Day 19: In the morning, England in mourning

Last blog entry for a few days, while I'm in London. It's the hottest day of the year, over 30 degrees.
The England loss to Germany overnight is treated like a death in the family.
Back at the end of the week, unless something special happens.

Day 18: The Timing Stuff Up Happens

Grass fires near Johannesburg. 'Black frost' kills the grass when temperatures plummet, then on hot days, the grass ignites, fuelled by mustard grass which 'pops' as the seeds explode. Even playing fields and golf courses are burnt.




Soccer City in Joburg, which holds 95,000, will host the final on 11 July.

This Saturday, 26th June, is the one day of the trip which remained unplanned, because of the uncertainty whether I would go to Rustenburg to watch Australia. I had a flight from Cape Town to Joburg, nearest airport to Rustenburg, this morning, just in case. Then a flight tomorrow, Sunday, to London. With no game to attend, I now have an evening to kill in Joburg, and so I found some basic accommodation near the airport.

At Cape Town airport, I go to the medical centre, as now I have conjunctivitis to accompany my cough, and my left eye is weeping. The nurse takes one look at me and says my immune system has broken down. She takes me out the back and gives me a needle of something brown into my left buttock, then puts some antibiotics into my eye. Take it easy for a couple of days, she says. She gives me some pills and a cream for my eyes. This is the type of angel you need when your own angel is not around.

The flight to Joburg is notable for the fact that I only have half a seat: it’s supposed to be Seat 2B, but it’s really Seat 2B/2, because the very large woman in Seat 2A+2B/2 is hanging well over the arm rest. I don’t mind her taking the arm rest, it’s the chunk of her over my side that’s the worry. I squeeze into the remaining bit, and her right arm is surprisingly mushy. It feels more like a loosely-filled bean bag than part of a human. Debbie has a body of pure steel in comparison.

What to do? She doesn’t seem to mind that we’re bumped up against each other, and to make it worse, she fidgets a bit. Then I notice she’s reading the in-flight magazine, where the first advertisement is for the ‘Simply Slim’ Programme, which is ‘the catalyst that kick starts your body and directs you towards a healthier lifestyle. A life style you deserve.’ Before there’s any sign that she feels deserving, the magazine is put away.

I lean against her but she spreads rather than moves. There’s more blubber on my side than in your average Tokyo fish market. She plays a Sudoku on her iphone, then puts it away by tucking it into the bra cup of her left breast. Man, she could fit a lap top computer in there, maybe a small Dick Smith store at a pinch.

She puts a pillow against the window, and to improve her position, shifts slightly onto her left buttock, moving my way even further. I’ve heard of continental drift, but this is ridiculous. Africa will soon spread over Australia at this rate. I then think about doing the same, using her mattress-like right arm to rest my weary head. I have an image of me nuzzling into her cleavage and disappearing, never to be seen again.

She gives up trying to sleep and takes out a bible. Now I’ve got no chance after what I said about Jesus playing football (did I mention when Heaven was playing Hell, Jesus received the ball on half-way, did a little step-over to beat the Devil, played a lovely through ball to Paul, who on spotting Peter by the far post, crossed the ball (literally), then crossed the ball properly, and Peter met it beautifully and headed it into the net. One hell of a goal). It’s a well-worn bible, and she reads it with great concentration.

Then a cough a little, and she gives me a dirty look. How dare she! I’ve spent most of the last three days nurturing that cough. I went out one day in the heat, then another in the cold, got wet, sat in confined spaces for hours, mixed with unhealthy people on buses and planes, sat in the top tier of a stadium while the wind came in. Last night, I was awake for hours hacking it to perfection. The only reason we’re sitting so close is that her right arm has its own excess baggage allowance.

Speaking of which, isn’t it strange they are so strict on baggage weight, allowing only 20kg in the hold and 7kg in the cabin, and the person can be 150kg or 50kg without comment. Fair enough, let’s not be weightist, but it’s not great when you’re in the next seat.

Anyway, she keeps me warm in the same way Eskimos survive winter by snuggling together, and we soon arrive at Joburg where a forklift truck and lunch awaits her.

On arrival in Joburg, I go directly to Etihad to try to change my flight to London to today, because I have finally hit the ‘stuff up’ moment. I thought from the start that these plans were so complex with 80 hours of flying and as much spent in transit that something would go wrong, and it has: my flight from Joburg to London leaves at 1:30pm Sunday, and England v Germany starts at 3:00pm. Damn.

Unfortunately, all 240 economy seats are taken by existing bookings. Sheesh – not even a decent traffic jam or family crisis to hold up a passenger just when you need one. There is one business class seat for an additional R18,000. That’s $3,000 to sit in a pub in England and watch the game on TV. Even I’m not that desperate.

