The Long and Winding Road

The tourist trail is a little gimmicky for my tastes. I´m not especially excited about the salt flats, the death road, the Inca trail, etc., etc., but I´m assured that all these things are quite incredible and that I have to see them all.

The three day salt flats tour runs out of Uyuni. The bus to Uyuni goes through more epic landscape. The rock and desert varies in colour from red, orange, yellow, purple and pale green. As the bus snakes around wide turns, I can see the luxuriously paved road stretching out into the distance. I badly miss my Baja XR.

TNT

Potosi´s gimmick is the silver mines, and I´m on the tour with a Swede and Australian and a handful of Italians. I´ve heard good things about the tour, but also that it´s a death trap.

I´m told it´s traditional to buy gifts for the miners, and so, we´re first taken to the miners market. In addition to their penchant for coca leaves and fizzy drinks, we´re offered sticks of dynamite. A stick and it´s associated parts, fuse, etc, sets me back a one pound fifty. The possibilities for this stick and I are endless.

The town is dominated by a red pyramid mountain. It´s essentially the pyramid mine of Mars from thinking man´s action blockbuster, Total Recall. After being kitted out in little more that wellington boots and a layer to keep the dust off, we start our tour at the refinery. We´re very explicitly instructed not to touch anything. There centrepiece of the operation is a spinning mill that´s crushing the mined rocks. I don´t need to be told not to touch this two metre long, two metre diameter crushing machine. The rest of the operation is rustic at best. The walls are lined with egg cartons. Apparatus includes scoops made of baked bean cans and rows of rotating water wheels made from Coke and Sprite bottle caps that pick up cap fulls of arsenic and deposit it on the rocks to start chemical reactions.

Above the entrance of the mine is a battered child´s doll covered in llama blood. Had I been here last week, I´d have seen the annual slaughtering of llamas and offering of blood to the god of the mine. We descend into a labyrinth questionably reenforced tunnels which occasionally narrow to only four or five feet in diameter, forcing me to use a crouched walk with hands on knees. When our head torches are off, there´s the rare sight, or lack thereof, of true pitch black. The air is thin and laced with dust. The miners constant exposure to this means their life expectancy is little more than fifty, when they´ll most likely die of Silicosis.

Somewhere in the depths sits Tio, the god to which the llama blood is offered. Unfortunately, the miners artistic abilities, in so far as the construction of this statue of god, is about as sophisticated as their tunnel contruction.

After an hour or two of rambling around in the dark, I´m pretty glad to be outside and breathing what passes for air up here.
 

Comfortably Numb

I´ve woken up in the hostel´s TV room with memories of a long night of bad karaoke. With so many tourists around, I´m back off the wagon. It´s about time for me to get out of Sucre, but there´s something about the town that makes it very easy to stay, even to do nothing but hang out. The other tourists agree, but no one can quite place what it is that makes it so comfortable here.

I´m in the market with a couple of kids from the hostel. There´s a row of wrinkled old women sat behind raised kiosks, covered in fruit. They make a hell of a smoothie, even if it is only UHT milk. Still in the market, another old woman serves me lunch of soup of chicken and potatos followed by a schniztel type dish. The total cost of the smoothie and lunch is a little under GBP1.20.

Logic prevails and I´m in a shared taxi, bound for Potosi. The two and a half hour GBP3.00 journey goes through the baron mountain terrain. I wish I was on the bike now. Potosi is the highest town in the world, apparently. It´s another pretty little town centre surrounded by questionably built outskirts.

After last night, dinner with a few new tourists is enough excitement.

We Fly So Close

I´m back on the Honda and following my Bolivian biker pals Henry and Rodrigo through Sucre´s outskirts. There´s some measure of Bolivian traffic that I shouldn´t be wholly comfortable with, especially in this awesome-cool, but vision limiting motocross helmet, but I wholly trust my guides not to lead me into a fatality - at least not so early in the tour.

