Argentina v Mexico from Posadas 25 June 2006

Brazil's defeat of Japan gave rise to some drunken loose plans for us to travel to Corrientes or Resistencia to watch the match between Argentina and Mexico. With the World Cup slowing down, we figured we would now be able to move greater distances and at a more relaxed pace. I went to bed looking forward to catching up on some sleep, my writing and possibly even a little clothes washing!

The next morning, my mind wailed with the shrill realisation that Argentina's match was at 4pm tomorrow. We would need to travel today! I broke the news to Sal who was enjoying breakfast in her favourite sunny spot at our beloved Hostel Bamboo. Hasty hungover plans determined we would travel to Posadas instead ' a manageable eight hour bus-ride away.

Despite the tightness of time, I persuaded Sal we should first attend to a diversion upon which I had my heart set. I wanted to buy a 250 gig external hard drive which I unearthed in the mire of malls in (our also much beloved and yet also much feared) Ciudad del Este in Paraguay. If I could have withdrawn enough cash in one hit, I might have even gone for the 500 gig one just to satisfy my fantasy of toting almost a full terabyte in my pack!

We took the risk of not stamping our passports at either Brazil's or Paraguay's border checkpoints. It was a calculated risk to buy time. We took nothing but an empty bag with us, locking everything else down in our room with some seriously enthusiastic chains and padlocking. The whole affair was a nervous transaction.

Once we had made the purchase and had our special package in hand, I wanted to swallow it whole and leg it out of the country. I felt like a drug runner, trying to get in and out fast without being intercepted by border police or the pickpockets and bag snatchers who linger the streets. We stuck close to carriers of other attractive small packages so we might not be picked off by the bigger fish.

Safely(!) back in Brazil, we unchained our possessions, paid our hostel bill, and caught a bus over the Argentine border to the terminal in Puerto Igacu to await the next Posadas bus. We waited with light dimming, the hard drive jaunt having exhausted much of the day, and then decided to sleep in Puerto Igacu instead and take a bus at 6:30am to arrive at 2pm in Posadas. This would leave only two hours until kick off, but it seemed a better option than arriving in Posadas at night without accommodation.

An enterprising young lad guided us to a hostel nearby where we holed up in our room, grabbed a few hours sleep, and took the bus the next morning.

Despite all the distance we have travelled to date, the bus ride to Posadas was our first overland trip of any real length. I admired the driver's offsider keeping an orderly bus as the roadside grew green. His presence seemed to calm and even validate the driver, usually such grumpy sorts. The driver could concentrate on overtaking trucks laden with logs and feel important without offering commentary or making threats about rules. He had someone to hand him fresh cups of mate as well - enough to keep anyone happy in this part of the world.

The bus arrived late in Posadas, about ninety minutes before kick off. We hurried to catch a taxi, but realised, alas, we were without local currency yet again! Living on the border for so long, I had really grown accustomed to everyone doubling as a moneychanger ' dabbling once even myself to help someone produce change for a bus driver who seemed reluctant with maths ' and so I was somewhat surprised when the taxi drivers refused to accept Brazilian Real.

A Brazilian bus company begrudgingly agreed to change my Real for Pesos at the lousy rate of one to one. Changing a twenty, we returned to the cab rank to face the laughter of drivers and sandwich sellers alike who delighted in discovering our rate and our waste (and I think secretly regretted not changing the money themselves).

The tourist centre in town was closed, but we found the nearby 'Hotel Residencial Misiones' and entered to find a portly old fellow in a white linen suit, sitting on a deck chair and watching TV. He looked up and smiled.

"Just minute¦ he said turning back to his television.

A woman, much older than the man and more lumpy than round, waddled out from a doorway and started speaking Spanish. The man looked over to glean our blank looks and adopted the role as our (ever seated) interpreter and guide. He said he was Fransesco from Switzerland and through him the woman indicated she had only a room with two single beds. On our inspection, she changed her mind.

"She has sympathy for you, said Fransesco while the woman sat on a ledge and stared into space. "She looked at you and likes you, so she will give you this room.

He motioned to a grand room with a double bed off the foyer. Gratefully, we accepted and dragged our packs inside. I understood the woman had allowed her sympathy to override her prior bookings, but Sal, probably more correctly, thought it was more about unmarried couples and double beds. I signed in while Sal kept Fransesco amused.

