The fun continues. And to think I almost missed this. A year ago, I had made up my mind that the FIFA world cup would be such a nuisance. That Johannesburg would be so full of people and terribly chaotic that it was better to go away. While I do love football, I still haven’t reconciled myself to going into a stadium to watch it since my footballer brother passed away in 1995. So I reasoned, why bother sticking around? Going as far away as possible from Johannesburg and South Africa felt like a good idea. My friend Nancy, bless her beautiful heart – convinced me otherwise. She painted such a glorious picture of how much fun it would be that I wouldn’t want to miss it. Truth be told, I half listened to her, and what stopped me from travelling is that I was broke, couldn’t get myself organized for a whole year, and eventually I just found myself here. Am I glad I stayed. Oh it has been just amazing.
The locals can smile….
Yes they can! I have discovered this in the last two weeks. Surly doormen at various establishments, who I always thought had no teeth, do have their mouths full of pearly whites. They can even say, “hello! Good morning! Welcome!” For the five years I have been in this country, I mostly encountered these grumpy (mostly men), who treated me like a nuisance. Now I get greeted, doors opened. I am invited to come inside.
The women (mostly), at till points at all my closest shops have discovered that I am a paying customer. I get greeted with smiles, and a nice “thank you!” when the transaction is done. I enter these shops at least once or twice a week. I should be on first name terms with Pinky, Palesa and Futhi at Woolies, Pick’n’pay and Clicks by now. But no, I was always treated like that pesky woman (and her clearly coconut son who doesn’t speak Sotho and Tswana). The most I ever got was to be “mummified”, coupled with a scowl. A little explanation; “mummy! Mama!” is what women of my age + race+ weight +perceived economic bracket, get called by pert little girls and boys in establishments. My (seriously empirical), research shows that this is not a term of respect, but rather a form of condescension and simply telling you that you are nobody in their wise opinion.
Respect at last – but only if you are carrying a foreign credit card
The most remarkable revolution has been amongst white (mostly), owners of establishments. Restaurant owners, boutique owners, hair dressers, masseuse, folks who never deigned to look in my direction or if they did, they would quickly summon Mamosebi the black cleaner from the back to come and ask me who (not what) I wanted. Poor Mamosebi would get a rude response in English from me, and Mrs. Snyman would start shouting at both of us for not being able to speak to each other. In some cases I would be followed around by said Mamosebi, or her front office colleague loudly indicating the prices of every item I touched, “one thousand rand! Oh that is very new stock, too much expensive ne?” I was worn down by this running commentary and left empty handed.
I am now a potential customer, These days I get shown around, escorted to my table. I even get waitrons fighting to serve me in restaurants where I used to be invisible. I am milking it for what it’s worth and making fun of some of these folks just for the heck of it.
Mrs S; Let me show you our new boots
Me: Great
Mrs S: Terrible weather we are having, pity it’s summer back home for you hey?
Me: Mmm, ummm
Mrs S: These look fabulous, great colour. You can always use them in winter back home?
Me: Mmm, ummm
Mrs S: Thembi bring the new scarves as well please
Thembi: Yes, I am sure she will love these
Mrs S: Oh eekslent! You will be snug as a bug
Me: Yes. Definitely
Thembi (to another sister standing by); Abantu be overseas laba baya shopa ne? (these people from overseas shop hey?
Mrs S: Great, so will you be paying by credit card or cash madam?
Me: Credit card thanks, here you go.
Mrs S: Wow, I have never seen one of these, but it should go through no problem
Thembi: That’s an interesting one. Overseas ones look different
Me: Mmm, yah…umm
Mrs S: Thank you so much ma’am have a lovely time in our country. Hope your country wins.
Me: (to Thembi and the other sister) Ngiyabonga. Lisale khahle!
Me: (to Mrs S), I am from Zimbabwe and I live just here in Illovo. Have a lovely day!
Not a moving ATM ….for now
Twice this world cup I have bumped into members of the police force. Those men of the thick blue line, who normally love to harass foreigners and ask for IDs. This as we know, as a way of making a rand, or a hundred. As I started fumbling in my handbag for my passport, which I knew wasn’t in there as I had just left it at some embassy for a visa, I was pleasantly surprised to be greeted with wide smiles by the men in blue, as they simply sauntered past. The next lot I bumped into helpfully gave me directions as I was lost. “Enjoy the World Cup ma’am”, they waved me off with yet more smiles.
Ma’am! Yes that’s me.
I got the same smiles, efficient service, when I arrived at OR Tambo airport from Kenya. Surprise! I was asked how my “holiday” had been and bade, “a fantastic world cup in our wonderful country”. Our. Not his. Not my. Our.