So I transfer to a humble B&B place on a sort a farm outside Joburg and settle in for a couple of matches, and some rest as the lovely nurse ordered. And the owner, a lady called Peta, who is enjoying all the business the WC is bringing her way (“We brought in these Indian builders to improve the place, but they ripped me off”), offers to make me dinner – probably a chickenny thing with some vegetables, she says. Wow, tempt me – which I accept, because there’s nowhere else to go, even though I know I’ll regret it.

Then I'm saved by meeting a couple who are going to a Portuguese restaurant in the next town, and they ask me to join them. They're a curious couple: he's a Namibian farmer who's lived all over the world, including three years owning a garage in Gladstone, Queensland. He travels around Africa, often in a campervan he built himself (with a 220 litre tank and a diesel engine). She's his Russian girlfriend, comes from a place near Moscow, speaks little English, but enough to tell me she teaches piano and writes poetry. When we order food, his way of translating the menu is to read every item in English, only slowly and loudly, as if slow and loud is a babel fish. It takes 30 mins to do the menu, accompanied by actions that describe certain animals. I try not to laugh, and after all that, she orders a salad. I must have missed the lettuce action. But he's an interesting guy when I can stop coughing in his face long enough to listen.

Back at my modest digs, the owner explains there's no internet access because someone stole the copper wiring outside the property. And it's not until morning, when I come to shave, that I realise they've also nicked the bathroom mirror. In fact, there's not a mirror in the entire room, and shaving in front of the television is not ideal. Fortunately, I've got a good memory for faces.

Day 17: All that Really Matters in Life

Another sunny day, my last in Cape Town before heading to London for a week, then returning here for the quarter finals and semi finals. The Round of 16 ticket which I'd bought in anticipation of England playing Australia in Rustenburg on Saturday has been sold back to FIFA. I'm not making that road trip again unless a stretch limo turns up at the front door, with tickets to a heated box which serves hot chocolate laced with tia maria all night.

I watch Brazil play Portugal on a big screen in a Kurdish restaurant, wearing my Aussie scarf. That's South America, Europe, the Middle East, Australasia and Africa in one setting - sums up the World Cup.

As interesting as the game is the conversation on the table behind me. I did not see the couple come in, but after an hour or two of listening to their loud chat, I feel as though I know them. He sounds like an old English guy, slightly posh, while her voice is much younger and softer, of Asian or African origin. A sugar daddy? A sugar grand daddy? He tells her how lonely he was before she came along, and we hear how he used to fill in his time alone. It was so fortunate that they met when she was 48 rather than 28 - okay, she's not as young as I thought. She's had a busy year, a tough time in some sort of business. There are joking references to his age. He laughs loud and heartily, and it's a genuine and joyful sound, and he's very polite to the waiter. He orders water - but he is very specific that he wants tap water with ice, so he's not flashing the rand.

He comments on the game, trying too hard to impress with his limited knowledge. For some time, he thinks it's Paraguay playing (not many people here can't recognise Ronaldo, or think he's from Paraguay). He says that Portugal need to win to qualify, when they only need to draw. And he gives an incorrect and tortured explanation of the obstruction law.

By the end of the game, I'm bursting to see what they look like. So I call for the bill, and try not to look too obvious as I turn around. He's a short chap, quite wide, a rough but friendly face, a good smile. She's handsome rather than beautiful, African of medium build, and she's sitting almost sideways, facing him. He's done well.

And I could reach only one conclusion: he's come to both love and football late in life.

So a few final thoughts before I hit the road again, out of Africa.

The food has been good but not great, and it's an inexpensive place to eat and drink. Alcohol in particular is cheap, with beer only R10 (about $1.75) in bars. Debbie, here's a good kurdish dessert of rice pudding topped with ice cream and a liqueur which I think is Amaretto.

Although their team is eliminated, the South Africans have loved the event. But watch out - the vuvuzelas are returning home with the tourists in their thousands.



And we had a pretty good time too, although I think Debbie just about reached capacity on football.

Day 16 continued: Cape Town Turns Orange

Samuel Eto'o scores a penalty for Cameroon, but they lose 2-1.



Plenty of orange in Cape Town and in the crowd.





One of the great things about playing in orange is that your supporters certainly stand out. The Dutch came to Cape Town today and the place is a sea of orange. They're light-hearted and friendly, especially because their team is playing well and has already qualified.

My final game of the group stages is Netherlands versus Cameroon, and it's a warm evening to stroll the 2.5km 'fan walk' for the last time. This has been a great feature of Cape Town, the festivities along the way adding to the atmosphere.

