01/08
2012

Temperature: 37C    98.6F 

Buenos Aires– mid-January and it’s hot, very hot. There’s no football, not real football anyway, into which the players put their hearts and souls. It’s simply not worth it when it’s 34 degrees centigrade in the shade and the humidity is dense enough to make the buildings sweat. Although that might be leaking air-conditioners. I’m not sure.

The players are in training for the start of the 2012 Clausura season which kicks off in a few weeks time. They play in lots of mini-three and four team tournaments at coastal resorts since that’s where anyone who can has gone to escape the searing heat of the cities.

No-one cares that much, despite some frantic coverage in the football pages since they’ve got to fill the space with something, so anything will do.

The Beach at Mar del Plata. Room for more?

With the exodus to the beach, where city dwellers will sit sweaty armpit alongside sweaty armpit with other city dwellers, but from different cities to the one they’re from, Buenos Aires becomes almost tolerable.

The roads are not jam packed, except for those leading out of the city. And there are seats to be had on the underground, more now than ever before since the city council has just put the fare up by a whopping 127percent.

You find that the shops, bars and cafes that you usually frequent are often closed with a hurriedly scribbled note on the door reading: Back in February, or March. Doctors, dentists, electricians and car mechanics have also migrated to the coast or the mountains.

Tough luck if you’d left your sandals to be repaired or you were awaiting a replacement heart pacemaker.

The summer also draws a very peculiar creature out into the open – right out into the open. I’m sure there are sub-species in Brazil, Colombia and elsewhere but I believe the most intense concentration is to be found in Buenos Aires. It’s the ageing sun seeker.

While in Britain the sound of the cuckoo heralds the arrival of summer, in Buenos Aires it’s the sighting of a portly but already all-over tanned man of between sixty and eighty years old with his shirt off.

Susana. How old?

A short while later, the female of the species will emerge to prostrate herself in the most sun-baked, open spaces in the city wearing the kind of bikini you wouldn’t let your fifteen year-old daughter be seen in.

I spotted one the other day while warming up to run in the Bosques de Palermo. From a distance, when all I could see was bikini and tanned limbs, I thought I’d stumbled across a younger member of the species and went to investigate, in the interests of anthropological research, obviously.

This however was a fine example of a more mature specimen, at least seventy years-old, her much tanned leathery skin dangling loosely from a skeletal frame. She displayed the obligatory cigarette in one hand and the Blackberry in the other. Her straight, dry hair was of a colour not known to nature.

These creatures can read and have access to the Internet yet seem to know nothing of UV rays or the increasingly fragile O-zone layer.

I’d like to emphasis here that I’m trying hard not to be judgmental. These people have the right to tan wherever and whenever they want, although I’d rather they didn’t do it in public before I’d had my breakfast.

The fact that the notion of growing old gracefully is totally alien to them or that smoking the amount they do gives them a voice that sounds like Lemmy from Motorhead after a particularly bad night is simply an observation – not a judgment.

Like male body builders, they seem unaware that they’re generally unattractive to the opposite sex and really only out to impress and compete with others of the same ilk.

The most skilled and celebrated exponent of this art of growing old ungracefully is Susana Gimenez – a once beautiful model, actress and talk show hostess who is now in her eighties, or possibly nineties, who continues to believe that she can defy the advances and ravages of time by much make-up, plastic surgery and photo-shopping. You’ll not find her tanning in public. It’s strictly the tanning studio and the beaches of Punta del Este in Uruguay for the upper end of the market.

Another, but much younger exponent of the art is the president, Cristina Fernandez de Kirchner, who will shortly turn 59.

Cool Summer

She’s just had surgery for thyroid cancer, at least that’s what we were told. Then three days after the operation we were informed that it wasn’t cancer. Oops! That’s one perfectly sound thyroid gland removed for nothing. I’m just happy that I never sent flowers.

Cristina has been known to keep other heads of state waiting while she prepared to face the cameras.

Her husband and predecessor as president, Nestor, died in October 2010 and she’s worn black ever since. But not just any old black.

She wears glamorous, fashionable black and rarely the same outfit twice, adding a new twist to that old Henry Ford adage about being able to choose any colour you liked, as long it was black.

Reading this back I’ve realized that it’s impossible to talk about appearances in this way without sounding bitchy. So I guess I’m just going to have to pour myself another saucer of milk and live with that

It’s 34 degrees centigrade in the shade and I was thinking about slinging the hammock in the patio but really can’t be arsed.

My antidote to the suffocating heat is to switch the fan on, prepare some form of iced drink and watch English winter Premiership football on cable TV….Kenny Dalglish in that ridiculous coat, goose-pimpled Newcastle fans in cap-sleeved T-shirts and cups of steamy Bovril all round.

