Damo and the Diablo

Update: 23

There's an old story that goes - briefly - like this: A man is walking on a beach when he discovers a lamp. He rubs it and releases a genie. The genie grants him a wish. The man says he'd like a motorway built from London to New York. The genie says that's impossible because of things like seismic activity, limitations on the amount of cement and steel available, corrosive wave action, et cetera, et cetera. The genie says to choose something else, so the man says, "I'd like to understand the mind of a woman." To which the genie replies, after some thought, "so, how many lanes do you want this motorway to be?"

***

After probably three months of research into apartments in Buenos Aires for the best value for money, proximity to Tam's parents who were staying in a hotel in the centre and a suitable kitchen for us to cook and thus bring our costs down, Tam found a great, eleventh floor, studio flat on Avenida Cordoba in the centre of town.

After our first night there, I woke to find her fuming on the other side of the room in the sofa bed. Apparently the noise from the traffic had kept her up all night and we needed to move. So, less than 12 hours after we'd paid the landlord in full for eight days, Tam phones him and tells him that we have to move, would he mind refunding us the difference. He (with undue sympathy) offers to refund everything sans penalty. The next two days are filled with sightseeing with Tam's parents, calls to the landlord to keep up to date on any prospective new tenants that would require immediate evacuation, calls to new agencies for a new apartment and, as desperation approached, hostels for anything available. It soon becomes clear that this is a popular city with sparse affordable accommodation. Panic sets in when Gerardo (landlord) says he has tenants from Thursday. So here we are, needing to move out of a place we've paid for for the next six days, with nowhere to go.

Fortunately, his tenants didn't materialise and we remained in the flat. So, after two days of panic and stress we find ourselves in the same place, this time appreciating what a great deal we have - wait for it - asking if he'd mind if we can stay on for an extra two days while our Indian visas are issued.

He must think we're insane, which is a shame as one of us was perfectly happy here all along (admittedly with the help of earplugs).

As for the Indian visa - that takes 10 days to get a stamp in a passport from a toothless guy who doesn't use the negative. Conversation:

Me: Morning, are our visas ready yet? We're leaving on Monday.

Him: Yes, I have clearance from London. Wait, I issue visa.

Me: Excellent, should I wait here?

Him (shouting at me): I have clearance, I issue visa!

Me (confused): Ok, so should I wait here?

 Him (shouting louder): I have clearance! Wait!

Me: Where must I wait?

Him: At home, maybe Monday, maybe Tuesday.

Me: Oh, so you don't have clearance yet?

Him: Yes, exact.

And this is why there will always be a market for strengthened glass windows with that hole for talking through.

***

The whole week wasn't all this frustrating, my father-in-law bought me the finest steak I've ever come across. About four hundred grams of rare Argie tenderloin rolled in a mustard sauce that made a meal unlikely to be surpassed in a hurry.

Lunch last Tuesday deserves special mention too. Minding our own business eating lunch in the sun, a friendly guy at the table next to us started offering conversion when he heard our English. A good looking Italian who once lived in England, he didn't take long to show his true colours. When I caught him looking a bit longer than necessary at the derrière of a particularly yummy mummy, I asked him if he had a girlfriend. His reply is a good analysis of Buenos Aires:

"Leesen, my friend. To bring a woman here, it is like to take a bread to a restaurant."

The conversation later revealed how his keep was earned in the UK. Turns out he worked as a male escort in Burgess Hill. Of all the glamorous places in the world... I'm still not sure if this was business or charity.

When I asked him if I could get work, he looked me up and down and said, "well you're tall - this is good, but they like-a the Latin."

I suggested that perhaps there'd be a market for South African escorts in Britain, then I thought about it and realised that a desperate housewife could go to any bar in London any night of the week and pick one up for nothing. It seems Latin is a premium worth paying for.

***

After a busy week keeping up with the in-laws (what is it with retirees? Aren't they meant to be slowing down and resting? I was knackered at the end of each day...) our mate Damo arrived.

We took him out for an introductory steak and put him to bed at 4am. The flight had worn him out and he needed some sleep. Next morning, rejuvenated, we headed off to La Bombonera the home of Boca Juniors Athletic Club. Maradona's raison d'etre and holders of the top spot on the Argentine league table.

Generally, tourists get their tickets organised for them by their hostel or hotel; get shipped in; shown to their seats at the side, out of the way and pay about fifty US dollars for the experience. This is because Argentine football matches are not recommended for the uninitiated.

We, two pasty white bald guys, found ourselves on a bus in a wave of blue and yellow shirts heading off the suggested tourist path and buying tickets at the gate for 10 dollars (ha, mugs! That's us twenty dollars up, each!).

Ok, we also bought little BJAC floppy hats to get into the mood.  (Only the certifiable or suicidal would enter the place wearing any other colours). So, while all the gringos were being led to their safe haven up in the top left, Damo and I flowed with the masses into the area behind the goals. This is the same area you see on TV and think "thank God I'm not in there!"

We'd been told that footie kicked off at 4pm, so when we found our spots at about quarter past, we were a little surprised that the stadium was only half full. We soon realised that Boca were playing Quilmes who are last in the league and gathered that this result was a given, and hence the lack of interest.

Slowly the seats started filling up and at half time - after we'd seen a fantastic goal under our noses by Quilmes and I'd risked both our lives by applauding (unlike cricket or rugby, there is no good play from the opposition. Ever.) - I asked the ice-cream man (Senor Helado) why people were still coming in.

