CABJ

As I left the paper on Sunday night, my worst fears were confirmed. The street, normally deserted save for people playing football on the five-a-side pitches and those who live under the highway, was heaving under the human and vehicular traffic. Hordes of jubilant or triumphant fans marched out of Boca, and cars were unable to move. There were no buses; I had no money in my wallet. I would have to walk.

Boca Juniors won the local football tournament at approximately 9 pm that Sunday evening. Thanks to a stubborn defensive record (the team let in four goals all season and lost no games), the title was already practically in their clutches; a win would do the trick. As a result, the celebrations started early, even before the 7 pm kick-off. What can only be presumed as fireworks thundered in the distance, and then closer, and then below and around and above the newspaper’s building. Windows shook. Sometimes it sounded very much like gunfire, as if an invasion was underway. I tried to ignore these thoughts, focus on writing the news, but the echoes of distant explosions continued through the night.

I left work shortly after 10 pm. My previous experiences with Boca fans coloured my approach to the prospect of walking home in their midst: the first game that I attempted to see in Argentina, in 2006, had seen me mugged and stripped of all valuables before entering the ground. It would be hyperbolic to compare the experience with a rape, but at the time, that was how it felt. The lingering distaste, anger and even fear still make it hard for me to actually enjoy walking in a crowd of Boca fans, jubilant or not.

On the other hand, as I had discovered in articles I had recently written about the club, the only people who can really afford to go to matches nowadays are the wealthy, tourists and those hooligan gang members who get distributed tickets and do little else in their lives. I knew that so long as I was close to the source of their joy, I would be safe.

I walked among them along Paseo Colón, heading towards Independencia Avenue, because I knew there were cashpoints there that could help me escape the horde. The fans were, more than anything, exceptionally pleased with themselves. These were football fans at their best, as people from all walks of life, wearing the blue-yellow-blue strip, greeted each other jovially and rejoiced. The man who sits on a mattress surrounded by dogs smiled a toothless grin at me and asked me how I was. A motorcyclist dawdled on the pavement, beatific smile plastered across his features.

In San Telmo proper, the mix of tourists and locals started to become more pronounced, and my hand lingered around my pocket as I entered the sealed-off cashpoint. A Gothic youth shook his head: both machines were empty. My heart sank, but I left, crossed Independencia and trudged towards the Plaza de Mayo. On the first corner I passed, a man sprawled, half in the street and half on the pavement, semi-conscious, a litre of Budweiser propped against his chest.

The cobbled streets drew me further, past more tourist spots filled to the brim, with occasional marching gangs shouting Boca slogans and wielding flags. Near Belgrano Avenue, towards the actual Plaza itself, the streets become more menacing. There had been a power failure, and several roads were blocked, and as my feet crunched broken glass and splintered wood, I could feel the presence of others in the darkness, near and around me.

At a corner, a man sat in a wheelchair, clutching his fake leg to his bosom, talking to an aged prostitute. Neither took the slight bit of interest in my presence. The woman was drinking wine out of a paper bag, which seemed faintly ridiculous: why bother with the bag?

Next to the Plaza itself, I found working cashpoints, and my heart soared. I could now leave this semi-dark existence and return to home, cosy, safe, peaceful home. I walked towards the Cabildo, and started to encounter a different kind of fan: those who had not set foot in the stadium that day. A group of five or six youths were standing by the subway entrance, banging several drums and greeting all the cars that drove past. I crossed towards the Cabildo itself, and instantly one of the group detached himself and stood next to me before the crossing.

Dressed in a vest and filthy jeans, the man had eyes that seemed unable to focus, and he waved his hands and made small jumps as if in a state of untold bliss. I crossed quickly, and then I realised that he had crossed ahead of me, was actually walking around me, circling me and coming up close behind me. I clutched my bag to my chest, and he looked at me, seeing through me, and his arms flew forward.

I ran. Sprinted straight away, driven by total fear. I ran towards the deserted Plaza, not even thinking about the oncoming traffic, which swept around me. I could easily have been hit, it just wasn’t playing on my mind. I had to escape. Once across, I looked behind me to see if the man was following me, but he just stood there, shaking slightly under the Cabildo arches.

My fear drove me to cross the street too quickly, almost being hit again, but I had to move. I walked up Saenz Peña, noticing a large group of youths on the other side of the street, following a middle-aged lady. I stopped, almost hid. The group passed the lady and continued, but there was a tangible menace in the hot air that seeped into everything that moved.

Close to Corrientes, I found a taxi, with a driver who spoke without opening his mouth. I didn’t care, I needed to leave. The car set off, stopping several times to let large groups of fans pass. Almost every group touched or banged the car as it stood stationary. The driver said something inaudible and we moved on.

As we drew nearer to 9 de Julio, and the Obelisk, the dull thuds started again. The sound of explosions, and never the flashes. Only when we actually came to cross the street were the white flashes of light visible. The taxi carefully maneuvered past straggles of people, and I turned to my right to gaze upon the Obelisk itself. Surrounded by people, with yellow and blue banners waving, immersed in a mist of smoke and noise. More than a celebration, it appeared to be a pagan ritual, as the crowd shifted and danced around the tower. The normally busy street lay deserted, except for the revolutionary fervour sweeping the adulating football fans. It was like a window into another world.

The rest of the journey was uneventful, except for the dangers presented by the uniformly terrible driving of our fellow motorists. I arrived home safe and sound, but my hand was shaking when I put the key into the lock.