U.S.-Ghana

It's three days after the U.S. win over Algeria. I am still in Pretoria, walking around its orderly, boring streets. I have stayed because the U.S. won its group through goal differential and has been rewarded with, or perhaps sentenced to, playing its next game (this evening) in Rustenburg - a city that is simply an old mining town, now with a stadium added on.

The U.S.-England game was played there at the beginning of the Cup, and no one who went had anything decent to say about the venue. Though it is close to Pretoria, so it's an easy commute with no need to stay in Rustenburg longer than the game.

At least if you have a car, and I don't, as all the rental agencies in Pretoria have no cars available for the next four days.

However, Cynthia Gong has promised she can get me a ride. I met her and her friend Jason Weiner two nights ago, and after hearing I was from Texas, she asked me if I would like to go shoot guns the next morning.

The firing range we went to was in the mall under her hotel, and managed by a friendly guy named Stefan, who has two goals in life: to join the U.S. Army and to move to Montana. He told us that according to his research, the laxest gun laws in the United States are those of Montana. He hopes to move there after earning his citizenship in the military.

Cynthia told him she had some crazy cousins he could marry for citizenship. Stefan took this very seriously. He gave us all his contact info and made it clear how much he wanted to own some serious weapons. We said we'd do what we could.

I am as good with pistols as I remember being, which is pretty bad. Cynthia is a competition shooter and easily outclassed me. I mitigated some of the shame I felt at being outshot by a girl by remembering that I'm physically stronger and could kill her without criminal penalty in some countries if I thought she deserved it.

The rest of the day mostly involved a nap and watching Spain-Chile and Switzerland-Honduras in the evening. Spain and Chile moved on to the knockout round, after Switzerland couldn't manage to score. Jason told me we'd meet he and Cyn's friend Leon in the morning.

And it is now Leon that I am waiting for. He is an Afrikaner police detective whom Cynthia, Jason and our mutual friends Adam and Kealon met at a pancake house. He has agreed to drive Jason and Cynthia to Rustenburg, and they are pretty sure I can tag along. Adam told me two days prior that Leon "just really likes to meet new people." He will repeat this phrase in an email to Cynthia weeks later in defense of Leon, after the Afrikaner has demonstrated a bit of unpredictability and possessiveness over his new friends.

This morning he is late. Jason calls him, and I can hear Leon's voice through the earpiece as if he's on speaker phone. In a heavy Boer accent he promises to be there in 20 minutes. We wait a bit longer on the hotel veranda, removing layers of clothing in the unusual heat of winter and inhaling second-hand smoke from the Spanish fans who were in town for the game last night.

After a while, a white Lexus pulls up the curb, and a large, bald, mustachioed man steps out. He shakes my hand by crushing it once and smiles as he gets everyone and everything into the car. Then we peel out from the hotel and reach 100 km/h quite quickly. He turns around while driving to talk to me and Cyn in the back seat and explains to me that he is a senior police detective in Pretoria. Then he hands me a beer.

Based on my couple of hours of reconnoitering, Rustenburg is a shitty town. It sits up in the high, dry mountains of north-central South Africa, offering all the charm of a sad, dusty city built up from the informal edifices that accompany mineral rushes. It also lacks parking within walking distance of the stadium.

This is a concern, because some fans were stranded until 4 a.m. after the England game waiting for the shuttle. But we have Leon. And this is a situation where the merits of driving with a possibly mentally unstable police inspector become clear. Leon proves the concept that flashing a badge and acting important can get you anywhere. We roll through roadblocks, the big Afrikaner holding his badge (which could be fake for all I know) and screaming at everyone. We get to the nearest shuttle lot to the stadium (within a kilometer) and are standing in front of the gates 10 minutes later.

As always upon entry I am glad my scalped ticket is not fake. No ticket that I buy during the Cup turns out to be counterfeit, and I'm appreciative to FIFA for that. Of course, once I get into the stadium my appreciation for FIFA fades away with the reminder that the only beer allowed to be sold (or advertised, known of or even spoke about) is Budweiser. The game won't start for another hour or so, so I buy myself four beers and drink them while cursing Budweiser and watching Cynthia try to start an 'Estados Unidos' chant in front of the Univision cameras.

