May We Never Speak of This Again

April, 2008 - Buenos Aires, Argentina 

When the Argentina guidebook tells you to avoid “Boca: the most dangerous neighborhood in Argentina”, it kind of makes you want to go to Boca.

Lonely Planet is right. This hood is no joke. It’s home to the second most famous soccer team in the world, the Boca Juniors (behind Manchester United). Unsurprisingly, Boca yields some of the most violent fans on the planet. We would later find out that a soccer fan died in a fight before this game. 

On this particular evening, the Boca Juniors are facing off against a club called River, another dominate team and #1 rivalry. These are cheap thrills people. For just $9 USD, you can watch a futbol game behind barbed-wire fencing while opposing fans throw garbage on you. 

Back at the hostel, we contemplate the pros vs the cons of making this trip. The innkeeper recommends we wait until there is a daytime game to avoid added danger. (Soccer gangs tend to get away with more beat downs by the cover of night). Our crew of four young men (myself, Mick Fallon, O.D., and "The Other Brett") comes to the following conclusions…

Cons: Getting heckled, robbed, stabbed, nunchucked, injured, dead.

Pros:  Probable fun

Even though none of us really like soccer, the group opts for adventure over repercussions. So, O.D., The Other Brett, Mick Fallon and I take the train down to Boca at night. We pick up Jerseys of the hometeam, deciding that wearing blue shirts will decrease the chances of getting shived.  We arrive in Boca Stadium. The sun is falling behind the skyline, leaving the neighborhood in cold darkness. A River fan begins to heckle O.D. as we are pushed like cattle through a maze of barbed-concrete walls. O.D. talks some shit in Spanish as the natural density of the crowd separates the two men before an altercation presents itself. Shoulder to shoulder with hostile strangers, we do our best to cover our pockets and keep each other’s backs. After 15 minutes, we are still being herded through the Berlin Wall concrete barriers toward the stadium. It feels like a zombie apocalypse film as the infected city is being evacuated. I am sweating like Kobe Bryant in a Colorado courtroom. 

20 minutes later, we arrive at the holy gates of Boca Junior Stadium. The stadium resembles that of a prison playground where Ving Rhames would make Hell’s Angels his twinks. Tall, baren walls keep the compound surrounded as the Boca fans in blue are kept on separate decks from the River fans in red.  Construction fencing topped with barbed wire separates the insane fans from the field. In South America, soccer is as much of a religion as it is a game. Due to violent Boca Junior support groups, Boca Stadium is one of the more dangerous places to see a match. Fireworks and glass bottles are commonly smuggled into the stadiums. Subsequently, “Football Hooliganism” has been added to Wikipedia. Noting the following about Argentine soccer…

In 2002, the Argentine government announced emergency security measures because football violence continued, with three people dead and hundreds injured in two weeks. Argentina also deals with three of the most dangerous organized supporter groups in the world, which are Los Diablos Rojos (from Independiente), Los Borrachos del Tablón (from River Plate) and La 12 (from Boca Juniors).

Imagine if America had a sports gang called “Los Diablos Rojos” that supported the L.A. Lakers. Rooting for Steve Nash would become the scariest thing since throwing Pepsi at Ron Artest. Argentine sports fans put American sports fans to shame, but that’s only because there’s no shame in knifing your rivals. Maybe that’s why Americans don’t like soccer.

In March of 2011, Colombian soccer fans dug up the coffin of a deceased friend who was also a huge fan of the local team. The group of hooligans carried the 300 lb casket past “security” and into the stadium, passing the dead teen like a crowd surfer as the game played on. Authorities commented that they “didn’t know how the men got the (8 foot) coffin past security.”

Entering Boca stadium, the four of us scrunch into the Boca fan section. We have the worst seats in the house, well deserved for showing up late. The locals get to the game supremely early to start their gameday rituals and rally their Boca allies. There are no seats, only large concrete steps covered in old gum and sandwich wrappers. The yelling is ceaseless from start to finish. 180 straight minutes of excitement dabbled in fear. 

