Bratislava

Last night, when confronted with multiple transport options between Vienna and Bratislava, I found myself thinking, "what would Jesus do in this situation?". Why, he'd walk there on water of course. That's why I've decided to take the hydrofoil down the Danube.

By the time I booked my ticket for this quasi-biblical one hour journey, the only available departure time was 9am with 8.30 boarding. This affords me a delightful early morning stroll through the deserted the near-deserted streets of Old Vienna. It's grand, sturdy old public buildings seem all the more impressive when basking in a sun-drenched serenity only occasionally disturbed by the nonsensical utterings of a passing drunk.

I arrive at the dock to the disappointing discovery that the hydrofoil I'm taking isn't actually an above-the-water hovercraft like the one Jackie Chan goes crazy on in Rumble In The Bronx. Instead it's just a high speed catamaran capable of completing the 70km downriver journey to Bratislava in a bit over an hour. From my position near the front of the queue, I'm able to scramble upstairs to the top deck, from where I can best view the tall trees on either side of the riverbank and an occasional glimpse of farmland behind them.

We've barely travelled a mile when we pass an old bearded man on the right hand bank, waving his arms frantically about his head and yelling something urgent in German. I initially dismiss him as another drunkard making his way home from the previous night's festivities, but a split second later it's clear what he was shouting about.

Bang! The catamaran, now travelling at full speed, strikes a glancing blow against a floating pier that juts out into the river. All the occupants of the top deck sit bolt upright and look glance around in puzzlement. BANG! This time the boat slams into a rocky outcrop on the right hand bank with thunderous force, its whole starboard side lifting out of the water and then plopping loudly back in. I may not know much about catamarans, but this sort of thing can't be standard procedure. Moments later my suspicions are confirmed when a young stewardess by the name of Katrin appears and orders us down into the main cabin. I'm loath to give up my prized top deck seat, but there's a certain edge to her voice that says "don't fuck with me, I'm Austrian". The rear of the lower deck is already taking on water as I descend the stairs. Looks like my dreams of visiting Bratislava are going down with this boat.

We spend the following half an hour limping along the canal next to the Danube while everyone talks excitedly amongst each other, except me because I'm the only non-German speaker on the boat. I'd love to know what's going on, although my complete state of helplessness does somewhat add to the intrigue. Eventually Katrin comes on the PA system to inform us in English that we'll shortly be disembarking the boat due to a "technical problem". This confuses me further. How can a negligent captain running his boat aground be considered a "technical problem"? Unless she is referring to a technical problem inside the captain's head.

Katrin's usual responsibilities probably wouldn't usually extend beyong pouring the tea and ensuring old people don't fall off the gangplank, but now is her time to shine. She's controlling the PA system, running pieces of equipment up and down the stairs blocking passengers' constant attempts to return to the upper deck, all the while distributing cans of beer to anxious passengers. As ever, the people of Austria seem to have embraced the concept of morning drinking, a stance of which I fully approve.

Eventually the stricken vessel docks at a post-apocalyptic industrial wasteland in the middle of nowhere that makes Greater Los Angeles look like Florence during the Englightenment. This doesn't look like Bratislava at all. Then again, I have no idea what Bratislava looks like, so I guess I could use my imagination. Those disused railway tracks kind of look like cobbled streets, that coal stack over there could easily resemble a church steeple and if you squint hard enough, those giant shipping containers could be 400 year old cottages. As I step off the boat, I catch a glimpse of the captain sitting alone in his cabin. He wears the hounded look of a naughty schoolboy who's been caught stealing by the headmasters and knows he'll have to face the music from his parents when he gets home.

We're herded onto a disused railway platform where everybody lights up a smoke, except me of course, but some as-yet-unexplained meterological phenomenon conspires to blow everyone else's second-hand smoke into my face, so I get to join in the fun too. The captain can also be seen in his cabin, lighting up what will probably be his last cigarette. There'll be a bottle of scotch and a handgun waiting for him at his table when he gets back to HQ. To my surprise, I overhear a middle-aged American couple talking, and go over to make small talk.

"Any idea what's going on?"
"Yeah", says the man, who looks like a pudgy Roy Schieder. "There's two buses coming. One will take people to Bratislava, the other will take people to the metro where they can get a train back to the wharf in Vienna where they can get a refund".
Bratislava or a refund? It's a curly one, for sure.

