Day 95 – La Boca
Don’t go there – it’s dangerous. That was the advice many people gave me about visiting La Boca, the rough neighbourhood that is home to Boca Juniors, Maradona’s old football club and supposedly the one with the most passionate fans.
I decided to listen to the woman running the hostel: make sure you go early in the day and keep your camera out of sight.
So I wandered about twenty minutes south, down Defensa, across a park with steps covered in colourful graffiti, and into the grittiest barrio in Buenos Aires.
Mindful of the wisdom of not looking too much like a clueless tourist, I tried to keep the stopping and looking at my map to a minimum. Which meant that I often had no idea where I was. My plan was to go to the Boca Juniors stadium, but as hemmed in among tight residential streets, its often hard to see.
Alarm bells started to ring as I walked passed a hospital. A man with one leg, being pushed in a wheelchair, tried to grab my shirt as I walked past. If the one-legged wheelchair-bound locals are having a go at me, how am I going to fair against the able-bodied locals?
Mural welcoming you to La Boca
I quickened my pace, caught a glimpse of a vibrant blue and yellow football stand, and turned up a corner in that direction. Sometimes the quickest way to football grounds can take you through the dodgiest areas. I suddenly became aware just how run down everything was in this street. Parked cars had no wheels. Old women were pushing shopping trolleys that appeared to be empty.
And then, across the street, I saw a commotion. Three men were being pinned against the wall by plain-clothed policemen. What, exactly, were they looking for? I zipped my jacket, which was hiding my camera, further up, and pressed on.
Soon enough, I was at the stadium. Apart from a haggard looking woman selling old Boca flags, there was no-one around. The season had finished at the weekend and Boca fans had little to celebrate.
Shop selling tops outside stadium
I made my way round to the front and saw a knot of Japanese tourists. This must be where the museum is. On the ground were a series of footprints in bronze casts, Hollywood style. I looked for Maradona’s. It was the only so worn out that you could not actually make out a footprint.
After a quick look around stadium, I checked out Boca merchandise shops across the road, on the hunt for a Maradona DVD. He’s a lunatic, but the best footballer I’ve ever seen and I wouldn’t be upset if Argentina win the World Cup. (I’m not English).
One corner away from the ground
From the stadium, I walked the few streets to the Caminito, a street that leads down to the water’s edge full of wooden houses painted in bright colours. By this point the light was starting to dim. I didn’t really fancy walking back, passed the hospital where by this time the one-legged crazy guy may have found some equally bold mates. I caught the bus to downtown and bought a few DVDs, including one about the sinking of the Belgrano during the Falklands War, from the perspective of the home side.
Tonight’s my last night, and so I decided that, in the words of that bloody Black Eyed Peas song, it’s gonna be a good night. I got back to the hostel quite late and found Laura, the Frenchie, and Will, her young Ozzie beau, getting drunk on my behalf. “Miguelito!” they shouted.
I couldn’t bail out of my leaving party, although I was ready to collapse in bed and sleep for three days, so we went out. (Cue recollection of our taxi drivers dancing in their cars at the lights across four lanes on the way home…) Yup, it was a good night.
