the end of the world cup...

I arrived the day the world cup started only to be questioned by security if I was here for the football. No I insisted, I was here to research. The answer was surprising enough and was easily proven by the 10 kilos of books in my hand luggage. However, four weeks later and I am ecstatic I was here for the football. My hand luggage will be filled with yellow Bafana Bafana jerseys, face tattoos of the South African flag and multiple vuvzelas. The end of the world cup was something else. We had just gotten used to this ecstatic event claiming the streets in fan frenzy every night. We tried to plan for the night, first deciding on either orange or red coveralls. I supported the Dutch will all the passion I had for the sole reason that I think that the Dutch have a better sense of humour. Despite a past built on slavery and war that is largely traceable back to the Dutch, Capetonians still embraced the orange spirit. We left at half past two in the afternoon for a match six hours later. Our smart attempts at taking the train failed, as they were so full that they were bursting at the brims. People were hanging out the back of the train almost as posing for that scene in Slumdog Millionaire. We finally got on the train being the annoying drunkards that we were covered in barely legible slurs scribbled across our chests. We were a lot of white kids causing a lot of noise. I expected some form of abuse or at least stares, but the atmosphere was electric. After waking up one baby, I would like to say that we had the whole train singing Waka Waka…or at least in their head.

But just like the World Cup itself, the finale could not last. Our night ended in a bar fight filled with pepper spray and a few bashed-in skulls. That is the very condensed version. While the rest of the story is interesting, it is over and done with. We made it home ok, albeit missing a few belongings including one of my precious vuvuzelas.

It makes you wonder about the predicted plateau of the World Cup and if we are on a downward spiral. Can people only get along when their faces are projected to the world for judgement? Can people only get along under the pretext of fun and games and a whole lot of beer?

I woke up this morning to headlines of xenophobic attacks griping the nation. Since South Africa has the largest economy in Africa, it is a very appealing place especially during the World Cup with all the lucrative opportunities of exploiting tourists for a packet of chips (don’t get me started…) However, with a conservative estimate of 25% of the population unemployed, the competition for jobs is fierce, fierce enough to kill. A few years back waves of xenophobia spread throughout the country and about 60 people died and hundreds more fled back to neighbouring countries like Zimbabwe. Last night hooligans targeted Somali shops, looting and threatening to kill the owners unless they left the country. The predictions are that the attacks are just going to get worse. So much for the Rainbow nation. I don’t know who won on nationalist sentiment last night: Belfast on the 12^th or the township Kaleytisha brandishing sticks at foreigners? It’s terrifying to think about. I have met the nicest people in the world here. But apparently not everything is, as it seems on the surface in this glistening jewel of a country.

And on an opportune note, this is when all of the police are going to be on leave after the overtime of herding around foreigners for the past four weeks. Not that the police have a particularly good reputation of a fair standard with non-nationals...