I’ll be back when the season kicks off. Stay warm!

 

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Argentinos Juniors 1 Olimpo 0

I’m sorry that I’ve fallen so far behind while so much has been happening. Two wins out of three for Argentinos Juniors sees them finish the season with 22 points and qualify for the Sudamericana Cup…the Intertoto Cup of South America. That was a 2-1 home win over Arsenal, a 1-0 defeat at All Boys and a 1-0 victory over Olimpo on the last day of the season at home.

But I guess more importantly, the world has been saved from the threat of global warming, at least on paper. I’m still in Durban, South Africa, recovering from observing two weeks of negotiation at the United Nations Climate Change talks.

Climate Change Saviours?

My work entailed interviewing anyone and everyone who had some connection with what they call the Conference of the Parties or COP17. They included scientists, negotiators, meteorologists, oceanographers, forestry experts, politicians, youth group representatives, Indonesian dancing girls, earnest Scandinavians, researchers from the Amazon and the Sahara, excited Australians who claimed to have found a way of turning camel dung into a renewable energy source that would provide power for half of Asia and more green pressure groups than you could shake a cucumber at.

We all pretty much know what the problem is. The world, but particularly the rich nations with the United States at the top of the list, have been burning so much carbon fuel – oil, coal and gas – into the air for so long that the world’s temperature is rising. And if we keep on at the present rate we’ll be fried, but not before we’ve suffered floods and droughts and starvation and possibly even plagues of locusts of biblical proportions.

Boca Juniors. A White Rhino?

Many claimed to have the answers. Vegans told us that not eating meat was the cure. His Holiness 1008 Shri Shri Soham Baba, a monk wearing orange robes and sporting a large silver tea pot, puts his money on greater spiritual awareness. He first noticed the effects of climate change while living in a cave in the Himalayas. More electric buses, more bicycles, less petrol burning cars, less long distance flights.

Everyone, it seemed, is green and no-one is polluting. One oil company executive told me his firm was exploiting oil reserves in the Ecuadoran Amazon causing the minimal amount of damage. A US navy rear admiral said he travelled the world and saw the undeniable effects of climate change in all corners, reports his findings to his government which simply chooses to continue polluting.

I visited the boat of a Swiss sailor, a former ski instructor, who noticed the ice melting around his office. Dario Schwörer embarked on a fifteen-year mission to highlight the effects of global warming by sailing the world, climbing all of the world’s highest mountains and using only his sails, his bike and his feet to do it. He’s travelling with his wife and four children. When the seas get choppy he hangs the kids from the ceiling on elastic ropes to keep them out of harms way. “Dangerous?” I asked him.

“No,” he replied. “Our biggest danger is from drunken drivers when we cycle through city centres.”

There were 194 countries represented in Durban. We could all cite many examples of any two countries with unresolved disputes stretching back hundreds of years. Try getting 194 to agree on anything.

The Rest...dung beetles?

Basically, the poor countries say they don’t pollute much yet suffer the worst of the droughts and the flooding caused by climate change which in turn has been caused by the rich world. The wealthy nations admit that there’s a problem but feel the developing countries should stop buring carbon fuels and take on equal responsibilities. And do India and especially China still qualify as developing nations?

The phrase circulating around the negotiating chambers was ‘equal but differentiated responsibilites.’ If ever there was a legal-political term designed to flumox the people then this is it. We’re all in the same boat, but some more than others.

As I’m sure you know by now, after some tense last minute huddling in dark corners, the negotiators saved the process and came up with the wording that pretty much brings all 194 nations on board.

The trouble now is that they’ll all have gone home and will, at this very moment, be poring over the small print with their lawyers to see just how differentiated they are and in what ways they can wheedle out of their full responsibilites. Meanwhile, the world continues to pollute, the temperatures are rising and the floods and droughts are becoming more severe and more frequent.

Of all the many people I spoke to, perhaps the most poignant was a young man from the remote Marshall Islands, somewhere out there in the Pacific Ocean. He was munching on a BigMac and fries during another of the many lulls in the negotiations. Every year, he said, they could observe the sea levels rising. “We move further inland,” he explained. “And one day we’ll have no-where left to go.”

I’ll be expanding my carbon footprint shortly with the flight back to Buenos Aires. By that time Boca Juniors will have finished celebrating their Apertura championship victory – unbeaten and out of sight of second-placed Racing Club.

They talk a lot in South Africa about the Big Five, the five mightiest beasts – lion, elephant, rhino, leopard and dung beetle. Sorry, that last one should read buffalo. I went on safari yesterday and only saw the rhino.