"You should go on to Bratislava", Roy continues. "In the main street this afternoon they're having some sort of re-enactment of a famous Slovakian battle scene. I believe they're then staging a mock execution at the end". Yes, but will there be any fuckin' Budweiser?

Half an hour later, the two buses that the boat company has commandeered - possibly at gunpoint, or so I'd like to think anyways - arrive to collect us. I take the Bratislava option and by noon - a whole three hours after leaving Vienna - we're hopping off in the Slovakian capital.

Straight away, I can see that something in this town is amiss. Just about everyone in the street - and absolutely everyone in the pubs - is wearing a green football shirt. Many of them are linking arms and singing loudly and boisterously. Uh oh. It had completely slipped my mind that there are 2010 World Cup qualifiers being played all over Europe today, and there's obviously one being played here. I've unwittingly stepped off into the eye of an emerald hurricane. I approach the mildest-looking fan I can see - a tall, freckled man of about 35 with a buttchin to savour - and ask him what the craic is.

"Sure, Northern Ireland is playing Slovakia here tonight, that's what all the boys are here for. 5.30pm at the national stadium".
He turns out to be friendly, engaging and realistic about his teams slim qualification hopes. "We've got these guys, Poland, Czech Republic, Slovenia and San Marino our group so sure, it won't be easy".
"Do you go to all the away games?", I ask, as casually as possible to as to disguise the jealousy in my voice.
"We try to, yeah. Not sure when the Prague game is yet. That will be fun. There's usually some good fights in Prague".
So will there be tear gas and water cannons in the streets of Bratislava this evening?
"Nah, don't think so. There was a bit of trouble last night but I think that was just our beings getting a bit carried away. It's pretty low key around here to be honest. Still lots of tickets on sale at the stadium when I was there".

I let this piece of information settle on me like a warm duvet in the wintertime. I wonder what it'd be like to go to a football game in Bratislava. Do I dare attend a match that pits two of the craziest sets of people in Europe against each other? Would I regret it for the rest of my life if I didn't? I'm wearing my green t-shirt today; clearly it was meant to be.
"Well, I might have to go and see about a ticket", I hear myself saying. "Are you guys gonna win?"
"Ah sure, who knows. We're pretty up and down at the best of times and I think they are too, so anything could happen".
"Well, cheers for that mate and good luck".
"Cheers mate".

I set off for the stadium with a purposeful stride, which soon turns into a dogged gait and then a listless stagger as the blazing Central European sun takes its toll. I'm hot, bothered and it doesn't help that I don't actually know where the stadium is. There's no shortage of road signs pointing me in the direction of any shop or location I could ever wish to visit - the train station, government house, Burger King, car dealerships, theatres, castles, sex shops - but no mention of a stadium. Occasionally I stop and ask locals for directions but their barely comprehensible instructions just send me somewhere else in town, where their mate is waiting to send me off in an entirely different direction. I feel like an unwilling competitor in The Amazing Race.

My troubles don't end when I do find the stadium, a decaying Soviet monolith that looks like Carisbrook might on a sunny day, if Dunedin ever had one of them. A lap of the perimeter reveals nothing in the way of ticket booths. Perhaps the first 40,000 people to vault the barbed wire fence just get in for free. I approach two policemen who are sitting on their patrol car eating sandwiches, as policemen are wont to do.

"Tickets?, says the younger of the two, baffled, as if I've just asked for his teenage sister's hand in marriage.
"Yes. For football".
He suddenly remembers that he can't speak English, so his partner pipes up instead. "We do not know", he says sternly, "we are police".
"I can see that, but here is the stadium. You must know where tickets are sold.
"straight down, straight down", he says, gesturing down the street whilst swatting me away as if I were a pigeon after his his lunch - an impressive skill.

The ticket costs me 500 Slovakian Something-or-others, which leaves me with only 92 left, but I'm prepared to drop my pants for one at this stage. The long walk back into town in the sweltering heat leaves me in desperate need of a beer, which is likely to be in short supply if the football fans keep up their pace. Things have really kicked off in the town square now. The Northern Ireland boys, young and old, are staggering about singing, waving flags and stuffing Big Macs into their already bulging midriffs. I find my progress into the next square blocked by an entourage of medieval knights on horseback, obviously part of the historical reenactment that Roy Schieder had spoken of. Sadly for the locals in attendance, much of the fanfare is drowned out by the NI boys singing some song about what they did to England in a qualifier a few years ago. This doesn't stop large congregations of Japanese and American tourists from eagerly camcordering the scene so that they can watch it properly when they get home. So this is what happens when globalisation goes wrong.

