Argentina v Ivory Coast from Buenos Aires 10 June 2006

Waiting at the airport at Quito, we felt sombre, sobering up, drinking coffee, waiting for our flight to leave. All in the small airport lounge quiet, save for one American fellow ' half Irish, half Ecuadorian he said. He was diminutive with thick black hair and a stagger and a plastic bag under his arm.

"Where you guys going?

"Buenos Aires, I said freely thinking there would be no chance.

"Oh great! That's where I'm going! See you half way for a Jack Daniels he said winking and patting his bag.

"I'll drink your bourbon, but we need to work, I said truthfully, but also trying to stir him a bit.

Between boarding and immigration, the plane ride allowed only four hours in which to rest and re-hydrate and get eight hours sleep. And then of course there was that pesky World Cup report I'd been promising. I tried to write, but LAN Chile is made for Chileans with short little bodies and legs and I resolved the best I could do was to try and sleep. That flight was one of the worst of my life.

My hands were the only bits to get sleep, with pins and needles from armrests. Had they been awake for the flight, I think I would have used them to reach back and throttle the drunken old bum who sat behind, yelling and singing, the whole flight. He tried to cajole others into his corrupt lullabies.

"Don't you guys know any fucking English songs.

"Sir! Silenzio!

I took a break for the toilet and saw the one I figured it was, the old drunk sitting next to the Ecuadorian-Irish-American man. I offered a sympathetic smile when I returned to my seat. The singing and shouting went on til we landed in Buenos Aires, still in the night. I asked Sal whether she had caught any sleep.

"Maybe a bit. I'm not sure. That American guy kept me up most of the night.

"That guy? It was him? I thought the voice was too old.

"JD from his bag. No water or ice said my special barkeep with ten years of experience under her belt.

Buenos Aires airport took me by surprise. There were tall, white, Euro types all around. It had just gone dawn, but with kick-off at 4pm that day, there was little time to spare. We prepaid 53 of the local 'whatevers' to prepay a taxi to the address in my pocket. I felt pretty nervous. The address had been given to me by an Argentine friend I had met in India about six years ago. He would not be in town for our visit, but he promised to find us a place to stay. He arranged for us to stay with Pepe - his father ' and given instructions for Pepe to show us Argentina's World Cup.

The taxi drove us past housing projects, scores of the things. Like tall soldiers, they looked down on us. A sign over the freeway said "Copa Alemania 2006 Vamos Argentina and I pondered the fans inside the water stained buildings which we passed. I wondered if we might be dropped off at their feet.

Sal and I, still in our Ecuador tops, felt delicate and depleted. I tried to concentrate on where we were heading in case something went wrong. The driver sung and spoke to himself and had all manner of red charms hanging from his rear view mirror. Ribbons and Chinese lanterns and a Father Christmas on string. The collection was strange, but felt luckier than the deer's hoof I'd seen hanging off a taxi mirror in a mirror in Quito. A full Father Christmas gave me more confidence than a broken bit of Rudolph.

After an hour in the taxi, Buenos Aires looked wealthier and more familiar now. It felt European to me. The buildings were grand with balconies and lattices. Trees spilled their leaves and I guessed it was autumn. We came to the prescribed street and address.

Our bags on the footpath, the taxi left us. I took a breath and knocked at number 5226. No answer. I tried my phone, but no service. Knocking again, there was nothing.

"Keep filming? said Sal, growing aware there was nothing to film.

"Keep filming! I said in my usual spirit of 'talent' with no respect for batteries or tapes or least of all editors.

I found a button! A press activated a dog inside. My adrenalin rose. I sensed someone coming along with the dog ' a skill I acquired from my door-to-door days.

A tall man, smoking, opened the door. He was a little lean, in his fifties or sixties perhaps, his hair bedraggled, grey flecked and long. He wore a torn purple robe and a nonchalant bored look on his face.

"Pepe?

"No.

No? NO??! Taxi gone. Phone not working. So tired, could cry.

He smiled.

"I am Pepe. Come in.

I shook Pepe's hand. I could have kissed him - the rascal. Sally and I dragged our bags up the steep concrete stairs and into his flat. Then came a long moment.

Pepe left us standing alone in his flat, for maybe five minutes, while he talked to his neighbours and let his dog wander the street. He didn't look up or call out. I kept looking back down to check. We lingered and only in his own good time did Pepe come up, with doggie in tow.

