By David Owen at Soccer City, Johannesburg
June 11 - We have lift-off. Finally, at 3.55pm local time, the moment an entire continent had been waiting for: Jacob Zuma, South African President, declared the “African World Cup” open.
Instantly the air was rent with the ear-splitting sound of 80,000 vuvuzelas, already without question this tournament’s trademark noise.
They had succeeded in drowning out much of what FIFA President Joseph Blatter, for whom this must have been a genuinely special moment, was trying to say.
“The time for Africa has come, it has arrived,” Zuma proclaimed.
Now it was up to the yellow-shirted South African team, whose long recent unbeaten run, had lifted the hearts of the nation, to do their bit.
The first 40 minutes did not augur well; Mexico dominated possession thanks to the midfield pairing of skipper Gerardo Torrado and Efrain Juarez.
In the 38th minute, the inevitable appeared to have happened when Arsenal starlet Carlos Vela netted from a corner.
But he had been standing offside.
This appeared to wake up the home team and the half ended with a succession of Bafana Bafana corners - something to give the crowd reason for hope over the interval.
Even so it came as a complete shock when, at 5.16pm, South Africa threaded a cultured succession of passes through the midfield to free man-of-the-match Siphiwe Tshabalala.
The rangy Kaizer Chiefs midfielder finished with aplomb from the left of the box, to land himself the freedom of Johannesburg for life.
Let’s just say I would never have imagined such noise was possible in a football stadium, even one as majestic as this.
I have still to set eyes on a calabash, but this massive bowl certainly succeeded in cooking up a magnificent atmosphere, even if its multicoloured outer shell puts me more in mind of one of those quirky 1980s housing projects in the Paris suburbs.
Anyway, for 25 minutes this remarkable nation salivated at the prospect of its most satisfying footballing moment for 14 years.
Then, in 1996, I had sat at the Cape of Good Hope, the tip of the continent, listening to radio commentary of Bafana Bafana winning African Nations Cup, as Atlantic and Indian Oceans crashed into each other with unimaginable force.
But it was not to be.
On 79 minutes, a misplaced defensive pass, a cross and there beyond the far post was that wily old campaigner Rafael Márquez to fire home right-footed past Itumeleng Khune.
Just for a few seconds, the vuvuzelas piped down.
There was still time for lone striker Katlego Mphela to muscle his way through and prod the ball against the foot of the post for South Africa.
Ultimately though, the host nation had to make do with the satisfaction of a well-earned point – and universal respect – rather than the joy of victory.
This much-abused country has been through enough, of course, to know that this was only a football match – yet there was no disguising the disappointment.
South Africans did at least pull off one triumph in Soccer City earlier in the day.
This was the 30-minute opening ceremony, crammed with African harmonies, rhythm and colours, which kicked the tournament off.
World Cup opening ceremonies are rarely all that spectacular: they take place in broad daylight, so jaw-dropping Olympic-style lasers and light-shows are out of the question.
Here, though, low-tech was good – and fitting for a show that sought to delve towards the roots of a continent.
Hugh Masekela, Femi Kuti, Osibisa - all big names of African music – were there singing and playing their hearts out.
But for me, the undoubted star of the show was a giant footballing dung beetle.
This great black apparition, according to the programme guide, “toils relentlessly to overcome all obstacles”.
Africa’s answer to Robert the Bruce’s spider, then, you might say.
The only sadness of the day was that Nelson Mandela was not here to witness it all.
The 91-year-old former President withdrew after his great-granddaughter was tragically killed in a car crash when travelling home from the pre-World Cup concert.
As President Zuma relayed the great man’s message to the assembled masses at the start of the match - “The game must start; you must enjoy the game” - the wall of noise cranked up still further.
The question now is will we come to see this brain-befuddling buzzing as the sound of South Africa resurgent?
Or the cacophony behind which a young but still desperately unequal country seeks to deafen itself to its daunting problems?
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