Invasion of the Aztecs

There is only one bus trip as boring as that from Melbourne to Adelaide and that’s Johannesburg to Rustenburg. A relatively straight and long road with baron land and nothing particularly exciting to look at. It’s a trip I am never likely to make again though and I’m quite thankful for that. A small entourage of Australians arrived to a sea of Mexicans in their traditional Green clad, drinking tequila and dancing to the beat of what I know as the ‘speedy gonzales song’. The Mexicans are always huge in numbers at all World Cups and speaking to a native named ‘Pedro’ he explained that for Mexicans, they are not a wealthy people but somehow they are able to put money aside between tournaments to ensure they are there every four years to watch their beloved ‘El Tri’. We stood and took in the fanfare before making our way to our seats. There would be moving around for this one as we had Cat 1 tickets on the bottom tier. The game itself was nothing to write home about. In fact, I missed the only notable talking point when I snuck away in the 42nd minute to beat the queue before the half time break to the men’s bathroom and subsequently missed the games only goal. I heard the roar and rushed back to see the replay on the big screen. Nursing a headache I dozed off on the way home only to be awakened when the bus rolled into the hotel.