Goin Goan Vol. II: Election Time

The first few weeks I spent in Goa were the build-up to elections, which provided a great deal of inconveniences to those who drink, go out, and drive without a license (which I was all 3 of).

After a few days of doing work at a Café Coffee Day© down the road (think more playful and bright colored Starbucks with lame jokes on the walls and menus e.g. ‘Pull to shed calories’ signs on the doors) and then jamming and drinking with Anirban and his roommates at night, I booked a bus ticket to head South to Kerala. The gods of bus travel disapproved, however, and my bus was cancelled.

Instead of getting another bus ticket, I decided to stay in Goa—I mean, why not? I had a place to stay with cool roommates, a motorbike, and tropical beaches all around me.

The only thing wrong with my surroundings was that they were undergoing elections.

In the few weeks prior to the bi-annual culmination of democracy in the state of Goa, the incumbent government likes to piss everyone in the state off by instating strict laws on curfews, noise ordinances, and alcohol sales, as well as an increased police presence at certain high traffic areas.

I’m not quite sure why they do this, I am convinced that no one really feels any safer when the Goan police are around; these guys pretty much just hang out at certain intersections and pull people over. They then proceed to write your name down on a clip board and usually ask for money (from the white folks, at least). I found out later that some of them like musicians more so I always kept my guitar on my back; one time I actually sang my way out of them fining some Russians I was hanging out with for not wearing helmets.  

Another part about elections that puzzles me is the dry days. In Latin America they prohibit the sale of alcohol the day before and the day of elections, presumably to have a more responsible, or at least less drunk, voter base. In Goa, they choose four seemingly random days per week in the two weeks prior to elections to ban all alcohol sales. If anything, we actually got drunker on dry days because we would stock up prior and it seemed like more of an event, a drinking holiday of sorts.

Then there was the noise ordinance that kept loud music from being played after 11pm for the two weeks prior to elections, because any fool knows a rock concert 12 days before you choose your local leaders will surely cause you to make a regrettable choice. I wouldn’t have had quite the problem with this rule that I did except some popular clubs had apparently paid the cops off to have late night parties any way, and all these clubs specialized in 220 bpm bass heavy electronic shit, oops I mean ‘trance.’ I found myself at least twice at said parties, wondering why I was there and not at home getting some rest.

It’s hard to believe it, but I survived the dreaded election time with minimal emotional scarring. And it would have taking a lot more than illogical party bans to keep me from smiling whilst I sat upon my steel-horse (read scooter) and cruised around a tropical paradise.

Goin Goan Vol. I

From time to time it is a fun thought experiment to consider how small decisions we make end up shaping our fate and future; for me and my trip in India, it was mustering up the courage to jump on stage and wail out ‘Red House’ as performed  by Jimi Hendrix with a local band that would shape the next 6 months of my life.

My friends had left, and I had just gotten a new editing assignment, so I figured I would stay in my cheap and clean guest room for another few days, paying my landlord on a day to day basis as to avoid paperwork (he told me that booking for 3 days or more would warrant paper work, with a dreadful tone of voice. Between my desire to feel off the grid and his lack of desire to fill out forms, we settled on me giving him cash roughly every morning). I also met some lovely Australian girls with a fondness for partying, so my days consisted of posting up at a beach shack and editing a journal on the provincial economies of China and then drinking heavily with a posse of ladies from the land down under.

They told me of an all you can eat seafood buffet with live music that was the cat’s pajamas at one of the original beach shacks at Anjuna beach (a party destination known throughout the subcontinent). I personally feel a bit guilty gorging on food when surrounded by poverty—or any time for that matter—but the live music caught my attention.

Anjuna beach is a long stretch of beach lined with shacks that fulfill most all beach going needs: shade, music, alcohol, people, hash, food, drinking water etc. There are hippy markets on both the North and South side of the town where you can score any last minute beach needs or tapestries.

In the stead of dinner, I drank Kingfisher© strong beer—the  thicker, more filling, sibling of the ubiquitous Indian beer. Despite the more than ample energy the band was giving off, no one was dancing, so I took it upon myself to be the crowd I always wish I had; I let my hair down and rocked the F out. Before too long, a dance party had commenced.

The guitar player/vocalist was wailing, shredding, jumping up and down, screaming, yelling, and all the other –ing verbs you would want a guitar hero to be doing. I felt a certain connection with him; his licks were not unlike mine, albeit better executed. His choice of songs was eclectic and at times ironic and humorous, at least by my standards (you know, like Bob Marley at Starbucks or something). His in between song banter was dry and funny. I liked this guy; he was good people.

