Hooligans and football – the Argentinean way
Boca fans at a typically hysterical match
“Don´t worry, he´s killed ten people so you´ll be safe.” We were in La Boca, home to Boca Juniors Football club and reputably one of the most dangerous areas in Buenos Aires. I felt anything but safe.
Why we ended up walking around La Boca with a possible murderer was due to our penny pinching backpacking ways. Although we never noticed how much a drink was, the hostel´s price of 200pesos for transfers and ticket to a Boca Juniors football match seemed extortionate, especially as the tickets were reputedly sold for 30pesos at the stadium.
Our plan was simple – get to La Boca at 9am on the day of the match and buy a ticket from the box office. But even the most simple of plans don´t always work out. Match-day was Sunday, and after tasting Buenos Aires´ famous Saturday nightlife we awoke very late and suitably hungover. We finally made it to La Boca at 4pm and swiftly but stupidly purchased a ticket straight off the side of the street for the 30pesos. Within ninety minutes, a sympathetic official had gently broken the news that the tickets were faker than the legendary chests of Buenos Aires (they like their plastic surgery).
Left with two hours until kickoff, we wandered towards the main area in La Boca. To say I was nervous is an understatement: football violence is supposedly rife in Argentina and the week before some innocent bystanders had been shot and killed by Boca Junior supporters. There was a heavy police presence, kitted out in riot gear, which did nothing to ease my sense of dread. The box office was closed and a quick investigation among the street sellers revealed that they hadn´t any legitimate tickets left. The solution to our problem came in the form of a self confessed ‘hooligan´ (“I am – what do you say? – a hooligan”) who offered us the services of his boss, the aforementioned possible murderer, who came complete with bruises which looked suspiciously like he had been head-butting people. For 130pesos, this man and his gang would organise for us to be sneaked into the game. Determined not to miss the match and with all other possibilities exhausted, I reluctantly agreed.
The next hour, one of the strangest of my life, was spent following various hardened men through the dark streets of La Boca. Were they going to rob us? Kill us? Or just take us to the match? Luckily it was the latter and our new hooligan friends, by running a highly professional though illegal operation, successfully bribed numerous officials allowing us to finally walk, two at a time, through the turnstiles into the stadium.
The atmosphere was amazing. The stadium was awash with blue and gold; flags and banners gently swayed in the breeze; thousands of rolls of toilet paper were thrown onto the pitch and even the brass band never stopped. And when the Boca team came out, the crowd threw small pieces of paper in the air making it look like there was snow in Buenos Aires. The supporters, some hanging from the bunting or with legs dangling over the edge of the stands, sung and danced for the entire match, so much so they shuck the whole stadium. Intermittently, the fans produced machines from which jets of blue and yellow smoke erupted. It was an amazing sight. Pity Boca lost.
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