"I've been travelling since 1991, he said. "I've been to Australia twice... I went opal mining in Coober Pedy, but found nothing much. I been gold mining too¦

He opened his mouth to show his back teeth.

"From Venezuala! he said tapping the side of his face. "All mine!

"Like your very own Swiss bank account, I said before crawling back with a sense of bad taste. It was hard to imagine Fransesco working a mine. He never left his deck chair, as if on some internal cruise ship, with the doors always closed. Still, I took some considerable comfort in having old Fransesco about.

He gave us a map of Posadas, pointed out the essentials and the 'discos' by the river where he said people would party all night should Argentina win and, with his blessing, we set off for the match.

We first took Fransesco's recommended route through the Posadas town grid to reach the river's grassy banks and swish restaurants and clubs which appeared to have been more for celebrating than watching matches. There were hundreds of tables and, with perhaps half an hour before kick off, almost no-one about.

We returned to the streets and just as I was daydreaming with confidence about finding the vibe, we wandered off the map. We were lost! The grid had lulled us without leaving us landmarks. Map in hand, I felt silly and humbled. We were still yet to find anywhere decent to watch the match!

More and more, it seems to me that most South American football watching takes place in the home. There are certainly some massive gatherings like the one in Sao Paulo and a few people seem to watch in restaurants and bars, but many establishments close for the Cup. I suspect football is a family affair and next time (should there be one) in this continent, I think the trick may be to get into someone's home for each match!

Backtracking, and actually using the sun for a bit, we found our way back onto the map and soon to the plaza where the free people were.

We weaved with school children, like us, trying to work out where to go, and passed many modest restaurants where people gathered in white and blue. Space is tight in Posadas and no place we saw could hold more than a hundred or so. We settled on a place called 'Bar Espanol'. To watch Argentina play Mexico from a Spanish restaurant seemed somehow suitable and, importantly, between the photos of matadors and the toros, there poked up quite a few silly football fan hats.

All the tables had been taken by the time we made it inside. We dragged in two deck chairs from the footpath and sat in the back. The young crowd were drinking mostly coke from one-litre glass bottles. I went to the bar to order a cerveza. Noticing they had none behind the bar, I reached into the fridge to grab a bottle of 'Budweiser, but the guy behind the bar shook his head and pointed to the waiter. Annoyed (and more so embarrassed), I replaced the bottle and tried to say, 'but there's only one waiter and he's taking too long!

I needn't have fretted. He was a professional waiter. I've seen a few of his kind around Argentina. He was older, distant, and just that little bit camp. He never smiled or took notes and worked at his own quality pace allowing us to avoid 'Budweiser' and have 'Heineken' instead. He even found a spare stool to make a table for us.

When the match was about to begin, a woman wearing a 'Bar Espanol' t-shirt came in with a plastic shopping bag and gave horns and hooters to everyone in the room.

"The marketing manager, said Sal.

Indeed, once she had finished giving away her free crap, she leaned on the bar and did nothing with the guy who had the job of fending thirsty Australians away from the fridge.

The anthems played and we sighed to have just scraped in for yet another match. No-one stood for Argentina, but they did hush for the tune and gave a good cheer and toot and happily murmured away after that.

Five minutes into the match, the locals were silenced by a Mexico goal. The room transformed from a place of fun into one of business. Furrowed brows willed their team on. Their wait wasn't long. Argentina replied with a goal just as our first big plate of 'fritas' arrived. The room screamed for the goal! We felt pleased too.

"Did you know tomato sauce is good for you? asked Sal, applying liberally.

"No, I didn't know that, I said, preferring mustard instead.

I must confess we have both found it difficult to develop much empathy for Argentina. I think we've felt so worn out every time there and, save for our time spent with good old Pepe and Fru, we've not felt warmly embraced on our visits. Bar Espanol had that cold sort of feel and so, when half time arrived, we paid the bill and left to the visit the restaurant next door.

The 'El Rayo' sandwicheria was more basic with a of crowd of school children, couples and a few solitary gents sitting at tables both inside and out watching a couple of TVs on the walls.

Sal positioned herself on the stairs, facing back towards the room and the street. I stood at the outer edge, near the open doors and leaned in just enough to see a TV.

A waiter approached me and said something about Sal filming the patrons from the stairs. I played the fool.

"I'm sorry. I don't understand you. I only speak English¦

"Oh! Its ok, its ok! he said stepping back, smiling and waving his hands.