Along the way, I'm approached by three middle-aged Dutch people. One of the ladies says to me, "Are you going to the game?"

"Yes," I reply.

"Who are you supporting?"

"Australia."

She looks surprised. "They're not playing," she informs me.

I feign shock. "Oh no, am I in the wrong city?"

Then I show her my Australian shirt under my jacket, and she laughs. And she hands me a bag of goodies. "Would you like a DVD, it shows the preparation by six players for the World Cup."

Now, I'm on my way to a game and don't really want to carry this, and accepting a DVD from a stranger is a bit suspect, but I respond enthusistically, we have a little more banter and off I go.

Then I take a closer look. It's promotional material for the 'Soccer World Cup International Church Services', where they have 'soccer -focused services' before each evening game, followed by the game itself. I never thought about it before, but suddenly it all falls into place. That's why there were 12 apostles - Jesus needed a football team. Judas was red-carded, that left him with only 11 plus himself. He'd be captain, Mary would be manager, he'd play four at the back (Matthew, Mark, Luke and John seemed to go together), there'd be some loafs and fishes at half-time, water into wine if they win, a sermon on the mount before the game, maybe even a burning bush to distract the opposition. There'd be a decent crowd with the promise of a feeding for at least five thousand, as they came into the ground two by two (okay, that's mixing testaments).

And when you see players kneeling down before a game and praying together, and both teams do it, I've often wondered if they look at each other and wonder who God is listening to. Both teams are praying for a win. Do they think God takes sides? Or is it Allah versus God?

But with the Nazareth All Stars, there's a direct hot line. You could play Mary up front and the team would be fine. It brings a completely new meaning to winning by the "Hand of God."

Day 16: 1am at the Airport

Pim Verbeek manages a half-smile, at the airport after his last game in charge of Australia. He knows it was the one that got away, and while he's done a good job over a couple of years, he'll be remembered for his strange choices in the first game.

Lucas Neill, Mark Bresciano and David Carney file through. Police prevent us getting too close.

Timmy is the only one smiling.

As we wait at the airport for flights back to Cape Town, the Australian team comes through to catch a charter flight to their home base in Joburg. They look surprisingly glum, miserable even. Many know it is their last World Cup, for some their last game for Australia, and we had the team to progress if not for such a poor first game. The only person smiling is Tim Cahill, who just seems to have that type of personality.

Pim Verbeek comes through last and looks like he trod in some giraffe poo outside the terminal. It's his final game in charge. The Aussies chant, "We love you Pimmy, we do", which may be more inspired by beer that costs only $2 a bottle that a genuine 'Guus-like' affection. But he perks up a little, manages a grimace-come-grin, and applauds the supporters. Goodbye, Pim.

We arrive back at our hotel after 5am. I'm exhausted, carrying a cold and a bad cough, no doubt caught from one of the many tour members who is sick. Some could not travel to Nelspruit. The combination of cold and wet followed by hot weather, then confined to long trips in planes and buses, cooled and then overheated, is quite a drain. I didn't realise we'd have four days of over 20 hours travel within two weeks, and my body is feeling it.

But that's the group stage over, so need to recover quickly and keep playing the game.

Day 15: Australia and England Win

Frank Lowy (head of Westfield, Chairman of the Football Federation of Australia and saviour of Australian football), being interviewed at Nelspruit Airport. Much shorter than I expected. No doubt he has used this WC to lobby hard for Australia in 2022.

Another great stadium, held up by pylons resembling giraffes.

Aussies go mad after the Cahill goal.

Aussies do a great job belting out the National Anthem, equal to the Poms and better than everybody else.

We meet our bus at 8am for the airport, and a two-hour flights to Nelspruit. This is a tiny airport, built to service Kruger National Park, and thousands of Australians catching planes at 1am after the game certainly strained its resources.

We watch the England v Slovenia game on screens in a big open-air pub near the stadium, and England scrape through with a better but not convincing performance. But USA also win, so then take the group, and England now face Germany. If Rooney can find some form, England can beat the Germans, who have looked average after their great start against Australia.

Against Serbia, Australia plays well, and for a few minutes, the dream of scoring enough goals to wipe out the pasting from the Germans is almost a reality. Excellent saves by Schwarzer, and goals from Cahill and Holman, plus Germany taking the lead against Ghana, and suddenly all we need is another goal and we'll be through. The team lifts and the crowd yells, but a rare fumble from Schwarzer and the glimmer of hope is gone. The Serbians are furious at the end when a shout for a penalty is declined that would have put them into the next round.