The always necessary blues number began—‘Red House’ as performed by Jimi Hendrix. The music was tight, but the vocals were seriously lacking; I figured I could do better. I gestured to the microphone, and the guitar hero gestured back yes.

After performing a number of songs with them that night, and having a plethora of drinks bought for me by people who appreciated what I had added to the evening, the clock struck midnight, meaning the music had to stop (this was my first experience with Goa's election time noise ordinance; I will address Goan elections at some point in the near future).

I joined the band for a post-performance smoke. I introduced myself to the guitar hero and told him I loved his style, he responded back with something similar and invited me to his apartment the next day to jam and crash for a day or two. This was the start of me and Anirban’s fruitful friendship.

I packed up and the next day hopped on a bus to Panjim, the capital and port city of Goa, as well as Anirban’s place of residence. He picked me up from the bus station on his sports bike and took me through Panjim, along the water. We crossed over a river that emptied into the bay on the right and was lined with old Portuguese style buildings to the left. Then we passed by downtown, a bustling urban area with some taller buildings to the left and casino boats in the bay on the right, all lit up with neon signs connoting royalty or luck or the likes (despite the 30 cent minimum bets and my love for casinos, I never made it out). Then we passed down a recently revamped road lined with new, old-looking, LED street lights. This long straight road was the site of Anirban’s most recent bike wreck—a comforting piece of information to hear as we are swerving through buses and cars going 60 mph.

The apartment was big and covered in posters of late and great rockstars. The guy who lived above Anirban heard us jamming and came and knocked on the door and offered beers and hash; we welcomed him and his gifts. This was Antonio, a super cool and passionate Spaniard from the Basque country who was really into sustainable farming. We spent the night playing songs and watching youtube videos of musicians we admired.

I felt quite comfortable in the apartment from day one—it was definitely a quintessential bachelor pad; full ash trays, dirty dishes, burn marks on the glass table, a toilet with a thin film covering, signifying the avoidance of scrubbing, and many other tell-tale signs that very few women enter the premises. Little did I know at that point that this would become my place of residence for the next two and a half months as I continued goin Goan.

Sweet Home Chicago

Last week, I was at a crossroads; I had a week in the Midwest and I could have bounced around from crazy family to crazy family with my own immediate crazy family or lone-wolf it to Chicago and meet up with friends—I chose the latter.

I hopped on a train with my guitar and a small bag of clothes and set off for the windy city. The train conductor and I built a rapport quickly; maybe it was my long and/or facial hair, but I gave him the sense that he could vent to me (in a heavy Midwestern accent):

‘You know, you try to help people and they just fuck you over.’

‘My boss is gonna ream my fucking ass.’

‘Amtrak doesn’t give a shit, and it worries me cuz its my fucking livelihood.’

‘yeah we got food… shitty overpriced hot dogs.’

These were just a few examples of the less-than-formal tone this uniformed man took with me in regards to a hippy woman that he was allowing on the train without a ticket, and the Amtrak system as we know it.

A few conversations and a nap later and I was in the birthplace of the (commercial) blues, The Crossroads of America, The Second City, and the setting for my favorite Chris Farley skit (Daaa Bears).

My (non-crazy) cousin works full time in Indiana, but was paid to move to Chicago for reasons unclear to me, him, and probably his employer, too. As a product of this, I had a free, nice apartment in Chicago to myself for the week. Thanks cuz.

The living situation for the typical middle class Chicagoan seems to be a few rooms or a floor of a retrofitted ‘greystone,’ or Sears-era brick house (catalogue homes that were popular amongst Midwesterners striving for conformity in the first half of the 20^th century). The areas I was in had the feel of a neighborhood, despite the likelihood that most people here were probably on year-by-year leases with sublets coming and going. This neighborhoodly feeling could be attributed mostly to vigilant landlords that oftentimes live in the same house that they rent out units from. My one friend received a 300 word e-mail from her landlord over 3 cigarette butts left on the stairs, for example (a staggering 100 WPCB average!).

In between heavy drinking sessions with old and new friends alike, I did see some of the many sites Chicago has to offer. As a plus, there was an upcoming airshow, so The Blue Angels were practicing fly-bys of downtown Chicago the whole week. I couldn’t help but imagine all out urban warfare in America; it was fun and disturbing, but I couldn’t make amends with the unlikelihood of being invaded via the great lakes so I stopped imagining.

