Argentina v Serbia & Montenegro from Puerto Igacu 16 June 2006

My calculations showed that kick off would happen at 8am local time. I had set my alarm for 5am. I made it out of bed at 6:45. Desperate for more sleep, I spent 10 minutes on the Internet rechecking my calculations in light of knowledge of time zones gained the day prior in Paraguay. It still came out as an 8am start.

I asked the front desk what time the Argentina World Cup match started. They told me buses would start leaving for Argentina at 7am. I decided to give up on seeking any more information and that we should leave as soon as we could.

I woke Sal¦ so happy to see me! We ate some bread, threw down black coffee and left. We crossed the road from our hotel, 'Hotel Tres Frontieras' in Foz do Igacu in Brazil, to catch a bus to Puerto Igacu across the border in Argentina. It was supposed to be a 10 minute bus ride. It was so close that I'd even fantasised about the idea of walking over the border, but that would never happen for such an early match.

We stood at the bus stop at about 7:45am hailing every bus that went past. Plenty of buses stopped, but none that would take us over the border. By 8am, I was standing in the middle of the road trying to hail anything that looked like a cab. By 8:10am, I was still on the road, waving my arms, cursing both Foz and Puerto Igacu. Sal stood on the road, eating a banana, while a man in a Brazil top replaced her as the chief hailer of buses. By 8:15am, he's landed us as bus and we were at last on our way.

I wasn't altogether displeased. I usually set myself up to be late. My cold was worse and I felt so tired and moody, that I didn't care much about anything. If I missed half a match, then so be it, I sulked to myself.

Of course, I did care, and once we hit the border crossing, peaceful with trees and no motorbikes, I was delighted to see a television in Argentina's immigration line. It looked like Argentina were still warming up! A guy from New Zealand in front of me in the line was hassling the immigration official about the game.

"So, you guys play soccer today?

"Yes, football, that's right.

I carried on with the Antipodean theme.

``What time is the Argentina match?``

``10am he said.

Fantastic! Perhaps I'm getting lax in relying on good luck, but I really did not feel all that surprised. Sneaking a glance at another official's watch, I surmised that it was probably now about 8:30am. We had plenty of time.

We reached the centre of the little town of Puerto Igacu and strolled the streets. Women sloshed buckets of soapy water on the footpath outside of their shops. Stray dogs wandered around the church and police station. A queue of perhaps twenty stood outside the bank. It was a sleepy sunny morning in Puerto Igacu.

We soon gained a sense of the town. We strolled to the supermarket and a sports store, comparing prices for Argentine tops and dodging children who appeared to have just been let out of school. We each bought tops to our liking and found a restaurant called Pizza del Campo with a sign out the front promoting a big screen for the match. They had made some efforts with balloons and decorations, so it seemed to be the place.

We sat at a table to the side, each ordered coffee and juice and settled back. I noticed a video camera from a local television station 'CVI' on another table and felt smug that we seemed to have so quickly found the right place to be. The television folks shared that same air. They slapped each other on the backs when an advertisement for their station appeared on the screen. Behind us, there was a group of angry women and men with cigarettes glued to their lips. In the booths, there were children sipping cokes. Up the back, young families, and more school kids positioned themselves, jostling for the few remaining chairs as the match was about to begin. Perhaps a hundred or so squeezed into the pizza place. But no-one cared to talk, or even look once, at us. It was a bit of a shock after all the attention we had received in Paraguay.

The anthems played and no-one stood up. The match started with Sal and I sitting in silence and it was not long at all before Argentina scored. While the crowd was leaping to their feet, I was busy feigning disappointment having confused the two teams on the screen. I thought Serbia and Montenegro had scored! I felt like a heel and all the more isolated from the room for not displaying the appropriate apparent affections.

The restaurant's hard surfaces echoed with table slaps. A guy on the television table proudly ordered two Heineken long necks for his table (only to slip back to the local brew later on). Then came a second goal, and a third, and while the room celebrated each one, we were still denied eye contact from every person around.

At half time, we considered shifting locations, but we concluded this was about the only place in town because the guys selling Argentine hats and fake ties kept hanging around and then leaving only to keep coming back. It was not even midday, but I was feeling so uninspired by the one-sided game and the fans that I decided to order a drink: a 970 mL bottle of Quilmes. The biggest cerveza I have seen in this continent, with a blue and white label, it seems to be Argentina's brew. It is impressive to look at, but nothing special to drink.

After half time, a fourth goal came along. The room was hungry for more. Goal five, and it started to feel like fishing to me.

"Here comes another one I think, start filming¦

"Yep, I got it, would say Sal.

The children in the booths were leading the chants, but no song held up for long. As Argentina attacked again and again, everyone yelled for yet another goal, and they were granted their wish with a sixth. Finally, everyone joined in for a bit of a singalong led by children standing up front. Then, on the final whistle, everybody cleared out. Only the television people lingered, congratulating themselves.

I hadn't particularly enjoyed watching that crowd watch that game. Sal and I left and started heading the main square to see what we could find. Motorbikes and cars passed us tooting all along the way. They streamed Argentina's blue and white all over town. Children threw fire-crackers in the air and women on footpaths banged together tin lids.

We reached the edge of the main square to find men on motorbikes, facing inwards, revving their engines. One guy was doing burn outs, laying his back tyre all over the road. Hundreds, maybe thousands, gathered around to celebrate in the streets. Techno music blasted from a van, but the centre of focus was about a dozen hippies and children smashing their drums. One blue faced little boy leaned into his drum, half his height, and stood sweating, so intensely belting the thing. He looked so furrowed and cool, I wished I were him! An old man with two giant flags danced between the drummers while young girls and women wiggled hips all about. Ahhh¦ percussion, the master of mass movements.

People were yelling 'Six, Zero! Six, Zero!' Police, with hands ready at hostlers, had blocked off the roads, but allowed buses filled with tourists to pass. They banged on the windows like mad people with flat open hands and stirred up the crowd even more. We watched people dance on for an hour or two in the afternoon sun until the drummers had had enough and removed themselves and their inspiration. Some were intent to party all day, but feeling exhausted (and not particularly enamoured) we left to catch the bus back to Foz.

A two hour wait in the sun at last produced a bus. It stopped once on the Argentine side to stamp passports and once on the Brazilian side for us to all stamp our feet in disinfectant. Whatever it is in Argentina, Brazil clearly doesn't want it on their side of the border.

We returned to our hotel in Foz to sleep away the afternoon. We were eager to rest and recharge for the big match: Brazil's match against our country Australia!