The second half was a different story. France were getting back into the game; there seemed to be a tightness to Argentina’s play, and the crowd could sense it was not going to be all their way. I was watching it through the window of another bar, surrounded by hundreds, if not thousands, screaming and chanting. Then France scored; those chants instantly turned to groans, and just moments later, another goal to equalize. The crowd was silenced! Fans had their heads in their hands, others looked at each other in disbelief and then despair. The atmosphere at this point had well and truly changed, and before I knew it, the crowd had ripped the front doors of the bar off and were launching bottles inside. It was time to run. I managed to film some of it from a safer distance, which I’ll post. The atmosphere on the streets had turned; there was still chanting, but it was more of a battle cry…chanting in prayer instead of celebration. I thought to myself that if France won, things would go south quickly and things could get nasty – I readied myself to run back to the safety of my apartment if that were to happen. God, maybe my life did actually depend on Argentina winning.
I managed to see most of the rest of the game by sitting on the floor of a convenience store that was packed out with locals, young and old. Unfortunately, towards the end of extra time, of which there was a goal apiece, I needed a piss and had to leave to find somewhere. I just couldn’t hold it in any longer. The street beers had not been such a good idea. I found somewhere quickly and then ended up watching the penalty shootout through another bar window. Things started to get a bit heated again, and I was very much aware that if we, I say we because I was rooting for them, lost, there was going to be trouble. So, I started to walk away, and then all of a sudden, there was an enormous collective scream, and people all around started hugging and kissing, falling to their knees, and crying. We’d won. I’ve never seen joy like it.
I walked back to the obelisk, past the bar that had smashed windows and front doors hanging off from the agro earlier. About 10 beefy bouncers were now stationed outside, and the bar had been cleared out to prevent any further disturbances, but people didn’t care for trouble; now was the time to embrace celebration. And how people celebrated. I witnessed more people crying that day than ever in my life, thankfully they were tears of joy, tears of relief, perhaps even tears of hope. It was impossible to begrudge Argentina their victory. It is clearly a country in need of healing and some good fortune, a politically fractured country, down on their luck economically for too long.
People were joyous; they were in seventh heaven. I was witnessing a once-in-a-lifetime moment; I had to pinch myself. The crowd began to swell, and subsequent reports confirmed that over a million people took part in the celebrations around the obelisk that day. Lucila was on her way to meet me, so I walked a few blocks away to try and get reception, but the place was soon becoming bottlenecked as the hordes descended upon the area in masses. As I was walking, a minibus rolled past slowly, honking its horn. Some young ladies leaned out of the windows, banging the side of the bus passionately and shouting ‘Argentina’ to the beat of the banging. I managed to get hold of Lucila, who was currently waiting outside the underground station for me just on the other side of the obelisk. Typical, Google Maps said I was 5 minutes away on foot; somehow, I doubted it would be that easy. In fact, it took me well over an hour to get to where she was.
I waded through the crowds, and it was like being stuck in mud at times, it was claustrophobic but damn it was fun. There were people as far as the eye could see, every inch of every surface seemed to be occupied including the top of roofs, balconies, tops of bus stations, even lampposts had people swinging off them. I remember in amongst all the madness there was a cacophony of chanting, fireworks, horns, and drums; there were also motorbikes in the crowd being revved to their limits.
As I made my way through the crowd, I was embraced and drawn into impromptu dances with strangers. Despite wanting to savor these moments, I knew I couldn’t linger for long; I had to press on.
I eventually got to where Lucila said she would be, with only an accidental whack on the nose for my troubles, however, she wasn’t there anymore. I’d been a good hour and then some, so I didn’t blame her. I decided to wait and see if she’d come back and thankfully, after she’d left, something told her to come back for one last look. Thank God she did! We stood watching the celebrations unfold for a while. Standing there taking it all in, drinking it up, extracting every ounce from the moment, it dawned on me that I had and still was witnessing a monumental occasion. Few things in the world have the power to unite people like sports, and football, in particular, has the remarkable ability to bring together individuals from all classes and walks of life. It was a beautiful thing to watch.