But the crowd is buoyant and happy as it trudges back to the buses. There, we discuss the 'might have beens' that every eliminated nation has: if we'd only lost 2-0 to Germany, if Wilkshire had scored against Ghana, if Pim's first game tactics were not so poor.

So none of the elation on the night in Stuttgart where we drew with Croatia in 2006 to qualify for the next round, but the same set of results: played three, won one, drew one, lost one. And maybe that's all most expected, as nearly everyone on our tour goes home in the next few days.

Nigeria Out. What goes around ...

The night before, I enjoyed watching the removal of Nigeria from the competition, if only because it made all those Nigerians who scam millions from people around the world miserable. I imagined the guy who tried to scam me taking a moment off from hanging around ATMs, sitting in a bar in Stellenboch, his pockets full of money skimmed from tourist accounts. He knows Nigeria needs to win to progress, and it's 2-2 with a few minutes minutes to go. He's so confident he's also placed a large bet on his team. Then Nigerian forward Martins breaks clear, and as he reaches the edge of the box, my Nigerian rises from his seat, arms held high. Martins doesn't blast it, he chips it delicately, and it takes forever to drift over the keeper. And my Nigerian yells out, his heart soars, indeed it's been a good day. But ever so slowly, the ball drifts outside the far post by a whisker, and he lets out a loud moan, and slumps in his seat. As his bum hits the chair, he can feel a wad of cash in his back pocket, and he recalls the words of William Shakespeare (look, I know that's unlikely, but he was well-spoken, and I happen to like this quote): "Heat not a furnace for your foe so hot, that it do singe yourself".

Day 14: South African Pride

The South Africans are intensely proud of what had been achieved at the WC. There seemed to be a fatalistic expectation that they would have major problems, but with a few hiccups, it has gone smoothly so far. More than half the games have been played without trouble, security is tight, there seem to be a lot of visitors (although far fewer than some early estimates) and bafana bafana is doing better than expected. Government ministers interviewed on TV are thrilled, and talk of how the country's image around the world has been rebuilt.

The downside will come later. The country has ten world-class stadiums costing $5 billion, but insufficient domestic professional sport to use them. Many of the stadiums in small towns will become windswept monuments to a month of fun, with local councils facing multi million dollar maintenance costs. Even the incredible Green Point Stadium, which seats 65,000, has no team wanting to use it in future. When I ask Capetonians what it will be used for, they shake their heads and say, "Rock concerts".

Does any of this matter if we're all having a good time, if it unites the country? Until the middle of July, let's just party. But the 1995 Rugby World Cup victory was supposed to 'unite a nation' - who can forget the image of Mendala wearing a Springbok jersey at the final, a symbol of white supremacy a year earlier. But that is now 15 years ago, and history shows it was soon forgotten, as the poor went back to their ramshackle townships, and wondered how life had changed for them.

Today, nobody was worried about this. It was South Africa's day to try to make the next round, needing a big win over France. I went down to the V&A Waterfront and squeezed into the massive crowd to watch the big screen. And they went absolutely nuts as their boys were up 2-0 inside 30 minutes, with a French player sent off. They needed to win by four goals, and had several chances to add more. In the end, it was a 2-1 win and an exit from the cup.

But the crowd was happy with the win, and sang anthems, led by a Zulu warrior. The little girls and boys jumped up and down with delight, probably their first experience at such an event. The vuvuzelas blared away relentlessly. There were smiles and hugs all round. And maybe because all the bafana bafana players are black (whereas only one of the rugby team was), it will give them an enduring pride which will last beyond the journey back to their normal lives.

Day 13: Debbie Leaves, Portugal Run Riot

Debbie returned home this morning, it was great having her here. She hasn't seen so much football in her life, but I don't think she's a convert. Tolerated it, as long as the sun shone.

But in the hour before she headed for the airport, she had one last task. For the last few days, she was bothered by the fact that an assistant in a bead shop may have given her R100 too much change. She was not sure at the time, but on examining the receipt, she felt she had to set it right. No use leaving these shores with threat of an African Witch Doctor following her.

It was pouring with rain, and the shop was a decent walk away. "They'll wonder who this mad Australian woman is, trying to give them money," I advised, but Debbie insisted.

Jumping puddles, we soaked our jeans finding the shop again, and the assistant was so grateful. "We were down R100 on the till on Saturday, so God bless you." There, I was right again.

While Debbie headed for Sydney, I went to the Portugal versus North Korea game, and a strange thing happened. Along the Fan Walk, a Portuguese guy in front of me pulled out his ticket, and dropped a R100 note on the floor behind him without noticing. For a moment, I thought ... well, no I didn't ... OK, I did, but I picked it up, caught up with him and returned it. He was both surprised and grateful.

