Brazil v Croatia from Sao Paulo 13 June 2006

We arrived in Sao Paulo on the 11th of June, the day before Brazil's Valentine's day and two days before Brazil's first World Cup match.

The trip to Sao Paulo was a twelve-hour affair. LAN Chile first took us west, over snow topped mountains, and into Santiago before back east again to arrive at Sao Paulo. 'The old Pepe and Fru Lemon Chello' help ease our plane pain.

Immigration at Sao Paulo took maybe an hour. Casually dressed, kind and young staff, did their best to help us fill in forms and work our way through, but the immigration officials at the desk were grumpy and too few. It took an hour to find an Internet connection and decipher the telephone system ' always so hard overseas - and then we waited an hour for a bus.

When one is at an airport to fly somewhere else, there is anticipation and excitement, a sense of putting the facility to some good use. But when one has just arrived and is trying to leave the airport, everything is a problem, an obstacle, preventing one from getting out.

Brazil's Portuguese proved especially problematic. We had just started to get the hang of some Spanish ' greetings, numbers, colours and food and how to call each other 'my little fatty' ("mi gordito/a), but Portuguese forced us back to our English in fear. Fortunately, we could afford to relax and remain ignorant. We had a guide.

Another friend from my India travels, Camilla, was to meet us at the bus station in Sao Paulo. We had not seen each other for about four years. Feeling nervous that I would not recognise Camilla, I smiled at and walked towards every young woman who approached. I felt like a wandering sleaze with Sal standing in behind guarding the bags while I approached every woman that moved. I was also feeling apprehensive about my 'gorditoism' that had been growing in the ensuing years. A part of me wondered if Camilla might have suffered the same fate. No chance. A woman approached, with my same gaze and pace, and gave me a kiss and a hug. Camilla! I think.

Introductions were exchanged between the lady folk and then we went to meet Lisandra, Camilla's English teacher friend, in the car. Camilla had arranged for us to stay at Lis' place in Sao Paulo (thanks Lis!) and for us to watch the match in another friend's bar (thanks friend!). The plan was that we would then leave Sao Paulo via twenty-hour bus ride to Paraguay immediately after the match.

"Don't worry, said Camilla. "You'll be so drunk that you won't even notice!

Ouch. Just what we need.

Camilla had kindly invited herself and three others into Lis' house for the match. Along with Sally and I and herself with Lucas, a handsome Spaniard, and together we sat drinking 'Skol' beers and the remnants of Lemon Chello until about 2am on our first night in Sao Paulo. There being too few beds, Camilla had arranged bedding for our sleeps on the floor. The label on the 'mattress' read "Composicao No Determinda ' literally: "composition not determined. The mattress could not be washed or dry-cleaned or ironed or dried and we reckoned it was probably filled with dead dogs.

Nonetheless, even dead dogs proved more comfortable than an Ecuadorian mattress. We slept deeply and well in the lounge room beneath prints of Aboriginal art ' Lis having once lived in Australia. (The places of her abodes: Launceston and Wagga Wagga!)

I dreamed of Brazil toppling Croatia and then clashes to follow with Australia, but woke first for a day of exploration.

"So, you going to go for a Brazilian today? I said to Sal giggling on the joke I'd been saving so long.

"I will if you will, she said, taking game, set and match.

There were to be no 'beauty treatments' for us that day. No designer 'ginas. No back, sack 'n' cracks. Instead, there was religion afoot. Camilla and Lucas took us to Praca da Se to see the empty Cathedral and preachers working out front. I felt uneasy in the Praca, not so much scared of danger as out of control. People moved all around me in this city of seventeen million. Trying to keep distance, to prevent pickpockets or harm, felt futile. There were simply too many bodies and too many arms.

Before the Cathedral, preachers had marked out their patches with chalk: small squares, maybe five metres by five. Around each preacher, with toes to the line, stood the vacant devout, clapping and cheering when came the right times. Most looked like they had been broken by life. The preachers moved with eye contact intense, and though I knew not their words, their rhythm was potent, and like that of evangelists on TV.

