four years, one we thought we’d never see, but now a dream we are living out. It’s a surreal evening, running on heightened senses and full of emotion. We stay long after the final whistle, until the stadium is empty. Several on the kids fall fast
asleep, exhausted, and we pick them up as we make our way back to the buses, back over the mountain and back to Masi.
It’s late, past midnight, and the streetlights have failed. It’s dark. We run the kids home through their various streets, witnessing one drunken fistfight as we go. At the new informal settlement, where there are no roads and only trodden mud paths through the broken bush, Thomas accompanies the kids to their doors where they are swept up by their parents who have waited up. Masi is considered a relatively peaceful township, but these new settlements are poorly lit and seldom patrolled, there are troubles here. Days like these are important.
Bafana have just drawn the opening game with Mexico and the nation is buzzing with a new sense of hope and belief. We left Masiphumelele shortly after the Bafana goal in two taxis’s
bound for Sea Point. With no reception and only static, we rely on passing cars and petrol pump attendants to relay the scores. 1-0 becomes 1-1. The final whistle from Soccer City comes as we round Cape Town’s Waterfront and catch our first view of Green Point, enormous and shimmering with a deep sunset behind, everyone goes wild, not just the kids. We are now living in this World Cup.
We reach the roadblocks and encounter a mass of people of all shapes and colours marching north to the beat of drums and vuvuzelas. The police spot our passes and wave us through, we follow the column north and the kids hang out of the windows, greeting the visiting fans that respond with delight and reach for their hands as we pass.
‘Urrrruguuuay! French! French! French!’ scream the kids. They know France, they have never heard of Uruguay.
In the night the stadium looks vast and with the fan parks lit up around the perimeter the stage seems colossal, Olympian, something very important is going on here. The atmosphere is charged and the kids walk in two lines, holding our hands, with wide eyes. We first pass through the outer gate, into the main compound, passed the stands with street soccer demonstrations and competitions.
There are fans from everywhere, not just France and Uruguay, but from every corner of the globe. It’s overwhelming and we walk on trying to take it all in. We reach the gates where we will hand over the tickets. We are met by representatives from Sony who will help us negotiate the massive crowds. The Stadium is now above us, hanging in the night air and radiating to the pulse of thousands and thousands of vuvuzelas, drummers and cheering fans. We catch the odd glimpse of the interior as we walk, huge Uruguayan flags draped over the gangways carrying messages in Spanish as you sometimes see on the TV coverage of the Copa America; another world come to our doorstep.
We reach our zone and start to climb the gangway. I walk at the head of the line, with Lethu and Qamani, their tiny hands in my own. The noise grows and grows and slowly the pitch opens up from the glare of bright white. The stands are washed in colour; the air is a thick and heavy din. It is the greatest stage, and we stand, 46 children and adults from the tiny township of Masiphumelele, two grown men from the UK and one grown lady from South Africa, completely spell bound. Speechless and utterly in awe of the scale of Africa’s first World Cup.
The anthems pass by. The kids prefer the Marseillaise and as it winds its way towards the crescendo they mimic the French supporters and begin to cheer. The French in turn try to coax their vuvuzelas into life but cough and splutter. The kids reply with volley of belching that comes effortlessly, through years of practice. It’s one of many little interactions that play out through the evening.
The match begins, the vuvuzelas drone on, building and falling with the passing passages of play. If the stadium seems modern and whitewashed, the vuvuzelas remind us we’re in Africa. Though their novelty is already wearing thin, their constant and incessant din reaches the furthest corner of the cavernous stadium, adding a richness and gravitas to the already charged atmosphere.
Mexican waves sweep the stadium. The kids spot their heroes; Anelka, Evra, Ribery, Malouda, all the names from the T.V. Henry arrives to a huge ovation and though it transpires that the match is a dud, it doesn’t matter; as non-partisan observers this is a spectacle, a showpiece for an event that’s been building for four years, one we thought we’d never see, but now a dream we are living out. It’s a surreal evening, running on heightened senses and full of emotion. We stay long after the final whistle, until the stadium is empty. Several on the kids fall fast
asleep, exhausted, and we pick them up as we make our way back to the buses, back over the mountain and back to Masi.
It’s late, past midnight, and the streetlights have failed. It’s dark. We run the kids home through their various streets, witnessing one drunken fistfight as we go. At the new informal settlement, where there are no roads and only trodden mud paths through the broken bush, Thomas accompanies the kids to their doors where they are swept up by their parents who have waited up. Masi is considered a relatively peaceful township, but these new settlements are poorly lit and seldom patrolled, there are troubles here. Days like these are important.
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