Buenos Aires has its own Big Five. Boca Juniors, River Plate, San Lorenzo, Racing Club and Independiente. Only Boca deserve that title at the moment. The rest? Dung beetles!!

 

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Golden Arrows  1  Orlando Pirates  3

What’s he talking about? This guy has gone mad! He’s overdosed on prime Argentine beef, yerba mate and dulce de leche. Surely he means Banfield 2 Argentinos Juniors 2?

Bizarrely, I find myself in Durban, South Africa, where I’m working on the big United Nations sponsored climate change conference. And it’s big, really big. The future of our planet depends to a large extent on what is, or is not agreed at this huge talking shop.

Politicians from more than 190 nations, pressure groups  — from those who believe veganism will save the world to those who believe our future rests on greater production of rattan furniture – a Hindu priest who spent twenty years living in a cave, more scientists than you could shake a test tube at and girl guides…yes, girl guides!…are in Durban to discuss our future. Then we await the arrival of certain notables like Leonardo di Caprio, Angelina Jolie, Richard Branson and Arnold Schwarzenegger. If they can’t sort out the many and complex issues that need resolving before the world can agree on and then implement binding solutions, then nobody can. Can I suggest that you start hoarding goodies in your underground bunker in Patagonia right now.

The Moses Mabhida Stadium

But that’s just the future of our planet. If you land in Durban and the Golden Arrows are playing the Orlando Pirates at the Moses Mabhida stadium in the semi finals of the cup, then that’s where you go. Obviously!

Never mind that you’ve just flown the nine hours from Buenos Aires to Johannesburg then on to Durban with a five hour time difference. You check into your hotel and then you pay your 50 rand for a seat in a fine stadium, used during the 2010 World Cup.

The football was great in patches with some lovely slick passing moves from both sides. At other times in was technically poor, with abstract passing and geometrically confused control. Former West Ham space filler, Benni McCarthy, now pulls an Orlando Pirates jersey tightly over a growing belly.

I thought I was sat in the away end, among the Pirates fans, until the Arrows scored in the first half and sporadically positioned locals leapt out of their seats. There was no attempt to segregate the fans, there was no need. There was no aggression or rancour. Segregation is perhaps a dirty concept in post apartheid South Africa. There were no fences and yet beer was being swilled in vast quantities from plastic cups as the fans sat in their seats in this architecturally divine stadium.

Passionate Pirates

I shouldn’t be surprised. But if you watch your football, as I do in Argentina, caged behind barbed wire topped fences, kept behind for half an hour after the game to allow the away fans home first to they don’t get torn limb from limb, then this is a surprise and a very pleasant one.

Many fans danced throughout the match. The Pirates fans sported workman’s hard hats, cut and carved to produce intricate pop-out designs on the front. One had a football boot moulded onto it.

Orlando Pirates were the better team and soon got the equalizer they deserved. They went two up in the second half and topped it off with a penalty. Despite being the away side, based in Johannesburg, their support is drawn predominantly from the Zulu community which occupies the east of South Africa.

Football is a game supported mostly by South Africa’s black population while rugby is a mostly white-supported game. But that wasn’t an issue here. It was simply fun. Fun football with relaxed fans mingling freely with one another, white, black, Indian, families, men and women.

The police presence was minimal. On the pitch there was none of the pouting arrogance of the likes of Ashley Cole or Carlos Tevez and off it no corrupt Arab sheikhs, Russian oligarchs or East End porn kings. I’m sure South African football has its problems but they didn’t seem to impinge on the enjoyment of the fans or the players at this match.

C’mon Orlando Pirates. Up the Bucs!

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Argentinos Juniors  1  Godoy Cruz  0

There is no excuse,  no justification for racism but there is often an explanation. Sepp Blatter might do well to come to Argentina to see how far Europe,  especially Britain,  has moved away from the days of monkey chanting,  bananas thrown onto the pitch,  golliwogs,  the Black and White Minstrels and unbelievably bad TV sit-coms like Love Thy Neighbour.

For Argentina in many ways is stuck in a time warp. It’s a long way from everywhere,  except maybe Uruguay and the remoter bits of Paraguay and Bolivia,  which don’t really count. I’m talking major centres of population,  civilization and sophistication here. Places like New York,  London,  Paris and,  dare I say it,  Zurich.

The porteños,  as the residents of Buenos Aires are known,  will tell you that their city is like Paris or Rome,  that they’re as cultivated as the Viennese and the Catalans. In many ways they are. But in plenty of other ways,  they’re not.

