Argentina v Germany from Santo Tome 30 June 2006

Sao Borja was good to us. We replenished ourselves on healthy lunches at Hotel Brazil and explored the town without language or a map to help us out. There seemed nothing to do there but eat, sleep and hang around the hotel - three of my four favourite things and best done, in combination, with the fourth.

Studying the dining hall's Mundial chart, I realised that we faced another round of back-to-back Argentina and Brazil matches. There would be only twenty-eight hours between kick offs. We decided to go back to nearby Santo Tome in Argentina in the morning to watch the Argentina match at midday and then catch a bus as far into Brazil as we could by 4pm the next day. Ideally, we thought, we should go to the city of Puerto Alegro.

I was starting to feel in a rut in this border region of small rural towns. I wanted to see some more major cities and so we agreed, no matter what the result of Argentina's next match, we would focus on Brazil from now on. Our loyalties had been set. Following Puerto Alegro, we thought we could make it to Rio de Janeiro for the semi finals and then to Salvador for the grand final. It seemed a pretty good plan.

We enjoyed out last night at Hotel Brazil watching soap operas on our one-channel-TV. In the morning, we ate a hurried breakfast and met the old man in reception for check out and our day of reckoning to find out what all our hotel meals had cost. The old man kept our faith, the meals cost little and there was no late shock to spoil our stay.

The old man came around from behind his counter to shake my hand and pat me on the back in the same way he had done when we checked in. I could tell he wanted to hug me. I wanted to do the same, but we just kept shaking hands, and smiling, and thanking each other for everything, which had been nothing more than the usual exchange between hotelier and guest, coupled with a little more than the usual affection.

The old man telephoned a taxi, waited on the street with us and then waved, warmly, from the doorway as the taxi took us away.

The taxi driver was someone who had given us his card following a short taxi ride the evening before. He arrived with wet hair, looking flustered, as if he had just woken and washed for what he hoped would be a decent foreigner job. Chatting away in Portuguese, he pointed out the highlights for us along the route from Sao Borja to Santo Tome. He was especially proud of the towns' medicine universities and I was most surprised to learn they were there. He helped us through the border crossing systems and we feigned ignorance, wishing he were there for our first crossing, in the other direction, a few days before. 'Bon voyage' he wished us as he dropped us as Santo Tome's bus terminal, politely without questioning why we hadn't just gone to the one in Sao Borja.

It felt so deliciously wasteful and silly! We had been in Argentina for mere minutes and were now trying to book tickets back out again. I smiled at the insanity of it all as we stood at a counter and explored the options with an affable middle-aged woman who sat sipping mate. The woman was a testament to communication and delighted in the challenge of discerning our needs and making the bookings using only MSN chat. The price was exorbitant. She was an agent no doubt, but I got a real kick out of her and particularly what she achieved with so little. Our ticket was something she scrawled on a piece of paper to give to the driver, but we trusted her. There was no choice really. The transaction was completed with less than ten minutes before kick off.

We struggled down the road with our packs, passing a couple of empty restaurants and hotels, before throwing ourselves into a little lancheria called 'Lucas' just as the line ups were being shown on the screen. Lucas was maybe three or four metres squared and already crowded with more than a dozen men, a friendly young couple who ran the place and their chubby baby. Many of the patrons looked like university students, especially the one guy with a cravat under his collar. Others were workers with rugged skin of all sorts. Sal and I went to sit on our packs against a spare bit of wall, but the patrons quickly turfed a table outside and found some spare chairs for us. I ordered a 'Brahma' cevereza. Someone yelled 'goooooaal!', for a joke, and kick off arrived.

Lucas was dusty and dirty with two dead clocks on the wall. I looked longingly at the one which had stopped at ten o'clock and wished we had been blessed with such extra time. Our bus booking was tight. With kick off just passed, our bus was due to arrive in ninety minutes and so it was unlikely we could watch the whole match. I hoped that we might at least still be in the country for the finish so we could look out the bus window and pick the result from the Argentine streets. We figured we could squeeze in one half at Lucas before dashing back to the bus station.

There were a few ups and downs in that first half, but no goals and no reactions of misery or celebration. The mother even took to breastfeeding her child in the relative peace.

At half time, we hoofed it to a service station across the road from the bus station which had about eight people watching the match under fluorescence. A smiley staff member relocated herself and an old gaucho man to make room for us. I grabbed a 'Skol' for me and a 'café con leche' for Sal. Not long after the second half had commenced, Argentina took the first goal.