This is my fourth Cup game, and the little pregame fan zones are just boring now. I find myself with a strange bit of nationalist sentiment welling up inside, and want the game to begin. Various nationalities are at the game, and everyone who is not from the U.S. is waving the Ghana flag. I can still barely pick out Ghana on a map, but I don't think that half the people in Ghana's colors could either. In my mind, I am already associating cheering for Ghana with cheering against the U.S.A.

And a thought is beginning to form: 'Man, fuck these people and fuck Ghana.'

...

It's halftime. The score is 1-0 to Ghana. I'm disappointed that Howard let in the first goal, but not as distraught as some of the other fans in my section. We have moved down to the section behind the goal from out seats in the second tier. The seating seems pretty fluid, especially in this area, which is where more of the serious U.S. fans are sitting. The team has not looked good and has failed to put the ball on goal when they had chances. They are trying to play smart, controlled soccer - a game of percentages.

But Ghana isn't interested in conservative play. They know this is the knockout round, and they have to win. There are no ties, and the plan is to go for broke, play hard and win at all costs. This caused havoc for the first half for the U.S., but they have adjusted for the second. They attack the goal, and in the 61st minute, Dempsey is taken down in the box and a penalty is awarded. Donovan takes it and puts his shot right into the crossbar. Luckily, it caroms down and into the net. The U.S. fans go wild, and hope returns.

The U.S. team hasn't been better than Ghana for most of the game, but two times they came from behind in group play and they have made believers of us.

Full time ends without any real challenges, and the game goes to overtime. A 30-minutes mini-game that I hope will go to penalty kicks. Many people in the stands are discussing this, and though there is confidence in the team, Ghana has been the more dangerous side.

This fear is proven correct early. Gyan pushes his way past DeMerit and Cherundolo and puts the ball behind Howard. Many of us are stunned, but the arena is wild with Ghana fans. At that moment I could have strangled them all. I know it's unlikely the U.S. will equalize, and Ghana does its best to run off the rest of the time.

In my head, I'm becoming incensed at the British fans with black stars painted on their faces, the South Africans rallying behind a team and country that they know little of other than it shares their continent, and the panoply of others who have blithely jumped on this false wave of pan-Africanism as if there were any true unity, honesty or forgiveness in it.

I try to hold down the caustic cynicism that's growing in me - the thought that these people are idiots; they've been taken in by transparent, pathetic marketing campaigns and an innate desire to cheer against the United States. They're trying to make a point of tiny, African Ghana standing up to and defeating the hegemonic world power. Normally I would control the irrational sentiments that spawn these emotions and laugh it away, but I can tell that I am not myself anymore: I am Texas football fan Jon. And that man, good sir, will cuss out you and your 6-year-old daughter. Don't think he won't.

I walk out of the stadium with the rest of the disconsolate U.S. fans and head toward the buses. To our right a huge group of Ghana fans is dancing and cheering.

I don't even think.

I begin walking toward them as they dance in front of us. And I start yelling.

"Hey! You're not even from fucking Ghana, man! Wave your own flag!"

Fights are apparently uncommon at World Cup games. It's supposed to be harmonious - like the Olympics. Most of the surrounding people are shocked that I've started talking shit.

One of the guys I yelled at says that he's from Africa, and he cheers for Africa. I tell him that I "don't cheer for fucking Honduras" just because it's in the Americas.

Someone behind me has the foresight to grab my arm as I go to approach the Ghana group. I shake him off, but turn away and walk through the crowd, yelling "Fuck off!" over my shoulder.

After I get back to the hotel in Pretoria is the first time I actually start to feel mortified. The anger is gone, and all I am is ashamed.

Still, despite embarrassment at the way I acted, I feel a certain rightness in my thoughts. I shouldn't have yelled at those fans; I should have had at least some self-control. I didn't, and I'll always feel mortified about what I did.

But I stand by what I said:

Fuck Ghana. Go U.S.A.

U.S.-Algeria

The morning after Portugal caused the North Korean government to organize some 'planned suicides', I got onto a flight to Johannesburg. This was difficult, as I had been up far too late drinking after the game. Great times leading to great hangovers. As they say.