As the game goes on, our friend Mick Fallon complains about having to “push a Harris”, which is college-code for the need to poop. As it is not a good idea to go the toilet solo, we urge Fallon to wait until the game is over. Fallon goes dead quiet for 10 minutes, then begins to ask again, more desperate this time. A fart cloud surrounds our vicinity. Smelling quite poorly, “The Other Brett” and I urge Fallon to use the toilet, regardless of the risks. He agrees and leaves for the restroom. I agree to go with. Like two schoolgirls, we squirm through the crowd towards the toilet area. Fart clouds are trailed every step of the way as I take them straight to the face.

The Boca Stadium restrooms are a marvel. Fire code doesn’t exist, and that’s fine. But the travesty here is that there is no plumbing. No plumbing in the country’s most popular sports arena. A line of soccer fans forms behind a small drain in the restroom, which fits only a third of the patrons in need of relief. The remaining people move out to the hallway to pee in the stairwell like ducks in a row. There are now more people urinating in the stadium hallway than the restroom itself. Void of options, I join in the public urination and proceed back to the game, leaving Fallon in line to wait for the only toilet stall.  Walking back to the seats, I climb stairs as rivers of piss run onto my shoes.

The score is 3-0, Boca, which pleases us in a sense that we won’t have to deal with excess fan rage that could result from a nail-biter. With only six minutes left in the game, we begin to worry about Mick Fallon, who has been gone for almost an hour at the toilet. With sixty seconds left in the match, Fallon returns, shirtless. There was no toilet paper. There is no shirt on Fallon’s back. He grins a little. You might say it was a shit-eating grin.

The final horn rings. Boca wins 3-0. Fans of the away team begin to rampage on the upper deck directly behind us. I look behind me to see River fans unzipping their pants, peeing on us and the Boca crowd below. Alcohol is not even served on the premises. These people are quite possibly stone cold sober. Argentine peckers hang over the guardrail as golden showers pour from the sky. Garbage and dirty water complement the streams. We pull our shirts over our heads into “Cornholio” mode. Half-naked Mick Fallon provides comic relief to the demoralization consuming us. May we never speak of this again.

Lawrence & the Machine

“You have broken the law, and now I will punish you in money”, states the officer at the Vietnam-Laos border crossing. “What? You’re going to punish me in money?” replies Lawrence Cambridge, a tall and gangly British Chap sharing the bus ride with me.

Lawrence and his UK counterpart Bill Gee have expired Vietnam Visas, making the border crossing into Laos a challenge. The two bash brothers have been traveling 6 months together, sharing expenses even if it means sharing a bed; budget travel professionals. Our crew has coined them “Lawrence and the Machine” due to their ability to rip through cigarettes without fatigue. They are rodeo clowns of the road, but their fun circus is about to be tarnished by a Vietnamese rent-a-cop looking for a bribe to feed a nicotine habit of his own. Their Visa had expired just one day prior. Sadly, Lawrence & the Machine are shit out of luck, cash and cigarettes.

We are in the middle of the Laos jungle, straddling Vietnam with nothing but mud, sticks, and straw huts for miles. It has been 14 hours of dirt roads on a rusty bus void of any fans, leg-room, or breathable air. The 16 of us are packed onto a 10-man bus along with live chickens and metal roofing needed to supply a primitive Laos border village, which only gets about two to three deliveries per week.  

It’s also the rainy season, so some roads have become rivers. Our jalopy mini bus had forded two rivers since the inception of the journey. The Vietnamese bus driver takes off his shoes and walks ahead into the river, squatting to study the curve of the earth like Greg Norman before missing a game-changing putt. Our driver feels out the flooring of the rocks for a proper place to drive across. He returns to the bus, guns the engine and plows us through 4 feet of water that nearly rushes through the dirt-glazed windows. “This chav is totally mental,” notes Lawrence as we trot up to the border. 

Now, it is time to face the music. The border patrol does not even have a computer, much less the Internet, which leads to a three hour VISA processing afternoon of ink and paper. This is an operation that normally takes 20 minutes, but we’re in the jungle baby, and we’re gonna die. 

“I speak to my boss upstairs. Then punish you in money,” states the officer as he trots up the stairs with Lawrence’s passport. Lawrence and the Machine appear to remain calm. “I’ve never been so unprepared for a border crossing. These are still just empty threats,” states Lawrence as he burns through his last Marlboro. “This guy is a wanker”. 

