At the Polo

M told us we'd be going to see some of the best players in the world. I wondered if he'd perhaps meant the best in Argentina. Or maybe – not that I doubted his integrity – this was an example of Argentinian pride. They're famous for it and there's plenty of jokes doing the rounds like:


   How do you recognise an Argentine spy?
   From the sign on his back that says, 'I'm the greatest spy in the world.'

Hence my need to state that we were allegedly going to see the best polo players in the world. This from a person who knows nothing about polo except that Prince Harry plays it. See, reading the magazines at the super market checkout is educational.

Classy Hurlingham Club with it's manicured golf course, pretty gardens and perfect clubhouse is surrounded by a decidedly down market neighbourhood. Most of the streets are unsurfaced and the buildings are only partially built. We stop to ask for directions from people who have most likely never set foot in the club despite living in the suburb named after it. The difference between the rich 30% and poor 70% of the Argentine population is so obvious I feel uncomfortable.

The polo is exciting especially when the game approaches our side and the horses thunder past in hot pursuit of the ball. And he was right when he told us these are some of the best polo players in the world. But mostly we spend the match chatting and drinking mate with M and his wife and their friends who turn up later.

After the match we head back to Buenos Aires for dinner and a stroll around the pretty Puerto Madero. The Santiago Calatrava bridge and surrounding buildings are beautifully lit up and I curse that despite carrying our tripod around for a month I don't have it with me tonight.

We have dinner in a cosy place that specialises in grilled meat, but we make sure to leave space, because tomorrow is Sunday and that's the day when you cook asado.