Lucas, a deep and dry fellow who would stop to gaze in bookstore windows as we walked, told us that he had spent hours watching preachers' flocks the other day. I could have happily done the same. Somehow, these followers reminded me of the football faithful, standing always on the outside of a square and so fixated, always, on that within.

Camilla walked us to the Japanese district, which I thought a strange choice for exploration. We had been in Brazil less then twenty-four hours and I felt like I wanted to get to know a few Brazilians instead. But I do try to go with the flow. Just so long as something is flowing.

We meandered around the Japanese area, and a street called Rua Galuao Bueno, named after a famous and loud football commentator who harks from Camilla's hometown. We went into a Japanese supermarket to buy snacks. Inside, I really didn't know where I was. In this sense, the Japanese district was a perfect reflection of Brazil. It was diverse and busy, full of strange food, language and cultures all mixed together as one.

We ate sushi. We drank Caipadignas. We had a wasabi eating idiot contest. As usual, I won and lost. We took the metro home early. The match was tomorrow afternoon and we still needed to book transport for our exit after the match.

Back at Lis' home, we realised that our intended bus left at 6:30pm, which meant we would have only about half an hour to get to the station after Brazil's match. Impossible. Yet we still had to get to Paraguay for kick off at 2pm on the 15th of June

Camilla found another bus which would leave Sao Paulo at 8pm and drop us over the border at 12 noon the next day. This would leave only two hours to find a place to watch the match. It was an option at least, though it would leave little time for any sort of delay.

My tensions rose. This is where our World Cup really starts to get fun. When the transport is booked, the adventure is (relatively) easy. The biggest challenge is lethargy and getting to the airport or station in time. But when a match looms, and the next border seems a little too far away, that's when the real game play starts. Camilla, I am proud to say, knows how to play the game well.

I slumped on a mattress, 'Composicao No Determinda', to watch Camilla working in Portuguese. Listening to her inflections, I thought we had some success! She hung up the phone to a cheap flight to the border with only two seats left. But, they would not accept foreign credit cards over the phone. With Camilla's credit card already used up, she exercised the only option left. She called Daddy. Even I know what a credit card number sounds like in Portuguese and I could tell that Daddy dearest had come through for his little girl. Camilla hung up and we all shouted for joy! Sal and I would now be able to stay in Sao Paulo after the match to enjoy the party and then fly the next day.

Camilla confided that her father was a little suspicious of my visit and was relieved to learn that Sally was coming too. I suspect he found it easier to give up credit card number for the benefit of "Anthony and Sally visiting his daughter than for any stinking "Anthony alone.

"Now we have these credit card numbers, said Camilla. "We can all fly to Paraguay!

"Bugger Paraguay, I said. "Let's go watch the match from the embassy in Paris!

The tension of watching Camilla work for an hour or more, resulted in the fridge being drunk dry. We decided to go for a walk to get some more beers to celebrate our new travel plans.

It was close to midnight, and we found a bar just as it was closing, the metal door being rolled down. It was little more than a concrete slab with a few chairs and tables and old one-arm bandit and push-button poker machines.

The three patrons left inside, seemed happy to have an excuse to hang around. One spoke English quite well, or at least he certainly didn't mind trying. His name was Andres and he told us he was about to turn fifty-five and retire and move to the same town where his children lived. He said he would have three places to visit for barbeques now. He laughed and cried and sought out hugs as he spoke. I was happy to oblige him, flexing my upper legs every time to still feel for the stuff in my pockets from within.

"If you need anything here in Brazil, you can call me! he said.

So, I asked for his details.

"You want it now?

"Sure, why not?

I think he was surprised that I called him on his offer, but he happily obliged. He also invited us to attend his World Cup party the next day. He explained that he was in the business of meat. He beckoned us to come look behind the bar where he had a pot with aluminium foil over the top. He said he had four more at home like these. He lifted the edge of the foil. In the pot, curled up, was a piglet, all pink under green herbs and spices.

"Is that your little dog? I asked.

"No, he said screaming with laughter¦ "Its my baby elephant!

More hugs for me.

"He's a vegetarian, said Camilla, blowing my cover, pointing to a green capsicum on the counter. "He will have to eat one of these.