And I thought, not much use getting rid of the African Witch Doctor and replacing him with a Portuguese voodoo doll. At least we're doing our bit to spread World Cup goodwill.

Portugal scored seven, and it was highly entertaining. Football can look so simple and easy sometimes. But Korea was the better team for the first 30 minutes, and it was only 1-0 at half time. The second half was a passing and finishing exhibition. But what a prima donna Ronaldo is. When he laid on the pass for the fourth goal, he turned to face the crowd rather than acknowledge the person who scored the goal. He sulks when his team does not pass to him, and he was the first off the field at the end. Given he's also Portugal's captain, it shows how football is a game where the person nominated as captain has little more to do than win the toss.

Then I watch Chile win, and later, Spain give Honduras a run around. Strange how I've seen every game today, after Debbie left. She protects me from becoming a football slob.

Day 12: Robben Island

The quarry where Mandela and other prisoners worked for five days each week. The cave on the left was made by the prisoners as a place to shelter and later study, and they called it Robben University.



The cell where Nelson Mandela lived for 18 years.

Football highlight today was New Zealand holding Italy to a draw, winning their second point. A few more kiwis will finally understand why real football can be exciting and tense despite what they perceive as a lack of goals. In fact, the difficulty of scoring goals and their relative scarcity are two of the game's great virtues, not problems. It builds tension, and makes every goal a truly wonderful event. New Zealanders will dine out on a couple of goals now forever.

This day was dominated by a visit by boat to Robben Island, about 11 kilometres out of Cape Town harbour. Nelson Mandela was imprisoned here for 18 of his 27 years as a political prisoner under apartheid. Two of the photographs show Mandela's cell, although he had a small library on bookshelves in his day. The cell was about three metres square.

The island was used to hold political prisoners from 1961 until 1991, and it is a cold and windswept place in winter, so conditions must have been bleak.

We were shown around the island by Glen, a former prison mate of Mandela. He told us they were forced to work in the quarry for five days a week, then on Saturdays they were allowed to rest and play sport outside, but on Sundays they were not allowed out of their cells. They lived for Saturday, and it was dominated by soccer. Glen said he was the main organiser, and he proudly told me that they strictly conformed with FIFA rules, even using shin pads and referees. Prisoners were organised into 24 teams, and the Red Cross provided shirts for the teams. They played in a formal league, and had cup competitions. He kept statistics on goalscorers, league tables, etc, and it gave him a purpose in life.

I asked him whether Mandela played soccer. "No, he played one game of rugby, but then only tennis." I think this calls for Mandela's greatness to be reconsidered.

The top photograph above is on the wall of the cell where Glen spent 6 years. "The soccer preserved our sanity," he said.

Which is ironic, because with both Australia and England failing to win yet, it's having the opposite effect on me.

Day 11: Agony in Rustenburg

Now I'm really sad. The Ghana game was there for the taking, and we fluffed it, with some help from the referee.

Another 5am start for bus to the airport, then a flight to Joburg, before hopping on another bus for a long drive to Rustenburg. We park in a field outside the stadium, and there's nothing else there. Just a few houses and souvenir sellers trying to sell New Zealand flags. Sorry, guys, might look the same to you, but you'll be wallpapering your bedroom with those before you find a buyer.

The area is home to the two largest platinum mines in the world, but the whole region has only 180,000 people, and a stadium that holds 42,000. It is like building the Sydney Football Stadium in Orange. One of FIFA's rules for hosting a World Cup is that the host must have 10 stadiums that can hold at least 40,000. So they built a massive new grandstand around an existing sports field, said "And that makes ten" to FIFA, and it's unlikely they will ever fill it again. The only people who live there are in ramshackle huts and they could have been put into decent homes for the cost of that grandstand.

What is amazing to see, though, it how many Australians have made the journey. This is a tough place to get to, and many buses have driven 10 hours from Durban, and will drive straight back after the game. It is a fantastic tribute to the willingness of Australians to spend a heap of money and follow their team, with great enthusiasm and optimism.

I meet up with Glenn McDowell, a long-time market colleague who is staying in Joburg with a few friends. We share a beer in an area filled with Aussies consuming vast quantities of alcohol before the game, then carrying four bottles on Budweiser each into the match to drink before half time.

As soon as the line up is announced, I feel we are going to win. Kewell in, Bresciano in, no Garcia. Immediately on kick-off, the team looks lively and is moving well, and we score early. The crowd goes nuts: it's a massive beer shower, and everyone is really up for it. For 10 minutes, this is what we came for.