By this point, the emotional rollercoaster of the day – the heat, the noise, then madness of it all had taken its toll on me. Lucila had wanted to witness the celebrations and was glad that she had but by this point said she’d seen enough. She also noticed that I was badly sunburnt and very dehydrated. I took one last look and of course some more photos and got out of there and left it to the masses to celebrate through the night.
Lucila had arrived on the underground (train), they were crammed in like sardines she said. However, we couldn’t get the underground back as it had stopped for safety reasons. There was also nowhere to eat or take a moment around the obelisk, the place was heaving and people were pouring in from every avenue. So, we walked away from obelisk against the tide; a sea of people coming the other way.
Not only was the underground not running, but after waiting for a while, it became apparent that the buses weren’t running either. Perhaps, it was for safety reasons, but I prefer to believe that workers across the country had collectively downed tools to celebrate, joining in the nationwide jubilation. I looked around at the large groups of people waiting in hope that a bus might turn up, some with young ones in tow. I felt bad as I realized they’d be out for the night, given that the city had ground to a halt. Lucila took pity on me and got me out of there.
We opted to walk back to Lucila’s mom’s house in the barrio of Saavedra, not so much of an evening stroll more of a 3-hour hike. Not long after leaving dusk began to settle in. If we happened to hail a taxi on the way, great, if not, so be it. ‘I didn’t mind; it was enthralling to walk through each neighborhood, each hosting its own gigantic street party. ‘These are the sensible ones,’ I thought. To be fair, each neighborhood party boasted thousands of people. Really, how many people do you need to celebrate with? I guess some, myself included, wanted to look back in years to come and say, ‘I was at the Obelisco.’ We walked through neighborhood after neighborhood, or should I say barrio after barrio, street party after street party. Finally, we were getting closer, I think somewhere near Belgrano. By this point, my feet were killing me. I’d been wearing those thin plimsolls, which look great but offer very little support, and I’d been on my feet for the better part of the last 10 hours, jumping around like a lunatic. We were close to home, so we stopped at a family-run Italian restaurant that Lucila had frequented with her mum since she was little. We made another stop at a surprisingly quiet bar around the corner from her house, and then back to Lucila’s mum’s for some wine and empanadas on the patio. The calm after the storm. Her mum was so happy; I was delighted for her, for the Argentinians, and for myself, as a country in mourning wouldn’t have been a fun place to be.
The next morning we went for some breakfast at a local café – The streets in the Barrio were eerily quiet, – a collective emotional hangover which many had still not stirred from. I thanked Lucila profusely for taking care of me, hugged her, and told her I’d try and catch her again before she headed back to the UK. I jumped a taxi back to mine and as I walked into the first apartment building of the street, I heard the football match being played loudly on repeat. Tito, the building supervisor, who is around my age and with whom I had quickly established a good rapport, resides in the first apartment on the right. His door was always open, as if ready to pounce and welcome anyone passing by. As soon as we caught sight of each other, we spontaneously hugged and joyfully jumped in a circle, shouting ‘Argentina! ‘Argentina! “They made us suffer, they made us suffer…” he kept saying. He had the game on repeat for the next few days.
In many ways I am glad that I didn’t watch it in a pub in San Telmo, OK, I was running around the streets like a madman, but I was with the people, and I don’t think I would have had the same experience in a pub. I did watch large parts of the game, but for me, the quality of the game, of which as it turns out was one of the best ever, wasn’t as important as the occasion. And what an occasion it was; it was one I will never forget.
The government declared a public holiday for that Tuesday. Hearing some noise late in the morning, I popped out to see what was happening. Thousands were walking through the streets with drums. Thankfully, my apartment, being set back from the road, shielded me from most of it. After work, I went out to investigate, but the vibe was very different. There were lots of groups of tattooed men – if I had to guess, gangs – and many people were extremely drunk. It was apparent that poorer people had come into the city from the provinces to celebrate. The streets were dotted with people sitting around; clearly, many had drunk too much. I started getting some strange looks, and my spider senses were tingling. Having been around the block, I knew there might be trouble, so I headed back to the apartment and stayed in for the rest of the evening. San Telmo is generally a very safe area, although it did feel a bit sketchier at night compared to some of the wealthier neighborhoods I later stayed in. I was happy to stay in; today was their day.
That following week, I finished work for Christmas and decided to head to Patagonia. I was over the football and needed to relax after all the madness.
