Other than working at Caprice (ie. slutty men beach bar) I worked at all the Cape Town soccer matches on the Somerset Road Fanwalk. We had a quaint bottle-green hut, with a rose-red roof and a canary yellow door. Or so I thought. By the end of the World Cup I referred to said hut as a minuscule, creaky shed, with vomit-green walls, a congealed-blood-red roof and a pus-yellow door.
We made pancakes. No wait a second, I made pancakes. Up to 500 a night. 500 pancakes. 6 pans. 1 Kayli. I never want to see anything flat and round ever again.
On one occasion I wanted to get out of the "Shed of Death" so I traded jobs with the Brother-in-Law; he went into the shed to make the pancakes and I went into the road to yell at the top of my voice, advertising our wares. "PANCAKES! R10! COFFEE, CAPPACHINO, ESPRESSO, LATTES! R10! PANCAKES! R10!" But that got tiring, real tiring.
So I stopped and watched people walk by for a while. I was wearing dark jeans, black boots and a black coat with my hood on my head (God forbid my hair got wet in the rain). So I may have looked slightly dodgy. Nonetheless, a group of 3 nervous looking teenagers saunter up to me and asked me if I had any "stuff". "What 'stuff' are you referring to, you strange looking boys?" "You know, uhhhh.. We need some... some... Boonge!" "Oh yes, sorry for the confusion. No, I don't have any 'Boonge', but if you go to that hut over there, the lovely green and red one, they are selling pancakes that are filled with 'Boonge'!" Off the boys ran excitedly. I was happy.
About 25 minutes later I was asked 4 times if I was a prostitute. I was unhappy. I took it as a sign to return into the safety of my shed.
The games came and went, each was a painful 13 hour session. The final game in Cape Town was the semi-final between Uruguay (*hisssssss*) and Holland. I didn't have tickets. I wanted to cry. We parked outside the shed and as I got out of the car I said to a friend, "I wish we had tickets to the game". The heavens parted. A light came shining down on a gentleman in a red t-shirt. Angels circled over his head. And then he spoke, "I have 2 tickets for sale". We managed to bargain him down for R3000 a ticket to R1400 each.
There are no words to explain how it felt to watched those cheating Uruguayan bastards lose. After decimating South Africa and Ghana I just wanted to see them get thrashed. It was a bloody magnificent game.
All in all the World Cup was the most incredible experience. Just "being here" was phenomenal. I have decided that at the next Soccer World Cup hosted in South Africa, I don't think I want to work at Caprice. I would do the Fan Walk again, but I think we will sell beaded Vuvuzela's as they made R15,000 profit per night. Yeah, they had the right idea.
Who cares if I will be roughly 106 years old? I'll be there.
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