The entrance to Mary Fitzgerald Square is beneath the hulking overpass of the M1 expressway, which cuts through Johannesburg north-to-south. I got out of my taxi and walked along in the shadow of the towering concrete, heading to where thousands of people were already in place to watch the opening match of the world cup on a giant public screen. It’s more like getting dropped off under the FDR in lower Manhattan for a stroll through Pier 17 than, say, being plopped down under the BQE near the Gowanus Canal—but it’s a daunting and gritty urban setting nonetheless.
The square is located in Newtown, a part of Johannesburg that has undergone a large revitalization effort in recent years. Once known as a dangerous part of a dangerous city, Newtown now brims with restaurants, theaters, and museums, and Mary Fitzgerald Square is the neighborhood’s centerpiece, the site of concerts and other public events.
For a country that calls itself the Rainbow Nation, the scene at the square could have served as a postcard printed by the tourism board. Most of the people were black South Africans, but there were plenty of white South Africans and tourists as well, along with every shade of skin color in between. I wandered through the crowd, my brain vibrating every few seconds from the foghorn blast of yet another vuvuzela. The scene could not have been more joyous. People sang and danced and shouted and drank massive quantities of beer. The South African flag was a universal prop—it was painted on faces, worn as a cape around necks, and waved in the air in exuberant national pride. This World Cup had been a long time coming; South Africa was ready for a party.
The day had begun in sadness. The news that Nelson Mandela’s 13 year-old great-granddaughter, Zenani, had been killed in a car accident cast a pall over the country, and the fact that the crash had occurred on the way home from the prior night’s blockbuster World Cup concert in Soweto only added to the tragedy. Mandela cancelled his highly anticipated appearance at the opening ceremonies, but he sent word that the games should go on and be enjoyed by all. At Mary Fitzgerald Square there was a brief moment of silence as Jacob Zuma, South Africa’s president, passed along Mandela’s message prior to kick off. Then a roar went up from the crowd, and the game was on.
I watched from the back of the square for a while. South Africa spent the game’s early minutes burning off nervous energy while trying to contain Mexico’s furious assault. In front of me people had pulled up bricks from beneath their feet and stacked them into narrow piles to make for better viewing. Vendors sold various grilled meats and deep-fried spring rolls and soda and beer and woolen ski caps. As the first half ended and the sun left us behind, the air turned crisp.
At halftime I met Thabang and Hector, two young men bundled into layers of green and yellow—the colors of the national team—their faces stretched into wide smiles. “I never thought that it would be this amazing,” said Thabang. “Look at this crowd! It’s the first time I’ve seen this kind of support for Bafana Bafana.” He had to shout to make himself heard over the vuvuzela blasts. “The vuvuzela is our extra weapon,” he yelled. “It gives our team strength!” Hector nodded his approval. “We’re going to take this game,” he declared. “We believe in Bafana Bafana!”
I found a spot closer to the screen—and tucked into the warm thick of the crowd—for the start of the second half. When Siphiwe Tshabalala raced down the left side and hit a rocket past the Mexican goalkeeper for a 1-0 lead, Newtown exploded. In front of me a young man got on his knees and used his vuvuzela as a beer bong. When he stood back up to give his horn a honk we all got splattered in foam.
A man to my right wrapped me in a bear hug. “Where are you from?” he shouted in my ear.
“New York.”
“New York? New York! I like you! You are welcome here!” And he threw his arms around me once again.
Mexico soon equalized, but it wasn’t long before the crowd was alive and dancing once more. A great groan went forth when South Africa’s striker, Katlego Mphela, hit the post in the game’s final minute. “What are you doing to me?!” hollered the man to my right. But in the end everyone was happy. South Africa, ranked 83rd in the world, had just held Mexico, number 17, to a draw. One of the foregone conclusions of this World Cup had seemingly been that South Africa would become the first host country to ever lose its opening match. It didn’t happen, and the Rainbow Nation was delighted.
I headed back to the darkness beneath the M1 overpass to catch a taxi, but in Mary Fitzgerald Square it seemed things were just getting started. “We’re not upset at all,” said Lesang, a marketing student I spoke to on my way out. “We know how it is; a draw is good for us. Next game we’ll be better.”
I shook Lesang’s hand and he pulled me in for a hug. “Win or lose, we’re just happy. It’s going to be a crazy-ass party tonight,” he said. Another vuvuzela blast went off in my ear. “We’re all about love and being loud!” Lesang said with a laugh. “Welcome to South Africa!”
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Johannesburg Goes Wild for the World Cup
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