Velez Sarsfield 1  Argentinos Juniors 0

That first defeat had to come one day and there’s no shame in it being away to the reigning champions, Velez Sarsfield. But the Red Bichos could and should have won this one. They played the better football but missed a couple of sitters. So a sad result, compounded for me on the way home when, bizarrely, I walked into an underground train carriage to be met by the wailing of a bagpipe playing busker. Of all the train carriages in the all the world I had to walk into this one!

I hate the bagpipes and this one sounded, to my un-tartan ear, like an especially rabid sack of guinea-pigs being squashed to death. That was the down side. On the plus side, Argentinos Juniors’ away support was impressive, thousands making the trip across the city to the Liniers neighbourhood. This is one of the shortest journeys they have to make but Buenos Aires is a huge city and traversing it is never easy – for all sorts of reasons.

I began my voyage from the Once train station, right in the heart funnily enough of the Once (pro: On-Say) neighbourhood. This is smack-bang in the centre of Buenos Aires and has traditionally been the magnet for Argentina’s newly arrived immigrants. East European Jews came here, then Koreans. Nowadays you’re more likely to buy your less than original Nike trainers from a Bolivian or a Paraguayan. There are also Peruvians and a fair smattering of West Africans and Chinese.

The streets are a bustling hive of activity, with the shops selling assorted plastic things wholesale. The pavements are crowded with trestle tables, rugs and boxes displaying an array of bras, umbrellas, watches, baseball caps and odd, pointy implements for massaging your scalp. It’s a colourful hodge-podge of slightly squalid urban life. You wouldn’t be totally surprised if a young waif popped out of the shadows and in a Cockney accent asked if: “You couldn’t spare a farving for an hungry lad, could you guvnor?”

The train out of Once was more of a metal tube on wheels. The seats had lost their padding long ago, the entrails of the door mechanisms hung loose and many of the windows had no glass. Light bulbs were missing. The passengers were different to those you see in the north of Buenos Aires. They were generally darker skinned for a start. Many looked exhausted. Those lucky enough to grab a seat, slept, their skin blotchy and unhealthy. Rolls of fat told of cheap hotdogs eaten on the move.

The train rattled through dark stations taking these people, known locally as ‘the poor’, on their arduous daily trek from the wealthy centre and north of Buenos Aires, where they work as maids and security guards, to the urban sprawl that surrounds the city.

There are two very different sides to Buenos Aires. There’s the European part of the city which the guide books talk of. The German timber frame houses and cafes, the Italian fresh pasta shops and the English schools – with names like St Swithins, St Georges, St Catherines – all blazers and cricket and polo. The wealthy ladies of the Barrio Norte neighbourhood wear their fur coats in the summer while they walk their poodles to their hair-dressers. These people look outwards, taking their holidays in Miami or Europe, visiting their clubs at the weekend. They simply never go to the poorer parts of the city, there’s no need. They’re only reminded that the poverty exists when they catch a glimpse of the cartoneros, residents of the shanty towns who scavenge in the rubbish containers outside our houses for any cardboard, paper or glass, anything, that can be recycled.

And if you’re reduced to travelling on public transport, then you’ll meet a constant stream of grubby children trying to sell you pictures of saints. They’ll be followed by mothers with babies, blind guitar players being led by their children, disabled people with lottery tickets, not very good jugglers and men selling chocolate just on or just past the sell-by date.

My ticket to this game cost 30 pesos, a little less than five pounds. That would feed a family for several days. So football in Argentina, while cheap compared to Europe, is out of reach for many Argentines. When Boca Juniors play, there are always fans outside the ground who can’t afford to enter. They listen to the game on their radios hoping to catch some of the vibes and atmosphere from inside the stadium.

One of the clichés about Argentina is that it’s a land of great unfulfilled promise. It’s got the lot. It’s got mountains and pastures, oil and cows, great lakes, huge glaciers, a rich coastline and yet it seems to lurch from one crisis to another. It’s a country riddled with corruption and poor quality politicians.

It’s difficult to know exactly how bad the poverty in Argentina is since the official figures can’t be trusted. What you can see with your own eyes are growing shanty towns both in and around the main cities, whole families sleeping in shop doorways in the city centres and rising crime.

While the shanty towns, or villas, and other marginal neighbourhoods are growing, they’re also having to battle against the increasing problems brought by the spread of crack cocaine, or paco.  But it’s still football that provides relief and often an escape for the boys who live there. Diego Maradona was one high profile example, Carlos Tevez another.

A recent newspaper investigation into what happened to the boys Tevez played with found that one had been killed in a shoot-out with the police while another was serving time in prison for robbery.

We take a short break now from domestic football while Argentina faces the small life or death issue of whether its national team will qualify for the 2010 World Cup. It’s hanging in the balance with two games to go, against Peru at home then old rivals, Uruguay away.

I’m convinced Argentinos Juniors will bounce back from tonight’s defeat, renewed, refreshed and not a bit down-hearted. I, on the other hand, must do something to get the wailing of those bagpipes out of my head.