It started out by riding into Oaxaca. I had already contacted a hostel and made a reservation for their dormitory areas. I'm creating a formula for finding hostels- I look for any Motorcycle Parking documented in iOverlander or on their websites, or I even use HostelWorld or other apps to help find what's available in any given city. Once I have a list of 2-3 candidates, I call in to make the reservation speaking only in Spanish rather than any booking services.
This tends to get me good rates, where a dormitory that was $17 / night will go down to $13 / night so that the hostel booking apps don't take a cut. They're appreciative of my Spanish as well.
THE SEARCH
I all but crash land in Oaxaca after a 9-hour trek from the home of the Shaman in Morelos. It's already dark and traffic is high.
The first hostel I arrive at is in a neighborhood with prostitutes on the corners just 5 blocks away. In the thick of traffic I wiggle my way into the front door only to find out I'm not able to park the motorcycle anywhere except down a flight of 4 steps. There are no handicap laws like we have in the US, so there's obviously no ramp. I tell him there's no way I can park there, so I'll have to go with my backup.
I call the backup and they have no availability. It's not often I get 2 strikes. I'm hungry, it's dark, I'm tired, but I make sure to take note of this. It's a recipe for frustration and I don't have the time for negativity. There's a bed somewhere in this town I'm going to crash on and I'm going to find it.
Finally, I call a hostel and they have room for me and my bike. I ride a few minutes away and they open the doors for me to park Lechuza in their courtyard. My first impressions are all of the weed smoking. It's fine and I don't mind, but it seems like everyone was doing it: The hostel goers and even a few random Mexicans. They're young and have tattoos on their necks and faces. They're skinny yet bulky and dress in only what I would describe as "high-end street." I couldn't tell if they were workers, lived there, or were guests. Let's call them "The Squatters."
There was a lot of live music played in the hostel, people sang and played little jams together in groups sometimes on guitars. I had no time to get to know people, I was too zonked out. I unpack, shower, change, and sleep immediately.
THE ECOSYSTEM
The hostel is no doubt a party hostel. People would drink with the hostel workers openly and there were folks from neighboring hostels found on tours coming and going. It was a pretty open environment. There were people that lived in the hostel and did odd jobs to keep money coming in. They were something of a family, kind of like a pack of strays. They were all friends and pooled their resources together. The squatters turned out to be friends of this family, the family being people who lived in the hostel.
One of them said they were looking for me. I didn't know what for, so when I followed him, he showed me a massive trove of artwork that he was looking to sell me. I had to turn the guy down as I didn't have any space nor interest except for maybe stickers that I could put on my panniers. He didn't have any, so it kind of ended there.
Another guy was giving massages for 100 pesos each. I had only seen squatters being massaged by him, no hostel guests like myself. They did look very relaxed, I even considered it for a time.
One of the men in the hostel, a member of the family, was in his 40s or 50s. As I was writing about my psychedelic experience, he was working on the phone with people and writing in a notebook. We got to talking and it turns out he had a very important meeting / interview with someone important that was going to earn him a job. I remember him having a lot of anxiety for this interview and I told him I noticed. I said if he calmed his body his mind would follow, and it would do nothing but help his upcoming meeting that he was so stressed about. He looked at other members of the family, gave them fist bumps and said if this meeting goes well, he's really going to pull through for everyone. It seemed like he was anxious for his chance to contribute.
There was a man from Iran, who was no doubt a guest. A very mystic fellow, he was cooking for people and playing the clarinet. When I asked him to confirm if it was a clarinet, he said nothing but "It's cheaper than medication." with raised thick eyebrows. I couldn't help but smile. He was 61 years old and staying at the hostel to perform workshops around the city. He'd been coming to the hostel for 4 years.
I was able to sight-see, go out for a drink a time or two, and I got a lot done looking ahead at what was coming next in my journey. I met a lot of great people and some of them may be reading this now.
I don't smoke weed, and I don't judge who do. I know how to deal with folks who are stoned, they're much easier to get along with than drunks as they're much more predictable. All they really need is an environment free of judgement and you can actually thrive quite well. Overall I had a good time at the Wildcard Hostel until my last night.