The unifying powers of football
My heart has been warmed, in this dreadful cold, by the scenes of erm…brotherhood at the public viewing places I have been to. Blacks, whites, coloureds, locals, foreigners, have been hugging, physically embracing one another. A lot has been said, about the unifying powers of football, and South Africans have written about what this festival has done for them. For me as a foreigner living in this country, there has never been a time when I felt like I truly am welcome here like this week. But more importantly, this is the first time I have seen with my own eyes and heard South Africa talk about itself as being an African country, and publicly embracing its own Africanness. I have been physically folded into that embrace. I have seen black South Africans waving Nigerian flags. Nigerian!? That bogey country for all things terrible that have befallen this country? People I never expected suddenly know how to pronounce Cote d’ Ivoire, and wear T-shirts with Drogba’s name at the back. One white guy proudly walked around wearing a Ghanain wig, (or was it German? Those two’s colours are confusing). No matter, he wore it on the day Ghana was playing so I am happy to assume he was rooting for Ghana.
Seeing so many African singers at the opening concert and ceremony of the World Cup brought tears to my eyes. It is such a pity that nobody thought it appropriate to play Thabo Mbeki’s I am an African. The MTN advert with the African footballers just makes me want to weep. It is just a commercial, yet such a powerful symbol of a South African company identifying itself with the continent.
And Africa hasn’t disappointed. It has embraced South Africa back. Everyone I know has been rooting for Bafana Bafana. Even those of us for whom yellow was never our colour, made concessions! We went for the flags and hoisted them all over, polished up our knowledge of the Sotho bit of the national anthem, (we know the first bit), but drew the line at the last bit, sorry. The diski dance will definitely replace the wedding shuffle at many a party across the Limpopo.
All of this will change come July 11th. I hear rumblings of xenophobic attacks being planned in the townships. Some of my relatives have already been told to pack up and leave, before the end of the World Cup. I know I must make a copy of my passport and always move around with it. Mrs Snyman and other shop owners will count their windfalls and take long holidays in Mauritius. Lerato the bank teller and Moses the doorman will go back to their surly ways. But for now, I shall enjoy this mirage, of a rainbow continent.
Friday, June 25, 2010
Friday, June 18, 2010
On the Pitch
What a week! What drama! What fun! What colour! And to think I almost missed this.
So here we are girls, (and fun loving boys), week one, and we are on a roll. The show got off to an R-Kelly start, and away we went.
Is there anyone on this giant planet who didn’t see the picture of the Portuguese contingent arriving in snazzy (but ill-fitting?)suits. That fashion seems to've passed me by, tight suits. I have received the picture almost 50 times.You can all stop sending it to me thanks. I told you I don’t like Christiano Ronaldo’s cockiness. I don’t care how much he is paid or how much was paid for him, (people who are paid for always end up in tears, ask umm….anyone who was the subject of a financial transaction, including lobola).
Everyone has played their first games now. We have already seen some second matches. So let us take stock of the moveable feast that has been before our eyes.
I love men in uniform
But it has to be of a particular kind. So far the best uniform I have seen is the Ausssie one. This is not a sympathy vote for their drubbing by Germany, the Australian uniform is MANLY. Dark colours. It says, "power!". Lovely matching dark socks. Even most of their boots were sedately coloured. This is how men’s uniforms should be, you know like the air force, or senior army generals'.
But of course the sexiest uniform still goes to…..Cameroon! Those boys have perfected the art of uniform design. Sleek, body hugging. Showing us those chisselled pecs. Samuel Eto’o and his boys look fabulous in those close to skimpy numbers. The only downer is the colour. Hayi, hayi, hayi, as we’d say in various Nguni languages. What’s with the bright colours? I know this has something to do with national flags and all that, but here is the thing. How is a man supposed to look sexy in a green top, red bottom, and horror of all horrors, yellow boots!! Yellow boots? In our old un-PC days we used to call such dressing, kupfeka semuNyasarand. I won’t translate that, just read the name of the country at the end.
Colour
Which brings up the question; what’s with these yellow, red and orange boots? Who makes them? Why? Is there a fear that the players won’t see each other if their boots are darker (manly) colours? Whose brilliant idea was it? I need an essay written on the subject. I do have a very fashion conscious son so I consider myself an expert on the subject of colours. When he was younger, yes, we bought colourful shoes, jackets, hats. Psychologists told us that these made children happy, cheerful, and made us the parents and complete strangers want to pick them up because they looked adorable. By the time he got to 12, we started toning down the colours. I know I am on shaky sexist ground here, but feminism taken completely into account, men should not wear red or yellow boots after a certain age. No. It is wrong.