On the second night in town, I was an extra in a music video at a warehouse. It was cool, but it was in a less-than-wholesome area of town, complete with people practicing their crack fueled schizophrenic monologues on the street and cars with aftermarket wheels that would slow down to a creep as they passed us walking to and fro our destination. We did meet a pretty awesome Dave Chappellesque guy who was avid about me going to Dave and Buster’s during my stay in Chicago—I never made it.

Other highlights included ‘The Bean’: a reflective bean shaped public work that produces the most visually disorienting affect I have ever felt whilst not on psychedelics or spinning around in flowery meadows.

The Art Institute was fun; I like to laugh with joy and irony at paintings and installments that I like. There was an exhibit on Roy Lichtenstein, who is a hilarious and extraordinary artist; I would strongly suggest Googling him if you have a few minutes (and since you’re reading this, I know you do!).

The Loop, Chicago’s downtown, had a bit of a manufactured feel to it, but it is full of stunning buildings. Apparently Chicago was a playing field for 20^th century architects to flex their egos by juxtaposing their ideal buildings next to their rival’s competing, giant, functional phallic symbols of glass and steel.

After lots of long walks, rides on the CTA (the public transit system), and a variety of activities I came to a few conclusions. First of all, they like to drink in Chicago (I try to fight the urge to generalize, but I don’t think Chicagoans will argue with this one, so why not stereotype for time’s sake?). Secondly, there is way too much cheese and processed meat in the culinary traditions of Chicago (I had to try all the different Chicago-styled junk foods, but I think I had more digestive problems in a week in Chicago than I did in 6 months in India #realtalk). And thirdly, I couldn’t see myself living in Chicago (If I am going to put my body and soul through the stresses of American urban living, I’m going to go all the way and do it big in LA, SF, or NYC… @Chicago: sorry for the comparison, but you beg it by having lots of tall buildings and being in America). 

      

The Dark Side Tour, Part II

Oat wakes up early because of his job as a high stakes sports better—I always associated sports betting with night time, but when you bet on basketball in Asia it’s actually an early morning job. Consequently, we always woke up early when we were staying with Oat to cheer on whichever basketball team he had money on. He had a lot of money riding on the Clippers-Mavericks game and didn't want to leave his apartment so we ordered McDonald's delivery (I’m still not sure how it works, but virtually anywhere in developed Thailand you can dial 1711 and have McDonald's at your door in less than 30 minutes). While eating our Big Macs and drinking our Coca Colas, Pap and Oat both won 10 thousand dollars, thanks to Chauncey Billups taking an unnecessary last minute 3-pointer to meet the spread.

With victory in our clutches, we hopped in Oat’s car to head to Pattaya, the capital of the dark side of Thailand. Phil, an American we met at the hostel came along; it was his birthday, which was the perfect excuse to kill a liter of bourbon before visiting Walking Street, the sex capital of the sex capital—but I’m getting ahead of myself.

Pap contemplating go karts

When first arriving to Pattaya, we did what any 5 guys would do: go karts! We opted for the karts that maxed out at 45 or so, which was still pretty fast. Among the many ‘Masters of Southeast Asia’ (see above post) getting their race on, two stood out. Both of these two old, creepy guys had mullets and wore full racing body suits, Formula 1 style. Their 80 pound dark skinned Thai lovers looked on as they shaved seconds off their go kart laps.

Oat told me his dad was a doctor and that he owned a clinic, and we would stay at this ‘clinic.’ I had images in my head of poor sick people lined up out the door for treatment of herpes, TB, and gunshot wounds (you know, a clinic); I was a little worried, I didn't want to catch anything. Come to find out, a ‘clinic’ in Tinglish is a place for cosmetic surgeries, such as nipple augmentations, face lifts, and sex changes; it was actually a really nice, well lit, and clean place (think a nice dentist’s office with breast posters on the walls instead of teeth). Our accommodations were a former massage parlor on the 3^rd floor of the building. Instead of having five four-foot wide beds, we just had one 20-foot wide bed, with curtains in between.