The thought of succulent piglet melting in my mouth evaporated away. The bar owner, who had already obliged us grab bag of different beers, Skol, Khaiser and Brahma Chopp, was peeling limes to make us some strong Capadignhas. We gratefully received and drunk them between hysterics and hugs.

The fleshy little thing in the pot gave Lucas hunger pangs, so he and Camilla caught a lift with Andres to a nearby pizza joint while Sally and I walked back to the flat. They expressed concern about us getting lost. We were worried about Andres crashing them, and our pizza, into a pole. Walking back, we found paints on the ground which local kids had used to paint World Cup slogans. We used it to paint Valentine's Day messages on a wall. Our friends returned safely with vegetarian pizza and a weird chocolate one for desert. We went to bed, late, once again late, to rest up for the match.

Explosions for alarm clocks, at 10am!

"That sounded like a gunshot, said Sal.

"Have you ever heard a gunshot before? I said grumpy in the morning and eager to quash. I've heard gunshots before. And, well, yes, I did think it sounded like one

Firecrackers, more likely. On they went all morning. With kick off at 4pm, we left the house around midday with the towers around us screaming with horns and explosions. It felt a little frightening.

"I hope you remembered to say your prayers, said Lis as she drove the four of us to a metro station in town.

"So we make it there in one piece? I asked.

"No, so that you make it at all!

She meant the traffic. With all the explosions and such, I was worried about matters more absolute. Lis dropped us in the centre of town to catch the metro to the bar where places waited for us. Then, we started on a series of little missions that ended up dictating the rest of the day. We visited three different stores to find batteries, first AA and then 9 volt, sometimes rare. We bought a yellow horn - already used and filled with chewed food. We stopped for some food of our own, at two places, the first one being too rude and too slow. We negotiated the purchase of shirts ' I wanted a Ronaldo, but ended up with a Rolandinho, apparently he's now the best in the world. And then, with about an hour to go 'til the game, we went down the stairs to the metro.

No way. Insane with people. Yellow, like spilled pineapple crush.

"Taxi, said Camilla and I.

We went above ground. The cars were grid locking now. We found a taxi, but the driver said it would take about two or three hours to get we wanted to go. That was it. We were stuck in town.

We spilled from the cab and started looking around, counting down. There were some crummy restaurants immediately there. We knew we could always find a TV, but we wanted something special as well. Camilla took control.

Some door staff nearby suggested we go up to the bar of their building. We caught an elevator up some thirty-one floors. Then another up a few more. Then we went up some stairs, and then¦ holy shit!! A panoramic view of Sao Paulo!

I have never seen a cityscape like it. So many towers sprung up from the third most populous city in the world. The city sprawled, both up an across. I've been to cities that never close down, like New York and Quito and old London town, but no matter how far, or how wide they roam, I've never seen a city like Sao Paul¦ O. God it was big.

The bar, however, was shit. Less than a dozen people sat in upholstered lounge chairs, sipping expensive drinks, watching a screen with a barman who strained for us to stay to keep him company. We went back down again. The lift operators confirmed that we were indeed in the tallest building in Sao Paulo.

Back on the street, less than half an hour to go, Camilla was again hitting up people for a good place for the game. There was talk of a big screen somewhere in the city. And, with the streets starting to clear, we followed Camilla's directions.

We went down an empty sort of a mall and made a turn to be welcomed by rumbling roars. The sound was scary. People were streaming and we joined them, buying Brazil streamers and ribbons along the way. I bought a long green and gold wig to hamper my vision and make things a bit tougher. Then, we stepped down some stairs and passed a fountain to see the square and thousands before a big screen. We paused. The local newspapers later estimated 40,000 people had crammed into 50 square metres. I couldn't say, but those there were certainly in tight and we were all apprehensive about joining in.

"Okay, said Camilla. "I don't know what's going to happen in there, so if we get split up lets meet back here at the fountain.

We prepared further, ensuring everyone had money and the home address in their pocket. Sal and I padlocked the zips on our bags. I tied an extra ribbon around my new wig.

"That's not for Brazil, said Camilla. "You just want an excuse to dress up like a girl.

