It was the best of times (again), it was the worst of times (again), but what was the best in Durban was the worst in Rustenburg and what was the worst was the best.

The worst: we finally hit the Africa that people feared, the traffic snarls that were standstill tending to outright gridlock. There haven’t been too many TIA* moments on the trip, all in all things have gone relatively swimmingly, but getting into Rustenburg was definitely one. After the uber-relaxo we’re-all-at-the-beach-man vibe of Durban where we walked to the ground in an indulgent stroll, being beholden to the lack of a traffic management plan in the high velt was bad.

We had been warned of this breed of chaos affecting some of the grounds and as we sat there in the bus stressed that we were going to miss the kick off, frustrated by the incompetence and inefficiencies, by the cops milling around impotently, the thought that we were totally spoilt in Durban was not very comforting. Fortunately for us our tour guide cum cultural attaché cum saviour Carl aka The Jackal somehow wrangled us through the last stage blockade that was turning back the tide without exception and our bus made it all the way to the stadium ensuring that we were seated just before the anthems rang out.

If the getting there was the worst then the game was the best (with the minor trivial detail of the result, that is). As it has been for every contest we have been to, the crowd was jumping, the noise was non-stop, rolling chants, screams and horn blasts. And then of course we were not completely and utterly hopeless like we were in Durban. Much-maligned Holman cropped up to latch onto a spilt attempted save of a Mark Bresciano free kick and slotted home from close range to give us the lead.

Holman scores, and the people rejoice! Photo Jeff Umansky

It seems that the threat of disaster is never far from us this campaign and so as the game settled, a slippery Andrea Ayew somehow eluded a clutch of defenders, crossed the ball into the box so an open Asamoah Gyan could fire it on goal only for it to hit Harry on his bicep. I thought that disasters were always supposed to happen in slow motion. Not this one. Strike, block, red, fury, off. Harry who had been embroiled in so much controversy** in the lead up with public stoushes with reporters. We were right on the 18-yard line at that end and when I saw it in real time it looked bad. The ref agreed, ruminations and remonstrations fell on deaf ears. Red is the worst of colours. It is the vuvuzela of colours. Boo.

Photo Jeff Umansky

When will we have a normal campaign with games free of controversy? Standard garden-variety encounters with simple score lines and uncomplicated football between the first and last whistles? Instead we look sharp and get an early goal, a was-it-wasn’t-it red card to Harry who had delighted everyone by starting, a penalty converted to equalise, confusing substitutions, a hat full of chances for which there are no excuses for not taking and a draw that leaves the door ever so slightly ajar. Despite being one down we were great, battling manfully, desperate in defence, creative going forward. Chippers was great, Moore was great, Neil was great. We were great. It wasn’t the euphoria-inducing victory we were after but one-all keeps us from flat lining and after the pantsing at the hands of Germany it was outstanding to walk tall from the ground proud rather than slink out in shame.

The Ghanaians unsure if to smile for the draw or scowl for the non-win. Photo Jeff Umansky

Trying to find the bus among 3,000 others in the unlighted dark with neither sign nor marshal to direct the crowd was as unruly as getting to the ground was. There was only a throng of humanity that threatened to thicken into a crush at times, kicking up dust on dirt roads, wandering with hope rather than a sense of direction. In the end it was the dolphins that delivered us unto salvation, ours was the only bus with them painted on the side. Secure in the knowledge that the last match of the group stage would not be a dead rubber, the bus back to Pretoria was no where near as insufferable as the one getting to the ground despite being just as long.

The game’s worst moment: Not the red card no, but the Aussie fans who were hurling bottles onto the pitch. A disgrace.

The beauty of the World Cup bringing us together 1:You have a free pass to speak to anyone at any time, the world cup is the grand unifier. And when else do you get to wear your underpants over your pants in public.

The beauty of the World Cup bringing us together 2 (aka the enemy of my enemy is my friend): Today Ghana were our enemies, tomorrow they are our potential saviours. This is that part of the group stage where you have to play the ‘if’ game. Thinking about the potential permutations can turn your mind into an Escher etching. The first is simple; if we win and Ghana wins we go through. The second not so much; If we win and Germany wins then we need them both to be wins of substance so our goal difference – currently terrible after our first match thrashing – is enough to get us over the line with Ghana who will be on the same points. If, if, if…

Aussie Progressometer: Head held high, though perhaps not only with pride but also looking skyward for a miracle.

* This Is Africa

** Clearly I couldn’t come up with another partner for ‘controversy’ so went again with ‘embroiled’.

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