Our not-so-humble abode for the evening

Making illicit whiskey drinks

We went for seafood on the beach and drank a liter of Jim Beam that I had brought for a special occasion (it was our friend’s birthday and we were in the sex capital of perhaps the world—what the hey). Our waiter was a cold hearted ladyboy who knew we were drinking outside alcohol but couldn’t catch us in the act. We would make ‘ladyboy alerts’ if (s)he was heading our way and someone was pouring. By the end of dinner, we were loud, rowdy, and ready for Walking Street.
DISCLAIMER: I will spare some (read many) of the details of the ensuing events out of good taste (but if you want to know more, contact me, I am more than happy to fill in all the gaps).

First things first: The Ping Pong Show.
Let’s just say these girls have special talents that they have developed through the strengthening and toning the muscles of their reproductive organs, allowing them to propel things with only the ‘breath control’ of their loins (that is about as appropriately as I can describe it). We wanted a solid performance so we asked around about the quality of the entertainers, duration of the entertainment, and show(wo)manship.

Phil (center) taken aback by the splendor of Walking Street

We settled on a 2 hour variety show with a cover charge of about 6 dollars, which included a drink. I want to make it clear and say this show is not very sexy, it’s more like a celebration of an impressive achievement (the said ‘breath control); it was more like going to a boxing match than a strip show. Being that we were sitting front row, we got to take part in the show—I got to light a cigarette for a girl, and hold a balloon which was popped by a blowgun dart; I have faith that my readership can understand what I mean.

The menu at the variety show... email me if you want the legible version

After 2 hours of beer drinking and enjoying some intensely impressive feats of adult entertainment, we moved on to a very classy stage show. The lights were impressive, the sound system was great, the entertainers were lovely, and the choreography was top notch. There were themed dances such as two nurses reviving a third girl, leather and whips, and vampires. These non-explicitly sexual sex shows were actually much preferred by my Thai friends, and based on their generalizations, preferred by most Thai guys. This was where I had my first encounter with a mamasan—a former prostitute turned head madame. Mamasans are notoriously cutthroat; they have seen and done it all, and they don’t put up with shit from anybody. This mamasan mistook my drunkenness for dullness and tried to charge me for 4 drinks when I bought one, and then made me feel bad for bringing it up—she had solid skills of instilling guilt for money.

After that we moved down the strip to a club with a live hip-hop band. They did sweet live covers of Jay-Z, TI, and Solja Boy Tell Em’, as well as Bob Marley songs. Literally for every one local/tourist club goer on this strip, there was a scantily clad Thai girl between 18 and 27. At one club, Pap introduced us to some girls from his hometown (small world!). At 5 or 6 am, after banging out dance remixes to every American pop song imaginable, the clubs all started to close. We decided an after-party was in order (the logical next step from a party, just ask R. Kelly). 

Can't stop, won't stop

We got back to the room and there we were, drunk and joking around. Then the truth came out: they were not friends of Pap; they were prostitutes that happened to be from his hometown (this explained why they were instantly so cool with us I suppose), and they wanted money. We deliberated and let them know that we didn't have interest in playing such a hands on role in the sex trade. They tried to bargain with us for a bit, and after more calculated responses on our parts, they finally left, seemingly not offended. By this time the sun was rising and we were still quite intoxicated; we all slept like one big happy family on our one big happy massage bed.

When we woke up the next afternoon, we were a little more hardened and a little more battle ready; we were men with a little more experience and a little less soul. I can only speak for myself when I say that Pattaya definitely took something out of me, but at least it wasn't money—this entire evening of drinking and world-class entertainment ending up costing about 25 bucks, god bless the power of the dollar.  

Taganga and Lara, or Why I Don't Trust People Who Offer Me Stays at Their Condo

So after taking it easy (read a few drinks here and there and white water activities) for the first few weeks of our trip, we decided to rage hard in Taganga. Taganga is formerly a little fishing town outside of Santa Marta that has become in recent times a hub for backpackers looking to ‘party’ in the various senses of the word.

Taganga: what it lacked it looks, it made up for in... I'm still not sure.

There seems to be a higher than average concentration of gap-year (the year in between high-school and college) backpackers and Israelis fresh out of the military, two groups notorious for letting loose in the developing world (with all due rights, they just spent the better part of two decades being told what to do every weekday, or the last 2 years kicking people out of their homes and dealing with the stresses of armed conflict in the hot sun, respectively). Any party enhancers were readily available; many of the Laundromats doubled as purveyors of Colombia’s finest—washed, dried, folded, and jacked, truly one stop shopping. Furthermore, if you didn’t plan ahead, there were always more pushers waiting in the bathrooms of clubs with fanny packs of jewelry bags filled to various levels with the proverbial white girl.

