My first trip to La Boca was to walk the three blocks of ¨el caminito¨ that my travel guide suggested seeing. Outside of the three block radius the area is supposedly fairly dangerous. La boca is one of the many neighborhoods in Buenos Aires, it is one of the poorest areas, and their are signs all over the city in travel agency windows and hostel bulletin boards advertising tours of ¨the real Buenos Aires.¨ The cobblestone streets were lined vendors selling cheap Argentina souveneirs, all the same. The buildings are painted shades of pastel and there were people dancing the tango in the streets. I felt inappropiate walking around in my 80 dollar pants, passing by a large tour bus spewing people with cameras and bad hats, taking pictures of ¨how the poor live¨in Buenos Aires. The streets were lined with tourists, clutching there cameras and bags with white knuckles as they passed by the plentiful police who were standing on every corner. I walked casually with my friend Ian who I had met at the hostel. We tried to interpret the spraypainted walls, and noticed the way stray dogs looked at you with a sense of smugness.
We decided we wanted to see a soccer match that weekend. Buying tickets through the hostel would have been the easiest and safest (though insultingly overpriced) way to see the game. We decided instead to go with Ezekial, a friend of Ian´s from the city, to buy tickets on our own. We would save close to 100 pesos, and would be sitting in the section with the fanatics instead of the tourists and small children. It would be more exciting, more authentic, more likely to be trampled in a riot... So we went to La Boca a second time to meet Ezekial and trek to the stadium to buy our tickets. As we walked there, far from the flashing cameras and safe area listed in the guidebooks, there were piles of trash along the street, more stray dogs than I have ever seen, eating out of the garbage piles. People slept in doorways, unaffected by our passing. They hosed and swept the small patches of concrete in front of their houses. We didn´t bring cameras or maps, and had just enough money to buy our tickets. I felt safer here in the ¨bad¨part of La Boca than I did in the touristy caminito. I expressed this Ian and Ezekial, and Ezekial explained that there really isnt alot to be worried about there, because everyone is poor. There is no reason to rob someone who you know has nothing.
However, when we arrived at the stadium I was thrown quickly into the reality of where I was. This is, in fact, South America. I am wise to be cautious, and my sense of security was flattened when Ezekial looked at Ian and I and said, ¨dont´speak english here.¨ We had turned the corner of the stadium to see the incredulous line of people, probably close to a thousand, along the side of the stadium. Everyone watched us as we began to search for the end of the line. There were only a handful of women, and the line was sectioned with gates and police in riot gear, so that the crowd was segmented into groups of about a hundred or so. Though I didnt think the gates would do that much good if there was a riot. It was like trying to contain a river with sticks, knowing the whole time that there was a chance that it would all break free and come pouring out and drown everything in sight. There was an energy, a hum about this line. Although the game wasnt until the next day, everyone was on edge, anticipating, thirsty to react, for thrill.
As we walked, silently, I felt more and more uncomfortable. Ezekial told us that if we wanted the tickets we would have to wait in line for hours. I imagined myself, one of the lone women, gated in one of these segments, like being in the belly of a beast about to vomit, and said no. Ezekial agreed, relieved, that we should just buy the tickets from the hostel.
The Game:
The bus ride to the stadium the next day was uneventful. Upon arrival we had to wait in line for close to 2 hours to get into the stadium, passing by people selling street meat, bandanas, flags, shirts, hats, and shouting their mantras, their Argentine accent rippling through their words, making them sound almost italian. The lines of police didnt surprise me, I had gotten used to seeing them by now, especially in Boca. I didnt expect to see the full riot gear, the way they marched militantly or the stern expressions they wore. Once we were through the two security checkpoints everyone rushed towards the yellow chipped concrete bleachers. The away team fans were sitting in the tier above us, and we were told to stay under the shield of the 3rd level, away from the rapid fire of drinks, coin, spit and random objects that would be hurled at the Boca fans throughout the game.
Two hours before the game started the crowd was already alive. Everyone was singing, chanting songs I wish I had know the words to. Boca brought out a banner and laid it in the middle of the field¨: Cada dia somos mas. we sat in the second tier, behind the goal, fenced in with the tourists and small children. Across the field I was where we would have been sitting had we bought our own tickets. As game time drew closer, the side opposite us, the fanatics was swelling, swaying, screaming in unison. Flags were streen, banners the size of the entire tier were lowered andbrought back up over and over. The crowd was pulsing, a flash of white every other second as the fans had their right arms raised, thrusting their fists from the elbow in unison.
In our section people had started to climb. I noticed that the stands were gaurded by police, and also with barbed wire and wrought iron hooks to prevent people from spilling out onto the field. These deterrents didnt stop people from dangling of the fences the for the entire length of the game.
The game began and the crowd went insane. I didnt think the cheering could have gotten any louder, but it had. The entired stadium was filled, except for the top tier which held the limited number of seats for the rosario fans. Trash was thrown onto the field. I was awed by the crowd across from us, and while i was deep into my observation, Ian turned to me and said, ¨God i wish I was over there, in the botto, right behind the goal. Fucking lunatics right there.¨ When the game ended, tori and i got up to leave. A girl behind us told us we should just sit back down, because the Boca fans werent allowed to leave until after the away fans had gone. Apparently during the game we had all been locked into the stadium. I suddenly hear the sound of hundreds of fists banging on the metal dors which barracaded from attacking the away fans. Fists wanting to pummel the other team who had, in fact, thrown drinks, coins, spit on the crowd below. The only thing the Boca fans could do in retaliation was to look up and stare nastily. After the game we ate pizza and I slept like the dead.
