I went to Boca – the port district known mostly for its coloured houses and Boca Juniors, Maradona’s football team - on a Sunday.
It was packed with day-trippers. Its crowded central streets were host to one outdoor cafe after another. Each place had a small stage where tango dancers, the women in asymmetric black dresses and dragged back hair, the men in loud suits, entertained the crowds. And gauchos dressed in bombachas, heavily pleated trousers and belts hung with brasses, danced round, also. Their moves with hands raised high in the air reminded me of bits of flamenco or verdiales.
I liked the coloured houses – great combinations of orange, green and blue. Because of their proximity to the river they were traditionally covered in protective tin and to hide this ugliness, some bright spark chose to paint them brightly. I liked the port – where abandoned hulks of ships lurked and a rusty swing bridge pierced the skyline. This part of Boca looks as rough as the area once was. It’s still not safe away from the main streets.
I had lunch not in one of the crowded outdoor cafes. I sat, squashed at a table on the pavement, with a great slab of delicious meat and two drunk locals next to me. It was someone’s birthday and a mariachi band arrived to serenade the birthday man. I was invited inside to watch by the kindly waiter and one of the old men at the bar asked me to dance. You have to, he said. The owner saw you were alone, pobrecita, and insisted that I ask you.
My favourite thing in Boca, though was the Maradona man. For a modest fee you could have your photo taken with him. He LOOKED EXACTLY LIKE MARADONA. I stared and stared. I clocked him from a distance, I peered from the corner of my eyes. I gazed from many different angles but he just looked more like Maradona with each minute. Perhaps he was Maradona, taking time out from the disgrace he’s in after Argentina was soundly beaten by Bolivia (the shame! beaten by a bunch of illiterate potato farmers) in the world cup qualifying rounds.
It was packed with day-trippers. Its crowded central streets were host to one outdoor cafe after another. Each place had a small stage where tango dancers, the women in asymmetric black dresses and dragged back hair, the men in loud suits, entertained the crowds. And gauchos dressed in bombachas, heavily pleated trousers and belts hung with brasses, danced round, also. Their moves with hands raised high in the air reminded me of bits of flamenco or verdiales.
I liked the coloured houses – great combinations of orange, green and blue. Because of their proximity to the river they were traditionally covered in protective tin and to hide this ugliness, some bright spark chose to paint them brightly. I liked the port – where abandoned hulks of ships lurked and a rusty swing bridge pierced the skyline. This part of Boca looks as rough as the area once was. It’s still not safe away from the main streets.
I had lunch not in one of the crowded outdoor cafes. I sat, squashed at a table on the pavement, with a great slab of delicious meat and two drunk locals next to me. It was someone’s birthday and a mariachi band arrived to serenade the birthday man. I was invited inside to watch by the kindly waiter and one of the old men at the bar asked me to dance. You have to, he said. The owner saw you were alone, pobrecita, and insisted that I ask you.
My favourite thing in Boca, though was the Maradona man. For a modest fee you could have your photo taken with him. He LOOKED EXACTLY LIKE MARADONA. I stared and stared. I clocked him from a distance, I peered from the corner of my eyes. I gazed from many different angles but he just looked more like Maradona with each minute. Perhaps he was Maradona, taking time out from the disgrace he’s in after Argentina was soundly beaten by Bolivia (the shame! beaten by a bunch of illiterate potato farmers) in the world cup qualifying rounds.
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