Four hours a day for five days. It's enough to make my head feel the familiar strain of learning, one that ends with a contended Friday and a relaxing Saturday. Today, a Saturday, was perfectly characteristic, almost nostalgic for the days of a hard week and a good weekend. I walked the streets of the Boca neighborhood.

Which reminds me: Futbol is tomorrow. For the last week or so I've been playing pick-up games with some of the local kids, but tomorrow is a big day because much of the hostel is going to the Boca game. Boca Juniors are arguably the best and most popular team in the Argentine League. They've taken a strong start this season, winning all of their games. Tomorrow looks like a relatively easy match against some team, whose name I cannot remember.

In anticipation, I would like to recount what happened at last Sunday's game. I think it worthy of a Lake Monster Culture entry simpy because there are many a monster at an Argentine futbol match.

I had barely missed some of the other hostelers who went to the buses just before, but I figured it would not be too difficult to find a stadium with thousands of screaming fanatics. As it were, it wasn't difficult, but it wasn't easy either. It required digging through the hopelessly vague bus booklet for Buenos Aires, finally finding a bus only to find it did not run that day, then finding one and having the driver tell me to get off because he didn't go to the stadium. With some perseverance, I decided to wait for the next bus of the same number, and this paid off, since this one had an accomodating driver who let me know just where to get off.

Once I was off number 17 I wandered past dozens of kiosks all selling diablo rojas merchandise. Red was the color of the day. (The other team, it turns out, typically wears red as well - today they would be mostly white with a red stripe) With fortune at my side, I had chosen a black jumper this afternoon, so I wasn't getting many askance looks. However, I was surprised to note how difficult it was to find the booth to buy a ticket. The reason being that the stadium is fence off into entry from two separate neighborhoods. This might come to the curioisity of an American who's been to an average baseball or basketball game, but in futbol matches, no one is neutral. Everyone either sits in the section for the home team or the section for the road team. I asked a policeman where the entrance was and he asked "River o Indepentiente?" Seeking as little trouble as possible, I responded "Independiente" which was the home team. He pointed down a street and advised me to keep looking left. In doing so I eventually found the entrance and managed to buy a standing room ticket from a lady behind several inches of heavy steel. Since I had arrived late due to the bus mishap, I entered the turnstiles solo, and was frisked by with thej eight security guards.

Once inside, I went up a few steps into a throng of futbol fans, each craning to get a view of the field. With some jockeying, I managed to get a view of about half the field. This was sufficient for me, I figured. I was enjoying just being a part of the screaming throng. Being just a visitor, I could not join in the chants that arose every few seconds or so, so I participated in what way I could by waving my arms emphatically when everyone else did. When in Independiente, do as the Independientes do I figured. Even something this simple proved to be an education. The Argentines love their hand gestures. A futbol match is an ideal venue to appreciate this - you'll see accusatory effeminate flicks of wrists, wrists making sideways slashes, a coordinate flailing of both arms, and various manual simulations of sexual acts. Entranced, I watched on as the carnal theatrics played out, all to an endless soundtrack of screams, mostly calling out "puta", "puto", "putos" and other variations. I don't think I've any word, English or Spanish, recited so regularly. As you could imagine, I was distracted, and hardly noticed when the match reached halftime. The game was still 0-0 after 45 minutes..

I took the liberty of the moment to feast at one of the sidestands, forking over a couple pesos for something cylindrical resembling a hot dog, but not. Finding the condiment stand and the familiar red and yellow bottles, I squeezed mayonnaise out of a yellow bottle, and ketchup out of a yellow bottle. Perhaps universality is an illusion. Just as likely, standardization in condiments are overrated. It filled me up and that's what mattered.

At this point, I began to be concerned that since I could still only see half the field, I would be disappointed if the game ended 1-0 without my even seeing a goal. River was controlling much of the game, and the fans were grumbling at the common mistakes of the home squad.

To my avail, this concern shortly ended. Independiente countered, and scored after a clever over-the-head flick pass. And this, of course, is the point where the Independiente section copulates with communal joy, hugging strangers, jumping in place, screaming more chants, more calls of "puta", waving flags and anything colored red. It was a glorious temporary moment for humanity.

With our squad up by a goal, the "puta" calls grew increasingly confident and provocative. It was sometime around then that the first rock was thrown. I'm not sure who threw it first, but the first volleys that I noticed where coming from the River side. The two groups of fans, both numbering in the hundreds and probably thousands, were separated by about a twenty foot fence. There was no risk of anyone climbing over, but the rock projectiles were obviously worth keeping an eye on the sky for. Naturally, some of the Independiente fans gathered the rocks and threw them back. In this fashion the Argentines made the most of this communal recycling program, lofting what was probably the same three rocks back and forth, causing all sorts of mayhem. A woman was hit in the back, a man was hit in the chin. I watched as people to my left, right, front, and back sustained their various injuries. Puta calls and hand gestures multiplied. It was obvious the frustration level was overflowing onto the field.

And, before long, River scored. I watched, with some degree of shock, the wave of madness that encompasses the celebration of a goal, as the River fans rushed towards the pitch, with all of the fever of if there were a fire on the back bleachers. In just a couple minutes more, they would repeat the celebrations, as River scored again to make it 2-1. At this point, the Independiente fans were very silent, tending more to the sky than the pitch, to scream "Alla!" whenever a rock was incoming. The policia were slowly pushing either side away from the fences, I suppose with the intent that they would fall into a no-mans-land. Rocks continued to rain down, but began to trickle down in frequency. As the minutes ticked down, I conceded the chances for Independiente and focused more on the sulking fans, the sky above, and the security guard with the shotgun, than the field.

But then, surprises do happen. Independiente scored on the 89th minute (with only 1 left to go) and the home fans went insane. More jumping, hugging, and gesturing ensued. As if part of an ocean, I was pressured downhill towards the fences, where we all screamed chanted and shook our fists. The shotgun man was nowhere to be seen. Shortly after this point, I was smacked in the side of the leg with a rock, something that I figured was bound to happen eventually. Before I could consider doing so myself, someone nearby had already thrown the rock into the opposing camp. This would be how the game ended. A 2-2 draw that left both sides something to be happy for, though River probably should have won.

Afterwards, I was impressed at how organized the exit was arranged. The River fans were let out first, pouring out into one side of the neighborhood. We would eventually stream out in the other direction, with policeman ensuring this division of fans remained. All in all it was a terrific, if a bit dangerous, experience. You now have an idea of why I'm highly anticipating this Boca game tomorrow.

Update: The Boca game was suspended due to some rioting in the 3rd level bleachers. I was in the 3rd level but on the opposite end of the stadium. Chairs, rubbish bins, and tear gas went flying. Apparently 54 injuries, one critically. A bit over the top I have to say.