Despite looking the part, in my helmet and body armour, I find my expertise on the bike still has some holes. As I´m climbing up a dirt road switchback, possibly up a gear too far, I feel the back of the bike slipping. My quick change of direction to compensate, wasn´t well calculated, as it seems I´m now not going to round the corner. I suppose that if I pump the throttle, the Honda will pull me through. I was wrong. My foot goes to the dirt to try and save myself, but it´s too late for that. Henry returns from ahead to find me picking myself and the bike out of the dirt, then making several hashed attempts at a hill-start. But, I´m still pretty happy with myself, and ready to charge on. The roads vary between rubble, grooved dirt and a surprisingly smooth stone cobbled road, and as I push up into fourth and fifth gears I soon feel the bike and I have become one.

An hour of riding later, I miss a turn behind Rodrigo, then stall, then try to restart the bike whilst turning in a small space. The delicacy of my clutch control is another hole. The bond between man and bike becomes closer as I topple again, and the bike and I start to fuse together by way of the hot exhaust and my synthetic trousers. I´m able to peel myself off the exhaust without any pain. I don´t think I´ve done myself any damage and I remain happy with myself, so we´re back on the road without delay for recovery or treatment.

On a cloudless day, the scenery of the mountains from three-thousand-eight-hundred feet above sea level, and a thousand feet up from Sucre centre, caps the ride. I´ve also got a free t-shirt, a holed and singed trouser leg, and a presumably permanent burn.

I´m pretty keen to get a bike on my return, but it´s almost certainly a terrible deadly-bad idea. On the other hand, Oli and I could join The Grave Diggers, start the London Chapter, and prowl around town looking dangerous. I like that idea a lot.

Hell Bent for Leather

I´m someway out of town on an old, dry football pitch, and on the Honda Baja XR. Despite finishing at three AM this morning, I´m in good shape and anything residual drunkenness is sobered by two-hundred-and-fifty cubic centimetres of cylinder capacity. Urghf, urghf, urghf. Two hours later, without a fall, I´m moving through the gears and roaring up and down a dirt road.

I´d checked out of my hostel this morning, but I now I feel a definite urge to break off another piece of this action. Motorbikes are cool. If not for this helmet, I could probably smoke and ride. I´m checking back in. 

Gimme Some Money

I neglected to plan anything today, so I´m scanning the advert board at the hostel looking for some action. There´s plenty to do around Sucre, and it´s a very comfortable place to be based. There´s some climbing around here, but I´ve already go ideas about some heavy duty trekking and climbing in La Paz. Amongst other activities, there´s horse riding, Spanish school, and offroading. We have a winner.

The offroad experience offers quad bikes and motorbikes. I don´t think I can fall off and kill myself on four wheels, and ever since I saw the beards, bikes and leather at the biggest motorcycle festival in Europe last year, this was inevitable.

Unfortuntley, owing to a combintion of my card being max´ed out for uses over a five day period, and my inability to convey my problem and the solution to a Bolivian bank teller, the remainder of the day is on foot.

The day isn´t without excitment. Since I arrived in town, I´ve been pretty excited about posters for the Saturday night show. I like KISS and I like Bolivia. I´m going to a Bolivian Tribute to KISS. The excitement is tempered by the probability that the Bolivians will struggle to imitate one of the greatest shows in the history of rocking. I like to think Millsy would be all over this, like a bad suit, with me, but it´s more likely he´d make some derrogatarry comment about budget imitation and immediately buy a thousand Dollar KISS VIP ticket just to emphasise his point. He´d probably also immediately try to sell me that same ticket for eleven hundred Dollars.

Two Englishmen, Joe & myself, and seventy Bolivians are not in the least bit disappointed by second derivative Bolivian KISS. In full costume, overweight Bolivian Paul Stanley is hitting the high notes, Bolivian Gene is blowing fire & spitting blood and Bolivian Peter Criss is giving roses to the girls during the instrumental in Beth. Bolivian Ace´s guitar is shooting smoke, which is Bolivian awesome, until our eyes are stinging with the toxic smoke. Brilliant. Just brilliant. I love it.

