December 7

Montevideo is supplying us with enough diversion for each day in a polite, reserved manner. When we walk around the inner city, which is quiet, orderly, and a little decrepit, we see few other tourists. This was particularly true of today, a Sunday.

We woke up quite late after watching “Walking Tall” on cable last night; which, by the way, is an absolutely terrible film. Our method for finding breakfast was an up and down walk on 18 de julio, or just “diez y ocho” as the locals call it, scanning for cafeterias. We eventually found one with a subdued, laminated brown interior, TVs and comfortable semi-circular seating, which served us a cheap and sizable menu to share: tostadas, galletinas (por supuesto con dulce de leche), lemon pie, and a sandwich de fiambres with the crusts cut off. For one person, it would’ve been extremely excessive, and for us both it was quite satisfactory.

Our only appointment for the day was to meet with Tommy and Johan and go to the afternoon football match at the Estadio Centenario on the northeast boundary of the town centre. To sort that out, we slouched away an hour in an internet cafe and agreed to meet the Swedes at two o’clock, at Shannon’s “Irish” Pub on the street one block to the west of the Plaza Independencia. We also arranged to back up a few photographs so that we’re not relying on one DVD.

It had become quite late, and the sun was hammering down on the largely treeless streets as we beat back across town along Avenida 25 de mayo, known for a selection of buildings summarising the architectural history of the capital. I photographed Max standing in the middle of this, one of Uruguay’s most famous streets, without a car or another person in sight: the city centre was as deserted as a cemetery. As we walked, we passed more than one gobsmacking terrace, and each was decorated with a distinctive array of balconies, finials, curlicues, gables, eaves, sills, windows and relief s, none of which I am remotely qualified to classify.

The Museo de Arte Decorativo was a quasi-classical building with a flat-roofed, round-walled, columned entrance statement, once the house of a wealthy merchant. Inside were the outrageous gilt-edged mirrors, oil paintings, faux-Louis XIV furniture and intricate parquetry floors that we have come to expect from these South American mansions. The displays, however, were a little desultory. There was one good chamber of scale models of Montevideo’s most famous buildings. It was explained to us that Montevideo’s foundation in 1726, postdating that of other South American capitals, led to a French-influenced eclecticism in its architecture, owing to the thrall in which the French aesthetic elite held all Europe, and by extension its colonies.

We had to cut the museum short and hot-step back towards Plaza Independencia to meet Johan and Tommy. Shannon’s, where we’d planned on making our rendezvous, was as empty and shut as ninety percent of town, but two doors along a bistro-type place had its doors open. Only tourists were about, as far as could be told. It was a pleasure to get out of the savage daylight and into the darkly toned, muted bar.

Tommy and Johan were in fine form. We talked about Uruguay, their plans (to head to Ponte del Este and then north to an estancia), politics, the relative merits of Australia’s governance and Sweden’s, Tommy’s stint at a US college on some sort of cross-country running scholarship – he’s a former president of the Swedish Orienteering Society or something – and the obligatory re-hashed Quark gossip. After a beer, sandwiches and chips it was time to head to the stadium.

Our information was that the match was due to start at six o’clock, but I had a premonition it would be earlier. As we arrived by taxi through a constant stream of arriving supporters in the orange and brown uniform of Atletico Penarol, it seemed likely. A ticket officer confirmed that kickoff was set for five, and advised us to enter the quieter, more expensive Olimpico side stand instead of the terraces of the Colombes stand behind the goal.

The ground was not full. The conversations I’d had with the lady concierge at our hotel, and the guys at the net cafe, I’d only half understood, but I had gathered that there was some specific reason this match wasn’t expected to be any good. Perhaps the teams were woefully mismatched, or it was a dead rubber, or one was poorly supported, I’m unsure.

The Estadio Centenario was built for the very first World Cup of Football in 1930, which was both hosted and won by Uruguay. These days it would be considered a fairly modest stadium, a simple circus with a capacity I’d estimate around 25,000. Within the grounds, a few small plaques advertised its historical function. We emerged from the bare concrete entry stairs and a foyer populated by hot dog stands to terraces that were practically empty. The relatively few supporters who were in our stand were hiding under the eaves of the upper tier, desperately trying to get out of the sun. The hardcore fans were, of course, in the Colombes stand, massed and ready for action. A plaque advertised the historical function of the stadium.

