Valparaíso

Valparaíso is an abandoned beach house.  A deserted mansion inhabited by young, bohemian squatters.

A late nineteenth century creation, haphazardly constructed, as if several architects had been fired in the process of its erection, the building is hexagonal, with varying angles and side lengths.  The numerous stairwells crisscross each other like a Escher painting; the hallways, varying innumerably in width, zigzag around the many floors, leading to other meandering passageways, or to endless stairwells that, like water wells, fade into darkness;  the antique elevators (the ones with the metal doors that open and close manually like an accordion), long ago out-of-service, at one time rose to unknown heights at a snail’s pace.  Pipes are always bursting, ceilings collapsing at the slightest tremor, and fires are constantly being sparked and charring entire wings.  But the building remains.

The squatters have given the building their personal flavor.  The hallways and stairwells are covered in elaborate street art, stencils, and graffiti.  There are hookah-smoking rooms, cafes, music rooms, bars, arts and crafts rooms.  Downstairs there is a projection screen that plays old Godard and Antonioni films.  The corridors are littered with book stacks.  Dogs roam free, and on some floors outnumber their human companions.

The lower floors are occupied by young, university educated leftists in large black zip-up hoodies, worn-out brown sweaters, or grey wool panchos.  They meet regularly at the candle-lit cafes and bars to discuss a future revolution that is, depending on the day, either imminent or hopeless, while alternative Latin rock or heavy metal plays in the background.  As one ascends up the stairs, the ocean views become more spectacular, and the squatters’ shacks and living quarters begin their incremental decay.  The further one rises, the more rundown the floors.  The vibrant, colorful mood of the first floors is replaced by a more menacing atmosphere, of hoodlums gathered round listening to reggaeton on their cell phones and casting suspicious glares at any stranger that walks past.  This is the dark side of the squatter community; the petty crime, drug addiction, and gang fights.  The clashing squatter communities (the idealist, all embracing lower floors and the cut-throat, posse-oriented upper floors) keep mostly to themselves, although there are the occasional stories of thefts at knife point or the rare random beat down.

The nights are lively, promiscuous, and hazy.  The numerous dance rooms cater to all inclinations and proclivities (from reggae to house), while certain halls are lined with bars that hum well into the morning hours.  Dancing, drinking all night, and waking up in a stranger’s bedroom at two in the afternoon is a sacred nightly ritual.  These rituals culminate in yearly festivals that celebrate the beginning of the school year, the end of the school year, independence day, and new years, where all the squatters come together at the lobby for two straight days of non-stop partying.

Confrontations between the police and the squatters are frequent and violent.  The bandana-wearing wanna-be revolutionaries of the lower floors barricade the doors and throw rocks and even Molotov cocktails whenever the police attempt to enforce their eviction.  The worry is that somebody, someone may buy the house, expel the squatters, tear it down and build a more logical structure, a more “decent” mansion.  Until that sad day, I will continue to love and visit Valparaíso.