We went in. We lasted about two minutes in the crush. Back out again, Lucas and I, the talls, took the lead. We took refuge at the base of a sandstone building on the edge of the crowd. Standing up on some cement pot plants, we could see again the diverse colours and shapes of Brazil, squished in together. The match was near and they were celebrating their anthem. It looked hopeless. Of course, this was exactly the place that I wanted to be, but I figured there was only way we could remain here.

In front of the big screen was a stage. In front of the stage was a fence. Between the stage and the fence were the media. That's where Sally and I needed to be.

I explained my intentions to Camilla and Lucas, took Sal by the hand, and we raced for the stage. While we moved, with the start of the match counting down, I searched Sally's bag for something she had shown me on one of our many flights. It is a membership card for the Australian Media Alliance ' a trade union which covers all sorts of professions ' and which includes the magic word: 'journalist'.

Card now in hand, match having just started, we presented at the media entrance. Bloody Portuguese!!! Give me the language of Conquistadors any day!! But the doorman was patient and good and helped fill in the blanks.

"We are reportars!

"Journalistas?

"Si! Yes, yes! We are journalistas!

He beckoned for another. The man took Sal's 'journalist' card. And, then, five minutes later, with only eight minutes of the match having passed unwatched, he returned with media passes to hang on our necks. The doorman let us in. We were in! The main place to be in the biggest city of Brazil and we were in the main media throng. It was such a good feeling. It felt such a good, and yet legitimate, scam. Of course, we maintained our serious, professional looks, but inside Sal and I were leaping and dancing together!

We stepped in before the stage, stepping over the cables of those with cameras bigger than ours. It took a little while to grow into our new passes and move with the full confidence of our new 'go anywhere' status, but in the end we used up every little bit.

There must have been up to a hundred or so with media passes, a few dozen with cameras, mostly in the faces of those in the front row of the crowd. They stood, the most faithful, with elbows resting along the fence. They must have been there all day, maybe longer, to secure the main spots. They were dressed for the show and the media (we media?) ate them all up. The people did not mind. I came to realise that's exactly why they were there.

The most striking figure for me was a middle aged man with a freshly shaved head who stood at the fence with a crucifix in one hand and a picture of Jesus in another. His hands were raised up and his evocation of God was stirring and strange. He maintained a mouth turned down and an unbroken stare at the screen. Almost. I saw him betray himself once or twice, when his eyes darted down to the cameras, to check if they were aiming at him. I saw the same thing in another fellow who stood with his head, painted yellow and green, poking out from a Brazilian flag draped on his head. He was a monk. His hands were clasped in prayer the whole game. Again, his eyes betrayed him. These guys could be caught dropping out of character because their looks were so intense. Four women up the front, clutching rosary beads, in colours and paints looked far more natural because they actually smiled. Plus they wore sunglasses.

Pondering the front row, while Sal muscled out others for the best shooting spots, I had to step back for someone being passed over the fence. A stretcher came out. The limp man was ferried out to the grass. Security guards yelled into radios. Medical attention seemed slow to come. He wasn't the only one we saw that day. Some came over in neck braces too. I did not see the injuries or trouble that gave way to these states. Heat? Drink? Drugs? I never saw blood.

Uninjured came over the fences as well. There was an old, old, man, like a Castro, but in grey, rather than khaki, suit. He smoked and admired Sal from his special perch. A fellow in a wheelchair appeared at one stage. And a couple of kids were plopped over the edge. Otherwise, no one came over conscious without being dragged off by the guards. And in the course of the game, there were quite a few attempts to go over the top.

With such scenes for perusal, I nearly forgot the game. The crowd certainly gave me little reason to look up. Twenty minutes in and they were all calm. They were clearly there to react, not spur on, and not much seemed to be happening on the screen.

Sal and I moved from the stage now, along the grassy area that went up alongside the side of the side of the crowd. We were moving back and forth, quite close to the people and far from security where it seemed other media feared to tread.