Staying with colour, South Africa’s yellow, and Dutch orange, were the other colours I don’t think look so fetching on men with six packs, (never mind on women with two tummies). I don’t know who was scarier between the two. Maybe that is the idea, to dazzle the opposition with….colour? The brightness of these colours was magnified by the seas of supporters each of these teams had. From the shirts, to the wigs, (yes dear friends who are reading this from across the Indian ocean, WIGS). I am all for riotous colour and showing one’s national or continental colours. But flaming yellow and blinding orange wigs, also didn’t work very well, off the pitch. The alternative in SA was to don something with the whole full flag. As you all know, those of us who got our freedom after 1980 went a bit overboard when it came to designing flags. They are so “busy”, and such wikipedias of our countries’ symbols that one needs an entire seminar on them. Zimbabwe, South Africa. All those colours were just meant to be splashed on pieces of canvass, not draped on our bodies.
At the other end of the spectrum are the boring colours. Argentina, Uruguay, England. Plain boring. Nothing to write about there. The funniest is Uruguay’s Forlan, in his sky blues, complemented by the now famous Alice band around his hair. What’s the story there? My friend Alejandra who is Uruguayan tells me Forlan is a famous heartthrob, (see below). That Alice band shall be his undoing on the global stage am afraid. Even funnier are some local fans donning these boring colours on their heads. I saw a Zulu man with a blue and white wig. Eish. Let me keep quiet.
Both Koreas and the Japanese have all decided to stick with equally boring colours. Red looks good on demonstrators and socialist causes. Not on the football pitch.
Wrong competition?
I don’t get the American uniform. What’s with the sash running across the shirts? Is this a beauty pageant Obama’s men? Or did you rock up at the wrong competition?
What happened to the mini?
My big gripe with all the teams (Cameroon is slightly excused), is that they are wearing shorts that we call here Clam Diggers. Long shorts that cover everything. Everything. What’s with that? What happened to the mini? In the run up to this World Cup I was brushing up on my knowledge of all things football by watching grainy movies of games gone past. In almost all of them, until about the early 1990s, the boys wore nice, skimpy shorts! That was more like it. We could see these men’s beautifully sculpted legs. That is the point of us paying good money to watch men kicking a pig’s bladder around for 90 minutes. The scores are just the topping. We don’t want to see men in daytime pyjamas.
The men with the looks
And now to the important bit. Who are the cute ones? I am not going to talk about the old perennials. Let’s look at the, ahem, debutantes, if we can call them that. The ones those of us reared on English FA and UEFA are not used to seeing regularly on our small screens.
In our beauty pageant, week one has been won by Uruguay. How does a nation manage to field an entire team of good looking men? England and Germany please take note.
Itumeleng Khune of South Africa has been red carded so we won’t be seeing him again (soon). The child is cute. But that red uniform doesn’t go with his palor. A deep Portuguese green, or maroon would work beautifully.
Nigeria’s Odemwige is another beauty. He carries those hair plaits much better than other men – who really shouldn’t bother. If Nigeria doesn’t advance to the second round, that will be our major loss. Pity the green uniform, the Aussie navy would go very well with his tone.
Andrej Konac from Slovenia is my other new discovery. Darkish, in that attractive Mediterranean way. Mmm.
There is also a good looking one from DPRK, but I was too busy cheering them on, (I studied the Juche idea and am still getting over it). I will keep looking out for him.
The prettiest debutante so far is Mexico’s Dos Santos. Cuteness as cuteness. He just should remove the Alice band as well and let his hair down.
I am keeping my fingers crossed that none of my beautiful ones get knocked out in the first round. Otherwise the light will just go out of the World cup for me.
Happy viewing girls! And boys who know a good thing when they see it.
So here we are girls, (and fun loving boys), week one, and we are on a roll. The show got off to an R-Kelly start, and away we went.
Is there anyone on this giant planet who didn’t see the picture of the Portuguese contingent arriving in snazzy (but ill-fitting?)suits. That fashion seems to've passed me by, tight suits. I have received the picture almost 50 times.You can all stop sending it to me thanks. I told you I don’t like Christiano Ronaldo’s cockiness. I don’t care how much he is paid or how much was paid for him, (people who are paid for always end up in tears, ask umm….anyone who was the subject of a financial transaction, including lobola).
Everyone has played their first games now. We have already seen some second matches. So let us take stock of the moveable feast that has been before our eyes.
I love men in uniform
But it has to be of a particular kind. So far the best uniform I have seen is the Ausssie one. This is not a sympathy vote for their drubbing by Germany, the Australian uniform is MANLY. Dark colours. It says, "power!". Lovely matching dark socks. Even most of their boots were sedately coloured. This is how men’s uniforms should be, you know like the air force, or senior army generals'.