Turns out this was only the reserves playing a curtain raiser. It wouldn't have taken long to realise this though: the second half saw the stadium transform itself into a temple filled with eighty thousand worshipers baying for blood. Flags went up all around the ground, on the top tier stands, what, six storeys up? people were climbing over the railings to hang two metre high and eight metre long hand made tributes to players past and present. Giant pictures of Maradona hung all over the place as if waiting salute from his troops like some Soviet dictator.

By the end of the second half of the reserve game, the stands were full to capacity, no space was left uncovered by a banner (sponsors should ask for their money back, no ad is visible) and the chanting started. The fifteen minutes between the end of the reserves and the arrival of the high priests saw dancing girls, a launch of confetti that covered the pitch in bits of paper, chanting that did not abate for the next ninety minutes and jumping around that shook the stadium literally. Our prime seats meant that we were seated - well not seated, there were no seats: stood - behind the altar opposite the choir. This particular area was surrounded by barbed wire and spiked fencing (with the spikes pointing inwards!). It seems we, two bald accountants from The Colonies - I even wear glasses, dammit - were housed with the maniacs that the rest of the insane needed protection from.      

By the time the first team game started, the pitch looked like you'd imagine it to after a cup final. This was the beginning of the game!

Then we were introduced to the 12th Man. In the stalls opposite us, where only the most senior choristers are allowed, flags that covered the whole stand were continuously rolled down over everyone's head, and then then back up, followed a few minutes later by another giant, stand covering banner. When I say the thing covered the whole stand, I mean (let's say there are 40 pews and each pew has 150 parishioners - that's 6,000 - and each worshipper has a personal space of 50cm by 50cm - that's 0.25m² each,  that's a flag that is roughly 150 square meters. That's bigger than our flat in London.) I mean it covered the whole stand.

At the end of the game, four hours after we first walked, naively into the temple, we were allowed to leave. (Well actually our stand, with the tattoo and barbed-wire brigade, had to wait for the rest of the stadium to empty before our gate was opened. I believe this was to avoid any violence or passion-induced murder.

As we were pushed out, we kept reminding ourselves that this was a mid-season league game against the bottom of the table side. I cannot even begin to imagine what the testosterone levels must be like at a South American cup final.

Still, could have been worse: Monday's English language Buenos Aires Herald told us that the Boca game the week before was "...abandoned at half time because the ref had received a death threat in the changing room..." and the game between Independiente and Racing Club had an interruption when "...police were firing tear gas and rubber bullets in to the crowd".

If the South Africans are planning on running a smooth 2010 World Cup, they'd better pray Brazil and Argentina aren't meeting in any venue other than solid kevlar.

***

On the ferry to Colonia del Sacramento in Uruguay the next morning, things were much calmer. Our seating was shared with a party of retired Americans. This provided amusement for the hour long journey. Apart from the usual humourous clothing - you know, the glasses with attachable shades sticking out at right angles and funny hats, these guys had name tags on with their state. I was so tempted to go up to Nancy and Chuck Hoskin from Iowa or Herb and Doreen Beeby from Minnesota and introduce myself, but I'm getting soft now that I'm thirty.

Colonia - as it's called - is a beautiful town built in the 1500s by the Portuguese to act as a base from where to smuggle goods into Buenos Aires. It retains a laid back feel even though it receives hundreds of day-trippers from over the River Plate every day. At this time of year it also sleeps under a stunning and fragrant canopy of Jacaranda trees in bloom.

We spent a day there, and eager to hit the beach moved on to Montevideo. We we all little disappointed with the Uruguayan capital: it's clean, laidback and feels safe but I think we were expecting a little more. It feels a lot more third world than I think it really is. When a fairly mild storm put the entire city into darkness for two hours, we felt like we'd been short changed.

Nevertheless, this was only ever intended to be a stopover and soon we were on track to Aguas Dulces (Sweet - or Fresh - Waters).

For US$5 each, we hired a two bedroom cabana almost on the beach with a parilla (barbeque) looking over the sea. The town is minute and the beach totally unspoilt. I couldn't help thinking that all those people two hours south at the famous glamour resort of Punta del Este were being taken for a ride. This place cost us next to nothing and the beach, ending on the southern side with enormous sand dunes was ours alone (bar the few fisherman and the old guy in a donkey cart).

After the usual two-men-and-a-fire-woman-making-salad behaviour that you'd expect from two men and a woman on holiday in a place with such a fireplace, we went out to paint the town red.

There was only one bar open and this - which I think doubles as the town hall - was where all eight of the village men folk met every night to play pool. One guy must have had babysitter trouble as his daughter was there watching the rerun of an old dancing competition on TV. They'd moved the garden furniture around to accommodate her.

Three nights here and then a two hour bus ride up to what must be a little piece of heaven. Punta del Diablo - Devil's Point - is even more remote and this time we managed to score an old fisherman's hut on the beach. Not near, on. Admittedly it was rustic and we were the first tenants of the summer, but as a getaway you couldn't want for more.

How does one arrive at a rating of rustic? Well, if  "five star" means complimentary champagne on arrival, chocolates waiting on your pillow and toiletries left inconspicuously in your bathroom, "Rustic" means complimentary house dust on arrival, mosquitoes waiting on your pillow and spiders left inconspicuously in your bathroom. Still, at three dollars a night, the marginal cost of an insect is still pretty damn good.

Another three days here under blue sky and away from everything and everyone - ask Damo what he did for two weeks in Uruguay, he'll probably say "nothing". Did he enjoy it? Hell yeah!

***

We left Buenos Aires last Friday night on the overnight bus to Santiago in Chile and it really hurts to talk about it.

I met a Chilean who told me this joke:

Why Argentineans smile when there's lightening?

They think God's taking their photo.

We're already planning our next trip back, but first things first: Easter Island this week and then the Eastern Hemisphere.

Hasta luego.