http://www.flickr.com/photos/richsmith/5598799221/in/set-72157626755522281
Having arrived a few days before the impending arrival of my oldest brother Alex and his boss (and fiancée) Sarah I met up with Sam Kelly, an old friend of my uni mate Chris Nash, who lived and worked in BA. Sam is a football journalist and therefore in a position to advise those woefully illiterate in the football world such as myself on how best to take in a match in BA without getting trampled on. Meeting in the very comfortable Gibraltar, an ex-pat pub (and the first pint of decent ale in 6 months), he introduced me to another footy-journo Dan who'd take me to a match the next day between the All Boys and Colon. Football is huge in Argentina with 24 professional clubs in BA alone and the 3rd oldest league in the world, football is the lifeblood of the city. Dragging another unsuspecting and football illiterate Englishman from the hostel with me, we traveled by the underground or "supte" (trains were actually made of wood) to meet Dan before heading to the Estadio Islas Malvinas, home of Club Atletico All Boys.
Going to a football match deep in the suburbs of BA, feels like walking into enemy territory; everyone is in doned in the black and white of the All Boys, the fans are drinking and singing and to utter the words of Boca, River or worse Juniors (all local and rival teams) is something you don't even dare to do, this, is the home of the All Boys. With tickets in hand we took our seats in the stand opposite all the hard-core fans who it seems have been smuggling in just about anything that explodes. As the whistle goes for kick off the stand is an explosion of confetti, flares and incessant singing. Growing up, I never had the patience to support a team for very long (transferring my allegiance from Wimbledon to Spurs to Leeds back to Spurs to Woking to Exeter and then to no one before I was age 20), but after just 5 minutes in the Estadio Islas Malvinas, I declared myself to be an All Boys fan.
They lost 2-0. Undeterred, I bought my first football shirt, which I was subsequently warned not to wear if I valued my life, as post match Dan and I went for dinner in his neighbourhood, home to River Plate for a slap-up steak dinner. Back to my hostel it was time to get an early night, as my brother Alex and his fiancée Sarah were due in the following morning and I wanted to be there at the airport for their arrival. A good time to open another bottle of wine and make friends until 2am in the hostel then...
... when I did finally get to the airport somewhat later than planned it was great to see them both. They were tired from the flight and I was a bit hungover, so a mellow first day was needed. Having upgraded accommodation to a B&B that actually had warm showers and no pot-heads it was time to receive my requested rations of chocolate and tea from Alex and Sarah and head out to the infamous San Telmo market.
San Telmo is the heart of tango, music, art and antiques in Buenos Aires, and every Sunday down Calle Defensa, every bit of space for the best part of a mile was taken up with market stalls selling anything from mate (South American Tea) to Messi football shirts. Behind the market stalls were shops akin to those of Portabelo Market selling all manner of arts & antiquities alongside stylish restaurants and cafes buzzing with people exhausted from shopping and content to watch the performers and punters over a cup of mate. The market alone is enough to entice me to return, hopefully next time I can get my purchases back home as my last batch ended up in the hands of a pikey thief in New Zealand.
The Argentines I've met in New Zealand all remark that everyone here eats and goes out really early, but it's actually the other way around, as Argentines are the late ones, and don't get out the door for dinner until at least 10 at night and to turn up to the clubs any time before 2am is a significant faux-pas. This was something that Alex, Sarah and myself all found a little hard to get used to as we explored the city by day and the cities restaurants by night. Thankfully, early evening siestas not only meant we could squeeze in a little extra red wine but also meant we could placate Alex for a few hours longer before he needed to be fed. On our final night in San Telmo, we decided to go to a tango show, and despite it being one of the more dearer and more touristy things to do in BA, it was worth every cent, as not only was the food delicious (entraña is now my favourite cut of beef) but the show was unbelievable. How anyone can do that dance without kicking their partner is beyond me, and I have a new-found appreciation for the ability of the pro-dancers on Strictly (but still not an ounce of respect) but at least this show was extremely entertaining and integral to any visit to BA.
One of the more sombre and eerie sights of BA was the cemetery La Recoleta. The cemetery rivals the Pére Lachaise of Paris, and is a sombre yet mysterious place. Walking through the gates we pass many people keen to see the final resting place of Eva Peron, but La Recoleta is enormous and it's streets are lined with 15-30 foot high mausoleums that make it more of a mini city than a cemetery, each street lined with the final resting places of Argentina's elite. Exploring here feels oddly out of place and slightly sinister, but after wandering around amongst the endless tombs, you're left with more questions than answers. The tomb that intrigues me the most is a tomb in the shape of a pyramid, the only one in the cemetery and I'm certain it holds either a bunch of killer zombie mummies or the next clue to where the holy grail maybe found as it looks oddly masonic...
After I'd finished pretending to be Indiana Jones sniffing around graves and before we all embarked on a jaunt around the rest of the country, we all wanted a crack at horse-riding western style. We found a chap called Adrian based on the outer edge of the city who ran 3 hour intensive courses, designed to get even the most timid riders cantering. I had no clue what cantering meant and was only hoping I could pull off being a cowboy without falling off. After an introductory round of mate we all saddled up, complete with helmets disguised as cowboy hats we walked out of the stables and through the fields.
After receiving many compliments from Adrian ranging from, "back straighter!", "hands lower!", "get your legs forward", "go faster" and "slow down", I finally felt comfortable on my horse and very soon I learnt that cantering meant going just shy of a gallop. Leaning forward and letting the horse get some speed was truely fantastic, like riding a surfboard for the first time, the sensation of natural speed was exhilarating. Towards the end of the session we were cantering across the plains and I was in my element, I was no cowboy, nay, I was the Sheriff, hooning it across the fields, only missing a lasso in my spare hand to try and capture my brother and have him tossed in the cells, before getting down to the last-chance saloon for some well earned whiskey. Wild West day dreams put to one side, that afternoon was pure joy, and post-travel career #36 of cattle rancher is definitely high up the list.
Photos:
Horse shenanigans! http://www.flickr.com/photos/richsmith/sets/72157626880147570/
The video is well worth a look! Although it may not work... http://db.tt/gDZzVHg
After our adventures in BA, it was time to head south to Patagonia.
*the curry offering in BA is however woeful and a definite deal breaker.
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