As mid-afternoon turns into late-afternoon I notice the fans beginning to head off in the direction of the stadium. This precipitates a mild panic, for not only do I have no idea which bus to catch to get there, but I don't know anyone else who is going and if I find myself seated in an area with Slovakian fans then I suspect I'll very quickly regret today's choice of t-shirt colour. Now slightly desperate, I approach a group of middle aged NI supporters sitting at an outdoor bar. This will either be the best of the worst decision I've ever made.
"'scuse me, fellas", I say, trying my best not to sound English. "Can you tell me what bus I need to take to the ground?"
"Eh, there's no buses", says Mark, a fair haired man in his mid-forties with a ginger goatee. "But you can either take the one, two or four tram".
"Righto, cheers boys, and good luck".
"Where ya from anyways?", another man asks. "Are you Canadian?"
"I'm from New Zealand, actually".
"Ahh! New Zealand! We love New Zealanders! Tell ya what boy, come here and have a seat". I hesitate to accept this offer. "Go on, just come along to the game with us. Come on, have a seat, we'll get you a beer, you'll be fine". So I do, and they all roar in drunken approval. And just like that, I've six new friends and a frothing pint of something called Zlaty in front of me.

My fears that the jovial early evening atmosphere could degenerate into a post-match bloodbath between opposing fans are quickly allayed. "No chance, son", says Jimmy, a solid, bespectacled man of about fifty. "UEFA voted us the best fans in Europe last year. And you know why?"
He gives me a moment to think about it, and then continues. "Because we're the best people in the world!"
"Actually, I'm pretty sure that New Zealanders are the best people in the world, but I'm prepared to believe you're second", I reply.
"Hah, so how long have you been away from home, son?"
Just about three months, I tell him.
"Three months? Fock! Ya must be missin' your sheep!"

Ahhh, the puerile sheep-shagging jibe. How I've missed it. I didn't even know that New Zealand was at the forefront of livestock bothering until I arrived at my new school in Australia at the age of 12, and within five minutes had been accused of bestiality, paganism and being Maori. These days I'm wise enough to know that the best way to diffuse this potentially caustic situation is to bring Wales into it.
"Well", I say, "I've been staying in London a bit. So I've managed to head over to Wales for a bit and get my fill". They all laugh uproariously. I'd never have guessed I'd fit in so well with a bunch of middle-aged protestant football tragics. Thinking about it, I suppose it's not necessarily a good thing.

I'm introduced to Rob - another member of the party who is a barman in Munich in his spare time - who shrewdly changes the point of attack. "Must love your All Blacks then?", he asks.
"I sure do".
"You know, before your time, when I was a lad, they were unbeatable. Invincible even. We feared them and we also respected them. But now they don't have that anymore. The aura is gone". I can see where this is going. He's quoting from the same moronic Stephen Jones article that every Northern Hemisphere rugby fan digs out when they're trying to wind up a Kiwi. "They still think they're invincible, but they're not. They're always peaking between World Cups, you see".

The standard placatory response in these situations is to partly agree, whilst pointing out the inevitable changes that the professional era has brought to the game. But before I can wheel it out, I find myself involuntarily blurting out something rather different. “Actually, we lost the last world cup because the ref was a fucking dickhead Englishman”.

I have no idea why I just said this. These guys aren't Irish: they're Northern Irish, still subjects of Her Majesty. There's a brief silence while the table digests this unexpected outburst and then, to my relief, it is greeted with muted nods and grunts of approval. Then someone says, “fockin' English conts”.

In most parts of the world you could be forgiven for never having heard of David Healy. In Northern Ireland, on the other hand, he is a sporting deity held in the same reverance in which Richie McCaw is held back home. In Northern Ireland's last European qualifying campaign, the diminutive forward banged in 13 goals – including a hat-trick in a famous win over Spain – a tally never achieved by an Englishman. In 2005 he scored the winner in a 1-0 victory over bitter rivals England, an occasion that will go down along with Healy in Northern Irish footballing folklore. The fans even have a song just for him: “Away In A Manger” with the words “he lay” crafted changed to “Healy!”. My new friends and I are in dingy, low-ceilinged bar across from the stadium and the singing is impressive, if somewhat deafening.