Then the Kewell hand ball. These incidents can be over-analysed. Was it, wasn't it. It was one of those incidents that could have gone either way, the referee may have waved it away and we'd have forgotten about it. But the moment he gave a hand ball, Kewell had to go off. It's not possible under the laws of the game to give a penalty and not also a dismissal.

From my vantage point above the corner flag at the end where it happened, I thought Kewell made a more deliberate move to block the ball than the TV replays show. It was a proper movement to the ball, not accidental. I wasn't sure at the time whether it hit his arm or shoulder, but on replay it is clearly his upper arm. So although I was devastated, and it was a tough call, it was probably correct.

Gutted, I really thought Kewell would have a good World Cup, and he looked lively while he was on. If we could have had Kewell and Cahill on the field at the same time, we had a good chance of beating Serbia.

We held on bravely, played with a lot of heart, one of the best games I've seen from Lucas Neill. Luke Wilkshire will have to live with his easy miss that would have won the game, and made Rustenburg an historic occasion for Australian football, rather than another near thing. We could all have talked about the day we trudged out to this field in Africa and watched a 10 man team fight the odds, much like we talk about Kaiserslautern in Germany 2006. It was an "I was there" moment. That would have been wonderful, but Wilkshire hit a poor shot right at the keeper. And that was it.

So glum-faced, or completely pissed in the case of a few hundred of the lads, we dragged our feet out of the stadium, and in no mood other than to lie down and forget about it, we had to find our coach. When we had arrived in bright sunlight five hours earlier, ours were the first buses in the nearby field. By the time I found the correct exit from the ground, itself a navigation feat that would have made Christopher Columbus proud, and eventually located the field where the bus had left us, there were a hundred buses there, all with engines running, spewing out a surreal cloud of diesel fumes. Heaven knows what I would have done if the buses had left and I'd been left in that hell-hole with no transport system, hardly any houses, and a Nigerian still looking out for me. Eventually, I found one of our buses bound for Joburg airport, and we joined a massive traffic jam working its way along the one lane road out of the town.

Four hours later and one hour after the flight was due to leave, we reached the airport. Fortunately, our tour company had booked the entire plane out, so it was held up for us. We simply piled onto it and sat anywhere. Twenty hours after leaving, we arrived back at our hotel.

Football mirrors life, and just like life, has its great rewards and disappointments. It is not always fair and just, and the margin between success and failure can be fine. But it is the lost opportunities of Rustenburg which make the thrills of Kaiserslautern all the more amazing. Is it worth trekking 20 hours to a field in some way off province to be showered in beer? You bet it is.

Day 10: Game Park Tour and England

(Can't make these photographs line up properly. That first photo is England, not our welcome committee at the game park).

Missed the two earlier games to go to a game park - can't come to Africa and not see a few animals. A 5 am start and a 3 hour drive to a park about 300km north of Cape Town called Inverdoorn. Not quite in the league of Kruger but at least we can tick the 'game park' box.

Inverdoorn is on a dry, elevated plateau, without enough vegetation to support elephants. But we saw docile and inactive lions and cheetahs, and a couple of curious rhinos came very close to the open 4 wheel drive vehicle. Our guide made a lot of fuss about a new-born buffalo, and explained that nobody rides zebras due to their weak spines. Throw in the odd giraffe, it was a decent experience if you're into animals. Highlight for Debbie was the explanation of the best ways to serve ostrich and springboks, which are both common on menus.

Back to Cape Town, and in the evening, England play Algeria. The stadium is adorned in flags of St George, and there are plenty of knights dressed in chain mail. England is very disappointing, although Algeria do play well. Biggest surprise for me comes from watching the England captain, Steve Gerrard, rather than the game. He was lethargic, passed poorly, and made little effort to cover back if he lost possession up the field. If I was Capello, I'd have had a cattle prod ready at half time to liven him up. And Frank Lampard is so frustrating - scores 20 goals from mid field for Chelsea this year, couldn't hit the goal for England if it was a barn door. Sheesh, what is it with these guys!

So I trudge back to my hotel, expecting to be mugged by some Nigerian who had a poor day scamming credit cards.

Guest Blog from Debbie

Today was fantastic

South Africa, located in the bum end of the huge continent that houses so many of the marvels of the wild, has been home to us since Wednesday last week.

Like Australia, it has its winter in June, so I felt well prepared when packing clothes for this trip. I expected weather similar to Sydney's at this time of year, and was not disappointed. Especially since it has been emulating the 'big wet' that we were having in Sydney just before I left.

