Boca-day

Having considered myself lucky to be in BA at the same time as BAFICI, I was keen to experience as much as I could of the two week event, and so had pre-booked tickets for four films in the next few days. Setting off early to the Hoyts cinema in the Abasto Shopping Centre, I went to watch my second film, a Danish one, “The Blessing", and its tale of a first-time mother’s struggle to overcome post-natal depression.

Emerging about as moody as the overhead grey, I decided perhaps it was time that I took the bus out to Boca, to see its famed rainbow of buildings, and visit the glory ground of Diego Maradona. Again though, it was another frustrating experience on the bus, scrambling to get my correct fair. Unfortunately it seems Argentina has a real fear and loathing for giving out small (coin) change, and most shopping and monetary adventures will end with a face wince and plea for something smaller, should your purchase require said coin.

But in a place where no one gives you change, the irony exists when you are somehow expected to have it to pay for public transport. Indeed all the buses in BA are fitted with coin-operated machines that have awkward tariffs of (Argentinean) $1.10, $1.20 and $1.25. And so, as I scrambled to fill the slot with the required amount, I suddenly realised I was 5 centavos short (less than 2 cents Australia), and had nothing else to offer but notes. One look from the driver confirmed that this was not an option, but luckily he took pity on me, and adjusted the price to suit my budget.

Unfortunately though, he was not amused a second time when I dropped one of the precious flea-sized 5 centavos, and shot me a look of disgust after we both watched it roll out the door.

And it seemed the sombre mood was everywhere, with a public holiday commemorating the death of the first democratically elected Argentinean president – although I still can’t figure out who this is. Some of the shops on the main strip in the centre were open, but with the massive Argentinean flag flying at half-mast out behind the Casa Rosada, and blue ribbons adorning the chests of some men on my bus, most people had chosen to stay indoors.

What looked like quite a direct route on the map of course turned into a street-cruising saga that could rival any of the popular telenovelas (trashy Latin American soaps), and with most of the streets running the length of the city, I am sure we zig-zagged past by my street at least twice.

Finally we arrived, and the Boca Bridge groaned a hello from the stagnant stench of La Matanza River (The Slaughter River, but better known by the less-fitting name “El Riachuelo” - The Little River). Cars rattled back and forth along its orange iron-frame middle, and it was not long before I got stopped by the police, who are keen to warn me about having my camera out to take photos.

Sadly the waterfront walkway isn’t much to look at, and could be pretty if only President Memem’s Secretary of Environment, María Julia Alsogaray, wasn’t being charged with embezzling the most of the $250 million set aside in 1993 to clean it up. Instead it is a sludgy mess of sunken ship hulls and toxic waste from nearby tanneries that keeps car tyres poking out at random intervals.

Eager to get away from the rotten mess, I walk down to the Caminito – pedestrian street – where Boca’s famous multi-coloured buildings appear stuffed with every shape and form of tourist trappings. Music and amateur performers line the streets as bright washing hangs strategically from most windows.

Struggling to find much of interest, I head down to bright yellow and blue shell of La Bombonera – Boca Junior’s home stadium – and walk along its starred walk of fame that decorates the grey pavement. And it appears nothing has escaped the patriotic paintbrush – even the forklifts are striped.

I make my way into the “Boquense” Museum (it seems they have a whole dictionary of Boca-related terms), passing through the supporter shop that carries everything from baby clothes to underpants and sombreros. A large monument to Maradona, bathed in yellow light, stands at the entrance, and fortunately for him, it is a more flattering pre-cocaine addiction depiction.

Along the first wall are the stars of supporters’ names, and a roll call of all players who have represented Boca since 1905. In the main area, is progression of jerseys that the club has worn. Interestingly their first kit was actually light blue, the second pink, the third black and white striped, and it was not until 1913 that they finally settled on their current colours (reportedly after losing a match against a team with the same stripes, and having to change, Boca decided to take their choice from the next boat that sailed into the port - which just happened to be Swedish). Also there are dedications to their teams' many idols, trophies they have won, including the South American cup from 2006, and a filmic wall of the club’s lifespan, extravagantly produced over about 50 tv screens and dvd players.

I finally pass through the museum doors, past some “Boca Arte” on display and out onto the field. But it is a lot smaller patch of green than I had expected. Perhaps it is my instant comparison to Australian rules, but the boxes, seats and bleachers, which appear in descending order of importance and maintenance, all seem to hover rather stupidly over the grass, diminishing its size even further. Its no wonder too, when I try to get tickets for the game on Sunday, that I find out the power the fans hold when pre-game fighting between the two sides forces the match to be closed off to spectators.