Backpacker's Paradise

The morning finds us in even more desperate straits than the evening. There’s either no rooms, or horrible dens at more than $50 a day. The Waygoer isn’t happy. The people in my hotel have promised to look for an extra bed to put in my room, but soon we’re told that they can’t find one.

We drift around the streets. Spectator stands are going up everywhere and there’s a buzz everywhere. Little kids ominously walk around carrying water-guns bigger than their bodies. In one hostel the Waygoer spots an opportunity and tries to convince a couple of sleepy Koreans to move to a triple room with him. When we come back half an hour later the answer is no, so we’re back to square one.

As we pass by the train station, a train pulls up and a huge crowd fills the building. The Waygoer starts talking to the backpackers to see if he can find roommates. He’s never done this before, but these are desperate times. The first few people approached all have reservations. Finally a young Argentinean seems inclined to look for a room together with us. As we talk to him, a woman appears and asks if we’re looking for a place to stay. We say yes, and soon we’re in a private house next to the train station.

The one-storey house is spacious and has an inner courtyard. Immediately left of the entrance gate there’s a shack with two beds in it. Next we proceed to the main section of the building. The living room is painted green and has several pieces of antiquated furniture. Little curious faces appear from the doorways. We are shown into another room cramped with a single and a double bed. The woman points at the larger bed and says matrimonio. The price is $10 per night and the Waygoer seems sold.

Our new Argentinean friend, Pedro, says that there are 4 more people with him from the train, so we head back to the station to get them. Once there, we’re introduces to Magalie and Loren from France as well as Jesus from Colombia. The two girls are about 25, while Jesus us closer to 40. Everyone is very friendly and excited to have finally gotten off the 19-hour train from Villazon, Argentina. Another woman shows up and offers her house at $6 per night, so we all head over the train tracks 5 blocks further from the station. We’re joined by 4 others – a bit less friendly Argentineans.

This house is two-storey and also has an inner courtyard lined up with laundry. The unfriendly Argentineans immediately go upstairs and claim a room with 4 beds in it, while our group is left to look at a barren room downstairs and wonder where 5 beds could possibly appear from.  Soon the mystery is revealed and the hosts drag out several bed pieces and ancient looking mattresses and assemble four cots. The fifth will be put together later we’re told.

The Waygoer is a bit ambivalent, but the company seems pleasant enough so he decides to stay. We head over to my hotel to grab his bag, where I mic him up and start shooting. We walk through the streets and as I am busing myself with focus, exposure, framing and sound levels I get hit three times by water bombs thrown by what seems to be hit-and-run teenage girls. This already looks like it’s going to be a long festival.

After leaving the Waygoer’s bag in his new house, we wonder around filming people and preparations. On one corner someone taps my shoulder. It’s Loren. The Waygoer’s roommates have found us and we all decide to go to get coffee at someplace called Café Dali. On the way we find locals with buckets of waters ambushing the streets. The Waygoer and I wave our cameras and are largely spared, but our friends are not so lucky. By the time we get to the café the only dry thing on them are their shoes.  

The party is starting to swing. There’re music bands playing in the streets, crowds dancing, loitering. The Waygoer and I part with the roommates after agreeing to meet up at 9pm at the train station and head to a decent dinner. By then it’s dark and the water spraying has ceased as the night temperatures drop into the 40s. The housemates have had a nap and are ready to eat, so we find a fried chicken joint that sells beer and sit down among the other backpackers.

The Waygoer is just about describing his adventures in Antarctica to the two French girls, when he spots two women on the next table wearing the same jacket he was handed out on the Antarctic cruise. They discuss the latest cruise that has gotten stuck on the ice, while I talk to Jesus and Pedro about New York.

After dinner we head back to Café Dali, which has been transformed into amateur cover rock-band bar. We pick the room furthest from the singing and caipirinhas and mojitos are ordered around the table. I order a Corona as I observe the swamp green particles swimming in the mojitos ordered by the Waygoer and Jesus. They decide to risk offending the bartender and request a swap for caipirinhas.

The room is covered in interesting South American movie posters. The one across from me is Bolivian – Dependencia Sexual – the Bolivian entry for the 2004 Oscars. We look at the salt flat pictures on Loren’s camera, have another drink and close the bar a shade before midnight. Need to sleep – tomorrow at 8am the Diablada begins.