But of course the sexiest uniform still goes to…..Cameroon! Those boys have perfected the art of uniform design. Sleek, body hugging. Showing us those chisselled pecs. Samuel Eto’o and his boys look fabulous in those close to skimpy numbers. The only downer is the colour. Hayi, hayi, hayi, as we’d say in various Nguni languages. What’s with the bright colours? I know this has something to do with national flags and all that, but here is the thing. How is a man supposed to look sexy in a green top, red bottom, and horror of all horrors, yellow boots!! Yellow boots? In our old un-PC days we used to call such dressing, kupfeka semuNyasarand. I won’t translate that, just read the name of the country at the end.
Colour
Which brings up the question; what’s with these yellow, red and orange boots? Who makes them? Why? Is there a fear that the players won’t see each other if their boots are darker (manly) colours? Whose brilliant idea was it? I need an essay written on the subject. I do have a very fashion conscious son so I consider myself an expert on the subject of colours. When he was younger, yes, we bought colourful shoes, jackets, hats. Psychologists told us that these made children happy, cheerful, and made us the parents and complete strangers want to pick them up because they looked adorable. By the time he got to 12, we started toning down the colours. I know I am on shaky sexist ground here, but feminism taken completely into account, men should not wear red or yellow boots after a certain age. No. It is wrong.
Staying with colour, South Africa’s yellow, and Dutch orange, were the other colours I don’t think look so fetching on men with six packs, (never mind on women with two tummies). I don’t know who was scarier between the two. Maybe that is the idea, to dazzle the opposition with….colour? The brightness of these colours was magnified by the seas of supporters each of these teams had. From the shirts, to the wigs, (yes dear friends who are reading this from across the Indian ocean, WIGS). I am all for riotous colour and showing one’s national or continental colours. But flaming yellow and blinding orange wigs, also didn’t work very well, off the pitch. The alternative in SA was to don something with the whole full flag. As you all know, those of us who got our freedom after 1980 went a bit overboard when it came to designing flags. They are so “busy”, and such wikipedias of our countries’ symbols that one needs an entire seminar on them. Zimbabwe, South Africa. All those colours were just meant to be splashed on pieces of canvass, not draped on our bodies.
At the other end of the spectrum are the boring colours. Argentina, Uruguay, England. Plain boring. Nothing to write about there. The funniest is Uruguay’s Forlan, in his sky blues, complemented by the now famous Alice band around his hair. What’s the story there? My friend Alejandra who is Uruguayan tells me Forlan is a famous heartthrob, (see below). That Alice band shall be his undoing on the global stage am afraid. Even funnier are some local fans donning these boring colours on their heads. I saw a Zulu man with a blue and white wig. Eish. Let me keep quiet.
Both Koreas and the Japanese have all decided to stick with equally boring colours. Red looks good on demonstrators and socialist causes. Not on the football pitch.
Wrong competition?
I don’t get the American uniform. What’s with the sash running across the shirts? Is this a beauty pageant Obama’s men? Or did you rock up at the wrong competition?
What happened to the mini?
My big gripe with all the teams (Cameroon is slightly excused), is that they are wearing shorts that we call here Clam Diggers. Long shorts that cover everything. Everything. What’s with that? What happened to the mini? In the run up to this World Cup I was brushing up on my knowledge of all things football by watching grainy movies of games gone past. In almost all of them, until about the early 1990s, the boys wore nice, skimpy shorts! That was more like it. We could see these men’s beautifully sculpted legs. That is the point of us paying good money to watch men kicking a pig’s bladder around for 90 minutes. The scores are just the topping. We don’t want to see men in daytime pyjamas.
The men with the looks
And now to the important bit. Who are the cute ones? I am not going to talk about the old perennials. Let’s look at the, ahem, debutantes, if we can call them that. The ones those of us reared on English FA and UEFA are not used to seeing regularly on our small screens.
In our beauty pageant, week one has been won by Uruguay. How does a nation manage to field an entire team of good looking men? England and Germany please take note.
Itumeleng Khune of South Africa has been red carded so we won’t be seeing him again (soon). The child is cute. But that red uniform doesn’t go with his palor. A deep Portuguese green, or maroon would work beautifully.
Nigeria’s Odemwige is another beauty. He carries those hair plaits much better than other men – who really shouldn’t bother. If Nigeria doesn’t advance to the second round, that will be our major loss. Pity the green uniform, the Aussie navy would go very well with his tone.
Andrej Konac from Slovenia is my other new discovery. Darkish, in that attractive Mediterranean way. Mmm.
There is also a good looking one from DPRK, but I was too busy cheering them on, (I studied the Juche idea and am still getting over it). I will keep looking out for him.
The prettiest debutante so far is Mexico’s Dos Santos. Cuteness as cuteness. He just should remove the Alice band as well and let his hair down.
I am keeping my fingers crossed that none of my beautiful ones get knocked out in the first round. Otherwise the light will just go out of the World cup for me.
Happy viewing girls! And boys who know a good thing when they see it.
Thursday, June 3, 2010
2010 is here!
