What I expected to be an ordinary interview as a volunteer for SA’s FIFA Confederations Cup 2009 turned into a mouthwatering drink from a cultural melting pot – yes, the one that makes South Africans the unique bunch they are. Our anticipated visitor will experience a new level of humanity (or lack thereof) and interesting social relations during both the FIFA Confederations Cup this year and the 2010 World Cup next year.
This is how it went down:
5:30 — I’m in a taxi to town, where I will then catch another taxi to Rustenburg. Mind you that my interview is only at 1:00 pm. But because Madam Speaker insisted, I obliged.
6:55 — I arrive in town, but instead of taking a taxi, I decide to go for a lift. Anyone who knows the brawls that usually arise between taxi drivers and the “lift industry” would argue at this point that my decision was utterly reckless.
7:00 — I get a lift, together with three other people, but the one lady decides to give it a pass because she was waiting for her companion, who at that time had been chased away by a traffic officer because he had parked in a “no-stopping” zone.
8:30 — I get to Rustenburg town. A friend of mine told me 45 minutes ago that I would find him there. He was nowhere to be found. By a stroke of fate, I meet “Elvis”. Now, Elvis is from Nigeria and he is also going for the same interview. Elvis arrived from Johannesburg at about 7am, but he is yet to find the venue for the interviews. To make matters worse, his interview is scheduled for 9am (i.e. in less than 30 minutes).
8:45 — Here I was, accompanying a stranger, “Elvis”, to go find a taxi. To get to the taxi rank we had to go through a very busy, very crowded and very noisy market place. For Elvis — who does not even speak the local language (Tswana) and only spoke to me in English — this was the last place to be around if you are looking for directions.
8:55 — Elvis is “sorted” and now I’m back on the waiting game with my friend. In retrospect, he still needs to be late for at least another hour. Guess what, his nickname is “Half-Dead”.
9:00 — I get into KFC; buy a bit food so I could at least keep busy while waiting for Half-Dead. Right opposite my table there was a couple with their two small children. Whereas it is not unusual to come across a family dinning in a restaurant, this was different because it projected a very unique social dynamic within an average black family. This sort of occasion usually happens once a month when either or both the parents gets paid. Going to KFC becomes something for the little kids to brag about when they meet their peers (remember the advert where one kid says she went to KFC and the next in the line couldn’t top it?).
As time progresses KFC becomes very eventful. Firstly, the toilet inside the store is not only reserved for patrons, but it is used as a public toilet. Secondly, this very drunk man comes to me and asks for a “bite”– small sip — from my cold drink. I indulge his request in an extra glass, but now he goes on to ask for a “bite” from my chicken, which I refused. I felt a little bad because it was clear that he was hungry and hadn’t had any sleep, but who knows what was next on his request list? Besides, it is also part of African custom that one should never deny a fellow human being something to eat when they ask.
A couple of minutes later another man walked past the “family’ on my side on his way to the toilet. His mistake was to tickle one of the kids (the little girl) as he went past. “O e etse gape ke a go go raga!” (“You do it again, I will kick your ass”), said a furious looking father as the man walked into the toilet and closed the door.
I could also mention that the KFC manager was a white man and that he spoke fluent Tswana. But that is not really news anymore, is it? Is there still any white person who can’t speak vernacular? Maybe an uninterested few, but for the many others, I say thanks to BBBEEE!
10:00 — Half-Dead and his “madam” arrive.
10:30 — Half-Dead and I arrive at the Rustenburg Civic Centre where the interviews were being held. Whereas the directions outside were visible and well posted, the place was in need of a floor manager. This would have been the person who could have directed the interviewees to the “unmarked” table where they were supposed to get recorded, instead of letting individuals figure out the procedure on their own.
13:00 — It’s my turn for the interview. I’m allocated to two “very nice” gentlemen. This was also another unexpected experience, which mainly showcased the difference between approaches. Some people would say your’s truly needs to be just a little bit humble. But then again, does anyone with a journalistic bone know the meaning of humility? Maybe I allowed my “journalistic instincts” to be more dominant. By that, I’m referring to the tendencies to become “provocative” and to present “the bigger picture”. Don’t get me wrong here. The interview went much better than I expected. Both Gilroy Tlou and Theo Molotsi were indeed skilled in their craft.
14:00 — The interview is over, but here’s where you come in. If you all — including the atheists — pray hard (very hard) and I make it, you will get a minute by minute (just to exaggerate) blow of “a day in the life of a 2009 FIFA Confederations Cup volunteer”. We hear a lot about how 2010 will leave a legacy. Volunteering provides an opportunity for mass participation as envisioned by the organisers. It could be important to document and measure this “legacy” from the perspective of a volunteer. Did I also mention that it might also include the “behind-the-scenes” juicy stuff? Who knows? But then again, if I don’t, well, too bad.
14:30 — Now I’m in dire need to de-stress and there was Lollie’s Bar on my left. Had the service been better, I probably wouldn’t have noticed that I and Half-Dead were the only two dark spots on the white cloth. Waiting for service and being ignored for at least 10 minutes, with Bruce Springsteen screaming loud enough to outdo his guitar, is by no chance a mean feat. And if poor Bruce was to really make his mark, he also had to outdo the “vuvuuzela blast” conducted by crowds of soccer fanatics who were passing by the road en route to Olympia stadium for a match between Kaizer Chiefs and Maritzburg United.
Anyway, the main event at Lollie’s was actually not the unpalatable stuff, but another encounter with a family, albeit this time around, a white family. Mommy was enjoying a Brutal Fruit, sitting at a table right next to the pool, while Daddy was in the pool with two young girls and a small boy. The girls were playing in the water and Daddy was teaching the young man how to swim. Can you spot the difference?
My point of departure with this piece is that this — and many more — is who “we” are. This is who “you” are and this is who “I” am. Why not sell ourselves to the world as we are? Anyone for a walk in my shoes?
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