But it has been rather cold along with wet, and after a week of that, the sun came out and gave us the most beautiful of days today

View of the Hottentots from Gordons Bay

We took advantage of the conditions and drove the hire car all the way to Hermanus, about two hours away if you take the freeway, but if you clung to the coast, like we did, it was a half day to get there.

The coast road is spectacular, clinging in many places to the side of the Hottentots Holland Mountain range. These are huge rolling rocky mountains with little vegetation in most places. By the time you get to Hermanus they seem to be covered with fine green baize to soften their harsh lines. This forms the backdop to the magnificent bay.

There certainly was a whale out there today, it was also the worlds laziest whale, refusing to do any sky hopping, tail thrashing, breaching or blowing. In fact, had it not been pursued by a whale spotting craft, we would have written it off as an energetic pile of kale.

We lunched at one of the many cafes that share the superb water views and soaked up the sun.

On the way back Graham managed not to run over a troop of baboons that were crossing the road in a leisurely fashion, stopping to give our car a shifty look.

Baboon Etiquette

I have found that quite amusing, all the signs to be careful of the baboons, not to feed the baboons and so on. Today there was a sign that gave instructions on how to deal with them if they invaded your house. Nice!

The day before yesterday it was the African Penguins that come ashore and march through Simonstown, which annoys some of the locals but also literally forms a backyard industry for others along the Tuxedo Trail, as they set up stalls selling soft drinks from their garages and car ports. Actually, that was a good day weather wise, too, just not as warm as today. There will be pictures of us at the lighthouse on top of the Cape of Good Hope, with the icy wind blowing our hair every which way.

Tomorrow promises to be another warm one- maybe as much as 21 degrees, but I guarantee it won't be that warm at 5.30am when we are getting on the bus to the Game Park reserve. I also guarantee we won't be spotting the 'Big 5' , but will let you know just how many we do shoot.

With the camera, but you knew that.

Day 9: Stunning Drive Along the Southern Coast

Today, Thursday 17 June, is beautifully warm and sunny. Cape Town feels brighter and happier this morning after a couple of days of cold and wet. We're lucky we still have the car on such a great day, and we head east from the city, hugging the southern coast of Africa, towards the town of Hermanus.

On the way, we pass thousands of shanty homes built along the highway, and at every set of traffic lights, cars are beseiged by hawkers, mainly selling World Cup 'merchandise'. The tin shed homes and piled on top of each other, many without electricity and heaven knows what they do for water and sanitation. But the flash cars speed past and ignore them as if passing a pile of rubble.

Once out of Cape Town, a cliff-hugging road has been built most of the way along the coast, and the scenery is so good that we stop many times just to take it all in. Hermanus is supposed to be the best place in the world to watch whales from land (isn't that Hervey Bay?), and as soon as we arrive, we see a whale floating languidly about 100 metres out. It does little more than come up for air and bob down again, unwilling to entertain the tourists.

South Africans are very disappointed by their 3-0 loss to Argentina, and feel robbed by the penalty and sending off. The loss by Spain to Switzerland is also a big talking point, but Argentina (my tip for the Cup) look good.

Enough from me. Debbie is on her third big trip so far in 2010, and had previously written a blog in Europe and New Zealand. So I'll add hers next for a change of scenery.

Day 8: Scammed at Stellenboch

We hire a car for a couple of days to look around the wine country of Stellenboch and Franschhoek. The Avis lady warns us not to drive at night, and the advice of Therese from work that we should not stop at red lights after dark does not fill me with confidence.

Then at Stellenboch, I am scammed.

My first mistake was using an ATM on the street. I'd read you should only use ATMs inside a bank, but as it is a public holiday, I assumed the banks would be closed, and I was running out of cash. I also saw a group of Europeans use the ATM so thought it would be fine. I put my card in, covered my hand and did the transaction as usual. As my card was returned to me, a well-dressed black man was suddenly standing right next to me.

"You haven't closed your account properly," he said.

"What do you mean. I've finished," I said.

"No, you must make sure your account is closed. It's extra security for the World Cup."

Could that be true? I looked at the screen, was my account still open? He offered to show me how to fix it if I gave him my card.

"Move back, you're scamming me," I said, but I was not totally sure. He was well spoken, and I wondered if he was trying to help.

"Put you card back in to close it properly," he said, again wanting my card.

Then I made my second mistake. I told him to move well away, and I would check myself. So I put my card back in, and as I began to put the PIN in again, there was a young women standing immediately on the other side. "Move back," I said. I looked around, and there were at least half a dozen people watching. Was I holding everybody up, or was this a scammy family? The young woman refused to move away, she was looking for my PIN.

Then a white South African joined the queue, and as I looked around, he said, "Are you OK?" And he shouted to the others, "Move back, he's European, you're worrying him." Darn right there.

