Oops! Wrong Country: How I Ended Up Watching the Socceroos in a Bolivian Jungle Town

It’s a disturbingly 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 a slight cool relief. It’s bloody hot.

Both sides of the street are lined with open sewers. No safety rail, grates or planks of wood. Just an astonishingly infinite concrete trench that mockingly dares you to drunkenly fall into. A chook lotto 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 night walk home from the local bar. There are no street lights.

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

There are no cars here. Just motorbikes. All day. All night. Like a plague of giant metal locusts on 120 decibel, unmuffled steroids. The two-stroke fumes make for a nice daytime buzz.

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

OK. 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 from a permanent clench and a previously unseen vein emanating from my forehead, I’m totally fine. What do I care? It’s only the World Cup.

I’m not sure if you’ve ever seen a panicky, sweaty, pasty, lost Australian frantically scouring the streets of a totally foreign city for anything that may resemble a television set that may or may not be showing a completely irrelevant football match in the near future. I imagine that it looks 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? Are you showing the Australia vs Chile game? No? OK, thanks.” Next place. “Do you have a television? Are you showing the Australia vs Chile game? No? OK, thanks.”

And so on.

Then an Oprah light bulb moment hit me like an epiphanic bitch slap. Didn’t that hotel that I passed a while back advertise cable TV? I think it did! I’m saved. Two hours until game time. So I checked into the hotel, had me a shower and turned on the TV. The Simpsons in Spanish is on. D’oh in Spanish is still d’oh! Amusing. CSI on another channel. CNN. Bolivian folklore dancing. No football yet. Local news. Will & Grace. No football! 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 a dog it may be the digging up of a dinosaur bone. For me it’s the accidental stumbling upon Fuentes’ electrical store at the north end of Trinidad’s main street. Like angelic beacons in the dusk air, the flickering screens of a dozen or so television screens in the Fuentes’ 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. I run up to the window and press my nose to the glass like an astonished, obese Swiss child 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 quite sure that for the next five minutes I was the only one watching the football. I felt a bit like a pole dancer may feel. 200 men. All staring at 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 and saying I was from New Zealand. But I couldn’t physically say the words. “Soy Australiano.” My voice sounded pre-pubescent. Another local replied, “Ah Australia esbueno, vamos Australia!”

Holy shit, these guys are supporting Australia! It turns out that Bolivianos hate Chileans. Apparently there’s some bullshit that went down years ago about stolen land, but who cares! They are on my side! This is friggin’ awesome!

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

Two minutes later and it’s 2-0. Another goal. A slightly larger roar goes up. These Chilenos are getting cocky. I try to stare them down, I suggest to them that their team are all prima donnas, wonderful actors and are a chance to beat the Chinese at synchronized 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 many obligatory pats on the back from several locals, a few shakes of the head, a look of maybe next World Cup and all of a sudden 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 can quite often make a man temporarily deluded beyond belief. When Tim Cahill scored that goal to bring the score back to 2-1, a surge of adrenalin hit me like lightning. Aided by the remaining locals cheering and back slaps, like Hulk Hogan picking himself up from the canvas after having seemingly died only seconds before from a King Kong Bundy body slam, I picked myself up from the sewer’s edge, brushed the 300 giant mosquitos from my torso and strutted up to the Chilenos in my best Mick Jagger rooster walk impression. I can’t quite remember what I said to them in my celebratory frenzy, I think it was something like “Well that shut you up didn’t it? You’re fucked now aren’t ya!” Or some such Aussie macho crap that nobody finds attractive. The locals that remained laughed. The Chilenos just stared. 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 up and professed my undying love for him. I was ready to leave my wife. But the Bolivianos were emotionless. A couple gestured for me to turn around and look at the TV. I did. “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 watching with me could all feel a huge momentum shift in the game. The atmosphere was electric and the humidity, tension in the streets and Third World problems all around only added to the adrenalised feeling of impending mayhem.

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

Losers are 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 stinky Trinidadian night.

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

(Photo by Dimas Streich taken from Flickr.)