I was standing on the terraces at the Diego Armando Maradona stadium when towards the end of the first half the visitors,  Godoy Cruz,  brought on their first substitute,  Armando Cooper.

Armando Cooper

He’s a nifty little player with agile feet and plenty of oomph. He made an immediate impression and it soon became clear to the home fans that if Godoy Cruz were going to get anything from this game,  it would be through Mr Cooper.

What is noticeable about Cooper,  who’s from Panama,  is that he’s black. That’s noticeable because there are very few black players in the Argentine league and none of them are from Argentina since the country hardly has a black population.

What followed from those around me was a barrage of racist vitriol,  spat rather than shouted. Cooper looked like he’d not heard it but Argentinos Juniors has a compact ground with the fans very close to the pitch and he must have heard the words and felt the hatred.

The abuse was varied but unimaginative. I heard someone mention slavery and another shouted something about Kunte Kinte.

If their only cultural reference to Afro-Latin Americans is an over-dramatized and over-simplified 1970s TV series on the African slave trade then I think you get some idea of the depths of ignorance in which we’re wallowing here.

The abuse did not come from all the fans but there were enough of them to be threatening and for it to be apparent that challenging them could result in my being skewered on the sharp bits of the railings that keep us caged in.

It offended my white,  middle-class liberal sensitivities but I was with a French friend,  a black French friend who also heard the abuse. Although none was directed at him and none of those doing the abusing appeared to notice that he might take offence,  he felt the fear and the hatred. That’s what Sepp Blatter doesn’t seem to understand – this is an issue that cannot be solved with a gentleman’s handshake after the game.  

Godoy Cruz in action

It has to be said that the fans will hurl equally vehement insults on a regular basis at the referee and his assistants and the visiting players. It’s nasty enough for me to be grateful that the pitch is ringed by thick metal fences topped with barbed wire. Rabid animals do need to be caged.

If you see black people on the streets of Buenos Aires,  and you can go days without seeing one,  then they are likely to be from Colombia or they’ll be Brazilian or American tourists. Recently,  West African men,  mostly from Senegal,  have set up stalls in the more run-down commercial parts of the city selling  jewelry.

I’ve often heard it said by those modern-day street wise philosophers that we find the world over,  otherwise known as taxi drivers or ignorant idiots,  that Argentines are not racist because ‘we don’t have any blacks.’

There have been books written and several theories put forward as to why that’s the case.

For Argentina,  like every country in the Americas brought in African slaves to work their mines and plantations and once had a substantial black population. Neighbouring Uruguay still has one,  so too does Bolivia.

One theory is that the nineteenth century generals put black men in the front line in their many and vicious wars to eradicate the indigenous communities in central Argentina. Most perished in battle. There’s not much left of Argentina’s indigenous heritage either. Black women were integrated into the population,  at the time expanding rapidly with the influx of European immigrants,  predominantly men from Italy and Spain.

By the turn of the twentieth century Argentina’s black population had pretty much disappeared. But of course the racism remained. It’s all a question of degrees.

Argentina is an immigrant community…from Italy,  Spain,  France,  Croatia,  Greece,  Britain and elsewhere. But it’s a white immigrant population.

With no Afro-Latin Americans to prejudice, the attention turned to darker skinned immigrants of mixed indigenous and European blood from the country’s interior or from Bolivia and Paraguay.

There are hundreds of thousands of immigrants from neighbouring countries in Argentina but they’re kept in their place. The Bolivians sell fruit and veg,  the Paraguayan women are maids and nannies and the men work in construction.

The children at the private schools that dot the neighbourhoods across the north of Buenos Aires are almost exclusively white.

Like I said,  Sepp Blatter should come to Argentina. There are bits of it that are like Europe– the swampy,  rancid smelling parts that he obviously inhabits.

One of those Colombians I mentioned earlier,  Teo Gutierrez,  had a tough weekend too. He was the second Racing Club player to be sent off in their top of the table clash with Boca Juniors. Like so many much-hyped games,  this one ended 0-0.

With just four games to go,  Boca are eight points clear of Racing and have no doubt already booked their party venue.

Independiente beat Olimpo 3-0,  Velez continued their good form with a 3-1 win at Belgrano and Newell’s continued their poor form with a 1-0 home defeat to Tigre. San Martin and All Boys played out a dull 0-0 draw,  Colon beat Rafaela 1-0 and San Lorenzo sacked their manager,  Omar Asad,  after losing 1-0 at home to Union.

Arsenal won 1-0 at Lanus. and the bottom of the table clash between Estudiantes and Banfield was abandoned in the first half,  with Banfield leading 1-0,  after the home fans threw fireworks onto the pitch.

 

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