Oops! Wrong Country: Watching the World Cup in a Bolivian Gutter

Rejected at the border on a pilgrimage to the FIFA World Cup in Brazil, I end up in the Bolivian Amazon basin, frantically searching for a TV to watch my beloved Socceroos.

It’s an unsettling 35 degrees. 100% humidity. Sweat seeps from every crack and orifice. There isn’t even a hint of an inkling of a gentle breeze to perhaps suggest a tease of slight relief. It’s bloody hot.

Both sides of the street are lined with open sewers. No safety rail, no grates, no planks of wood. Just an infinite concrete trench that mocks the wayward pedestrian with its potpourri of third world disease. Will it be cholera? Hepatitis? Yellow fever? Who knows?! Half the fun is in the guessing.

The stench is unbearable.

Three to four-metre long boa constrictors washed down from the Amazon basin patrol these sewers. 24/7. This makes for a particularly tense evening’s walk home from the local bar. There are no street lights.

Mosquitos here the size of spiders, hungry with bloodlust and murderous intent. Malaria? Dengue fever? Spiders the size of birds. Birds the size of… other larger birds.

There’s bugger all cars here. Mostly motorbikes. All day. All night. A plague of giant metal locusts on incessant patrol. 120 decibels, unmuffled. The two-stroke fumes make for a nice daytime buzz.

This is Trinidad, Bolivia. Welcome to the World Cup. Boliviano style.

Okay, so as a navigator, I guess I make a pretty good football tragic. So what if I missed Brazil by a couple of longitudinal degrees. It’s cool. I’m fine. I’m not in the slightest bit bothered by the fact that my eight-month pilgrimage to Brazil for my very first World Cup to celebrate my fortieth birthday has ended up in Bolivia. I mean, apart from my teeth hurting and a previously unseen vein emanating from my forehead, I’m totally fine. What do I care? It’s only football.

I’m not sure if you’ve ever seen a panicky, sweaty Australian frantically scouring the streets of a foreign city for a television set that may or may not be showing an irrelevant football match in the near future. I imagine it must look pretty fucking funny to a bunch of Amazonian locals that haven’t seen a tourist since 1982.

The next three hours went something like this, “Do you have a television? Yes? Are you showing the Australia vs Chile game? No? Okay, thanks.” Next place. “Do you have a television? Yes? Are you showing the Australia vs Chile game? No? Okay, thanks.”

And so on.

Then, the quintessential Oprah aha moment hit me like an epiphanic bitch slap. Didn’t that hotel I passed a while back advertise cable TV? I think it did! I’m saved! Two hours until game time. I check into the hotel, have a shower, and turn on the TV. The Simpsons in Spanish is on. D’oh in Spanish is still d’oh. Go figure. CSI on another channel. CNN. Bolivian folklore dancing. No football yet. Local news. Will & Grace. No football yet. I ask at the hotel reception, “What channel is the World Cup on?” “Ah, no senor, I am sorry, but no sports package. Too expensive.” A solitary tear formed in my right eye.

I’m not going to let these bastards see me cry.

One hour until game time.

Like James Stewart in It’s A Wonderful Life I wandered the streets dejected, in search of the nearest bridge. Then came the FIFA miracle.

For every living soul there is a holy grail. For some, it’s finding a dream job. For others, it’s the discovery of inner peace. For me, it’s the accidental stumbling upon Fuentes’ electrical store at the north end of Trinidad’s main street. Like a siren song in the dusky air, the flickering screens of a dozen televisions in the store window lured me seductively toward their nether regions. Could it be? Dozens of locals crowd outside the store. Men park their motorbikes in the gutter and attempt to gain a good vantage point by sitting upright in their seats or on their handlebars. Is it? I run to the window and press my nose to the glass like an obese Swiss boy outside a chocolate shop. It’s on! The Australia vs Chile match is on! Five minutes on the clock. Nil all. I haven’t missed much.

I pull up a seat by the open sewer with 200 Bolivianos, cross my legs and watch.

I’m certain I was the only person watching the football for the next few minutes. With my mind focused on finding a broadcast of the game, I’d forgotten that here, in the Amazon basin, I am an anomaly. A freak show. Like an underage girl on Epstein island, all eyes were on me.

I assessed the crowd. I chose to stay.

Finally, someone asked me where I was from. For a brief moment I thought about lying, saying I was from New Zealand. To take the pressure off. But I couldn’t say the words, I mean, no one wants to be from New Zealand. “Soy Australiano.” My voice sounded pre-pubescent. Another local replied, “Ah, Australia. Muy bien. Vamos Australia!”

Dios mio, these guys are supporting Australia! It turns out that Bolivianos hate Chilenos. Apparently there’s some bullshit that went down years ago about stolen land, but who cares! They are on my side! After all, isn’t that what really matters?

For the first few minutes the Socceroos look awful. Defence is all at sea. The 200-strong sewer crowd is dead silent. Then the inevitable, Chile score. A dull roar amplifies to the left of me. There are three Chilenos in my crowd. Who let these people in? Just ignore them.

Two minutes later and it’s 2-0. A slightly larger roar this time. These Chilenos are getting cocky. I tried to stare them down. Nope. I suggest to them that their team are all prima donnas, wonderful actors with a chance to beat the Chinese at synchronised diving at the next Olympics. But let’s face facts, my team is losing. What do they care what I have to say?

I receive the odd pat on the back from several locals, a few shakes of the head, a look of maybe next World Cup, and suddenly I have a section of sewer all to myself. Several motorbikes kick into action and ride off into the stinky night.

Bugger ‘em.

Let me just say this: Watching sport will make a man temporarily deluded. When Tim Cahill scored that goal to bring the score back to 2-1, a surge of adrenalin hit me right in the gut. Aided by the remaining cheering locals cheering, I pick myself up from the sewer’s edge, a phoenix rising from the ashes. Brushed the 300 mosquitos from my torso, I strut towards the Chilenos while performing my best Mick Jagger rooster walk.

I don’t remember what I said to them in my celebratory frenzy, I guess it was something like “Well that shut you up, didn’t it? You’re fucked now, aren’t ya,” or some such Aussie crap that we’re all known for. The remaining locals laughed, the Chilenos stared, worried looks appearing across their coffee-coloured faces. I sat back down.

At half time the Chilenos left.

Guess I must’ve scared ‘em.

Let’s face it, that second half was mostly Australia’s, wasn’t it? When Tim Cahill found the back of the net after a flurry of attacking surges, I jumped and professed my undying love for him. But the Bolivianos were emotionless. A local gestured for me to turn around and look at the TV. “Offside! Bull fucking shit! Referees are screwing us again!” Oh wait… yes, the replay suggests that it is actually offside. Fair enough. Good call. Carry on.

When Bresciano almost scored, myself and the locals felt a momentum shift. The atmosphere was electric, and the humidity, tension in the streets, and third world problems, only added to the adrenalised vibe.

Then Chile scored again and it was 3-1. Game over.

Losers are generally friendless. No back slaps, no better luck next time or well played. Just a mass exodus of 125cc, two-stroke metal locust plagues disappearing into the thick Trinidadian night.

Maybe I’ll go walk the sewers and find a boa constrictor to play with.