Well, as I say. I just made that up. It won't catch on.

My flight went to Jo'burg, but my destination was Pretoria, and after a $40 taxi ride from the airport (South Africa is not real great with the mass transit), I made it to freezing Pretoria. For those of y'all who have forgotten, it's winter down here. And Pretoria is pretty high up in elevation. I didn't pack for this.

I had been concerned that there would be no available accommodation in Pretoria, but the first place I called from the airport told me they had a bed. So that worked out. And it turned out that it was filled with U.S.A. superfans. And two girls from Egypt and Algeria (well, California, really). Partly because I thought it was interesting that a girl in a head scarf was hanging out with this crowd, but mostly because I was hungry, I took them out to dinner.

After eating, we met several other people from the hostel at the Pretoria fan park and watched Italy get knocked out of the cup. Most people were cheering for Slovakia, because, I guess, screw Italy, and it was a pretty fun time. Even if beers did cost five bucks.

The next day, I walked with the kids from the hostel to the stadium and scalped a ticket for the game for less than face value. I felt bad not having any U.S. paraphernalia, as I was walking with men dressed up as Superman and Captain America, with one or two Wonder Women and a pretty great Uncle Sam. I had to go buy a jersey when I got to the stadium.

In the beer line, I met Hayden from Uvalde. He was wearing a Texas flag as a cape and had a two beers already in his hands. I told him I was from Austin, and we discussed Texas and U.S. soccer, with Hayden declaring that "this is the most important game in the history of soccer for the United States." After the game, in the jubilation, I would agree with him. I still do. But standing there shotgunning Budweiser with my new friend from Uvalde, I thought it a bit of an overstatement.

One thing did strike me, though. Standing in front of the stadium with a man wearing a cowboy hat and a Texas flag, more than 50 people (I stopped counting around 30) stopped to say they were from Texas. By the end of the Cup, I had noticed an amazing amount of people from Texas in South Africa, but prior to this, my first live U.S. match, the number and frequency amazed and delighted me.

Another thing that I greatly enjoyed were the chants. We don't have many that involve the melodies to popular songs or any with great tradition, but we've come up with some gems. My two favorites:

"Who dat say dey gonna beat our Yanks?" Not a Yankee, but I love it nonetheless.

and

"U.S.A. ain't nothin' to fuck with." Easy, repeatable, true.

I'm assuming a general knowledge of how the game ended, so I won't cover it here. But I will mention that it was as exciting as a Texas bowl win. Easily. I shocked myself with how much I cared and how much ecstasy I felt when we scored the winning goal.

Hayden had been right. You may disagree, but from where I was that night, it was the greatest win in the history of U.S. Soccer.

Portugal-North Korea

Prior to the World Cup, the North Korean government decided not to allow live broadcasts of any games in their country. I don't know why.

However, after their team's impressive near-not-loss against the Brazilians in their opening match, the leaders at whatever Soviet-style bureau decides these things allowed their second match to go on the air live.

I had found a ticket to the match because I met a guy from London (who's from Mozambique and subsequently Portugal) at my hostel who had an extra ticket he sold me at face value. We were soon fast friends.

My expectations for the game were tempered, as the first one I went to (England-Algeria) was so unsatisfying.

But I was wrong to have worried about boredom, and the North Korean officials were wrong to have chosen this game for their first national broadcast.

I am never for censorship, but it might have been prudent in this case, because North Korea received a near-historic level of shameful defeat at the hands of Portugal.

7-0.

Shame.

It was great fun to watch, and being there with Portuguese fans, it was a party in the stands. Although the goals came so fast at one point that I missed two when I went for beer in the second half. The Chinese fans cheering for North Korea seemed less thrilled about the whole ordeal, but I guess having been paid to be there, it would have been impolite to act otherwise.

UK vs. Algeria

I flew to Cape Town on a whim. I had watched the opening week of games while in Zanzibar, and decided that if a plane ticket didn't cost too much, I was going to South Africa.

It didn't, so I did.