A man leaped up on his own, danced a jig and pulled another man up with him for hugs. He sat down, banged on his table, sung a quick chant on his own and inspired himself to dance a jig once again. Everyone shared a good laugh at him, but he was so joyous, he didn't care!

The man who had just been picked up for hugs came over to us now. He confided that he was really Brazilian, but was supporting Argentina just for today. He showed us his identification from Santo Tome's medicine university. I was impressed; he was not a young man. He said that before, when he had worked, he had money and was healthy and fat, but now he is studying, he is lean and poor.

He returned to his seat. I saw him open his canvas bag on the table and inspect its contents. I could tell he was taking humble stock. He closed the flap to his bag and turned back to the game.

Minutes later, the Brazilian man came back over to our table and presented us with a blue labelled tin of pork and black beans. It was a gift. I had seen him fingering the tin in his bag. I think he had just given us his dinner.

He motioned for us to open the tin with a can opener, heat it and eat it, delicious! He stood back and smiled. It was such a sweet and strange gesture. We promised we would eat and enjoy his tinned meal. I studied the tin carefully and handed it to Sal so she could do the same, and then I put it into my little bag with my most cherished things.

As I write, I dearly wish we had given the kind man one of our last remaining kangaroo pins, but our minds were on out impending bus and one was now pulling up across the street.

We said hurried goodbyes. Those in the service station were disappointed and did not want us to leave, but we said that we must. We scurried across the road to find the bus which had just arrived was not for us. With ours now overdue, we showed our scrap of paper ticket to everyone at the station. No one could tell us anything about our bus.

I heard a shout from a house over the road. We hurried over to an old woman listening to her radio in her little bus station store.

"Uno-Uno she said.

Germany had scored! We waited with the old lady growing anxious about missing both the match and our bus. I inched my way back over the road to watch the match through the service station window while Sal stayed out the bus station. The match went into extra time and still we had no bus. I returned to the bus station, pulled out my radio now and sat with the old lady and Sal.

At last the bus came! I gave a thumbs-up to the conductor as it approached and he gave me one back. They were listening to the radio on board. The conductor confided to us that he was 'Alehman', a German¦

"Shhhh I said. "You better not tell anyone else.

He nodded and smiled, conspiratorially so.

Approaching the border crossing again, I felt nervous. We had just travelled over this border only three hours ago. I felt like we were up to something suspicious and imagined having to explain to immigration just what we were doing and having to show them our notes and tapes to prove it was so. It could be a time consuming affair and with this the only bus that could take us into Brazil, we did not want to lose it.

There had been a change of staff at the border crossing, so there were no silly questions or sillier answers. I toted the little radio with Sal and I as the conductor guided us through the border crossing system at which we were now quite adept.

Once we had stamped out of Argentina and were at the Brazil counter, the Brazilian chap pointed to a TV behind the counter. I turned off my radio. I couldn't believe it - they were just about to take penalty shots!

In the Brazilian immigration office, Sal and I stood with our German conductor watching the shoot out in the Argentine match. Outside the window, we could see the Argentines in their immigration control booth watching a TV and jumping around.

They cheered and yelled when Argentina put the first one in, but then fell so dark and silent when Argentina missed. We heard someone cheering then and I wondered who it could have possible been. A Brazilian, or another German perhaps? Our German conductor kept quiet as he grinned and pumped the air close to his chest. Brazil's immigration man just worked on his forms and looked up for the kicks without reacting one bit.

Our passports were stamped to re-enter Brazil moments before Argentina crashed out of the Cup. The boys in Argentine immigration left their booth to stare into space across the Brazil border, smoke, and lament what might have been. They told Sal off for filming them, which I thought was fair seeing as we were at a border crossing, though I don't think that was the reason. The Brazilian immigration man was happy for us to film him, them, his television and whatever else that we wanted.

On the way back to the bus, our German conductor stopped to pray at a statue of Maria and cross himself a few times. I wondered whether he was giving thanks for Germany's win, but preferred to think it was more likely a prayer for a safe trip on the road. He pumped the air some more quietly and we boarded the bus.

I was happy for our German bus conductor, but I also finally found empathy for Argentina. I regretted ever wishing Argentina poor fortune in the Cup and felt sorry for the nation as we sped into Brazil. At least now, for us, the choice for the direction of our mission was perfectly clear and the stakes had become high for Brazil. We need the nation to win, so we can stay in the Cup. Ave Brazil!