Buenos Aries Connections
I could still feel the thumping of the famed Boca Juniors football stadium through my heart and the singing of the loyal men in my ears when I stood on Calle Lima waiting for a small green car to stop and for long lost relatives to pile out.
The sun was shining with clear and determined rays; I could hear the hum of traffic from the widest road in the world and my belly groaned from the feast eaten last night. Only three months ago I was caked in Amazon Jungle dirt crawling through wild boar tracks on hands and knees in sizzling heat. And yet now I’m waiting in the sheik BA wearing a custom-made leather jacket, the softest leather shoes and lipstick.
A dark green shiny car with three oddly familiar men pulled up. Strong, good looking, healthy kind men instantly embraced me with affection. Their smiles were genuine and their kisses sincere. Men I had never met, yet with whom I had shared family history and name with my whole life. It felt like home.
They took me to the non-tourist side of Buenos Aries, explaining the importance of this building and that. Through my broken Spanish and their English, we managed to piece together a rough sketch of the vast and diverse city, where seeming wealth and European influences mingle along the wide and never-ending streets. The commentary was only interrupted by my occasional sigh of disbelief to have finally met this arm of our large family. The young men were gorgeous and friendly and their father – my cousin, proud and involved.
We arrived at their house, a normal Argentine home. I was served the Argentine staple – pizza and empanadas. Food I had come to love because it meant family in a foreign place.
They were looking at me and I thought they must be feeling the same awkward/familiar feelings. I talked of my South American adventures that were nearly coming to a close and they pried me for details about our family members they will never meet. Beyond the staccato language and first-time meeting strangeness there existed something that can’t be described in English or Spanish – a bond and a trust that had transcended time, distance and absence.
We talk of Buenos Aries and I have a Boca-Flash:
We thought we were being reasonable. We women bought ‘women and children’ tickets – a point of sexual difference that seemed sensible considering the reputation of the crowd. The men bought ‘MAN’ tickets – responding to a call to arms for loyalty and honour.
The only thing the men said to us was, ‘don’t sit in an open area’. We followed the signs and sat down in a lovely spot, there were a few children around us and we wondered where the men ended up. Not so slowly, the stadium started to fill and the space between us ‘women’ and others became smaller and smaller, mainly through the invasion of rugged men.
Then it all began! It occurred to us that we might have taken a wrong turn looking for the women and children seats as the crowd erupted and the pushing and shoving got more intense. We got flung around with the bulky men but each time they stopped to apologise. The tribal roar, the working-class chanting and heartfelt arm waving rose up and up and filled every orifice of that stadium including the player’s souls. It was people power at its finest. I stopped trying to see the game through the sea of blue and yellow in front of me and concentrated on my feet. The beat reverberated through me and all I could do was dance and smile and slap the back of the few around me. The music provided by some of the most loyal was some of the best South American music I had heard; zealous, raw and passionate.
My cousins as steadfast Boca Junior fans knew exactly how it was and confirmed that the ‘lovely spot’ we had in the stadium was in fact the core of the crowd.
As we walked around the big bouncer protected tango clubs with mafia looking managers, I felt I had been beamed into a movie set. The soul of tango lives in Buenos Aries. Smoky tango bars with sequenced clad women with six-foot legs strutted around while weathered handsome faces crooned into a microphone. I even found the octogenarian in a puffy shirt under a tight-fitting suit playing the piano like his hands were still in the ‘60’s. But the view from the red velvet curtained door was the only one I was to see. Tango clubs are not for the locals, this cultural prowess costs a tourist’s budget. The tango dancers busking in the street earlier that day or on display at the weekend markets is where you can see and feel the sexual tension and Argentine sophistication at its best.
The inevitable – the goodbye I would have to make to my new relatives came way too quickly. As we drove closer to Calle Lima the small green car now had four similar looking people in it. I wanted to express my gratitude and affection but the lump in my throat clogged my Spanish words. I kissed them all and then all again as we usually do at home on big goodbyes. With the promise of emails, photos and returns I said ‘ciao’. As I turned my leather swooshed and my heart ached, but I knew that one day, sometime, I would return.
I could still feel the thumping of the famed Boca Juniors football stadium through my heart and the singing of the loyal men in my ears when I stood on Calle Lima waiting for a small green car to stop and for long lost relatives to pile out.