Walk of Life

I´ve reserved today to see how hard the Bolivians celebrate Independence Day. I understand the President has flown in and the parades that began yesterday will be in full swing today.

After some heavy blogging, I´m half way up a tree watching the procession of marching Bolivians. It´s not a strictly regimented or visually impressive affair, more of a walk than a march. The march features school kids of all ages, the ambulance service, firemen, and so on. Dotted around the square are the well-armed Bolivian police force Delta. The Bolvian President is happy in open view from the balcony of some regal building. Personally, I would prefer to hear a reading of Bill Pullman´s powerful and inspiring Independence Day speech.

I find a few of the girls and guys from my hostel, and the girls are quite insistent that we hit the Chocolate Festival. I agree on the basis, that we´ll follow it with the Chorizo festival. In addition to a full size chocolate horse, we find a crowd around a two by one metre pool of chocolate on the floor. As I´m trying to understand the significance of the pool, and Bolivan man comes running in from behind a pillar, stage right, and runs across the top of the pool. The chocolate holds his weight as he sets his foot down on it and pushes off again. I want to walk on chocolate. Much of the Bolivian crowd and tourists question how this is possible and don´t dare to try. Fred Dinenage, Gail Porter, Gareth and I, on the other hand, understand the liquid and solidifying properties of corn flour. With a fair run up, I come off the otherside, with only a little chocolate up on my right shoe.

After a long disorganised queue, I´m bothered to discover that the Bolivians have a lot to learn from Uruguay in the field of sausage making. In addition to the sausages, I spend a little while with the excited crowd as they enjoy the synchronicity of outfits and dance moves of a badly cheesy Bolivian boyband. The stage of this festival is the Recoleta, one of the highest points in the lumpy city, already twenty-seven-thousand feet above sea level. There´s a far and wide view of the cities clay roofs and the baron mountains beyond.

At nine o´clock, I´m still waiting for one of these Bolivians to pull an explosive city-wide party out of hat. Nothing ever comes.

Deeper Underground

I´m finally back to comfort and ease of the tourist trail. I´ve come to miss Australians. In my hostel in Sucre, they are abundant.

I´m spending the morning on the roof terrace, enjoying the Australian twang in the hot sun, and trying to dry out a watch that wasn´t designed for swimming.

Sucre´s centre is pretty, though not shockingly so. Farther out from the centre, most of the buildings look shabbily stuck together, and often half complete. Everything seems busy in anticipation of tomorrow´s celebration. I think it´s Bolivian Independance day. The highlight of the walk is another game of "What´s that meat". I wonder, who would want to buy the nose and broken-off front half of a cow skull. I don´t know the answer, and I´m not going to keep an eye on it to find out. Elsewhere, there´s plenty of street food, so I enjoy a progressive lunch of an apple, an empanada, a kebab and a oily sausage bap. Where Paraguay was dirt cheap, Bolivia is filthy, dirt cheap. My lunch comes in at a little under two bucks fifty and the hostel dormitory is about six bucks a night.

In the evening, I join the gaggle of Australians in a kareoke bar. It´s a little like my old favourite at Liverpool St., Eat & Drink, but with the key difference that this one descends off the street into a sticky, ultra-violet lit, dungeon with a powerful odour of a cheap floral spray, presumably masking some worse scent. The Bolivians get through five or six songs. Even those that are sung well sound awful. The musical style is largely based on the MIDI technology of the late eighties, accompanied by generic music videos of desperate actors trying to look emotional. Earlier I had looked for a cheap dinner that wasn´t chips and fried chicken. As it stands, my stomach of chips and fried chicken demands to be laid down flat. I have to get out, even before we´ve sung our first gringo song.