"So that makes it okay?! I said to a couple laughing at a table near me.

I thought I had better buy something in light of the waiter's indulgence and ordered a 'Quilmes' with two glasses. Signalling across the room, I gathered Sal did not want a drink. I soon found someone who did.

There was a guy sitting in the doorway between the two restaurants. He muttered to himself with a faraway gaze, but very much there. When someone left a drink on a table outside 'Bar Espanol', he rushed over and, for a moment, reclined like a king. Were it not for his worn shirt and mixed socks, and the rapid pace at which consumed, he would have surely passed for one of 'us'. I decided to slip this guy a few drinks.

"Senor, I said to him holding up two full glasses. He reached out with both hands open. I filled only one.

"Salute! I said clinking glasses. "To Argentina!

We drank together, in a way, though he offered little eye contact and gulped down his drink so very fast. He went around the back of me to return the glass to the table without seeking more.

Meantime, the locals were hating the unfolding second half, cringing and moaning as their team repelled each attack. When full time came and the game remained tied, I went over to Sal to explain what was going on.

"The match is tied, but because someone has to be knocked out, they play extra time.

"How long's extra time? asked Sal.

Searching my mind, I realised that I hadn't seen a match (any match) since the last World Cup. I'd plum forgotten how extra time works!

"Its about five or ten minutes for each half¦ I think.

"And then if they're still tied?

"Then there's more extra time, or something, then penalty kicks...? Just wait and see¦

We settled back in. I don't think we really cared much who won or lost, so long as someone did it soon. We were tired and we've not seen a loss since Paraguay's elimination and even then they took it so well. It would be gratifying to see someone swallow at least one bitter pill and the Argentines seem just the sort to do it so well.

Still, I had to cheer when Argentina booted one in! The crowd cried out with relief. One young guy did actually cry, but most acted as if destiny was being properly fulfilled. I ordered another big bottle of Quilmes and paid the bill. Sal was calling me over, needing the toilet but wanting more footage, so I drank a quick glass and then palmed off the bottle to the chap in the doorway. He nearly swallowed it whole.

At game end, with Argentina winning one-nil, we found we were in the right place for the 'party'. People gathered at an intersection to wave banners, climb lampposts and jump and shout.

In the middle were the maddest, with those on the outer looking inward for entertainment and inspiration. The crowd was made up of teens and families with children. Juvenile couples pashed for our camera while parents egged on their kids to wave flags. There were fireworks going off above and cut up bits of newspaper being chucked about. I watched one guy drag over his pretty little vespa and thought he was going to lay his tyre all over the road, but all he did was rev the throttle and pose providing much amusement for me and a few Argentine lads about. They were impressed that we Australians could pick out the fool and would not let us leave until I'd kissed an Argentine crest.

Thousands watched those in the centre chanting or bouncing from time to time, but mostly everyone looked to be waiting for something to happen. Nothing much ever did. It was a 'show party', without music or dancing or anyone peddling drinks.

Sal and I retreated to our room for a rest and returned to the streets perhaps one hour later to find the celebration had disappeared! All that remained were people cleaning the streets. Cleaning!? That's a sure way to kill any party! I would have loved to have seen how the party ended, whether by the force of police or natural dissipation, but I had not thought to stick around for such a near end. Instead, retail Posadas had now come alive. All the shops were open for the first time that day and, not only that, but people were buying!

Sitting at a hamburger stand on the pavement, reluctant and so tired, we decided to go to the riverbank to see the party Fransesco had promised us. We took the same path again to find the riverbank active with groups of young men gathered around stereos in hatchbacks of cars. They roused the odd singalong from patrons at cafés and had a good sense of their own silliness. When cheesy guitar rock was played from a car, one guy stood on the handlebars of a motorbike and held a giant Argentina flag over his head to flap in the wind. It was good for a laugh, but a pretty flat party and one only for blokes.

We tried to find a taxi back to our room, but had to walk. It felt a dreadfully long day. Back at the hostel, we filled in Fransesco on our adventures. He was pleased for us, but did not seem all that thrilled about Argentina's win. He was more concerned about the possibility of Australia playing Switzerland should all of our cards fall out right.

I had expected more energy from Posadas given its population of a few hundred thousand, but I guess without music and dancing, and perhaps something to drink a little stronger than mate, there can only be so much of a party. Sally and I passed out in our clothes all the same, while light from Fransesco's TV danced under our door.