After each of our initial crew of 8 from the hostel drank more per person than any 8 humans should all together, we trekked down to the clubs by the beach— twas truly a caravan of international sploshedness. After drinking and dancing at the club for a few hours, I realized I hadn’t seen Jack in a while. I asked Dan, an awesome Belgian backpacker and jazz musician, where Jack was. In heavily accented English he responded, at the top of his lungs: I DON’T CARE ABOUT JACK, I CARE ABOUT MORE COCAINE!!!! Fair enough.

I found Jack hanging out with older ladies on the balcony of the club; it was apparently the oldest of the older ladies’ birthday. Being in a celebratory state of mind, I started chanting happy birthday. They laughed and started pouring me shots, as they had been for Jack. For the next 20 minutes Jack and I were their slam-hammered entertainment; they fed us more shots, we acted dumber… cause and effect.

After a while, we made our way back over to our gringo posse, but before the ladies left, one came over and introduced herself as Lara, gave me her number, and said her mom had a nice condo in a nearby town that we should come visit. I ingrained this to mind, hoping to get a dose of Latin American hospitality (one of the better hangover treatments I’m aware of), never imagining things to pan out the way they would.

The rest of the night went well; Fatimah and I went back to the hotel around 3 and slept until we were awakened by Jack coming in at 7:30. He excitedly (albeit a murmuring drunken type of excited) told us that he had met a boat driver and drank a bottle of rum with him and that he would get us a cheap boat ride into Tayrona park; then he went on to mumble and ‘practice spanish’ for a little while longer before falling asleep sitting up with his mouth wide open and staring at the thatched ceiling of our top-story cabana.

Perhaps the only surviving photo of the night (It's probably best that way). Why I have a full bag of stuff to go to the club, the world may never know. I do faintly remember bringing a knife for protection and having no issue bringing it into any clubs. hmmmm.

Hungover and halfheartedly ready to take on the next day at 11 or so, we forced some juice into our systems and I called up Lara. I baited her to invite us to stay the night, and she said we were all more than welcome to stay at her mother’s ‘condo.’ We followed her instructions and took a few different public buses to get out to her mother’s small town and then I borrowed someone’s cell phone to let her know we had arrived.

She showed up, and I realized she was not in the late 20s age bracket I had remembered from the dimly lit drunken atmosphere of the previous night; I would say she was more in the ballpark of 40. She brought us to the ‘condo’, which was her parent’s ‘house,’ and showed us our room, then started trying to sell crafts her mother had made out of ‘eco-friendly’ materials (in all honesty, they were pretty bad crafts, but we were polite and said ‘oh, nice’ and ‘that one is cool’ and so on and so forth). Then she offered us lunch, and we said yes, still thinking she was trying to be a good host. Then she gave us a key to our room, which had a number on it. At this point I was realizing we were being tricked into paying to stay at an unattractive house in an undesirable location. Shit.

We talked a little while longer and she dropped the n-bomb while talking to Fatimah, and claimed Afro-Colombians were happy with mundane lower-class jobs, among other racist and semi-racist sentiments. Then she told us that our lunch would be 30,000 pesos apiece (17 bucks or so), which is about 6 to 8 times the typical cost of a meal at a decent restaurant. Then she said she was heading back to Santa Marta and leaving us with her old parents inside, who were busy weaving lopsided lanterns out of recycled bottles.

I should add at this point that Lara lived and studied in New York for 5 years—she knew what she was doing, she knew the word ‘condo,’ she knew that invitations are usually not how you get someone to stay at a seedy out of the way hotel (which this place quite well seemed to be), she knew that she was drawing us in with the prospect of free food and lodging, then rapidly shifting to milking us for every dime she could, and she definitely knew the gravity of the n-bomb to an African American.

At this point, hungover and pissed at the duping we were in the midst of receiving, I told her it was out of our budget and that we would go somewhere else for food. She suggested the mall, and I said ok and which bus to take. She insisted on taking us.

I was assuming this mall, based on the area, would be more a market than a mall, per say, but this mall was, we would later find out, the nicest one in Colombia (Outside Santa Marta… what are the odds?!). It had designer stores, 30 foot ceilings, and indoor fountains. She took us to the food court, her toddler alongside of her. We let her get ahead a bit and we all established amongst ourselves how little we wanted to be in this situation we were in, and that ditching Lara was our best option, before she tried to squeeze us out of any more money. I didn’t want to be a total dick so I slipped off into a toy store to get a gift for her kid—just a small toy or something. Come to find out, the cheapest thing in the store, a single Hotwheels© ambulance, was priced at 14,000 pesos (nearly 8 bucks, apparently these fancy stores actually pay the import tariffs… go figure). So that idea was out the window. When I got over to the food court, Lara was attempting to get Jack to buy a pizza for the group, and I quickly interrupted. I told her we had to go and that I would call her so we could see more of the area, with no intention of actually doing so.

