The Quest for Gees

The last time I watched a sports match at Elandsbaai, it was the Boks against somebody, I can’t really remember, I was a reluctant viewer, there for the waves which had cooked all day. But my travel companions were South African, so I had no other choice. I remember clearly though that the ladies bar at the Elandsbaii hotel was packed with locals and visiting wave hoarders alike, and I remember there was a buzz about the place which usually resembles a funeral parlour.

So it’s an interesting comparison to this evening. The waves also cooked all day and the main spots were crowded, so much so that Hanli, my co-conspirator on our World Cup soccer-surf road trip, and I decided to surf the beach break out front of the hotel which had kindly offered to put us up for the night, giving us a room with a flawless view of the point.

With little light left it was the best place to score lots of waves, just the two of us in, and isn’t that what surfing is about? Or so we told ourselves at least as barrels unfurled across reefs somewhere north. We made do with our mush and headed in, it was a little fix at least.

After a bath we headed to the ladies bar to watch France Vs. Mexico and see just how far World Cup fever stretches outside of the main hubs. The bar is empty but the TV is on and it’s showing the soccer, but there’s no barmaid in sight, she’s out back finishing the cross word she started during yesterday’s Bafana match, attended by six local viewers. The kitchen is closed but they can do us a steak which we wash down with a couple of beers, making idle chit-chat to the bar lady just arrived from Nelspruit in search of a little peace and quiet. In the background the Mexicans turn over the French 2-0. It seems the World Cup is dead in Elands.

The next day we load the cars and point West towards the Cederberg and the Great Karoo. Our mission to cover the World Cup in the sticks starts today, we’ve no plan, no fixed destination, we are soccer fans on a mission of discovery, with little idea of what lies ahead. From Elandsbaii we pass through Doringbos, Calvinia, Carnarvon, Vosburg, Britstown, mostly one horse towns steeped in Voortrekker tradition, dour and conservative at first glance but hiding a warm underbelly.

In Calvinia there’s a T.V going up in the local coffee shop, a little late admittedly as Bafana are all but out, but there’s sufficient local demand to warrant the expense.

‘People want a place to watch together’ says the owner, a new soccer convert who vows to continue her support after the cup moves on.  In the corner a lone vuvuvzela hangs in the window, the last of a stock that is almost sold out.

In Clanwilliam we meet Peanut outside a one-price store draped in the flags of the participating nations, with knock off kits on sale inside.

‘Real Nike’ claims the owner. Peanut has watched every game.

The Town Hall of conservative Williston flies the Bafana colours and the local guesthouse advertises its commitment with an assortment of flags, most of them from the competing nations. In Carnarvon we play street game with some of the local boys, one wears a Manchester United kit. He’ll watch the England game tonight but at home, for us he recommends the hotel bar which will be full of ‘Boers’, as he puts it. ‘But they’re getting into it ‘he says.

We pull in and find what we expect; heavy men with thick brows drinking brandy in the smoky haze. But the game is on, and they are interested in our story. Again, we’re put up for the night on the house and our presence causes a little stir in the bar as a sokkie kicks off next door.

Pulling away the next morning and the roads are straight, the landscape bare and barren until the fertile fields of Bloemfontein, ‘the City of Roses’, inject some life and colour. Cars are flying flags from the roofs once again, wing mirrors are decked in the colours of the rainbow nation, and the vuvuzela returns, its intrusion an almost welcome reminder after a few days of silence. The banked stands of the Freestate Stadium come into view and the World Cup feels tangible once more.

The cup is alive in the desert, keeping an abstract and oddly ethereal presence compared to the noise and buzz of the cities. It takes a little searching but that’s just the point, as surfers we appreciate the search, the freedom of the road and the joy of discovery. If only there were waves up here though, these are barren lands.

Time to point East, to the warm waters of the Indian and Moses Mabhida stadium.

For more on Tim and Hanli’s trip, check out www.soccersurfroadtrip.com