There's talk of a football match hereabouts

SIDELINE CUT:As our bus headed to the stadium people stopped what they were doing and they waved and smiled. Let the football begin, writes KEITH DUGGAN

I AM writing this on a bus and all about me the natives are becoming restless. They are exclusively Western, World Cup veterans trading war tales in the morning gridlock. Meh-i-co ’86. Italia ’90: all of these tournaments had problems. But this, they say, is the worst. Nightmare. It is undeniably slow. This is how these tournaments get their name . . . through disgruntled hacks upset with the travel arrangements. All the graciousness in the world cannot make up for it. But our driver is trying.

The route takes us along clogged highways and through an industrial landscape and what is supposed to be a half-hour spin to Soccer City stadium is shaping up as a three-hour jaunt. The driver, though, is in marvellous form and to pass the time, he is playing music. It is not good music but it is African and it is irresistibly up-beat and its theme is clear: stop moaning, you spoilt sons-of-bitches: so what if it takes you four hours to get here; it has taken us 40 years.

Johannesburg is a nuts city. It is staggeringly big. Even Johannesburg locals speak of other sections of their city as though they are as vague and distant to them as Nebraska. There are sections they simply do not go into . . . and that includes actual Johannesburg, the original heart of this place, where most of the nicest buildings stand and where nobody really goes now.

The reputation for crime stalked this city in the weeks before the World Cup and it is hard to gauge how dangerous it actually is. The instruction for workers in the event of a hijacking had been explicit. “Fight with everything you’ve got. That technology is expensive.” Everyone is adamant that walking anywhere was fairly much out of the question.

Being able to walk to places seems like a fundamental human right but in this city, people with means move from cars to enclosed and guarded sections of the city, leaving the open footpaths to the hawkers and window washers and people who wander carrying shopping trolleys filled with stuff nobody else wants. They are, of course, exclusively black. The area where we are is pretty exclusive but even so, walking is frowned upon. “It’s not that you will get shot if you step outside,” our guide said reassuringly. “You won’t.” Always a bonus, that. Always a bonus.

But as ridiculously big and unlovely as the city is, its people can never be accused of not responding to the World Cup. You can see in the eyes of people, from bar staff to hotel doormen to locals just walking around, they are fascinated and enthralled by the sudden arrival of so many gregarious outsiders. In a city still trying to escape the stigma of the apartheid regime, the fusion of nationalities is significant. And the World Cup is a gathering point for all sorts of football names and faces. The other evening, none other than Kevin Keegan came bounding out of a restaurant in Mandela Square.

KK! I defy anyone born between 1972 and 1977 not to retain a fleeting admiration for Keegan. Back then, he was the man in English football. He still has the crazy frizz of hair and the optimistic shine in his eyes and as he passed by he was shouting to his companion, “Look, the Mexicans are having a sing-off!” So they were, dozens of them on the steps, Los Lobos-ing their lungs out and happily unaware their performance had drawn one of the greats of yesteryear.

Then, just minutes afterwards, Gerard Houllier, another ex-Liverpool man, could be seen wandering down a shopping plaza. He looked much the same as he did when he managed Liverpool: morose and a bit dreamy, as if about to utter something French and thoughtful. The opulent hotels of Sandton go into lockdown mode every so often, with police cavalcades ferrying someone important in a limousine to the doorway. The other night, a fleet of cars swept past and someone shouted, “It’s Sepp Blatter.” In the limousine there definitely was a large gentleman who looked prosperous and even if it wasn’t Sepp Blatter, it was enough to provoke a sudden renewed wave of bitterness about the end of Ireland’s World Cup adventure. People have been inquiring about The Boys In Green, as if they had just hadn’t bothered showing up.

“What about us?” I wanted to yell. “What about the 33rd team?” But that sleek car would have sped by, its occupant uncaring.

Blatter may or may not have been rushing to the outdoor concert in Orlando Park. It was bitingly cold on Thursday night but most of the city was watching the music show on big screens around the city and enjoying the line up of stars. Alicia Keyes doing her down home thing and Shakira wandering around in some kind of grassland skirt was all very well, but how could they have a concert celebrating Africa without Youssou N’Dour, who even Bono, our own big voice, described in the New York Times a few months ago as the greatest singer alive. A chance was missed.

By morning, the news that Nelson Mandela’s great grand-daughter had been killed in car crash returning from the concert dominated the radio news shows. The details were, of course, awful: the driver arrested and charged with intoxication, the Mandela family in grief on a day that had long been forecast as one of spontaneous joy. It seemed like a desperately cruel turn of fate.

As our bus moved slowly through the railway depot and several scrap metal outlets, people stopped what they were doing and they waved and smiled. Several in the bus waved back and those waves were returned until it was apparent this exchange could go on for hours. Eventually, the big stadium appeared on the horizon and our driver could not have been more thrilled for everyone as he bid them an enjoyable afternoon. He would have given anything for a ticket but was cheerfully spending his day driving to and from the stadium, close enough to see the thousands of yellow clad home fans gathering and to hear the great din.

It is after two now: the army jets have come screaming across the sky, the dancers and singers have left the pitch. The great and good have taken their seats and Bob Marley is singing loud and clear on the sound system. There is talk of a football match.