Some young lads with their shirts off came by and hung a flag in front of us, all huddled in the thin strip of shade, which wasn’t unwelcome as it gave us a little more cover. Max and I got talking to a jovial chap who was carrying around a massive gym bag for some reason, we all took a bunch of cheesy snapshots, and it wasn’t until shortly before kickoff that we ventured out onto the seating to get a view.

Penarol’s opposition were a team from out of town, Atletico River Plate (the name of the club is spelt the English way, as per Sporting Lisbon or AC Milan), and they only had a pretty small posse of fans on hand, who were seated in the stand opposite us, and had unfurled a massive banner over the front barrier. Meanwhile, over in Colombes behind the goal, a host of flags and signs had been raised on behalf of Penarol (“HASTA LA MUERTE”, of course). Some referred to specific supporters’ groups, belonging to the select few streets in the traditional heartland of the team.

There was a huge cry from Colombes as the home side ran out onto the ground. They burst out into well-rehearsed songs at an epic volume that would strike fear into the Australian football fan. As the captains met with the referee in the centre circle for the coin toss, we were all busy slathering ourselves with sunscreen.

The first half of the match was scrappy, and Penarol seemed somewhat disinterested. Although the quality of the football wasn’t bad – I’d compare it to the A-League I suppose – there wasn’t much fire on the field. Minor incidents on the pitch brought cries of outrage from around us: “Afuera! Afuera!” when demanding a sending-off and quite a few instances of “puta” and “tu madre” closely run together. The Penarol fans sang through it all, and then later in the half a circular area in the packed stand behind the goal cleared out and they began letting off firecrackers and flares. The sun was still incredibly hot, and Johan, who was unaccustomed to this sort of weather, was forced to retire to the shade for a few minutes to avoid passing out.

At half time we retreated thankfully back to the shade, and I went in search of a beer. I was somewhat unsurprised to learn that alcohol was banned inside the gates — “demasiadas problemas” as the Coke-seller informed me. The fact that nothing at all was available to drink other than Coke was a little more disturbing: no other soft drinks on sale even, let alone water. Needing refreshment of some kind, we bought Cokes, and I picked up a budget choripan from the concrete concourse underneath the stand.

The match intensified shortly after the interval. River Plate, who had had less of the ball but looked a little more incisive going forward, capitalised on a defensive bungle involving Penarol’s keeper and one of their defenders. The ball broke from a melee in the six yard box and was knocked home inexpertly, via the thigh of yet another Penarol defender. Outrage from the home fans was met by vigorous, if inaudible celebrations by the visitors. In the terraces, a scuffle broke out amongst a group of shirtless men, and the entire crowd’s attention was drawn.

The referee had begun to hand out yellow cards with abandon, and soon multiple players from each side had been booked including two apparently for dissent. As the second half continued, a player from River Plate was sent off for a two-footed tackle, and then Penarol equalised via a nicely executed low drive from the top left corner of the penalty area. “Toni”, a stocky little striker, had repaid the faith of the home fans.

By the time the match had drawn to a stuttering close, a Penarol player had also been shown the red card, and several more booked. Mildly disgusted supporters began filing out of the Olimpico stand just before the final whistle, and we joined them as soon as it was blown. It was about seven o’clock in the evening, and still bright outside as we caught a taxi back into the centre of Montevideo for a few more drinks.

After an unseemly period spent deliberating on where to spend our money, we settled on a cheap, homely corner cafeteria called “The Manchester”, with outside tables. I didn’t order food, which was fortunate as the chivitos canadienses ordered by Max and Johan were enormous, more than enough to feed all of us twice over as well as a young beggar who happened past bugging the patrons for food. The pub’s staff weren’t happy when we gave him a full half hamburger, but he looked horribly hungry. Montevideo is, I think, the only place where I’ve more than once seen beggars asking specifically for spare food from restaurant patrons, instead of for money.

We left Tommy and Johan much later at night, standing on a street corner under a lamppost on Casona, a few blocks from Hostal Nuevo Ideal.