Every so often, I find myself embroiled in some sort of crazy situation in South Africa and think to myself: "This isn't really going to plan." Thankfully, however, such scenarios provide me plenty of bungled blog material.

The latest in a lengthening line of mishaps saw me last night arrive in Durban about as well-prepared as a raw, unseasoned steak. I am here to cover this evening's semi-final clash between Spain and Germany, but couldn't book any flights until my ticket was approved by Fifa's ticketing centre. The confirmation came through at 2pm, I booked the flight at 3pm and was in Durban by 8pm.

On arrival at King Shaka International Airport, I had neither a car, a map or a hotel - and I also had a lengthy preview of the match to file within a couple of hours. After making a few quick calls, I managed to secure a room in a place called the Fairwood Guesthouse in La Lucia; a beautiful B&B said to be near restaurants and cafes, as well as the stadium.

I also organised a rental car, but due to either my stingy Scottish heritage or a distinct desire to reduce The National's expense account, I declined the very reasonable priced BMW 320i and instead opted for a "special deal". What greeted me in the car park was part car, part van, part pick-up truck. It also only had one wing-mirror and no radio. Oh, and no GPS either.

It appears that all the Sat-Nav systems in Durban have been dished out to the 60,000-odd European fans that have floated into town for tonight's game, so I am riding solo. And, pretty much, riding around lost. And, courtesy of the one wing-mirror, half-blind.

But before I even tried to drive the beast, I had the little matter of a story to write. Thankfully, my landlord in Johannesburg has provided a mobile modem (a "mobem"?) so I can connect to the internet regardless of my location. The problem, however, is that the aerial needs to be pointing skywards, unrestricted by metal. Trying to file from inside the car was going to be an issue.

Sat in the driver's seat of this strange van-like car, I typed my piece up from memory. Whenever facts required to be checked, I stuck my hand out the window, held the aerial in the air, and logged online. By the time it came to filing the copy, my arm was aching and I was getting increasingly strange looks from passersby. I typed up an email one-handed and hit sent. Job done.

Next it was time to find my guesthouse. Can't be that hard, I thought, as I headed out on to the highway. It's near a place called Umhlanga, I remembered, so followed the signs but almost immediately arrived at a toll gate.

I have been having issues with my bank so pay for everything with Mastercard, but, problematically, few people are willing to swipe a credit card for a four rand fare (Dh2). The man at the gate refused to let me through until I paid, but I literally had no South African money on me.

My friend Moabi is always telling me about T.I.A. "This is Africa," he says flashing his big, warm smile. "Anything is possible."

I rummaged around in my laptop bag and found a note. On pulling it out I realised it was a nice turquoise Dh20 so I offered it to the gentleman. He accepted, opened the gate and told me how best to get to La Lucia before waving me off with a smile.

I, in contrast, drove off disheartened and ruing the fact I had paid 1000 per cent more than I should have had to. My tightfisted father would not be impressed.

On arrival at my guesthouse, I settled down, unpacked, and watched Holland book their place in the World Cup final with a 3-2 win over Uruguay. Now, as I hold the mobem aerial out the car window again and prepare to head half-blind to the stadium, it's time to discover who the Dutch will face come Sunday: Spain or Germany? 

Brazil, five-time champions, have now exited the World Cup at the quarter-final stage twice in-a-row.

Brazil, the only team to have participated at every World Cup since the tournament's 1930 inception, are out. Again.

Nelson Mandela, the man who has come to symobolise this first African World Cup, once said that "sport is more powerful than governments in breaking down racial barriers. It laughs in the face of discrimination." 

The eight teams taking part in this weekend's quarter-finals will each stand alongside a banner reading "Say No to Racism" while all of the team captains - from Iker Casillas to Phillip Lahm - will read a declaration in their native tongues denouncing discrimination in both football and society.

