Football Partnerships

By Kevin McCullagh

The German football federation (DFB) plans to increase the number of security staff looking after the national team at next year’s World Cup due to concerns about South Africa’s crime rate.

Read the rest of the article

By Tracy McVeigh and Savious Kwinika

Calls are growing for South Africa to legalise prostitution ahead of next year’s football World Cup in an effort to limit HIV infection among millions of fans visiting the country for the tournament.

Read the rest of the article

By KGOMOTSO MOKOENA

Despite withdrawing from the race for the Safa presidency, Jordaan could still get soccer’s top job.

Kirsten Nematanadani, who assumed office this week, could step down to become CEO or take on another senior role, allowing Jordaan to stand for election unopposed.

Read the rest of the article

Football Partnerships podcast

Football Partnerships welcomes Misha Sher, Head of Business Development at Soccerex, to the podcast.

Listen here on Football Partnerships, or subscribe to the show via iTunes by searching the podcast directory for ‘Football Partnerships’. Please note that the recording is best heard via iTunes, as some browsers disrupt audio transmission.

 

 Episode 47: Play Now | Play in Popup | Download (35)

By Alex Kotler

The World is Coming
I must have slept, because the flight felt short. Perhaps it was the personal television screen that I could program with the movie of my choice (from a list, of course). The Dark Knight got me over Algeria. Iron Man, Ethiopia. The cuisine, more hot than haute, was certainly a step up from the Delta chow. And the English girl next to me, flying presumably with her mum, would occasionally say something amusing that kept me from counting minutes. Whatever the case, the 10-hour flight passed relatively quickly and it was Friday morning and I was in South Africa.

Stepping off the plane, I immediately felt the impact of the 2010 World Cup. The airport was undergoing rennovations, with makeshift walls and tarps masking ceilings and corridors, and every advertisement in the eye’s path referenced the tournament. The world is coming, everything seemed to say, and my first impressions suggest that South Africa believes it.

The construction leant itself to confusion, and we were funneled into customs to sort out our nationalities: Africans to the right, everyone else to the left. We Rest-of-the-Worlders started as a pack which, over the next 45 minutes, filtered into something resembling a line. Just as we seemed to be going nowhere, a central area opened and those of us who were either attentive or desperate to try a new approach grabbed our carry-ons and rushed for positions. I made it through in 20 minutes.

The beauty of the long customs line is that, provided the chaos doesn’t extend to baggage handling, the wait for luggage is reduced. I snatched my suitcase, identifiable by its colored buttons - a home-project of my father’s to make my black bag distinguishable from all other black bags. Once through, a mob of sign-holders, family members and friends greeted arriving passengers. I slid by to find the Information Desk, where I was to meet my driver who would bring me to the Ritz. The Backpacker’s Ritz.

Despite its sophisticated website, Football Partnerships runs a lean operation. To cut costs and maintain flexibilty, particularly until the situation on the ground was sussed out, my intention was to stay somewhere safe but inexpensive. The Backpacker’s Ritz is a reputable spot for low-budget travelers, and offers private rooms for about $17/night. It would suit my immediate needs well, and allow me to move elsewhere without penalty or advanced warning.

Scanning the area for someone looking for me, I saw a dark-skinned man holding a bright, partially-folded orange sign whose visible portion read ‘itz’. I pointed to him, and he approached. “You Alex?” “That’s me.” He reached out his hand and offered a gelatinous handshake. “I’m Frank.”

California Dreamin’
We made our way to his car, and I summoned whatever I had in the way of small-talk skills. Frank grew up in Jozi, the local nickname for Johannesburg, and has two kids. He’d never been to the US, so when I told him that Jozi reminded me of Los Angeles - spread out and pimpled with palm trees, massive expressways clogged with traffic, and gated mansions to keep people in and keep people out - it didn’t resonate. He told me that the traffic wasn’t normally this bad, but that an accident - which was verified on the local radio - was the reason now.

In some oddly Darwinian sense, natural selection appeared to breed out those who weren’t well-enough adapted to waiting in traffic, and cars began crossing the median to head for alternative routes. A moving truck had tried its best, but couldn’t negotiate the change in slope and got its rear end stuck on a hill. Its driver, kneeling on the embankment, tried with futility to push it out with his hands. We continued for half a mile, crossed at a gentler point in the median and turned back, passing the truck which showed no signs of escaping before the traffic cleared.

The Gated City
They say that Jozi is one of the biggest cities from top to bottom, because it stretches from the heads of skyscrapers to the bowels of mines. It has reaped the benefits of its resources and developed into a country - or, at least in the case of Jozi, a city - that could be mistaken for any metropolis in the west. With this dubious honor, though, comes a glarity disparity evidenced by difference in living standards between the haves and the have-nots. For instance, for every five white men that I saw on the road, three were driving BMWs. For every five black men, three were either working on it or walking on it.

This is only an impression, based not on numbers but on what I could see. And, what I could see was very little because everything appeared to be enclosed by a 10-foot gate topped with barbed wire or electrical fencing. I wondered what real value I would place on having such an estate if it meant feeling like a prisoner on my own land.

After an hour - the traffic was bad on the side streets since all drivers had fled the freeway - we pulled off onto a road and stopped at the cul de sac. There, in all of its gated-in splendor, was the regal Backpacker’s Ritz. I tipped Frank, accepted another fishy handshake, and rang the buzzer to enter. A girl named Sulu greeted me at the countered and sorted out my paperwork.

I checked into my quarters which, although rustic, were more accommodating than I’d expected. I had an armoir to hang and set my clothes, a personal sink, and even art on the walls to add dimension. The grounds were also tasteful, with a manicured lawn, walking paths, and seating areas with views of the city. I unpacked, organized, and readied for my first shower in I don’t know how long (one day, three flights, 32 hours?). This was the moment I realized what I’d forgotten: a towel.

Sparing the details of how I dried (think Rod Tidwell in Jerry McGuire), I dressed and I went for a stroll to pick up some essentials and grab a bite to eat. My walk for an electrical converter and an ATM was uneventful, and my meal nothing more complicated than an omelette with tomatoes and an espresso. Woozy, to say the least, I returned to the Ritz to stave off jet lag for as long as possible. I made it only until 8:00pm.