Orlando shows us the way

Archie Henderson: Was Saturday one of the most momentous events we have witnessed in our country in the past 20 years or so? Or was it just another sign of our normality?

Orlando stadium was certainly a different place in 1969 when, on a hot Saturday afternoon in November, a wet-behind-the-ears white boy ventured into Soweto to watch Anthony "Blue Jaguar" Morodi def-eat Richard "Kid" Borias on points for the vacant South African featherweight title (non-white version).

For one thing, there was no parking problem at the stadium. Fashions were also very different. Style-conscious men wore stetsons (not the cowboy variety, mind you) with plastic covers to protect their hats against a sudden downpour.

There was also a little hostility, if not the swart gevaar with which the government of the day used to scare its electorate. Armed with his benign version of the dompas, a Bantu Affairs permit allowing him to be in a black area for the afternoon, our dof white boy tried to push his way to the front of a queue to a turnstile so narrow it would never have accommodated today's fat cats. He had his permit, his ringside ticket and a slightly superior attitude, but was told promptly where to get off.

"Eff off, white boy," people in the queue told him.

Quickly remembering his manners, and a little unnerved, he backed off ... to be rescued by the sudden opening of a gate where before none had been.

For him, it was a miracle of biblical proportions. As the rep for Rembrandt van Rijn cigarettes drove out, the white boy ducked in, only to find himself all alone in a sea of black people.

Inside the stadium, people were caught up in the spirit of the big event. The preliminaries had not even started, but the place was packed with people shouting, laughing and chanting "Bluuuuuuu!" It was obvious where their loyalties lay in the big fight.

Safe in their seats, unlike the hopefuls still outside in the queue, they were generous too. They could sense a frightened white boy when they saw one, and urged him to just push his way to the ringside where he was greeted with a guffaw from Gordon Siwani, one of the most gifted, but under-appreciated, of our sports writers.

"So, white boy, you made it safely to Soweto," he laughed as he pulled out a chair at the ringside that he had been keeping. He admitted that he had been sceptical about the seat being taken up.

By the time Blue Jaguar had won and the crowd had begun to disperse, the white boy's nerves had settled. There was a warmth about the people. Some stared at this odd person among them, others wanted to know what he thought of the fight. He lavished praise on Morodi and was accepted at once as a friend.

Of course, it also helped that he had a car and could give a few lifts. Once he had dropped off the last passenger he was able, having been given detailed instructions, to emerge from the sprawling mass of Soweto houses, which all looked the same. Seven years later, Soweto was the burning centre of revolt.

More than 40 years down the line, it is a middle-class suburb, but not until this Saturday had so many white people been there - and in the dark, nogal.

The people of Soweto, far from being unsettled at the sight of a white host supporting another blue object of sporting affection, welcomed the rugby fans with beer, which ran out quickly, and braaivleis.

And it will be like that again this coming Saturday.

Now if only we could get the white people of Rondebosch, Newlands and Claremont to respond in the same way when Kaizer Chiefs or Pirates play at Newlands.