It is only two decades since apartheid separated racial groups in South Africa and the tensions can still be felt in some cities. While football has undoubtedly brought blacks and whites together in the stadiums, several spectators feel it is only temporary and that the World Cup is a bubble in which everything seems fine; when the Fifa chiefs float off to Brazil in a couple of weeks time, the racial tensions will remain, they say.

I was in Pretoria earlier this week for the Japan versus Paraguay match and got a first-hand view of the racial underbelly of the capital. My friend Moabi, a black South African from Johannesburg, had joined me for the trip and after the bore draw and dramatic penalty shootout, we went to Hatfield Square, a lively meeting place full of restaurants and bars and a big screen showing the Spain-Portugal clash.  

"Pretoria remains one of the most racist major cities in South Africa," Mo told me as we entered.

It was a commentators' and pundits' convention in Cape Town today, as the creme de la creme of British-based broadcasters rolled in to Green Point Stadium to cover England's crunch Group C encounter against Algeria tonight.

The first pang of fear was felt when the man locked the doors.


I had attended the Brazil versus North Korea match and bumped into a few Dubai-based journalists who were in South Africa for a couple of nights. We had agreed to meet up later that night to soak up the atmosphere of the World Cup amid the world famous Selecao supporters. After dropping my laptop off at my apartment in Killarney, a sleepy suburb in North Jo'burg, I walked down to the local petrol station to catch a taxi.

Brazilian fans are famous for their party attitudes.

There are whispered rumours swirling around the South African capital regarding tomorrow night's match between the hosts and Uruguay at Loftus-Versfeld Stadium. Concerns exist that the hordes of Bafana Bafana supporters who turned out in the Soccer City sunshine for Friday afternoon's World Cup curtain-raiser will refuse to brave the forecasted below-zero degree temperatures to cheer on their side once more in the second match of the African nation's campaign.

Three cities, one day... My World Cup travel hat-trick.

It should have been easy. But, as I am rapidly discovering during this World Cup odyssey, there is no such thing as a best laid out plan in Africa.  

A late England-US kick-off in Rustenburg was supposed to be followed by a few hours down-time at a family friend's ranch in the Britz safari land - a place halfway between Rustenburg and Johannesburg. Not so.

Welcome to Park & Ride gridlock. Thousands of tooting cars trying to leave a dusty, fenced carpark was reminiscent of an army of ants climbing over each other to filter one-by-one through a single, insect-sized peephole. Utter mayhem. Mocking, vuvuzela-blowing locals stood by the side of the road and watched the chaos unfold; their chorus of din stirring up the building tensions.

I was parked up on the hard shoulder (well, the rock-strewn field that bordered Rustenburg's single lane R104) outside the car prison. But with my fellow ranchers trapped inside, I realised, somewhat painfully, that the Britz trip was a no-go.

I decided to drive back - over potholed roads and at 2am - to Johannesburg, three-and-half hours away.

As I trotted past two volunteer traffic wardens desperately trying to convoy vehicles out the carpark shambles, a group of American fans took control.

South Africa 2010 was supposed to be David Beckham's one last hurrah. But, to the devastation of the player and 'Brand Becks' fans around the world, a ruptured Achilles tendon suffered while was on-loan at AC Milan forced Beckham out of what would have been his fourth World Cup.

It takes more than shredded body parts, however, to keep him away from the team. Thus, despite no professional coaching experience - beyond tutoring 10-year olds at his personal academies and dishing out advice to any Major League Soccer listeners - the former captain accepted an invitation to be part of Fabio Capello's back-room staff.

After he spent the majority of the England-US game perfecting his touchline grimace, I bumped into Beckham after the US match.

Me: 'David, a few words on England's performance?'

Let's back-track a few days...

With the England-US match media discussion centring, understandably, on Robert Green's  first-half clanger, everybody forgot about Clint Dempsey, the American goal-scorer.

Dempsey, who plays for Fulham in the English Premier League, agreed for one quick question and that surely, but with a pause for thought though, had to be...is that the most important goal you've ever scored?