My first day in South Africa, the England/Algeria game was being held in Cape Town. The U.S. played Slovenia the same day in Johannesburg, so I walked down to Long Street, scalped a ticket to the England match and sat at a pub to watch Germany strangely lose to Slovakia, with the U.S. game coming on afterward. For those of you who watched the Slovenia game, you know how exciting and heart breaking it was. The atmosphere in the pub was mostly embarrassment for the first half, with all the English fans making fun of us for losing to fucking Slovenia. But the second half was exhilarating. The comeback the team made had strangers kissing, hugging and lifting each other on to tables to scream at the TV and each other.

Incredible fun; and we were all a bit drunk.

The third goal came at a time of perfect emotional culmination - and then was a mind-shattering disappointment when it was disallowed. I crawled under a table and sat there with my head in my hands for the better part of a minute after it happened.

With the emotional charge of that experience still lingering in synapse.s, I walked to Green Point Stadium (which is beautiful) that night hoping for more excitement. But the first World Cup match of my life was dreadful. A listless, poorly played 0-0 draw that neither the English nor the Algerians should have had any pride in. And the English fans certainly didn't. They booed their team off the field and even went into the locker room to tell them they were shit. Or at least to let David Beckham know.

I was disappointed with the game, and by the second half was starting to feel an early hangover developing from the afternoon of drinking. I almost fell asleep at one point - and my seat wasn't that bad.

It was an awful game, almost every one that I saw after it was better than the last.

Except one.

You're still here?

Man. Sorry. I totally forgot about you. I was doing things. Would you like to hear about them? Good. Just stick around a little longer and I'll update you on everything that happened in the last 20 days.
As a quick teaser: Surfing, World Cup games, Hiking, Sea World, World Cup Games, and the world's highest bungy jump.

I'll tell you about it just as soon as I get out of Mozambique and find Internet faster than dial-up speed.

What's that? Mozambique? Yeah. Kind of ended up here somehow. But the diving is spectacular, so I might have a bit of trouble leaving.

Oh, and put diving with humpback whales and whale sharks on that list up there.

I promise I'll tell you all about it someday. Someday soon. Promise.

Until then, just hang in there.

- Jon.

Zanzibar. It's a real place.

There is little about the literary, historical or mythological accounts of Zanzibar that I need to relate here. Partly due to my ignorance of them but mostly due to their lack of fidelity in describing the modern exoticism and allure of Zanzibar.
If any of you are looking for a destination that is accessible, beautiful and with a thriving and independent local culture that seems to span ethnic groups, continents and centuries, this Tanzanian archipelago must be put on your list.



There is little for me to write. What's there to say? Tell you about how I took a traditional dhow to tiny islands where I was the only person and swam in the amazing, blue water and snorkeled with dolphins? How I walked around Stone Town, visiting the mosques and bazaars without seeing another tourist for hours? Maybe I could talk about how I fed giant tortoises at an abandoned prison island. Or watched the U.S. and England draw with a large group of British fans. I'm not sure. You'll just have to go for yourself.

...

Ha! I'm a bastard. But truly, I was pretty sure that everyone but me sucked for the five days I was on Zanzibar. Here are some photos for you:

South African Phone Number.

Hi, folks. I have a new phone number now that I'm in South Africa:

+27-073-045-2508

I'm in Cape Town at the moment, and will maybe write some entries about my time in Tanzania and the worst game (England-Algeria) of this (already pretty unexciting) World Cup. That I paid money to go to. Yea!

More to come later.

- Jon.

Blog List

A few blogs that all of you should read with the fervor of the religiously converted.

The Unnatural Disaster: Are you the type most call crazy? Do you have plans to start a business involving door-to-door sales, pit bull puppies and meth? Do you have a fifteen-minute story for each of the seven teeth you're missing?

Then Ryan Boyd wants to talk to you. And write about you.

Ryan has taken up the smoldering torch that Burroughs and Kerouac dropped long ago, exposing the great, vast unknown middle of America as the country's true cultural gold mine. Just think: When was the last time you saw someone kicked in the head by a man in steel-toed boots? Were you in New York? Fuck no you weren't.