And they all disappeared in a moment. They were all in on the scam. He explained that most likely they would try to switch my card if I allowed him to grab it, and then the girl would see me try to input the PIN. They would have both card and PIN, and then go around the corner and draw up to the limit.

He said they were Nigerians, and suggested I draw my card to its daily limit to prevent further use. He also said he hated the fact that visitors are treated this way when his country is hosting them. But I'd also been told to carry a minimum amount of cash, and I did not like a stranger knowing I was carrying R7,000 in cash.

So I immediately rang CBA and stopped the card. As I write this, I have no idea whether my account has been emptied. I know they did not get my card, but did they have a magnetic reader for the card number, and did the girl see my PIN. I'll find out soon enough, but I felt foolish for disobeying one of the basic safety instructions.

But both Debbie and I are feeling a little drained by the need to be perpetually on guard, and although we have been going out after dark each night, we do so very cautiously. Some people who are travelling alone do not leave the hotel at night - it's a bit like living in the movie Avatar, where those skinny wild dogs come out at night. Only in SA, the dogs make the perpetual sound of a vuvuzela.

We hit the road and the scenery is stunning, with a heavy concentration of vineyards. Outside Franschhoek, there is a pass of winding bends through a mountain range, and at times the road is build out from the cliffs and seems to hang in the air. And as at Cape Point, there are baboons at the side of the road, although they do not seem interested in coming close.

Back in Cape Town, we head out to a Malay restaurant (braving the wild dogs after dark), recommended by our tour guide from the day before, and the food is fine without being legendary. As we walk back, crowds are on the street, anticipating the South Afrrican game due to start in a couple of hours. We drop by the Fan Zone, but it is already packed to capacity, with police horses pushing back the crowd and stopping more people entering.

Powderfinger's Final Overseas Concert

We met up with Gideon from work, and had a bite to eat before the Powderfinger concert. Our daughter, Elana, is annoyed her old folks are going to a Powderfinger concert at the end of the road where they are staying, in front of a few hundred people in a small club, while she has to wait until the end of the year and sit among 10,000. So we made a little sign for her, hoping she will forgive us intruding in her music space. And thanks to Elana's music being around the house, we even knew many of the songs.

Gideon is visiting family in SA, after a couple of weeks in the States. He left SA in 1987, three years before apartheid ended, when he was only six years old. So he does not recall much from the early days, although enough to know Australia is home.

So anyway, Elana, G'Day from Powderfinger. You'll love them when you finally see them with 9,999 of your closest friends.

Day 7: Where Two Oceans Meet

This morning, we are booked on a tour to Robben Island, a 30 minute ferry ride off Cape Town, to see where Mandela was imprisoned. But the seas are so rough that it has been cancelled.

Instead, we take a tour to the Cape of Good Hope, which is supposedly the spot where the Atlantic Ocean meets the Indian Ocean, but the tour host tells us that is actually 300km along the coast. But it's a picturesque spot, with warm currents from the Indian Ocean mixing with the cold water coming from the south. Either side of the tip of the cape, they say the water temperature can vary by 5-10 degrees.

The peninsula is rich in wildlife, with ostriches and penguins near the road. The ostriches are farmed for their meat, eggs, leather and feathers, but for some reason, I've never seen penguin on a menu. There is a major problem, however, with baboons, which steal food from humans, and the big males are especially aggressive. Our host describes how he saw a carload of Japanese leave their car to take photos of a baby baboon, and within moments, a large male jumped into the car and proceeded to tear into everything inside, looking for food. Anyone who lives in the area must keep doors and windows locked, or they will be 'robbed'.

Along the coast, we are shown homes closer to Cape Town which sell for over R20 million. Many of these were acquired during apartheid, which ended only 20 years ago, when the wealthy areas were reserved for whites only. The tour host tells us that now there is only one criteria for living there: money. He is a 'Cape Malay', descended from slaves brought to SA from southern Asia, including Indonesia and Malaysia. During apartheid, everyone was divided into four groups: whites, coloureds (brown), Indian and black. There were priorities in education, housing and jobs among the four groups, whites first, blacks last. And so the blacks remained poor because they were not well educated.

With apartheid put aside, the SA Government is trying to build homes for blacks, and provide better schools, but there is a lot of catching up to do. Even this Cape Malay man admired how much progress has been made in 20 years, and would never have believed his country could host the World Cup. He thought it was an amazing opportunity for greater unity, and to prove to the nation could deliver such an event.

Tonight we are seeing Powderfinger for their final overseas concert, and supposedly mixing with them in the bar before the event.