Before you think I have lost my marbles, I am not just talking about the year, 2010 AD. I am talking of THE 2010. Let me school you if you are uninitiated. 2010 here in Saath Efrika refers to the Soccer World Cup, which kicks off a week from today.
That is how everyone here talks about the footie-fest. About a year ago, I watched coverage of a strike by workers in an industry I can not recall. Several of the strikers kept threatening that if they didn't get their dues then "2010 will not come! We will stop this 2010! The government must ekt (act), now, or this 2010 is not going to happen!" For a few days after that I wandered about in a daze, seriously fearing the supernatural power of these folks to actually stop a whole year from "coming".
So here we are. The Brazilian World Cup has come to our African shores. Yes I just called it the Brazilian World Cup, because that is what the kids in Recife told me it is called. I met three groups of children and youths on my visit there in April. As soon as they heard I lived in South Africa the kids were ecstastic. Their teachers asked them if they knew what was happening in Afrique de Sud. "Yes, the Brazilian World Cup!", they chimed more than three times. I am with them on that one. Ooops. I am supposed to be non-aligned right?
2010 is finally so close. I can see it coming. I can feel it. I can touch it. I can taste it. The entire country is in a frenzy. Everywhere you look, it's all about the cup. We are drowning in cup fever. I have been calm these last six months. I even pretended it wasn't such a big deal. Yet here I am with my temperature rising as if I am on one of the teams. I can not help myself. I love soccer. Ever since my late brothers got me to watch matches every Sunday on tv, or in stadiums, that many decades ago, I have been hooked. This is one sport I actually follow and even understand. Well, except for that one offside rule that was introduced way after Jabu (the soccer star of my two brothers), hung up his boots and joined the angels.
I keep calling it the "new" offside rule and everyone born after 1975 pulls a face when I say it. As if to suggest I am one slice short of a sandwich. S'tru, there is a new offside rule, which I still don't get.
Back to the cup fever. It was only this week that it suddenly hit me, I am actually not prepared for this world cup. On Sunday I arrived back from a three week safari in Kenya. Driving down the R24 from ORT (I know it is disrespectful but ORT means Oral Rehydratation Therapy where I come from)...I mean the airport, not the sugar and salt solution...I was finally gripped by this fever in my bones. Dozens of flags are flying beautifully all the way down the road. I started counting how many I could recognize. Sad to say I only managed the African ones and the Union Jack. Bad bad Anglophile Miss EJ.
The flags look so beautiful. The last time I saw any such flag line up was at CHOGM in Harare, 1997. Before that, at the Non-Aligned Summit. The flags were often accompanied by photos of one male dictator or other. Thank Godness nobody saw it fit to hang those for the footie. It's all about the nations and their flags.
Speaking of flags, I must go out and buy one. Or 13? I don't really know whose flag I should be flying. With all due respect to my current hosts, mmm, erm....ja, well....The less said of that the better. It has nothing to do with the fact that my own country could only manage to play "bhora remapepa" versus Brazil in a friendly match this week. Bhora remapepa means literally playing with a ball made of waste paper. The kind we used to play in the townships and rural schools in my childhood. I am not jealous of South Africa's fortune and place in the cup. I just don't handle supporting underdogs very well. Put it down to my Aquarian-winonly-second place won't do-mentality.
I am in this dillema. The organisation I work for has some 13 countries represented in this World Cup! Yes 13, if I haven't forgotten anyone. How the hell am I supposed to choose? Let's see, I could just go by race first? But where does that put France and Brazil? I do love Michael Ballack, but not necessarily Germany. Pity he is not playing. So that's that on Germany then.
I could just go with the Africans. But there is still Brazil and France....Then there is the small matter of England. Like my cucumber sandwich loving President, I have a little soft spot for my former colonial masters. More like a sympathy twinge. All that "Rule Britannia rah rah, sun never sets on the Empire", yet not a cup in sight since I was born? If that doesn't elicit dollops of sympathy I don't know what will.
I also love the Italians. Simply because they are the only country that always gives me a multiple entry Schengen visa. I love their food, the way they speak in that sing song way. The way they get all heated up and extremely animated in discussions. I love their country. I love Rome, I love Milan. I just want to move there. So I support Italy.
The Danes are just sweet and beautifully blue eyed. My two close friends are married to the most wonderful Danish cooks who fuss over me when I visit. They cook, clean the house, mind the babies, and bring you a drink when you call loudly from the veranda. How dare one not support such dream men? If they lose, it is only because they are such gentle-men.
You realise I could go on and on in this vain and pretty soon, I will be supporting every team. I am a global citizen. I love all the countries where I work. Which is the state I am in. So I will go buy everyone's flag (when the prices come down, I really think it is abominable to sell flags at R100 surely).
By late June, I will start the process of elimination depending on various factors, (see below).
