Anders Nyberg's blog

What a day it was. A day I’ve longed for and anticipated. Maybe not the day Infallibility fell altogether, but it got some lethal blows I doubt it will fully recover from. The unlucky Irish got robbed of a place in the World Cup through a goal preceded by Henry of France handling the ball three times. It was watched by millions of viewers all over the world in slow motion. But not seen by the Swedish referee Hansson who is only allowed his limited perspective, not the view everyone else benefits from. Yet he is supposed to be the all-seeing, all-knowing, all-objective. Poor Hansson. Poor, poor Irishmen. And actually poor Frenchmen as well. I was quite convinced that the French would not be able to enjoy a tournament that everyone knew they had cheated to qualify for. I did not know how right I would be though. But credit to Henry who actually wanted the Irish game to be replayed. No one benefits from this order. FIFA? Hardly, they had to do a lot of damage repair, holdi...

As the vuvuzelas now are being exported around the world their sound seem to abate a little here in SA – or is it just our ears that are getting numb? And as the blasting sounds have entered into virtually every home in the world through the TV-screens the discussion is now reverberating around the world. In one of the games in Bloemfontein an elderly white South African and a young black South African had seats next to each other behind me in the stadium. The black guy tooted his horn. The white man asked him for mercy. The black man replied with total certainty: “I can blow as much as I want” and carried on mooing. I couldn’t help but smile; somehow being able to understand both views. This little dialogue could so easily be placed in a racial context in this country, but it is more than that; it is about cultural diversity and our need to embrace and celebrate it! I wrote a little in my first blog on the subject why I so easily can understand and enjoy the black man’s res...

I am enjoying a peaceful morning in the Troyeville flat overlooking Ellis Park. But peace is, as always in Johannesburg, a bit elusive. Underneath a winter-pale highveld a mountain of gold is stashed, giving this place its constant nervous vibe. Underneath my calm exterior quivers the excitement of all the action, all the people, all the energy I have encountered the last weeks. I have been to eight games so far and I am enjoying every minute of it. I am taking my sons to the games as much as their school allows and it is optimal boys quality time. (All the schools of South Africa are out for the whole World Cup but the school in Swaziland where my boys go are only out one week.) And it is with gratitude I acknowledge that I am rich when it comes to sons - in a true African fashion. During our time in the Peace of Music Centre here in Troyeville, (called the Biiig House by the children), I was known as “Paps” to all the children. And to my delight I notice now a few years late...

Johannesburg is slowly waking up. A suggestion of frost is being wiped off from the rooftops in front of me as the sun starts its day’s work. But the streets are still unusually quiet. It is June 16, a holyday and a holy day in the South African calender. The day of the youth; the day of the bafana and the banyana. Johannesburg itself is an incredibly young city. The world’s biggest gold deposit was found here in 1886 and rapidly changed the course of history. Fortune-seekers from all over the world moved in and 10 years later Johannesburg had outgrown Cape Town as the biggest city in the country. But everyone did not come voluntarily. In order to satisfy the great need for labour a “hut tax” of 14 shillings a hut was imposed on the natives by the British colonists, forcing the African population into the monetary economy. The pattern was not new and Darfur is a sorry reminder for the world community that it is still continuing: whenever and wherever riches are found on the cont...

The day had come, and it started in a typical dramatic South African fashion. I was woken up with the news of the death of Zenani Mandela. It proved to be, not Madibas daughter Zenani, but his great grandchild. The whole world wanted to see the grand old man at the opening of the World Cup, and he finally agreed, despite the cautions from his family due to his frail health. The morning of the opening the news arrived of the death of little Zenani in a car accident with the driver being arrested for drunk driving. Again Mandela was faced with the hard choices between his official duties and his private sphere, a theme that has run through his life. But this choice was probably not so difficult. Zenani was a favorite grandchild (see picture). A great sadness in his life has also always been the death of his son in a car-accident while he was imprisoned on Robben Island. So he stayed at home but, as FIFA president Blatter said in his opening address, “The spirit of Mandela is in Soc...

“Africa is loud”, claims FIFA-president Blatter. “Let it be loud, let it be Africa”. And he’s right. But South-Africa, in a soccer context, is a lot louder than the rest of Africa. The vuvuzela has banged through all previous decibel-records. Why is that? A complex question indeed, but I think one of the reasons can be found in the examples from the history included in the first blog . The silenced people that have regained their voice. South Africa’s 16-year-old democracy goes through its most raucous puberty. An expressively gifted people who has been denied its vote, its voice for such a long time is now making a natural and totally appropriate rebellion against its “overprotective parents” – to use a kind euphemism for the old South Africa that the new has grown out of. The vuvu is like a boys’ choir where all the voices are breaking. Those are the choirs that aren’t really so useful for concerts, it’s a transformation time from the angelic innocence of the children’s...

A blog! That’s what I need now… I have just arrived in South-Africa for the Soccer World Cup and I tumble over my doorstep in Troyeville totally overwhelmed. Arriving at the Joburg airport was a kind of a cultural shock in itself; SO many feelings, such joy, so many tears (of happiness…), such a feeling of almost disbelief at the fact that it is actually happening. I need a blog, I need a blog quickly! The feeling that this was a very different trip started already at the check-in gate in London. I laughed when I saw the queue. Almost exclusively men, but boyish and up-beat unlike many other airport queues of burdened bureaucrats. I came to sit next to one of the few ladies. At first it seemed that we didn’t have any language in common and after spending the whole long night silently stuffed side by side in the aircraft I noticed in the dawning light a white and lightblue striped shirt and I asked: “Argentina?” “Si, si!” Having thus found our common language we spoke foo...