World Cup fever has finally hit Cape Town. We may be a little slower than the rest of the country, and I’m sure there are still a few Fuck Fifa parties being held in the odd dungeon around the city, but for everyone else, there’s a pulse not unlike 1994.
Except, in 1994 it was the then white suburbs stockpiling baked beans, and the townships partying up a storm. Now, the slightly-more integrated suburbs have got in on the act too, even slow-dancing to the odd vuvezula, while the townships, well, they’re still partying up a storm.
Working in Philippi this evening it sounded like I was in the stands at a game – a cacophony of vuvuzelas that tripled in volume as darkness fell. Actually louder, considering that the stands usually contain only 5000 people, unless Chiefs or Pirates are playing. Back on the N2, there were signs all along the highway saying “Parade full – avoid area”. It was too late – I was already in the traffic jam.
Cape Town is at last partying like there’s no tomorrow. And there may not be. The opening sees 83rd-ranked Bafana play 17th-ranked Mexico. Yes, yes, we’re the miracle rainbow nation, and the coach is a miracle worker having taken a group who couldn’t score a goal if it was as wide as FIFA’s bank balance on an unbeaten 12-match streak, but still. The hangover could be nasty.