A woman with a dyed mop of blonde hair called me over. I was reluctant to get close, fearing being grabbed or worse, but she was insistent. She wanted something. What? A card? I gave her one to her disgust. A guy explained her request. A piece of paper! That I could help with! The guy wrote on the paper, leaning on her back. She feigned to bend over the fence and wiggled her hips. Oh how sweet! It seemed I was helping to foster an exchange of telephone numbers and perhaps new romance. Then I saw they had written something to hold up to a camera. Another couple of energetic hams!

There was a penalty kick for Brazil and the crowd, excited to have some action at last, started with fireworks. Sparks and smoke fell from trees and the office building above. The crowd yelled to match the explosions.

As the end of the first half approached, I thought it funny how quickly thrills can wear off. Sal and I were no longer skipping, celebrating our success to be there, but we were now trying to be, rather than just look, professional. We wanted to be in positions for the very best shots. We grumbled now when other media stood in our way.

Then, came a goal! Caught in celebration, I lowered my camera and leapt in the air! The Brazilians also went nuts. People jumped the fences and charged on past us to be scooped up by security guards. Firecrackers were dropping at our feet. I felt shaky. The atmosphere was so loud and intense and we had arrived there so fast and by chance, I felt like I didn't know who or where I was.

When half time came, I was feeling sick from all the adrenalin and fear. I felt giddy and weak and could have called it a day. Even on the safe side of the fence, things still felt out of control. The explosions seemed closer with some stuff from a cracker dropping on Sal, we took the omen and moved back from the grass to the stage.

There was activity on the stage now. The media were up there taking shots, so we joined them. It felt much better up there, higher up, with instruments and microphones. I felt like running around the stage to stir up the crowd. I felt safe and together, confident once again.

I saw a guy behind a camera down below, started posing and pointing, trying to get my attention. At first I didn't understand, but then I saw. Sal, from behind her camera, had adopted a most feminine stance and this guy thought this was a bit of a laugh. Sally, it seemed, was the only woman there behind a camera that day. She said to me more than a few told her that she should be in front of the camera instead of me. Attractive she may be, but I don't know about that¦!

We were chased off the stage by the guy who gave us our media passes. The second half was about to begin. Feeling parched, thought we should snoop around backstage to see if we might find any 'refreshments'. Indeed, there was a tent with fruit and pastries and vodka and beer, so we showed ourselves in. We were greeted by Daniela, who was with the band who would play on stage after the match. We interviewed some band members, awaiting the invitation to sit down for a drink, but it was never forthcoming. I think my interviewing was a bit loopy and strange. I was overwhelmed by the whole experience and think I just interviewed myself. I think I really could have used a little sit down and a drink.

But the second half had started. We went back to the front of the stage where a fellow from the crowd in dark glasses insisted we come over so he could sing us a song. He gave us his best Michael Jackson - Billy Jean, Thriller and Bad ' and did not even pause as the crowd starting roaring at the screen. Together, we were caught in the midst of a Michael Jackson medley.

The game moving along, it started to get darker.

"I'm now going to have to follow other cameras around, said Sal "to steal their light.

It was fun mooching resources. We teased professional television hosts, covered in make up, doing their bits. We enjoyed trying to create our own genuine chunks. Giving our cards. Playing with Michel Jackson. Listening to cheers when Ronaldo was dragged off. Accepting teases and jibes from the crowd.

I expected things might get hairy in the end with the crowd rushing the gates, but at the final whistle, with Brazil the victor, one-nil, it was a calm crowd that quickly left the square. I think they also appreciated the potential danger should too many of them go nuts. Plus this was only Brazil's first match and one they expected to win. When the band came to the stage, there were not a great many around.

We re-connected with our friends and took a cab to discuss the crowds and what, it seemed, was regarded as a pretty poor match. Back at Lis', we had to wait a few hours for her return from being stuck somewhere in town. We whiled away time in a pizza restaurant, debating whether to attend Andres' party. It's easy to see when good luck, omens and fortunes deliver you somewhere for something, and a more subtle thing to read when to allow them to deny you something else. In the end, we decided to rest.

It felt vulnerable to be so very tired, but also warming to have had such an exciting day. Thank you Camilla, Lucas and Lis. We could not have asked more for our first match in Brazil. Now, we move to Paraguay. A little border town somewhere. As I type, I know not even know the name¦