If possible, Saturday is even hotter than Friday. The hostel is surprisingly quiet given its size, people seem to be hidden away somewhere. Never mind, whilst we sit and email this morning a chap appears, asks if we're from Derry, then falls asleep on the balcony in a hungover haze. Uncommonly uncivilised for Arequipa.
Saturday is football day, and we are off to see FBC Melgar play Lima's Universidad San Martin. With my fondness for teams that play in red and black (Crusaders, Flamengo, anything vaguely anarchistic) Melgar fit the bill. We wander around the town beforehand and I buy a charming scarf made of the wool from a baby alpaca. Y'all know my love of scarves. We drop it home and we start on our walk to the stadium. The sun is beating down on us and Arequipa town centre is chock-a-block with traffic for some unknown reason. Why is traffic always slow for some reason the naked eye cannot perceive? When you make it down the creeping motorway to whatever event has caused the cars to slow to first gear, there's never anything there. Its bizarre. I think sometimes car drivers just enjoy driving slowly and taking out their frustrations on other drivers. Anyway, Arequipa rings with car horns. We walk down Alto De La Luna, past the mercado and through the very untouristic unofficial town centre, where small shops sell rope and Inca Cola and dried beans and corn, little old women sit on the side of the road and sew, and every so often a working girl makes kissy noises from someone just a little out of the corner of your eye. Its busy with life but, unlike Chile, it feels earthy rather than sleazy, not dangerous so long as we keep our wits about us. Besides, we just walk to the end of this street in the daylight and thats Calle Venezuela. The stadium is right there.
Sure enough, a 45 minute walk from the hostel has us outside the stadium. I've bought a fake football shirt for $18 soles, a silly 4 quid. Outside the gates we get stopped by not one, but TWO, tv crews and I am interviewed twice. FBC Melgar is 99 years old this year, and everyone is feeling pretty cheerful about it. The stadium itself is quite big from the outside, but inside it reveals itself. El Misti, the volcano shadowing the whole city, looms over the stands, and as the game goes on the clouds roll in and shroud the peak. The stadium is the typical athletics track / football pitch combo, and the field looks healthy for a stretch of grass being baked close to the sun. We've good seats, within 10 minutes of kick off the sun has dropped back behind the roof and we aren't under the same UV pressure. Melgar are a surprisingly good side, and the game is entertaining, though Sarah spends a lot of it people-watching, until I hear her squeak 'COME ON!' at some point in the second half. It finishes 2-0 to Melgar, just as I told the TV crews. We have our first queso helado, which tastes a lot like a tiramisu creme caramel, as the red and black flags wave overhead, and the crowd throws our matching balloons for the start of the match. One end of the stadium is deserted, the opposite end is half full but houses the Ultras, who have a complete drumkit by the sound of it, and make a racket for 90 minutes. Our stand is pretty busy, but the opposite is populated almost entirely by indigeous Peruvians, which makes for a curious site. They aren't adverse to screaming and shouting at the players and referee either.
Afterwards we wander back towards the centre, stopping into a courtyard for lunch. In the age-old tradition, anything that Sarah could eat is sold out, so she has to settle for a plate of chips whilst I tuck into a platter of fried calamari and ceviche. For those with their heads in their sand, Peruvian cuisine is on top of the world right now, and ceviche is king dish. At its most simplistic, its raw fish pickled in lime juice, but as you'd imagine from that description, the dish is entirely dependent on its freshness, and easily manipulated into different tastes with the simple addition of herbs. My first taste will absolutely not be my last. I had anticipated ceviche as being strong-smelling and heavy, God knows why, as it is light and refreshing, and very very moreish.
We make our way to the Plaza De Armas, and check out more alpaca shops as we search for a reasonable bar to spend an hour or so. No such luck, but we make do with a little cafe selling organic chocolate and craft beer. My stout from Huaraz in Peru is pretty good, but Sarah's IPA from Lima at 8% is a head-wrecker. The chocolate is superb too, and we sign up for chocolate-making classes for Sunday evening.
Back at the hostel, its a very quiet evening of billiards, a beer or two, and catching up on emails, with The Pelican Brief stuck on the end as well. Its been about 20 years since I read that, and nearly as long since I've seen it! The hostel is completely deserted, so either everyone is out getting drunk and dancing (as seems to be the habit in Peru) or they've all gotten out of town.
PS - for all those wondering about the sudden lack of photos, I'm doing my best to sort that out, but with an actual computer to upload things to, its mighty difficult getting anything rom camera to blog. But I'm working on it.
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