I realise I am a bit late getting into the cup spirit. It is too late for me to think of what to sell or how to make some quick dosh out of this whole enterprise. I kept prevaricating over putting my apartment on the market. I had these nightmares of some yobs breaking my lovely bed, (it is a lovely bed, made only for one purpose as Graham Greene would have described it). I feared that some drinkers would dump their beer glasses on my cheap wooden coffee table and leaves marks forever. So there went the rental option.
I could not think of selling any food. I am not the cooking type. I just eat.
I do live two minutes walk from Oxford Street. In Illovo. Could that still be an option? Maybe it is already too late. Where does one start? Do I set up a website? Put up a billboard on Corlett Drive? Will I be able to compete with the rest of the continent which I believe has moved here for the duration? Eish, I will just give up on trying to make any money. I don't think Fifa will licence me at this late stage anyway. I also hear that they are out of Female condoms in this country. Someone sent me a notice today advising all women coming for a spot of "work" to bring their own.
This weekend I am going shopping for my cup regalia. After the flags, come the clothing. Now there is more dillema. I am yet to see sexy t-shirts. I have never understood why t-shirt manufacturers just don't have a sense of style. I mean honestly which women do they expect to don those shapeless made-for men- soccer jerseys and Ts? They are just too ugly beyond words. I made the mistake of not buying the sexy types in Rio, (Ok I don't only support Brazil in case you are now getting that impression). The Brazilians really know how to make women's t-shirts. Even in my dowdy old NGO, they make such sexy t-shirts they make anti-poverty campaigns look fashionable. Women's t-shirts, especially ones made for adult women with two tummies like me, should be fitted at the top....widen towards the waist...and voila you got sexy! Not these long-one-shape-looks grungy-on every single wearer-and your two tummies- shall look like five- in this sack!
I don't do ugly. Not at this age.
The best little Ts I have seen so far, at my favourite chain store are for....Brazil! I am not making this up. These t-shirts are delightful. Black. Tiny colourful sequins making up the Brazilian logo. Shapely. How can one compare with the yellows, the reds, and the other gaudy colours on the market?
I will give the famous vuvuzela a miss. This is a weapon of tranquility destruction that I still don't get. Sepp Blatter, Danny Jordan and everyone else's too loud protestations aside, I dislike the vuvuzela. I stand to be lynched for saying this in public. Extremely loud noise just doesn't add value to the beautiful game. Sorry. Give me the stereotypical singing-gyrating African any day of the week and I am game. That vuvu-thing, no thanks.
Ditto the face paint. What is the point of going out into the world with all that gunk on one's visage? The whole point of turning up at any stadium - unless one's brother/lover/friend is playing is to see and be seen. Yes well, and to cheer. You can't do it in style with your national flag painted on your face. Unless of course you have issues with your own visage, in which case you are forgiven for wanting to hide it in black, green and red.
Which is where my problem has been in the run up to this 2010. Very little media has been speaking to me as a female soccer fan. From the testesterone filled advertisements featuring yesterday's players, to the endless Fifa-rization of the entire country (with Sepp Blatter as the main act), very little has said to me as a woman, "we want you to enjoy this too". The same on radio or in newspapers. It is all about and for men. Occasionally there is the odd advert making fun of big women, (this in a country where the average dress size across the colour lines is 18-20), playing some grotesque imitation of soccer. Quite deplorable I must say.
Until suddenly, a sliver of light appeared from the North - this month's issue of Vanity Fair! Yeah Goddesses! Where have you been? Ugh! Ugh! Ugh! Is all I can say. Just the cover alone makes me so glad to be here to witness this world Cup!
Down here in the girls' locker room the excitment and the fever over the world cup is all about the nice legs that will be on display for an entire month. Those legs. Those muscles. Those little shorts. Ah, such titillating delights. Finally we girls get to gawk at this veritable flesh market - for a change. Just for one month alone, it shall all be on display. And we love it.
The competition is not about who plays the best footie, that is the side show. I am running my own parallel competition, and for this I won't need a Fifa licence. I just need a following. So here we are dear friends. It is time to select;
1. The sexiest coach - without Jose Mourinho and all those fuddy duddies to choose from eish!
2. The sexiest player - (no cockiness allowed, that rules out Christiano Ronaldo and Wayne Rooney sorry).
3. The team with the sexiest uniform; tight fitting, titillating shorts, you know, not prison garb long white ones plus ugly socks ala Malawian team at AFCON.
4. Drama Queeen of the tournament, (Drogba is a contender already).
5. The best looking team; including grooming (no bad hair ala Drogba please), sexy smiles, seriously good looks, great pairs of legs, sexy uniform. The whole package.
I am taking leave from June 11th. I have front row seats - in my lounge, at the Wanderers Club where I am a member across the road, Melrose Arch mall giant screen in the piazza, Sandton Square giant screen. I will wander to the public parks on some days.