Hooks in You

I´ve been pre-advised that Santa Cruz is a big city without any individual merit. I´m stuck here for at least half a day, so I start my normal process.

My highlight is a random turn from a street market, to find an indoor meat market. This is what I imagined and hoped for from Montevideo´s meat market. It´s a long room with white tiled booths. Running the length atop the booths is a metal bar, from which each booth has twenty hooks. Red meat of all shapes and sizes are hooked up. One stall has three big tongues hanging down. That inspires me to invent the game "what´s that meat". I continue up and down the three rows of booths trying to discern which part of the animal I´m looking at. I can name tripe, eyes, hearts and lungs and hooves and trotters. There´s another big-eared pig head. This one is upside down and the pig is smiling, probably pleased with what he´s died for.

Outside the market, old women are selling whole chickens. The chickens are plucked and their bodies are a bright yellow and they have the red trim on their heads. They fondly remind me of the rubber chicken from the classic 1991 adventure game, Monkey Island 2: LeChuck´s Revenge. I look forward to, once again, outwitting Largo LaGrande and LeChuck once again, on my return.

Farther into town, on the street, I enjoy to gander at a cage of geese - (intended) - and chickens. I´m surprised when I look up, not to find a butcher, but a pet store.

I also pop into the Sony store. Home Hifi´s out here still sell on the principle of "the bigger the better". It amuses me because it would amuse my father, who spent much of the seventies in Kenya indulging the same principle at great cost.

In the afternoon, I´m on a fifteen hour bus ride to Sucre. I manage to sleep. In my dream, I´m in a classroom on a chair with wheels, one of which has a lump on it. For some reason I´m paralysed, and the chair is rolling and juddering around the room, out of my control. I wake up to find the juddering remains as the bus is crawling over terrible dirt roads. And this time, there´s no fried chicken.

Trailways Bus

After the comfort of my long bus ride in Argentina, I was hoping for more from this Paraguayan bus, but the price correlation is precisely reflective. I´ve got just enough water to hold myself intact, and I expect I can avoid the toilet.

I wake up to on dirt tracks of the Chaco, the views coming into Bolivia are striking on account of the change from flats to green mountains. The roadside rock is often a deep, rich red, marbled with white, although, this is helped by the tint on my window. The mountains extend far into the distance and up into the low lying clouds. Occasionally, a wide, dry river breaks up the mountains. I´m compelled to paint. Can I paint? I study the picture carefully and work out how I would paint it. Maybe I´ll give it a shot on my return home to continued unemployment. It´s a long ride, so despite not wanted to miss the view, sleep is a good option.

I wake up again. This time I find an incredible surprise. There´s a cling-filmed polystyrene plate of fried chicken and chips on my lap. It´s like the Christmas morning of 1993. After being relatively satisfied with my presents, my old man pointed me to look out the window, from where I see a brand new black bicycle. This Christmas, I´m asking for bucket of chicken.

Eventually, I arrive in Santa Cruz at a comfortable 2000, and make the acceptable, but soon sweaty traverse across town to a mismarked hostel. For a start, it´s a hotel with shared bathrooms, not a hostel. It´s pretty enough, but signs declare that alcohol prohibited. I don´t immediately want any alcohol, but the principle makes me angry.

Slippery When Wet

It rained hard in the early hours of the morning. The sound was so great that I almost got up to have a look at it.

After punishing the complimentary breakfast buffet, and emailing my former hotel in Concepcion, I step out onto the street. Filidelfia might be the fifth most significant city in Paraguay, but it´s road network is still simply dirt. Now, that road network is an incredible mud bath, peppered with puddles and flanked by ditches of water. Even the four-by-fours tread gingerly, knowing that if they rip up the road today, they´ll get stuck in it tomorrow. Only the one main road has pavements, and they are badly waterlogged in sections.