My time has come. I hand the other Laotian officer my passport. He appears stern when he sees I am American. In the Vietnam War, the US actually bombed Laos harder than Vietnam, and unexploded US bombs still go off on Laotian farmers to this day. I swallow nervously. My Adam’s apple pops through my skin like Sigourney Weaver’s veiny Alien belly. My Visa passes, and I am not punished in money.

Meanwhile, an old Spanish couple chips in some dollars to the Lawrence fund to help pay the troll toll. “Proceed”, says the officer. Lawrence and Bill Gee wipe the sweat out of the eyeballs and we pile back on the bus.

So in the end the Machine was “punished in money”, an extended synonym for a fine (or bribe). It sounds more like a consequence for a grand theft auto felon or repeat offender of drug smuggling.  I haven’t been “punished in money” since my 2005 traffic ticket for speeding down Coffee lane on caffeine, 13 over. Bush-league. The crew piles back on the bus to be punished with another 10 hours of potholes and river fording. To my left, Lawrence peers deep into his wallet. It peers back emptily in shame, punished and lonely, void of all currency.

Dead in America. (Live from Vietnam)

“Is that…? No. Can’t be. Can it?”.

Oh but it was. As I wait for my flight to Asia, Britney Spears is sitting in the terminal across from me sporting bug-eyed shades and a posse of giant chisels. Spears is flying out after a Milwaukee Summerfest performance the night before. From this point on, Britney Spears would follow me for the rest of the journey across Vietnam. 

Spears is enormous in Nam. Her videos are in regular rotation on any music channel and her face is in the minds, hearts, and magazines of Vietnamese kids and adults. Her promiscuous image is the same that it was ten years ago, and it sells hard. Spears’ lyrics are jammed with as many sexual innuendos as the FCC will allow. Avril Lavigne is even bigger than Spears. There is a strange pop culture delay that hits Vietnam 4-10 years after its peak in the USA. What we thought was dead in America people will die for in Vietnam.

But the undisputed champion in concert popularity is The Backstreet Boys. The boy band phenomenon that dominated the American 90’s is alive and touring in the arenas of Nam. While boy bands were an addiction many Americans would prefer not to talk about, Vietnamese of both genders will wear Backstreet Boys shirts loud and proud. Notably, there is a popular clothing line called “Backstreet Boys”. Whether this brand is officially licensed by the band remains unknown. Either way, someone is cashing in on Howie, Brian, AJ, and Kevin.

Overall, the live music landscape of Vietnam is an odyssey of cover bands that study American Rock n’ Roll from top to bottom and back to top.  The guitar players will memorize the solos of Stairway and Hotel California note for note. The lead singers will imitate Steven Tyler to the last crow’s foot. And for some odd reason, half of the band always wears T-shirts of old school American rock bands. This would be like Dave Grohl wearing a Foo Fighters shirt during his own show. It is an unwritten cardinal sin in concert etiquette and only accepted in Western culture if…

A)   You are a dad wearing the shirt of your kid’s band

B)   You are at a Journey reunion performance

C)   You are Vietnamese, and you are at a Backstreet Boys concert

But the rules don’t apply here. Vietnam is a country where the drunk driving penalties are a $15-20 fine. Jaywalkers hate it, but Mel Gibson would love it.

As the night continues, the locals take me to “Seventeen Bar”, a live music venue that looks the old-west theme at Six Flags Great America. Plastic wood lines the rails and over-sized cowboy hats arm the wait staff. It’s a John Wayne movie set gone wrong, but the band is tremendous. They cover everything from Ozzy to No Doubt in perfect Western dialect (yet they don’t speak English). The guitar player wears a tattered Guns n’ Roses T-shirt as he rips the guitar solo to “November Rain”. The drummer rocks a black Motorhead tee and the bass player lingers in the cig smoke with a Kiss tour shirt from the 80’s.  They play through “Crazy Train” and make sure to cover at least two songs from each respective band T-shirt. Ozzy would be proud, Gwen Stefani would be flattered, and Axl Rose would definitely take them to court for infringement on his material.

Vietnamese man sings "Livin' on a Prayer" at Karaoke