Perulog IX: A Sporting Day in the Clouds

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I spent the morning bouncing between tourist offices in search of bargain-basement pricing on a trek to Machu Picchu and my legwork seemed to pay off rather handsomely, if I do say so myself.  I managed to bundle a three-day trek along the Inca Trail with a white-water rafting adventure for a total of $360.  And just when you think that is a crazy good deal (and you’d be right) get this: once the arrangements were finalized and I had paid in full the guy offered to take me around on a private tour to see the local Inca ruins for free.  “I am just starting in the tourism business and I would like to practise my English,” he said to me.  “Deal of the century,” I thought in reply as I heartily agreed to join him the following day.

It wasn’t long after lunch that my new friend Marco met me at the hotel and we set off to the Estadio Inca Garcilaso de la Vega stadium for the opening day of football season, which would pit the top Cuzco team (called Cienciano) against Unión Española from Santiago, Chile.  It was a long, eye-opening stroll of perhaps two kilometres or so, during which our progress was pleasantly impeded by a steadily growing throng of football fans that thickened the sidewalks.

Clearly the season opener was a pretty big deal ’round these parts.

There were thousands of people all streaming in the same direction, many wearing the team colours or sporting any array of donkey symbols, the donkey being the Peruvian team’s mascot-in-absentia.  Once we arrived at the stadium Marco and I didn’t linger long.  After taking in the swelling scene for twenty minutes or so Marco directed me to the ticketing “window”, which was nothing but a sign advertising ticket prices next to a small hole in the stadium wall.  Literally a single brick was missing from the wall and someone in there was selling admission tickets for absurdly low prices.

There were three ticket levels priced at eight, ten, or twelve soles (so around $2.50/$3.00/$3.50US per ticket).  A top-tier ticket got you an actual seat in a small section on the 50-yard line (I counted around two hundred of them in the 42,000-seat stadium).  The rest of the stadium seating was nothing but concrete benches, with the cheapest tickets granting access to one of the end zones and the ten sole tickets allowing you to sit anywhere else.

I treated Marco to a ticket and twenty soles later we were on our way inside early enough to have our pick of the place.  Marco led me to a great spot and we sat down to wait in the blisteringly hot sun.  I’d thought to bring a light jacket with me to help ward off the sun’s rays, though of course wearing it increased my chances of heatstroke dramatically.  I bounced back and forth as best I could and managed a balance that kept me within the bounds of safety whilst mired in bearable discomfort.  

Eventually the teams emerged onto the field and began their warmups while several soccer…sorry, football officials flanked by scantily-clad models/cheerleaders made speeches that I couldn’t understand.  After came the player introductions and while some players received an extra-enthusiastic cheer there was a clear favourite on the Cuzco team and that was #15, a cool-looking dude with long dreads who happened to be my host’s cousin.

Once the game got underway an entire section in one of the end zones started making noise and singing songs and they never stopped.  One drum, one trumpet, and a few hundred people played and cheered and danced around rooting on the home team.  After they kept it up for ten solid minutes I was impressed, and by halftime I was shaking my head in disbelief.  Peruvians are known to love football more than anyone on Earth, but this was ridiculous; the booster club simply never let up.  Their stamina was almost as impressive as the game itself.

Which, I suppose, is partly the point.

The game itself was really quite entertaining.  I will readily admit that I have never been a fan of the sport, not even a little bit, but I had a really good time, especially because Marco and I had someone to root for.  #15 definitely deserved his fans; he seemed to have his foot on the ball all the time and he got in several solid shots on goal.

A curious difference between North American audiences and the rest of the world is the whole whistling thing.  Of course we North Americans whistle when we want to cheer a goal or a great play, but everywhere else whistling is used as a form of booing.  Harsh, loud, aggressive booing.  And really, once you experience it there’s little question that the rest of the world has it right; a large crowd of whistlers can be very abrasive.  And like I’ve mentioned before, Peruvians on the whole are very skilled whistlers.

But habits die hard, so when the Cuzco team opened up the scoring with a goal early in the second half and everyone on my side of the stadium cheered, I whistled.  I’m a pretty loud whistler too.  I was so embarrassed I would have crawled under my seat if I’d had one. 

Another notable difference: When a ball goes over the fence and lands in the stands all the kids scramble for it just like kids do back home with hockey pucks or baseballs, except that in this case keeping the ball as a souvenir didn’t seem to be an option.  Instead, the kids chased the ball for the honour of kicking it back over the fence.  It happened three times during the game and all three times some happy kid was thrilled to kick the ball back onto the field.

The game ended tied at one goal apiece and the moment the game was over dozens of police in riot gear leapt up from where they had been sitting on the sidelines and took crowd-control positions ringing the field.  After a quick wave to the fans the local team left the field when the people on the entire other side of the stadium suddenly rushed the fences.  Here we go, I thought, anticipating one of those notorious soccer riots one always hears about but no, it turned out the Chilean players were simply throwing their game-played jerseys into the stands and their supporters were clamouring to get their hands on one.

Pouring back out into the streets after the game, Marco and I followed the crowd back towards the Plaza Des Armas.  Our route took us through a busy park when Marco suddenly grabbed my arm and pulled me sideways.  ¨There’s my band,¨ he cried, magically pulling a pan flute from somewhere in his clothing.  He’d mentioned that he played the pan flute (a very popular instrument in Peru) and he soon joined in with the others, rounding out the group to twelve flutists with four percussionists banging enormous drums.  I stuck around for two or three of songs – all of which sounded pretty much identical to me, though I amused myself by attempting to figure out the time signatures – and then I waved my friend farewell and continued towards my hotel.  I passed another pan flute group on the other side of the park and they seemed to be playing exactly the same material.

I arrived at my room completely spent from spending the afternoon in the hot sun and in a dizzying blur of weakness I decided it was time for a splurge.  I’d noticed an Irish pub on a nearby corner and figured if there was anywhere that I could find the Steelers game it would be there.  I walked in, asked for the remote and clicked it over to the game, ordered myself a Guinness and a Philly cheese steak and nestled into heavenly bliss.  The Guinness cost as much as my hotel room charged for a night, but it was unquestionably worth it, even for a miser like me.  After a pair of cheaper beers to sustain me to the end of the exciting yet frustrating game I quit the place and hit the streets.

Back at the hotel I pondered turning in for the night but figured – rightly or wrongly – that a big beer nightcap enjoyed outside on the sidewalk wouldn’t hurt.  Right and/or wrong I’m glad I did – even if my one big beer turned into three big beers – because I had a lot of fun out on the sidewalk meeting interesting people, but yeah, come morning those extra beers hurt.  Elevation elevates hangovers and when my alarm went off at 3,400m I was immediately and acutely – violently even – given the choice of regretting those beers.  But I didn’t.  Hell, I didn’t have time for regret, for I was staring down a day of ruin.

Okay, ruins.  I was staring down a day of ruins.  But it felt like ruin.