My shoes and trousers are already entrenched with mud, so I´m determined to go exploring anyway. Moving on foot is slow, hard work. As I´m digging my heels into the the roadside, I have a bad thought of sliding and falling into the deep wet trench just to my right. Many of the locals are barefoot. Looking at the map, I decide that there´s a little section at the opposite side of town that I want to have a look at. I´ve got plenty of time to burn, so I decide to take the long, slow walk. Halfway there, I´ve lost patience with the road. Passing cars often have limited sympathy, and throw mud up in my direction, immediately followed by my exclaiming "You fucking idiot". The first, and second times I question the reward of mission, I press on, but a third time is too much.

A phone call from my hotel confirms Skullface will not be recovered. I knew there was a good chance I´d loose him at some point, but this isn´t the way it should have happened. At the back of the hotel, I find a pool. As I wander to the bus ticket office, I ask myself the question "Can I swim?" I´m sure I could swim when I was fifteen, and I recall the methodology, so the answer is "Probably." That was the same answer I once gave to the question "Can you ride a bicycle". On that occasion, when it came to learning to ride a moped, the probability transpired to be out of my favour, and I was a useless, dangerous mess for the best part of a morning. This time I enjoy more success. It seems I can do front crawl and breast stroke. My attempt at back stroke sees me veer left, crash into the poolside and sink, but with greater care, even that becomes loosely usable.

It seems the bus doesn´t go from Filidelfia as I presumed. It goes from the immigration office in Mariscal, at 0300, and takes twenty hours to get to Santa Cruz, Bolivia. I don´t even want to go to Santa Cruz, and I certainly don´t want to go back to Marsical. In my short time there, I found Mariscal to be a pitiful looking town, without so much as a bank. A fact that meant, I had to sell Vincent Dollars against Euros. I don´t much like the idea of the potential EUR/DEM risk.

After getting four hours of lousy sleep on the cold tiled floor of a spare room of the immigration office, I´m on an unimpressive bus to Santa Cruz.

Fuck Tha Police

The night is painful, long and sleepless, even for an expert in sleep, like myself. The Hilux is built for moving hog-tied sheep and home appliances across rough terrain. It's rear seats have almost no leg room. I spend hours cycling between a handful of horrible contorted poses, but it's either this, or open air with a few thousand mosquitoes.

Daylight finally comes and we have another look at our sorry situation. It's much the same, but for the eleven empty cans of beer and a discarded pack of smokes scattered out the back of the off-kilter lorry.

To the left of road is a water-logged ditch, but beyond the ditch is dry traversable land. The ditch is too wide for the Hilux to cross safely, so we set about trying to find something to bridge it. No luck. I set off back up the track looking for a point where we might be able to cross. I return with only a tenuous possibility where the ditch is shallow. However, Vincent has spotted our simple solution. Only the second rear carriage of cows is stuck. Soon the carriages are separated, we're free and back on the trail.

Photo: news.xinhuanet.com

Just a few more problem-free hours later, we're in a town in the recognisably modern world. I'm relieved to see the first bank I've seen in five days. Another solid high five marks the hundred-and-fifty dollar achievement. We've made it. We're back.

That said, this town is still in the middle of nowhere. The bus office doesn't look too active, so we ask some local policemen how to get out from here. One of the plain clothes officers offers us a ride in exchange for a contribution to petrol money. A very short while into the journey, it becomes increasingly clear that the expectation of a contribution is a thin guise for a bad taxi scam. We're out as soon as possible, but are still all but conned to pay out an extortionate amount for short distance. Extortionate by Paraguayan standards, at least. We decide we'll have better luck hitch hiking.

After an hour and a half, two of just thirty or so cars have stopped. Vincent blames my beard. I resent the comment, but he's not wrong. My face remains totally untampered with, and hence, an awful, awful mess. Alas, neither of the two cars that do stop are going in our direction. Two guys hitch hiking is tough work. Some hours, and an enormous amount of roadside barbecue pork later, we're in luck - a bus arrives. We're on our way to Mariscal, home of the now infamous immigration office. By late afternoon, we're stamped, I've got a beer, and we're ready to make our overdue escape across the border.