May the most gorgeous men win!
That is how everyone here talks about the footie-fest. About a year ago, I watched coverage of a strike by workers in an industry I can not recall. Several of the strikers kept threatening that if they didn't get their dues then "2010 will not come! We will stop this 2010! The government must ekt (act), now, or this 2010 is not going to happen!" For a few days after that I wandered about in a daze, seriously fearing the supernatural power of these folks to actually stop a whole year from "coming".
So here we are. The Brazilian World Cup has come to our African shores. Yes I just called it the Brazilian World Cup, because that is what the kids in Recife told me it is called. I met three groups of children and youths on my visit there in April. As soon as they heard I lived in South Africa the kids were ecstastic. Their teachers asked them if they knew what was happening in Afrique de Sud. "Yes, the Brazilian World Cup!", they chimed more than three times. I am with them on that one. Ooops. I am supposed to be non-aligned right?
2010 is finally so close. I can see it coming. I can feel it. I can touch it. I can taste it. The entire country is in a frenzy. Everywhere you look, it's all about the cup. We are drowning in cup fever. I have been calm these last six months. I even pretended it wasn't such a big deal. Yet here I am with my temperature rising as if I am on one of the teams. I can not help myself. I love soccer. Ever since my late brothers got me to watch matches every Sunday on tv, or in stadiums, that many decades ago, I have been hooked. This is one sport I actually follow and even understand. Well, except for that one offside rule that was introduced way after Jabu (the soccer star of my two brothers), hung up his boots and joined the angels.
I keep calling it the "new" offside rule and everyone born after 1975 pulls a face when I say it. As if to suggest I am one slice short of a sandwich. S'tru, there is a new offside rule, which I still don't get.
Back to the cup fever. It was only this week that it suddenly hit me, I am actually not prepared for this world cup. On Sunday I arrived back from a three week safari in Kenya. Driving down the R24 from ORT (I know it is disrespectful but ORT means Oral Rehydratation Therapy where I come from)...I mean the airport, not the sugar and salt solution...I was finally gripped by this fever in my bones. Dozens of flags are flying beautifully all the way down the road. I started counting how many I could recognize. Sad to say I only managed the African ones and the Union Jack. Bad bad Anglophile Miss EJ.
The flags look so beautiful. The last time I saw any such flag line up was at CHOGM in Harare, 1997. Before that, at the Non-Aligned Summit. The flags were often accompanied by photos of one male dictator or other. Thank Godness nobody saw it fit to hang those for the footie. It's all about the nations and their flags.
Speaking of flags, I must go out and buy one. Or 13? I don't really know whose flag I should be flying. With all due respect to my current hosts, mmm, erm....ja, well....The less said of that the better. It has nothing to do with the fact that my own country could only manage to play "bhora remapepa" versus Brazil in a friendly match this week. Bhora remapepa means literally playing with a ball made of waste paper. The kind we used to play in the townships and rural schools in my childhood. I am not jealous of South Africa's fortune and place in the cup. I just don't handle supporting underdogs very well. Put it down to my Aquarian-winonly-second place won't do-mentality.
I am in this dillema. The organisation I work for has some 13 countries represented in this World Cup! Yes 13, if I haven't forgotten anyone. How the hell am I supposed to choose? Let's see, I could just go by race first? But where does that put France and Brazil? I do love Michael Ballack, but not necessarily Germany. Pity he is not playing. So that's that on Germany then.
I could just go with the Africans. But there is still Brazil and France....Then there is the small matter of England. Like my cucumber sandwich loving President, I have a little soft spot for my former colonial masters. More like a sympathy twinge. All that "Rule Britannia rah rah, sun never sets on the Empire", yet not a cup in sight since I was born? If that doesn't elicit dollops of sympathy I don't know what will.
I also love the Italians. Simply because they are the only country that always gives me a multiple entry Schengen visa. I love their food, the way they speak in that sing song way. The way they get all heated up and extremely animated in discussions. I love their country. I love Rome, I love Milan. I just want to move there. So I support Italy.
The Danes are just sweet and beautifully blue eyed. My two close friends are married to the most wonderful Danish cooks who fuss over me when I visit. They cook, clean the house, mind the babies, and bring you a drink when you call loudly from the veranda. How dare one not support such dream men? If they lose, it is only because they are such gentle-men.
You realise I could go on and on in this vain and pretty soon, I will be supporting every team. I am a global citizen. I love all the countries where I work. Which is the state I am in. So I will go buy everyone's flag (when the prices come down, I really think it is abominable to sell flags at R100 surely).
By late June, I will start the process of elimination depending on various factors, (see below).
