A Celebration of Diversity!
Tue, 01 Jun 2010 00:00I was one of the lucky ones to get tickets for the Super 14 final at Orlando stadium in Soweto this last weekend and went with a small group of friends, my first ever Soweto visit, I confess.
Each bus would have had its clown. Ours, brandy and Coke in hand, blue bull horns on head, got a good laugh as we entered Soweto with his, "Stop die bus, daar's my trok ... en my radio!", and then brought the house down as we passed Soccer City (which for those who haven't seen it, has a dappled tile look with the dark tiles looking like holes in the side of the stadium) with his, "They can't even leave the stadium alone - check, half of it's gone already!"
We arrived at the stadium early and wanted to see something of Soweto and go to the famous Wandie's Place for lunch. A local explained that there were three signs for a taxi: index finger down is for local, finger up for Johannesburg, finger sideways for Baragwanath Hospital (how telling is that). We duly gave the finger down signal and clambered into the next taxi, full of bemused locals. One of them, a junior soccer player for Orlando Pirates, introduced himself and said that he would show us where to go, pointing out the Hector Pieterson Memorial Museum, the famous Vilakazi Street and Winnie Mandela's house along the way. The 45-minute trip cost R5.50 for each passenger - I would guess 100th of what the same trip in London today would cost.
Makgetha, the Pirates soccer player, got out with us near Wandie's, walked us there and posed for cellphone pictures with us and some young local kids under the famous sign. The youngsters were fascinated at their pictures, exclaiming excitedly. We met Wandie in his kitchen, helped ourselves at the most exquisite buffet of local fare, including morogo and other delicious veggies, tripe, samp with mixed beans ('umqushu' Makgetha spelled out), phutu pap and sauce, lightly curried chicken, dumplings and lamb. One of our group, who had been out with a famous Indian cricketer, showed us how to eat with bare fingers and make no mess. Makgetha sat with us chatting, we pointing out Ferdie of Big Brother fame, he pointing out Irvin Khoza's wife.
Time to go and Makgetha and I exchanged cell numbers while he walked us to find a taxi. I commented about the lack of fences and security around the open houses, the kids playing in the streets. "There's no crime," he explained. "The police here shoot to kill." We bade our farewells, he promising to watch his first ever game of rugby.
The crowds were by now building for the big game, but Linda, our taxi driver, covered the 90-minute trip in 15 minutes flat. We jumped stop streets and robots, passed cars left and right, rode on the pavement and even on the wrong side of the road into oncoming traffic, all the while the music going, Linda smiling and blowing the hooter, at nothing and nobody in particular. We sat in the front, and after the first hair-raising minute just went with the flow and loved every minute of the ride. Only a police roadblock stopped Linda from dropping us right outside the stadium entrance gate, and he even tried to get through that ( I'd love to know what he was saying to the five intrigued policewomen!) It is what it is and Linda works 14-hour days doing what he knows best in order to earn a living. And I know that I will never again swear at a taxi driver passing me on the kerb or pulling in front of me in traffic and I can't really explain why, other than just having been there and now understanding and accepting it.
Thirsty again, we entered the grounds of an enterprising local who had set up six large fridges in her garage to cater for the crowds. An hour before the game, she had run out of stock. We stopped and listened to the band on stage at the entrance gate, clad in cowboy hats and boots, belting out their delicious mix of boeremusiek and old classics. The youngest in our party, in late 20s, originally from Portugal and with little understanding of Afrikaans, sang along word for word to 'Kaptein' and 'Die Blou Bul', but didn't recognise Neil Diamond's 'Sweet Caroline' as the older generation jigged along happily ....
The organisation was slick, the queues fast-moving. We were soon inside, to my left a Bulls supporter in full regalia getting the hang of how to blow a vuvuzela, in front of me a well-dressed black man at what looked like his first live rugby game. The phone rang. It was Makgetha to check that we'd arrived safely and to say that he was ready in front of his TV. There was bedlam in the stadium as the teams ran onto the field, Steve Hofmeyr's iconic song being drowned out by the blasting vuvuzelas. Pierre Spies got the ball early in the game. The man in front looked bemused at the 'Spiiiieeeees' chant from the crowd that greeted his progress upfield. Near the end of the game I couldn't help but notice his happy growl of 'Spiiiieeeees' at yet another Spies incursion into Stormers territory.
And then it was over. The phone beeped the arrival of an SMS. It was Makgetha. "Enjoyed the game! Go Bulls!" it exclaimed.
What an experience. What a privilege. What a place to be.