But, I'm not actually ready to leave yet. Skullface is still in Concepcion. I have to get him back. I have to try. He must be in that empanada place. Vincent and I part ways. A short bus hop later, I land in Filidelfia and begin to roam around in the dark, looking and hoping for a hotel.

On The Road Again (Part 2)

We're back at the police station. It has a second building with a roof that extends out beyond the walls, supported by wooden beams and pillars. A clothes line runs between the pillars. The clothes line is hanging a few towels, then a full side of beef and a second big cut of deboned cow. There are wasps are buzzing all around the beautiful red carcasses.

The policemen are keen to show us what they've done with the fridge that came up with our Aquidaban trip. In another big, near-empty room of the building, the commercial fridge is opened for us. It's full with tens of handsome three and four foot razor-toothed river fish.

Before long, we're on the road in another trusty Toyota Hilux pick-up. Our driver is the younger of the two policemen. As we drive through the rough dirt tracks of the Chaco, into the late afternoon and evening, the views across the flat landscape are impressive. It varies between head height tall grass lining the road in front of thick forest, and expanses of marshlands of low lying grass and sparsely scattered silhouettes of round headed palm trees. Every so often we find a few cows on or around the road. A few motorbikes pass us in the opposite direction. In patches, the road is deeply, waterlogged - no problem for the Hilux, but I wouldn't want to be on a rickety old city motorbike on this dirt trail, in the dark, and in the depths of the Chaco.

Photo: nanduti.com.py

We're making good progress down the battered and grooved dirt road. A little while after the sun has gone, we pull up to a police check point. I'm stretched to imagine the purpose of a manned checkpoint, but we're given news that bridge ahead is out. Not good. We push ahead anyway, and a little farther, get out to examine the bridge. Within moments of having my torch on, it's surrounded by mosquitoes. The dirt bridge crosses a metre or two of a natural drainage path. A central length of the bridge is still intact, but not quite wide enough for us. To the left hand side, the section has caved in leaving a hole of about four feet deep into a unattractive, dark, wet pool. On the right, the hole has only partially fallen away. It's just one foot deep and dry. We're confident that the Hilux's right side can get in and out of this hole. There's a bump as the front right wheel falls into the hole, but it looks okay. The first attempt to get up and out of the other side sees it struggle and roll back down into the steep ditch. The second attempt has the same fate. My confidence in the machine is suddenly in question. The third attempt is worthy of a solid high five.

Farther down the track, Vincent, who the Paraguayan's have nicknamed "Belgo", is given the wheel. We continue along and start spotting seeing bright eyed reflections of our headlights on small fluffy foxes, scurrying ahead of us. One fox in the road ahead spots us and opts to out run us, staying in the road. He soon finds that he can't out pace us. He starts to scurry off to left, then seems to change his mind and go right back across the road. Vincent is slows us right down, but the fox's move to the right looks to have taken him under the Hilux. I don't feel a bump, but it didn't look good.

Photo: faunaparaguay.com

We come to a stop a few hundred metres down. The road is thoroughly blocked by a freshly laid swamp. The swamp is wider than the Hilux and much longer. Watching the examination given by our police officer, I'm not even confident that he's sure that this is the right direction. For one or both reasons, we pull a U-turn. Our backtrack confirms that Vincent´s fox has succumbed to his fate in the Chaco's survival of the fittest.

Photo: faunaparaguay.com, Dumbass

Half an hour later, and we're still making good progress and growing in confidence. This nice stint comes to a halt as we park up in the middle of the road behind an articulated lorry and it's two trailing carriages. We investigate to find the two carriages are loaded with fifteen cows each. 