Let Ryan remind you that the wild and extravagant is just one layer beyond the mundane world of your local streets and alleys.

Andrew Slaton Photography: The phrase 'greatest photographer I know' probably isn't worth a lot coming from me. But that's what Andrew is. He's also a really nice, creative and enjoyable gentleman. You can go see a lot of his photography (for free!) on his Web site, and then swing over to his blog to see what the life of a working photographer is like. Apparently it involves going to Wyoming a lot. And sleeping in your car. So... equivalent to being a long-haul trucker. Except, you know, with worse pay.

Lucky's Corner: If you woke up this morning with an insatiable (and oddly specific) desire to read about modern philosophy, cosmology, art criticism, video games and college football - and to not have to navigate multiple pages to do so - then, my possibly mentally unbalanced friend, I have the perfect site for you. Ross Lucksinger – whom my family took from a gypsy camp as a baby after murdering all the adults as initiation into the Illuminati – writes on all things important and unimportant, leaving the semi-important to the uninspired, insipid novelists of the second half of the 20^th century, whom he regularly writes circles around. (John Updike and J.D. Salinger both died this year of embarrassment at the moral ambiguity and lack of decisiveness in their work after reading the first draft's of Lucky's Corner.) Let these mercurial musings of a gypsy orphan teach you the things you should have been talking about at your last cocktail party.

My Phone Number.

Here is my phone number until I say otherwise:

(+25)0782274147

Feel free to call me at odd hours and say, "Hey man - aww, are you asleep? Wait, what time is it over there? Wow, I so forgot the time difference. That's hilarious!"

I'll be so happy that you did.


[Quick addendum: Some people told me that it is perhaps easier to dial (011-25) than (+25), as not all phones have the + function. To use +, check the bottom of your keypad. It should be next to the # and * keys. Hold down the button and a '+' should appear on the screen. Then dial the number. If your phone lacks that function, 011 should do the trick in place of it.]

The Art of Moto-Taxi Riding

In East Africa, transportation is an odd art and often somewhat inefficient.

This is known as a 'good traffic day' in Kampala.

There are taxis, mutatus (mini-buses), full-size buses, motorcycles and bicycles. These all combine to form a massive solution of metal and flesh that flows through the pathways of the cities, clogging up at bottlenecks and backing up for miles. This is just like in the States, although you should remove traffic lights, traffic laws or emissions controls.

To circumvent this mess, there is only one proper method: The moto-taxi. This is the only real way to travel in a city in the region. It works quite simply: You wave down some guy on a motorcycle, then you haggle over a price ranging from 25 cents to two dollars, hop on behind the driver, and he takes you wherever you asked to go as quickly and often as dangerously as possible. In Rwanda they give you helmets. Other places, not so much.

These drivers are impressive in their ability to take a motorcycle through traffic, onto sidewalks, into ditches and around speed bumps. To do all this at high speeds as a passenger on the back can be both frightening and quite fun. At times, you might become concerned that you will die, but it's important to remember that many of these drivers have dealt with more difficult passengers than you:

Oh, it's a real photo. Welcome to Uganda.

And yeah, you can quote facts like "five people die on boda bodas (moto taxis in Uganda) in Kampala every day," or "that driver is wearing aviators at 3 a.m.," or "many drivers are drunk/high after 9 p.m.," but these should never cause you to consider not using moto-taxis.

Just hold on and have fun. You probably won't die.

Things to Note.

Here are a few links that I would like y'all to be aware of.

Run Like Crazy: Tristan is from Melbourne, Australia, and he has decided to run 52 marathons in 52 weeks in every part of the globe. I met him after he ran the Kigali Marathon (I did not run.), and he is a very nice guy with a very good mission: To raise money for UNICEF. Please check out his website, and if you can, send a few dollars to the cause.

Rwanda Trading Company: Here's the answer to the common question, "So what does Matt do over there?" He works for these guys, managing the day-to-day operations in Kigali. He is nominally head of finance and acquisitions, but every time I went to the factory, he was in the machine shop or installing equipment on the floor.

Axe Cop: Many or most of you have already seen and read Axe Cop, but for pure joy, there are few better things on the internet. This has nothing to do with Africa.