In the midst of a soccer-mad mob

From a seat in the stand, PETER CALDER watches nervously as a soccer match unfolds in Buenos Aires.

I shudder to think what might have happened if the concierge hadn't seen me. As I ambled through the lobby, he studied the daypack on my back as though it were some malignant growth.

"You're not taking that, are you?" he said. I unslung the pack and displayed its contents — binoculars, camera, water bottle, an apple, a book to while away the two hours until kickoff — and wondered aloud why not.

"They'll take it," he replied as he and his companion shook their heads in wonderment at my stupidity.

It took a while for me to unpack and submit everything for inspection. At the sight of most articles they just sighed but the Swiss Army knife prompted hoots of mirth — and during the slow stripdown process, I understood what they were saying. The "they" who were going to take it were not the soccer fans going to the game, but the police surrounding it. The local cops took the view that any object that could be hurled in partisan rage at a player or official probably would be. If I was lucky, I would get to keep the backpack and the book.

So I headed for the bus with a sweater wrapped around my shoulders and $US20 in my pocket, enough for a stand seat (better than the terraces, they explained, more "tranquilo"). Half an hour later, I will see what they mean.

The streets around the stadium in the Buenos Aires suburb of Velez Sarsfield look like a war zone. Dozens of police vehicles, parked in zigzag formations, form corridors like sheep runs which allow exuberant supporters of opposing teams to be yarded and directed to opposite ends of the park. Squadrons in riot gear — shields, helmets, batons the size of softball bats — stand only slightly at ease, unsmiling behind sunglasses in side-streets. Burly cops in overalls frisk me thoroughly, before releasing me into the human stream pouring up the staircase.

On the stand's top tier, level with the lowest of the lights on the huge towers, I am glad I took the concierge's advice and invested in the "tranquilo" seating. This is by no means the refuge of fearful middle-aged tourists. All around me are young strapping males, who look relieved to be watching the action from afar. But the scene below is Hieronymus Bosch with help from Kafka.

At the park's ends, behind tall fences with reels of razor-wire at top and bottom, human seas surge and boil. Supporters of the home team, Velez, and the visitors, Boca Juniors, exchange a deafening cacophony of taunting. The fans — at once it was clear why the word is derived from "fanatic"; the Spanish word is "fanaticos" and the locals use it with no apparent sense of irony — unfurl tennis-court size banners in team colours. The undulations of the rival crowds resemble nothing so much as a landscape tortured by earthquake.

As if led by an invisible conductor, they take turns, roaring their team chants in a full-throated parody of melody or drowning out the opposition's song with a shrill massed chorus of piercing whistles. Helmeted police face them, a thick, black dotted line around the pitch. An hour before kickoff, it sounds like a climax.

When the teams run on the field it is with none of the jut-jawed and unsmiling determination of an All Black entrance. The players take turns to assemble in centre field, waving and bowing like rock stars, facing their fans and pointedly offering their backs to the other end.

After that buildup the game seems almost an afterthought, regulation soccer except when a linesman is pelted with missiles for an unpopular offside call (he stands up to it stoically until he is surrounded by cops in perspex shields).

I am sitting among the vocal Boca fans who are stunned into silence when their team concedes a goal in the first two minutes. But the silence doesn't last long. These patrons clearly regard their relationship with each of the players as intensely personal. They are generous with their advice to the referee and I can confirm that a certain model of 4WD would never sell in Spanish America; "pajero," a word which frequently issues from the mouths of soccer fans, is used to describe someone who performs a solo sex act.

As dusk turns the layer of Buenos Aires smog a sluggish indigo, the field becomes brilliantly green under the lights and the terraces sink into darkness. But the noise continues unabated, often seeming unrelated to the on-field action. This is less a sporting event than a weekly meeting of the faithful, a moment of communion, a chance at a revelation bordering on the divine.

Four minutes from full-time I leave, keen to beat the crowds back to the city. I wish luck to the group around me — Boca is trailing 1-2 and they are looking a little gloomy. As I reach the gate the stadium erupts.

"It's a goal," says a cop nearby, "but I don't know which side scored it."

I know. The fury of cheering is coming not from where I was sitting but from the far end of the stadium. 3-1. I scurry into the darkness and look for a bus stop. It seems best not to be on the street when fans, fired by the rage of defeat or the exuberance of victory, pour out of the gates.

CASE NOTES:

Getting there: Aerolineas Argentinas and Qantas both fly Auckland — Buenos Aires for $1499 return.

Other costs: A mid-range hotel costs about $60 a night and a good meal can be had for less than $40.

When to go: The seasons are the same as ours though the climate varies widely according to latitude and altitude. Buenos Aires is humid but mild, and its winters warm by our standards.

Match day: If you want to catch a football game, plan to be there on Sunday — the big match day.

* Peter Calder travelled to Argentina as a guest of Aerolineas Argintinas.