Villazón – a Bolivian town located on the very border with Argentina. A place where only few, I believe, would stay longer, except in the case of some unavoidable necessity. And that exactly was our case. We had no choice.
We woke up in a dark, damp room with a small window carved in the grey, rough wall perforated with tiny holes, similar to those that worms hollow out in rotten parts of trees. We moved a large, heavy chest of drawers – which we had pushed the night before in front of the door of our room — it had neither lock nor key —and rushed to the dusty street in the hope that, that day, we would have more luck.