I realise I am a bit late getting into the cup spirit. It is too late for me to think of what to sell or how to make some quick dosh out of this whole enterprise. I kept prevaricating over putting my apartment on the market. I had these nightmares of some yobs breaking my lovely bed, (it is a lovely bed, made only for one purpose as Graham Greene would have described it). I feared that some drinkers would dump their beer glasses on my cheap wooden coffee table and leaves marks forever. So there went the rental option.
I could not think of selling any food. I am not the cooking type. I just eat.
I do live two minutes walk from Oxford Street. In Illovo. Could that still be an option? Maybe it is already too late. Where does one start? Do I set up a website? Put up a billboard on Corlett Drive? Will I be able to compete with the rest of the continent which I believe has moved here for the duration? Eish, I will just give up on trying to make any money. I don't think Fifa will licence me at this late stage anyway. I also hear that they are out of Female condoms in this country. Someone sent me a notice today advising all women coming for a spot of "work" to bring their own.
This weekend I am going shopping for my cup regalia. After the flags, come the clothing. Now there is more dillema. I am yet to see sexy t-shirts. I have never understood why t-shirt manufacturers just don't have a sense of style. I mean honestly which women do they expect to don those shapeless made-for men- soccer jerseys and Ts? They are just too ugly beyond words. I made the mistake of not buying the sexy types in Rio, (Ok I don't only support Brazil in case you are now getting that impression). The Brazilians really know how to make women's t-shirts. Even in my dowdy old NGO, they make such sexy t-shirts they make anti-poverty campaigns look fashionable. Women's t-shirts, especially ones made for adult women with two tummies like me, should be fitted at the top....widen towards the waist...and voila you got sexy! Not these long-one-shape-looks grungy-on every single wearer-and your two tummies- shall look like five- in this sack!
I don't do ugly. Not at this age.
The best little Ts I have seen so far, at my favourite chain store are for....Brazil! I am not making this up. These t-shirts are delightful. Black. Tiny colourful sequins making up the Brazilian logo. Shapely. How can one compare with the yellows, the reds, and the other gaudy colours on the market?
I will give the famous vuvuzela a miss. This is a weapon of tranquility destruction that I still don't get. Sepp Blatter, Danny Jordan and everyone else's too loud protestations aside, I dislike the vuvuzela. I stand to be lynched for saying this in public. Extremely loud noise just doesn't add value to the beautiful game. Sorry. Give me the stereotypical singing-gyrating African any day of the week and I am game. That vuvu-thing, no thanks.
Ditto the face paint. What is the point of going out into the world with all that gunk on one's visage? The whole point of turning up at any stadium - unless one's brother/lover/friend is playing is to see and be seen. Yes well, and to cheer. You can't do it in style with your national flag painted on your face. Unless of course you have issues with your own visage, in which case you are forgiven for wanting to hide it in black, green and red.
Which is where my problem has been in the run up to this 2010. Very little media has been speaking to me as a female soccer fan. From the testesterone filled advertisements featuring yesterday's players, to the endless Fifa-rization of the entire country (with Sepp Blatter as the main act), very little has said to me as a woman, "we want you to enjoy this too". The same on radio or in newspapers. It is all about and for men. Occasionally there is the odd advert making fun of big women, (this in a country where the average dress size across the colour lines is 18-20), playing some grotesque imitation of soccer. Quite deplorable I must say.
Until suddenly, a sliver of light appeared from the North - this month's issue of Vanity Fair! Yeah Goddesses! Where have you been? Ugh! Ugh! Ugh! Is all I can say. Just the cover alone makes me so glad to be here to witness this world Cup!
Down here in the girls' locker room the excitment and the fever over the world cup is all about the nice legs that will be on display for an entire month. Those legs. Those muscles. Those little shorts. Ah, such titillating delights. Finally we girls get to gawk at this veritable flesh market - for a change. Just for one month alone, it shall all be on display. And we love it.
The competition is not about who plays the best footie, that is the side show. I am running my own parallel competition, and for this I won't need a Fifa licence. I just need a following. So here we are dear friends. It is time to select;
1. The sexiest coach - without Jose Mourinho and all those fuddy duddies to choose from eish!
2. The sexiest player - (no cockiness allowed, that rules out Christiano Ronaldo and Wayne Rooney sorry).
3. The team with the sexiest uniform; tight fitting, titillating shorts, you know, not prison garb long white ones plus ugly socks ala Malawian team at AFCON.
4. Drama Queeen of the tournament, (Drogba is a contender already).
5. The best looking team; including grooming (no bad hair ala Drogba please), sexy smiles, seriously good looks, great pairs of legs, sexy uniform. The whole package.
I am taking leave from June 11th. I have front row seats - in my lounge, at the Wanderers Club where I am a member across the road, Melrose Arch mall giant screen in the piazza, Sandton Square giant screen. I will wander to the public parks on some days.
May the most gorgeous men win!
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