"First rule!

I made my face solemn, reflecting his look.

"The house is yours! Anything you like... Except for my bed.

Sal and I laughed.

"It is not for me. It's for my dog. Look¦

And then he led us into his bedroom and, still smoking, climbed in under the covers. He waited. Sure enough, the dog followed, jumped onto the bed, and climbed calmly and completely under the covers.

"See? His name is Fru. My life.

Fru is a good boy with grey patchy short hair and droopy jowls. He was so well trained and behaved. We could leave our stuff lying about.

"I am sorry. I never learn English, he told us.

Pepe'd learned, but he'd never been taught.

"I listen to songs. Frank Sinatra, deep breath, "I've got you¦ under my skin!

Pepe look us to the kitchen for coffee and toast. He showed us a map of the area, keen for us to go out and explore. We were too wrecked. Sal had a nap. I stayed up talking with Pepe, trying to stay awake on his comfortable couch, counting the cigarettes jumping into his mouth.

"Three a day, he explained to me.

"Three packets?

"Si.

He put the television on for me, cursing the remote, trying to find something on football in English.

"I hate Mundial. For me, its shit. Everywhere¦ he rolled the remote and his eyes.

I felt myself sinking a little bit more. The whole of Argentina to explore and I had come to the house of a man who hates the World Cup. Could this visit have been a mistake?

Pepe left for the kitchen and returned with a sort of metal cup with a spout. Now, I have quite a poor sense of smell and, amongst all Pepe's smoke, I could not help but think this thing was a bong. I collected myself as he offered to me.

"What is it? A drug?

"No drug!!

That was most definitely a mistake. Pepe doesn't like drugs. Pepe likes 'mate': a herbal tea, drunk from the spout. While Sally slept heavy, we men drank mate and washed dirty clothes.

"All included in price. You tell me, anything you need. Anything except money.

I had been watching Pepe breathing them in for a few hours. I don't much like to ask for things, but the temptation had started growing too strong.

"Could I have a ciggarro perhaps? Possible?

There was a flinch. A pause. Definitely something. I felt like I had just asked for his dog. But still he gave me one. And he lit it for me. He showed me they way Fru fetches his ball. He showed me photographs of his old race-horse and childhood ones of Mariano. We shared a good laugh.

It was time to wake Sally. The only cigarettes left in the house were in the room where she slept. And soon we needed to go for lunch. Pepe had kindly arranged for us to visit his friends' place. A real Argentine home to watch the big game!

We left in Pepe's car. Fru sat in the front.

"Or else, he eats car.

Pepe's driving was something spectacular. There were no seatbelts in back and, I swear it, not once for our whole half hour trip did Pepe check a blind spot or use one indictor. He even ran red lights from standing starts. He just did not care.

I resigned myself once again to dying on overseas roads and tried to keep my eye on the view. Still looked like Europe to me. Grand buildings. Sharply dressed people sitting in outside cafes. A most comfortable place.

Pepe pulled up for a moment, outside a store, and, sure enough, returned with three packs of smokes, but also a little chocolate football for us. We ate it straight away and inside were face paints: white and powder blue!

At Pepe's friend's house, Fru showed the way. I forget all the names, but Pepe's friends were mostly his vintage. There were about a dozen or so, with one younger couple with a four-year old child. We sat at a covered billiard table. Lunch had begun. And, as I anticipated, it mostly consisted of meat.

I had been pondering this in advance. I am a vegetarian, of the ovo-lacto variety. I've not eaten meat for some six or seven years, and I knew, on this adventure, a collision would come between beliefs and good grace. I had already resolved to myself that, on this one occasion, I would resolve any conflict in favour of my hosts and not some poor animal, already dead. It is the World Cup - the Mundial - after all!

I allowed my plate to be loaded up with barbequed steak, sausages and shanks. And I ate. I ate it up good! I must say I had utterly forgotten how good meat can be! I went in for seconds. And thirds! I must confess, I took licence with my new resolution and ate well beyond what good manners dictate. And man - oh man! - it was good! So tasty and juicy and yummy for me! Then. Then, I learned that I was not alone, or at least I would not have been alone had I not so quickly sacrificed my beliefs. The sharpest English speaker in the room, who had picked our Adelaide accents, spoke up.

"I'm vegetarian, she said. "I have been for more than twenty-five years.

