Upon entering the airport, practically every wall and floor
is covered with World Cup sponsors and branding. It’s quite amazing to see, and
it’s the first impression that the World Cup Organizing Committee is going
after, I think.
Customs is very straightforward. I show my FIFA
accreditation letter and my passport, and I’m on my way to collect my bags. One
interesting thing about passing customs is that some type of infrared machine
must first scan you. Called “FevIR,” it apparently detects if you have a fever
so they can quarantine you in case you have some sort of disease (swine flu, SARS, yellow fever, whatever).
I take my bag and see Dean at the baggage carousel, who
gives both his mobile number and his daughter’s home phone number to me in case of any emergency. I
doubt that Americans would do the same for some random foreigner, so +1 for
South Africans. I step through another set of doors and find myself in a pseudo-lobby
between the outside world and the secured airport world. There are a few
currency exchange places, and I convert my remaining American currency into
South African Rand ($1 U.S. is roughly equivalent to 7.50R). I get slightly screwed on the conversion to Rand, but I'm thankful that I had already exchanged $250 worth of currency before leaving (which makes me feel super-rich, as that's the equivalent of about 1,700R).
(The nicest airport I have ever been in)
I walk through another set of doors and find myself in a
giant atrium, with tons of people lined up against a metal railing, most of them
drivers, with various names scrawled on various boards, papers, and pieces of cardboard.
I wander around the massive arrivals hall, where they have
tons of shops and food places. My first stop is at the MTN store, where I
purchase a pay-as-you-go cell phone for 119R ($15.36), and some airtime, which
is billed by the second. The airtime
at its most expensive rate is 2.89R ($0.38) per minute, but since it is broken
down by the second, so I guess I save a lot of money in unused airtime.
Before I got my phone, a slick taxi driver tried to sell me his crappy phone for 500R at the
entrance to the store, but when I realized that he wasn’t anyone associated
with the cell phone store, I pushed passed him and saved nearly 400R and got a
legitimate phone.
(This picture is for my youngest brother, Dylan, who really wanted to see what the plugs looked like in South Africa. The switches individually control the power going to that specific outlet).
Next, I bought a plug adapter (South Africa’s plugs are unique to
it alone), and it’s already lunchtime.
(Another picture of a plug for my brother. Sorry other readers.)
I get a chicken sandwich from a place
called Nando’s, which specializes in Portuguese and Mozambiquan (if that's a word) cuisine. The
sandwich is fantastic, but they put a very spicy sauce (peri-peri sauce) on it
that makes my nose run. Even in the airport, the price is reasonable (it only
cost about $4 for a sandwich and fries).
After lunch, I wander around the terminal, attempting to
locate the FIFA shuttle that was supposed to be provided by the Organizing
Committee. I wander around, but give up without success. Luckily, the
backpacking hostel that I’m scheduled to stay at has its own free shuttle, so I
call the place, and the proprietor comes personally to pick me up in a run-down pick-up truck. There’s an awkward moment where I attempt to enter the car on
the right-hand-side, but I find a steering wheel instead. I’ve managed to
forget that South Africa drives on the left, so the steering wheel is on the
right.
The guy who owns the place bears a strange resemblance to
Michael Caine’s character in Children of
Men, but without the beard, and his hair in a ponytail. He has a German accent, I think, but I could be wrong.
(This guy rented me a room for three nights)
We attempt to exit the mammoth parking structure, but the
automated gates refuse to open after he inserts his ticket. He presses the
“help” button on the gate, and the speaker on the gate has a recording: “Please
be patient. Your call will be answered shortly.” The same phrase repeats over
and over again for about three minutes. It stops, and nothing happens, so the
guy presses it again, and the message plays again. And again. And again.
After four attempts of pressing the button and about ten
minutes of waiting, the gate finally rises, and the spike strip recedes. The
guy explains to me that it was a lot faster and a lot easier when they had
people doing the job of collecting money, but they automated the system a few months back,
and it has been nothing but problems.
A fifteen-minute drive finds me at the backpacking hostel
where I will spend a few days as I attempt to finish booking my accommodation
for the duration of the tournament. The place is rather nice: there’s a
circular swimming pool, a pseudo-tiki hut that serves as both a bar and a place
to socialize, as it has a pool table, too. However, the place is clouded in
smoke, as the guy who owns the place smokes constantly.
(Home sweet home for the next few days)
I call the landlord to see when she would be available to
meet, but get no response. I collapse on the bed, and fall asleep. I wake up,
and it’s night already. I decide to explore the neighborhood a bit, but I learn
that most things are closed. I walk across the street to a Portuguese
restaurant (the only restaurant open for a few miles), and have a good dinner.
However, I’m not sure they were entirely committed to the
Portuguese theme, as the ambient music in the restaurant was “That Don’t
Impress Me Much.” I disappointed myself further after I made the connection
that the “ambient music” was just a Shania Twain album (“Man! I Feel Like a
Woman!” was the giveaway). Attention world: I sincerely apologize that I know
the names of two Shania Twain songs.
I finish eating and pay the bill before heading back to the
hostel and going to bed. I needed to be well rested for the day ahead….
What do I do next? Check back soon to find out!
Learn the lingo of the land:
zed - how you say the single letter "Z" in South Africa.
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