THE ASSAULT
I was speaking with a new friend from Argentina in the lobby. We were going over interesting places I should visit in her country and it was the humble beginnings of actually planning out the end of the Pan-American journey. She had loads of good spots I was marking on my map.
While we were talking, the stressed-out man came back from his meeting. He was much less stressed. In fact, he came back very drunk. He was slurring his speech, not able to stand properly, knocking things over, and he was very loud. He gave me a fist-bump when I had asked him if he thought his meeting went well. He thought he had a good shot at the job.
One of the hostel workers was also drunk, he wouldn't answer the door when the doorbell rang and he was fooling around with the other members of the family. He really was an okay guy, but he wasn't prioritizing his duties while on-call at the hostel. I tried to return the towel for the 10-peso deposit and he said he didn't have the money. I said I only needed money from the HOSTEL, not from him, he said that he had the money from the hostel. He pulled out a fist-full of crumpled notes and had little change. He actually started to break down and get emotional, like he wasn't able to perform his duty with me and he was failing. I said it was okay, it was only 10 pesos, he offered to give me a 100-peso bill, 10X what I had deposited for the towel. I refused, but in the end he was able to find another guest to lend 10 pesos off of to give to me.
The night went well, I was going to turn myself in early because I had a long, LONG ride the next day and wanted to be completely packed and on the road by 7:30AM. Before I could fall asleep, however, I heard some shouting.
It went silent for a good 10-15 minutes, and then I heard the fight. In a room across the courtyard from mine on the same 2nd floor, I heard 4-5 people shouting and physical blows being made. A man was being attacked, and I heard metal bedposts scratching across the floor. People were yelling to stop and I heard muffled yells and screams.
A fellow guest and I jumped out of our bunks to see the commotion. An all-girls dorm, where my new friend from Argentina was, shared a wall in the corridor with the room with the fight. The fight was coming from a dorm where The Family sleeps. The girl from Argentina called one of her dorm-mates inside as it was not safe. They closed their door. I kept in touch with the Argentinian girl with Instagram and gave her updates on what was happening outside.
The Iranian man came out, skin red from being beaten and his long hair matted on his face. He sat down on a bench, still on the 2nd floor with his attacker still in The Family's room. He said that the drunk man, who had gone to his meeting, had attacked him in his sleep. It was so bad, that a few fists-full of hair was on the ground, torn out of his head during the attack. The Family was trying to keep them separated. The Iranian man said it was because he had used the drunken man's frying pan to cook. I didn't ask whether or not it had been cleaned, I assumed it had, but regardless, it was all a wild reason to attack someone.
When the drunk man came forth out of The Family's room, the drunk hostel worker had to hold him back. The Iranian mouthed off to him from a bench, which only made the drunk man angrier and want to attack him again. They had to be separated further. The Iranian man wanted to have the police called, but the hostel called the hostel owner instead. When the owner arrived, quite quickly, they all had to sort out what to do with the drunk man.
The sleeping arrangements were re-situated so that the Iranian man would no longer be in The Family's room. We all went to sleep. When I woke, it was still at the same hour even though I had less sleep. Luckily the excitement from last night gave me the energy to want to continue onward while also motivating me to leave.
I found the Iranian in the kitchen making coffee. As he effortlessly put together his breakfast as he told me that after 4 years of partnering with the hostel, he'd no longer be back. The hostel owner had told him that the drunk man had a history of anger issues and he wouldn't be kicked out as he was Family. They chose him over the Iranian, so for that, the Iranian was no longer going to stay.
The Wildcard hostels is one of those strange environments where you can have an okay time if you're socially flexible. I never felt like I was in any danger, but it took some social maneuvering to make sure I had a social credit out there with the folks that frequent the grounds. Always introduce yourself. Don't give cold shoulders to the drunks, give them some attention and let them get distracted. Don't judge. Become a part of the background but not a shadow.
When you have a reputation, no matter how small or shallow, it can help you navigate very organic environments like The Wildcard Hostel.
-JT
4/15/2022