It felt fraudulent and strange - yet still so very tasty - to be shovelling down meat as I listened to her explain her lifestyle. Her words made perfect sense to me. It was me and my actions that I was finding confusing, listening to her and licking my lips. And then, something was dropped on my plate that stopped me short.

"Blood bush someone said.

Blood pudding. I cut it. Black. I tried a slight slice. Oh no, not for me. I grew sad. I passed it to Sal, who obliged with a half decent job, having been raised English and recently managed a whole pigskin quesadilla.

The table was cleared. Coffees were brought out and all settled into the couches to watch the match. I felt this was a classy and quick-minded group. They understood what we were there to do. They didn't insist we take the best match watching seats in the house. They understood we were there to watch them. They allowed us to sit back at the table, with Pepe and Fru. But still there was some polite concern.

"Are you sure you want to be here? asked the good vegetarian as the Argentine anthem started up. "We have been talking. You have come all this way. Don't you want to see people out on the street?

As everyone sat for the anthem, I explained the uniqueness of being in an Argentine house, with just an average family to watch the game. They professed no special love for football as the game began in silence and Pepe went outside for a smoke. For more then ten minutes, I think the only sound was a teaspoon stirring inside a cup.

Then, the first goal! Or no, it wasn't. Or at least it wasn't called as such. Plenty of replays showed the goalie had pulled the ball back over the line. There was yelling at the screen, mostly from Spanish speakers. There was nothing from Pepe, but Fru, who also only knows Spanish, joined in with barks.

I felt worried. If Argentina won, as expected, all would be forgiven. If not, it could become a bitter and difficult place to be. We watched on with mutters. The four year-old, restless, fought Sal for her camera. The adults were equally impatient in waiting for Argentina to reclaim its lost goal. And when the team did, there were shouts for just rewards! Pepe, still deadpan, sat inside smoking now. Chastised by the four year old's mother, he blamed it on me.

Before the half ended, came another Argentine goal. Or at least something which was counted as such. A Replay (the one replay) showed that the play might have been off-side. But of course the goal counted! Don't question good, appropriate, balancing fate.

Half time arrived with more coffee and cake. (Regrettably, none had gelatine.) Then (even more regrettably) not long after the new half commenced, Ivory Coast claimed a goal of its own. The mood was flattened. Ivory Coast attacked and attacked. The lounge room was all squirms. They sat forward on their chairs. Some kept their hands to their faces. Some looking away. One or two even left the room.

It might sound bad, but the lesser part of me almost wanted to see the Ivory Coast score again so I could savour the tragedy, the miserable repercussions. But I think, more than anything, I just needed a quiet night. In a way, I had my wish.

When the final whistle came, with Argentina up two goals to one, there was resounding complaining.

"Very bad, said an Argentine German. "We will need to do better to win.

My amateur, Australian, mind was on the one match whereas this group had their hearts set on the series. They were most unimpressed with their team's display.

I went outside to listen. I did not hear horns or shouts and when Pepe drove us around after the game, there was not much action about. We saw a few cars with flags, but most of the horns were at Pepe's driving. It felt a subdued win. Pepe and Fru drove us along the quiet riverside in the night. There were dozens of empty restaurants and cafes. We drove all over town. It felt wistful. I felt sad that our visit would be ending soon. Pepe said he would take us to the airport the next morning. Then, a new and unexpected offer.

"Smoke?

I could not believe it. I did not really want one, but I accepted anyway, to Sally's chagrin. I smoked in the back, ashing out of Sal's window and when done I extinguished it on my shoe (still stinky) and pocketed the butt.

Back home, Sally retired early and I stayed up talking with Pepe. He fed me slices of his homemade tuna pie ' thus enabling me to engage in my new (lack of) dietary dictations some more. After two slices, I sampled 'dolce con leche' a sort of chocolately, caramelly, sweet dairy desert. And then, finally, came Pepe's home brewed lemon chello. Such sweet potent stuff. We stayed up late discussing his son, lost loves and our demons. It was an ideal reflective end to the night.

The next morning, I heard Pepe's alarm going off before ours. He checked we had our tickets, passports and wallets. He sped us through the freeways in, for him, new sections of town. We made it to the airport on time. He gave us both kisses goodbye.

"You email he said.

I will. From Sao Paulo.

Thanks Pepe. And thanks Mariano. It was a perfect Argentine time.