“He's a fockin' incredible player”, confirms Mark, over the din. “If he were English he'd be getting paid millions and have his photo on the cover of every paper. The winner he scored against Spain? That was the best goal you'll ever see... but I bet you'll probably never see it”.
I confirm that I haven't.
“Exactly. But if Beckham or Gerrard scored had scored it, you'd never see or hear the fockin' end of it. All you hear about is how fockin' great England are”.
“Even though they've been shite for years”, I add, presently reduced to a mere bystander in this conversation”.
“You're not wrong there, Max. Did you know we're the only one of the Home Nations ever to beat the Germans home and away in qualifying? Course you didn't. But then England go and beat Germany 5-1 and you never hear the fockin' end of it. We're a country of barely a million and we're ranked 32nd in the world. We always punch above our weight. But all you ever hear about is fockin' England this, England that”. It's classic little brother syndrome behaviour, but I still warm to Mark very quickly, because he's clearly a passionate fan, and because I don't have much time for the English either.

To an outsider like me, the whole Irish Situation is riddled with contradictions. Never is this more apparent as I walk into the ground to find the very men who have spent the day slagging off the English now belting out a loud rendition of “God Save The Queen”. The Slovakian fans are scattered amongst the other stands and their listless singing is drowned out by the raucous visitng Northern Ireland faithful.
“The stars in the bright sky looked down where he lay!
Hea-ly!
Hea-ly!
Hea-ly!”

Mark and I find a seat behind the goal and I press him further on matters of his homeland. “This whole sectarian violence bollocks is blown way out of proportion by the media. Most of us happy living alongside each other, it's only the small minority of fockwits on either side that can't let go of the past”, he says. “The you've got all these fockers in Boston and New York trying to stir up trouble with their money. What the fock would they know? Most of 'em haven't set foot in Ireland for 150 fockin' years”.
So Belfast is a perfectly safe place to bring up your kids?
“Well Max, there's some places I wouldn't go, but at the end of the day, you have to remember a lot more people die on our roads than in sectarian violence”. There's a statistic I can relate to.

We've been chatting so keenly that before we know it, the first half has almost passed us by. It's still scoreless but after a shaky start, the Slovaks are in control. They're too big, strong and confident for the visitors all over the park and Our Hero Healy has barely had a sniff of the ball. It's no surprise when, just a minute into the second half, the locals go ahead with a soft goal from a corner. Mark seems resigned to defeat. “Well son”, he says, turning to face me, “looks like you're about to join the vast legion of people to have witnessed a Northern Ireland away defeat”.

With 20 minutes to go, Northern Ireland appear to be given a lifeline when a Slovakian defender blatantly handballs in front of goal. It looks a cast-iron penalty but incredibly, the referee ignores it and waves play on. The visitors are still angrily protesting with the referee when Slovakia break away downfield and score from a resulting free kick to make it 2-0. It's a heartbreaking two-goal swing and the result appears a foregone conclusion.

“No spirit in the lads today”, Mark says, dejected. “We haven't had a decent chance all game. No fockin' crosses or nothin'. You know, sometimes you just gotta put the ball into the middle and you never know what might happen”.

Not ten seconds later, Northern Ireland break swiftly down the left hand side and the winger floats a hopeful cross into the box, where a Slovakian defender diverts the ball past the keeper and into its own net. Which just goes to show, sometimes you just gotta put the ball into the middle and you never know what might happen. It's 2-1 and for a few brief minutes the travelling faithful believe again. It's too little too late, and the hosts hold on for a deserved win.

“We're not Brazil, we're Northern Ireland!”, chant the visiting fans as they trudge out of the ground, but this refreshingly-honest self-assessment fails to mask a deep disappointment at the result. Mark appears lost for words, for the first time today. “That's a bad result, son. I'd rather we play well and lose 6-0 than to go down by a goal playing insipidly like that”. I can't believe he just used the word “insipid”. For that he has earned my lasting respect.
Rob is far more scathing. “We'll come fifth in the fockin' group if we keep on like that. That was fockin' hopeless”.
“It's the fockin' manager”, chimes in Jimmy. “He's not go motivication at all!”. I'm not sure whether he means “motivation” or “mortification”, though I don't suppose it matters at this point.