Instead of staying around to hear her try and keep us there, we just walked away— in just a few moments we were out of the mall, on a public bus, and feeling the tension of the last 4 or 5 hours magically melt away. Befittingly, Lara served us up a hefty dose of LARA (Latin American Run Around, feel free to use it, but remember where it came from) that ended up being the most costly in terms of time and stress that we got on our whole trip (and there are a lot of run-arounds to be had as a tourist in Latin America). We got back to Taganga in time for a delicious meal of fresh fish at about a sixth of the price of Lara’s chicken dinner, a little wiser and a little more skeptical of invitations to condos in Colombia.

Esta Noche, Tenemos que Ganar!

Soccer, the most popular sport in the world, the fastest growing sport in America, and my third favorite sport, unless drinking games and bocce are included, then it’s my eleventh favorite. We arrived in Medellin refreshed; we were no longer on the Caribbean coast where I was averaging about 2.6 SPD (shirts per day), we were out of Cartagena where we were averaging 64.8 TFCPD (touts for coke per day), and we were out of Hotel Marlin, the cheapest non-whore house with air conditioning, that may or may not have been a hub for creepy-old-guy sex tourism (it had all the telltale signs, such as creepy-old-guys with cheap whores), where we were experiencing a 0.92 MF (mold factor, a complex algorithm of amount of mold on the walls and ceiling, divided by the total area of wall space, multiplied by the amount of hacking coughs each person had during the night, and then further divided by the level of burning your eyes felt in the morning; 1 being the worst, 0 the best). Medellin was looking up, a pleasant 70 degrees, a metro system (in Latin America!), an apparent lack of coke dealers and whores (at least street level ones, but after going out, I’m pretty sure there were plenty of high level ones… ironic), and the defending champion soccer team of the Postobon© League, Atletico Nacional.

The Metro system was cheap and efficient, and there was a stop especially for the stadium. We went to the box office (well, we went to a lot of box offices, only one of which was open, despite numerous people in most of the box offices we walked up to) and bought 5 tickets in the Popular section. They asked us North or South. I asked which was better. He responded that the South was where the party was at. South it was.

Medellin from the metro system's cable cars that go to the slums.

 We went back to the hostel and mustered up a gringo posse to go the game. After drinking rum for a few hours we realized kickoff—or whatever you call the start of a soccer game—was in about 43 minutes. We drunkenly trotted to the metro and hopped on a car, sharing 1.5 liters of Cuba Libre mixed in a large Coca Cola bottle. We ran from the Metro to the stadium, impulsively buying Jerseys along the way, and arriving to massive lines still outside the stadium. As more doors opened, stampedes of people would sprint to the new line, increasing their chance of seeing the ‘tip off’ (still don’t know the term). We chose wisely in that our line moved fast, and there was not a thorough enough search to find the drinks we were smuggling in (which was a bit disturbing, I suppose, because a handgun or IED could be much smaller than the bottles we brought in unnoticed, and this WAS Colombia).

Inside was shoulder to shoulder madness. Not one person on the South side was sitting, and only a few were not singing every word of the constant fight songs. I can’t stress enough the word ‘constant’ in this context. It was seriously incessant, non-stop, never-ending, or any other synonym. Despite the fact that Nacional was losing within about 2 minutes of the ‘jump ball’ (what DO you call it!?), they kept on singing; in the 83rd minute, now losing 3 to 1, they were still singing, as loudly and crazily as they had in the 7th minute; after losing, they continued, unabashedly, singing one of the seemingly endless fight songs that every fan knew. We went out for drinks afterwards, and it was madness and elation; you would have thought they had one 7 to nothing. 

Singing was optional, standing was not.....

Post-game beers and street food with a few friends we made. I know, sweet jerseys...

Most of the fight songs were either too muffled, too complicated, or we were just too drunk to remember them, be we did remember one; it was a recurring motif for the remainder of the trip:

Esta noche, tenemos que ganar! Tonight, we have to win! (repeat 200x)