Fútbol, flea markets and fiestas

We didn't stop with the steak when it came to classic BA pastimes - next came the fútbol. We picked a match between local teams, Independiente and Racing, whose stadiums are right next to each other in the same neighbourhood.

A rivalry doesn't get bigger than this; to say they hate each other would be the year's biggest understatement.

Tourists are advised to go with an organised tour to guarantee entry, safety and making it out alive - so this was one organised trip we were happy to give our money to.

We were picked up early, and dropped in a swarm of Independiente fans, chanting, hollering and swigging from beer bottles. Med was relieved he didn't listen to the stupid guy at our hostel who had told him to wear the OTHER team's blue and white colours - we were definitely in a red sea of fans and stood out like fat people in Hollywood.

We had to hustle our way through the crowds with the help of Paula, our guide. In Argentina, there are no wealthy bosses swooping in to run the teams and make their millions. Here, the fans are in charge and some of the money we pay goes to the so-called 'hooligans' to help us get through the police barricades and throngs of fans.

Two half-cut characters turned up to help us through.

At first, we didn't fancy our chances with these two in charge, but the women were quickly ushered past the police with their riot gear while the men had to wait in the crush. After police pat downs (you can't even take a lip balm inside as it could be used as a missile), a few confused minutes when it looked like Med wouldn't get past the police and a bit of argie bargie, we were into the 50,000-seat stadium.

The place was electric and the noise unreal! Everywhere you looked there were banners waving, fans screaming and drums booming. Our guide ushered us up to the top corner of the stand. It took me a while to realise why, but I soon spotted - and heard - the caged fans of the opposition above our heads

. They looked like wild animals up there, hanging off the wired fences, spitting and yelling obscenities at the people below. Only the razor wire kept them from jumping over the top, but I wouldn't have been surprised if some of them sacrificed their skin to get at their nemeses below.

The start of the game was like nothing I've ever seen before. Fireworks, red flares, paper streamers, thunderous feet banging on the stands and people of all ages singing at the top of their lungs, dancing and crudely gesturing at the opposition fans. Even the stray dogs who had somehow got past the police barriers were going crazy for the arrival of the teams, and arch enemies.

The match was the world's greatest circus: sprays of water, urine and blue ink from balloons hurled by Racing fans above; goals from both teams causing the fans to roar and get even wilder; obscene chants in Spanish; obscener dances and gestures; drumming and flares filling the stadium; red cards causing glass bottles and firecrackers to come crashing down near us (we quickly ran forward and right to the front for safety); a penalty and two last minute goals by Independiente to secure a win. I have never witnessed, and probably never will again, anything quite like that in my life.

We all enjoyed post-match beers and choripan (big sausages in baguette bread) in stunned amazement.

The next day was a more chilled out affair wandering the San Telmo market. The whole area is packed with stalls selling antiques and other curiosa, and a huge variety of street performers, including the tango dancers I had been waiting for. It was an amazing multi-sensory experience, quite different from the one we witnessed the day before. Buenos Aires was now exceeding my expectations.

And then BOOM, that night while enjoying some local wine with friends in the hostel courtyard, a block of ice came hurtling from the apartment next door, bounced off the table in front of me and crashing into my head. Some people come round to make a noise complaint, others shout down from their flat, some call the police. In Argentina, they throw missiles and don't care who they hit, and we weren't even being that noisy.

A cut head produces a horrifying amount of blood, but I lived and didn't need stitches. It could have been a lot worse.

For our last day in the city, we walked around the exclusive neighbourhood of Recoleta and Polemo – full of designer boutiques, sculptures, sprawling parks and grand old house. The highlight was getting lost in the cemetario - a casual wander reveals the crypts of Buenos Aires’s most elite families including the much loved Eva (Evita) Peron.

Some are old and uncared for – doors squeaking open to reveal cracked tiles, smashed dome windows and stacks of weathered or broken coffins. Some are brand new, built from the finest granite and fitted with heavy steel doors that will never bang in the breeze. The best are a mix of the two – old and cut out of white stone but as grand as any church with their wrought-iron doors, stained-glass windows and guardian angel statues.

Although visitors are in good company it is hard not to be mildly terrified when a door suddenly swings open, a glimpse through a window reveals a morbid pile of boxes or something rustles a little too loudly nearby. Still, the sheer size and unusual nature of the place is inspiring - my favourite was a huge sculpture surrounded by a garden full of real-life butterflies. Coming so close to death the night before (I jest!) I told Med I would settle with one of those.

In one day we went from death to more life and soul than you can shake a stick at! La Bomba de Tiempo - or The Time Bomb - had arrived. It was 8pm on a Monday night in Buenos Aires and night was slowly beginning to fall. The seventeen percussionists that make up La Bomba de Tiempo were preparing to go on stage and the beer and wine was being served in litre cups. As they took to their drums, the crowd went wild.

These hugely talented musicians – and their weekly guest artists – play a different show every week: unrehearsed, and carried out through “directed improvisation”. The communication within the band is held together through the slightest of hand signals and some highly gymnastic leaps on the part of the director. They had guest singers and drummers to keep the pace fresh and exciting.

As the night moved on, the collective dancing of the huge crowd grew more wild and spontaneous and I was grateful for my well-worn flipflops and leggings combo. We danced, we whooped, we sweated buckets and applauded until our hands were numb. I didn't want the night to end, but what a way to end our stay in BA!

Buenos Aires was just like that: a 'time bomb'. It rushed by in a blur of steak, good wine, tango dancing in the streets, a nightlife that never seems to stop, fútbol and flares, bustling markets, and music, art and inspiration around ever corner. Buenos Aires is all that and a bag of chips.