The self-flagellation goes on like this all the way back into town. For supposedly the best fans in Europe, they're carrying on like All Blacks fans after defeat, except that at least they're talking rather than just staring shellshocked at the floor.
“And the support just isn't what it used to be either”, says Rob. “Less people going to the away games and fock all youngsters replacing the old fans. It's all well and good to go to the home games but if you're not travellin' with the boys you're not a real fan. Think of all the things we've been through to see games in Europe. Remember Latvia? That was a fockin' nightmare”.

What follows is a kind of bizarre real-life parody of Monty Python's “Four Yorkshiremen” sketch, where the four middle-aged Nothern Irishmen recall the increasingly more far-fetched and ridiculous tales of hardships they've encountered travelling to far flung corners of Europe for football games. Rail strikes, ferry sinkings, revolutionary wars, surprise bandit attacks, earthquakes and near-fatal viral attacks have all proven no impediment to seeing their beloved team play.
“Remeber that time in Armenia – this is before the days of EasyJet, remember – when we had to ride for three days through the desert on mules just to get to the hotel?”
“Aye!”
“Christ. And when we ran out of supplies, we had to eat one of the mules”.
“You're not wrong there, Jimmy. And my God didn't we play like shite that day?”
“Aye, but we were there”.

My new friends like me so much that they've spontaneously appointed me president of the New Zealand branch of the Northern Ireland Supporters Club. I haven't a clue what this entails, but I suspect I'll probably just have to buy a keg of beer once every 12 months, dye it green and drink it all myself whilst listening to Van Morrison. They're still moaning about the defeat when we park up at an Irish bar in town, so I change the subject to that of my experience in the Irish bar in Vienna last night.

“I don't understand what people like about Irish bars”, Rob says. “They're all the fockin' same and none of them are anythin' like a bar in Ireland”.
I explain to him that the Irish bar is almost like a global brand, representing familiarity in highly foreign surroundings. Like going to McDonalds or Starbucks in Mongolia, the value lies in the fact that you always know what you're going to get. In effect, the Irish bar is just a fast food joint for alcoholics.
“But you wouldn't walk into any Irish bar and find everyone drinkin' Guinness and singin' fockin' 'Danny Boy'”.

I'm starting to consider calling it a night when rotund, moustachioed man in his 50s approaches our outside table. In his skintight Northern Ireland shirt he looks more or less like every other travelling fan I've seen today, but the lads at our table greet him with a particular enthusiasm and respect.
“Pretty disappointing tonight, eh boys?”, he says.
“It's the fockin' manager. He's got no fockin' motivication at all!”, Jimmy opines.
The man, a pleasant and knowledge fellow, stays and talks for five minutes or so before continuing up the street. As he's walking off, Mark leans over and says to me, “that was David Healy's father”. I think that's pretty neat. The father of the team's star player getting stuck in on tour with the rest of the lads. I can't imagine my father coming to Slovakia to watch me play football when I'm in my 30s.

Mark has spotted another couple that he knows and ushers them over. The husband is a Northern Irishman through and through but the wife, carrying their infant baby, in Australian.
“This is Max”, he says by way of introduction, “he hates Australians”.
Not for the first time this evening I find myself scrambling to diffuse a difficult situation. So I turn my attention to the baby.
“So, will he be supporting Ireland in the future, or Australia?”, I ask with a grin.
“'straaaaa!”, replies the mother defiantly, demonstrating that curious Australian penchant for turning four-syllable words into a single monosyllabic twang.

I could happily sit here enjoying the craic with the boys all night, but I have a train to catch. I say my prolongued goodbyes with my new football mates, who won't let me go without a whole lot of fuss so that I've shaken about 40 pairs of hands by the end of it. It's one of those euphoric occasions where we all make plans to see each other again at a Northern Ireland qualifier in some other European backwater: Estonia, Azerbaijan, maybe even South Ossetia, if I'm ever passing through that way. As I'm walking away I turn back to them and say, “remember boys, you're the second best people in the world”, and they all laugh heartily and don't protest, because they now know it's true.

Sobering up on the train, it occurs to me I learned a lot more about Northern Ireland today than I did about Slovakia. So if you were hoping for much insight into Slovakian people and customs, you're shit out of luck I'm afraid. All I will say is that make sure you don't pay for anything in Euros, and don't be frightened to ask what kind of meat you're about to have for lunch before you buy it. I'm fairly certain I ate barbecued dog this afternoon.

Oh, and make sure you go there on the day of a World Cup qualifier against Northern Ireland.

And don't take the catamaran from Vienna.