There’s something to be said for the weather in Marseille, like most of the world, there is currently an unusual heat present which was incredibly gratifying as normally this is the time of year I have to haul out the second cover and start dosing myself up with Vitamin D to make the grey skies more bearable. Marseille is so much like the Cape that I feel oddly at home when visiting. I’m sure that similarly to native Capetonians my Marseille friend has an intense dislike of the city centre which is only superseded by his ire for tourists. Boy oh boy was it a weekend for tourists. The French schools had a small break and so everyone and their dog (quite literally) had chosen to prolong their summer feels by heading to the seaside. I can’t blame them, the Med is truly brilliant if not incredibly crowded even though it’s technically off-season.
We do not head in early to meet with an ex-colleague of mine but instead, dragging his heels we arrive at 19:00, with the gates opening at 19:30 and an expected turnout of over 60’000 people this feels like a risky move but I trust him to know the route and the way. In typical French fashion, we do not make use of the bus but head out by car parking near one of the sights of Marseille. Again, with his French side showing we take up two parking spaces instead of one. I say nothing, I am being chauffeured and guided and it does mean there’s less chance of finding an unexpected dent in the car later.
We park near La Cité Radieuse, constructed by Le Corbusier, an experimental take on creating a “vertical village” in an attempt to foster more unity after the war. It is a tourist attraction and was mentioned during my high school years in Switzerland during my history of art classes. It is relatively unremarkable in comparison to the new apartment blocks that have sprung up around it in recent years but it is a point of pride for the city as it was the first of many vertical villages to be constructed. I get my mandatory photo for the family photo gallery in front of the monument and we head down the famous street Le Prado in direction of the Vélodrôme stadium which, to Mr Marseille’s disgruntlement, has been renamed Stade de Marseille (Marseille Stadium) on every surface. We see many a friendly jersey on our way down and many South Africans in various states of inebriation. Some of started their 5 o’clock pregaming with a little too much enthusiasm. The real kicker is a sneaky French supporter trying to blend in with the South African crowd but failing miserably as his green and gold jersey he’s sporting is most noticable emblazoned with gold stars and a kangaroo. Shame.
The crowd in front of the Stadium shows me just how long I’ve not seen so many South Africans in one place- the volume is insane. Every bar along the way is packed and not one person leaves the counter with less than five beers, whether this is because there aren’t enough hands or a cap put in place by the bars remains unclear until we pick our own watering hole and approach the counter. We’re met with a look of fear and determination when we get to the front and the young man behind the bar bravely asks, in English, “What would you like?”, it does come out more of a “Wut ood u lie?” but it’s a beautiful attempt.
“J’aimerais deux grande bières et une ‘tite portion des frites s’il vous plaît.”
I would like two large beers and a small portion of fries
The look of relief and disbelief is written all over his face, I hope he does not play poker, and he asks,
“How?”
The full story is very lengthy and it’s not the time nor the place with some quite rowdy gents waiting for their turn to order and so I unhelpfully tell him that it was a very long flight- plenty of time to practice. We escape off to a corner to do one of my favourite sports- people watching. There’s a lot to take in. Not just the sheer volume of people but the numerous different jerseys that are on display. We really do have a lot of very nice looking supporters kit. My French friend announces this with an air of reluctance of not being able to complain. The gates open and we watch as the initial wave rushes in. When going to dispose of our cups I overhear something that is both incredibly endearing and also incredibly funny. There is a very tall, very large Afrikaans man trying desperately to order his beers in French. His Afrikaans accent and the stress of the situation is making life incredibly complicated not only for his nerves but also for the poor soul on the other side of the bar. After hearing two more attempts I step in and offer my assistance to Meneer. The combined relief of both bar tender and Oom is palpable and he manages to get away from the counter electing to not hear my translation of the price and stating, “We worry about conversion when we get home.”
We manage to get into the stadium without too much fuss, my friend has that slippery French way of liquifying himself in a queue and enters about ten people ahead of me. The only thing a French person will respectfully queue for is a baguette. Nothing else. We get into the stadium and start climbing, and climbing, and climbing and climbing. These are free tickets so I’m not going to complain but once we’d approached the bottom layer of heaven we entered into block W seats. Having been placed in row 90 and seeing the first rows of W start at 70 I elect to do a beer and snack run now before attempting the near-vertical climb to our seats. Our section remains somewhat empty and so as soon as the anthem is sung, full volume and very enthusiastically we all spread out so as to give breathing room. My friend is still laughing at the noticeable increase in volume in the stadium as of the Afrikaans part but upon looking at the words he understands a bit better why. I was painstakingly taught the pronunciation in school but I doubt the average South African supporter present had the same thing given the age-range.
The match was beautiful and we had a near bird’s eye view of the whole thing. The French are lovers of the underdog and so the stadium was definitely in favour of Tonga which made it all the more interesting. There was no letting up of the pressure and while the scoreboard showed a sure victory, the play on the field was nothing but fierce, competitive and combative. All in all a lovely game- even if Faf was not there (cue more French disappointment). We linger afterwards to finally meet with my ex-colleague and despite being 4 years my junior my Frenchie is desperate to make an escape to go to bed.
The wait and lingering turns out to be worth while when he’s aggressively cat-called by some very tipsy South African ladies and further still when we watch, sort of as one does a car-crash, as some South Africans rope the French Police Brigade into playing a game of toss the rugby ball. This image is best assisted in explaining that they are in near-full riot outfits complete with AK-47’s, knee pads and helmets clipped around their waists. We edge away when the ball tossing starts to teeter on the edge of being a little too competitive and join our way-ward engineer and his friends for a small beer post match. A wonderful experience and a lovely time was had. There’s something so engaging about being present and watching the love and camaraderie that comes from a shared point of focus. I hope that we get further along and might even have to look at an odd babysitting gig to maybe think of getting another shot at watching the Boks again. Paris is a lot closer than any other place will be for the near future.
I elected for the express bus on the return trip and while slightly less adventurous it was definitely worth the “premium” paid. Safely home and amidst my chaos the next challenge will be the 5 weeks of laundry and the seasonal changing of the wardrobe that awaits me before jumping into the deep end and looking for, hopefully, a big girl job or even another big girl internship. The world awaits and after some sun and sea and a victory I am excited about what comes next.