The heads of the cows quietly bob to peer at me between slats. I climb up the side of the carriage to peer right back into the big eyes of a soon-to-be empanada filling. Beyond the lorry, is another lorry aiming in the other direction. This second lorry is sitting at a twelve degree angle with two wheels deep in a wet roadside ditch. He's tried and failed to pass around the cow lorry, who we discover is also trapped in the muddy centre of the road. Two attempts demonstrate that the Hilux just isn't strong enough to free the crooked lorry. They're trapped and so are we.

It's past Two in the morning, so the four of us reside to defeat and settle in for the night.

Throw Away Your Television (Part 1)

By morning, I've accepted my that my new simple life will be here in the village. I've got no local currency, so I'll build a log cabin, take a wife, and find a job on a cattle ranch. Then one day, maybe a year from now, I'll have enough money to take the boat or bus to a town with a cash machine. That's when I´ll make good my escape, back home to London and my beloved ales. For now, I'll go for a run. Vincent joins.

Photo: http://bernardvoyage.over-blog.com

We go running in the morning heat. It's not so bad on the first leg, and I can keep up a good speed. On the return leg, the sun is punishing my already dehydrated body. The best part of my return leg becomes a walk. Even at half past nine in the morning, the village streets are deserted on account of the heat. After taking a little water, Vincent and I push it into a full-on Kickboxer-styled montage of push ups, angled from, or atop of the rustic wooden outdoor furniture, pull ups off the log beams that hold the roof,  and headstand push-ups, balanced off old wooden walls. In a seven days, I'll be fit and will have learned Spanish. This will be fine.

At midday, Vincent tells me we've been called to report to the police station. Apparently, the police put out a village-wide APB for the two gringos, and little girl found Vincent. There's noone sat at the station, but as we're walking away, we're caught by a young woman, Deliah. She's a local that also wants to get out of town today. We tell her that if she can find a way, we'll gladly share the cost.

At three in the afternoon, there's no word from Delilah and we're reckoning it's too late for a ten hour drive today. Vincent takes what little money we have between us and goes looking for water. Half an hour later, he returns to the room. "Pack your bags, I think we're getting out", he says. I don't want to expect to get out, but despite accepting my new life, if the going is good, then I´m going.

Don't Believe a Word

I often wake up early in the morning on the boat, but I´m not the sort of guy who gets up just because he's awake. I'm at least waiting for light to appear in the window. I gather we'll be arriving at the end of the line, Bahia Negra, after breakfast. I'm woken up by the girl in the bunk above me, who tells me something in Spanish that I presume means that we've arrived already. This is the same girl who left a baby on my bed. She seems a nice enough girl, but I struggle to read what her smile is trying to convey. My reading keeps getting stuck on account of her several missing teeth. Nonetheless, we have arrived.

Photo: Jorge Daniel Zárate

Before I´m off the boat, I get a call from Vincent that yesterday´s fish is being gutted. Just as the locals had gathered around our game of chess, the four tourists are crowded in a cramped space at the back of the boat, around a local as he runs a knife down the belly off the fish and loses his hand inside. The fisherman´s hand reemerges, now full of fish guts, which he severs, before digging deeper for any more. Just like the  sheep.

Bahia Negra is a nothingy town. Even less so than Fuerte Olympio. There's a police station, a small historic, but active naval base, some small shops, a few dirt football pitches. The roads are all dirt.  I'd guess at three hundred town's folk and a hundred cows.

Nicholas and Delphine are returning back to Concepcion on the boat, but Vincent and I are both hoping to find a passage into Columbia, so our first stop is the police station for our passport exit stamp. The police station is a large room with a tiled floor, but no more than a large lonely desk by the front door, and a large spindle, once used to transport wire, now used as a table to prop up a heavy-set thirty-six inch CRT TV. Atop the desk is little more two police hats, a thin stack of paper, and a typewriter. They can't help us with our stamps and point us to the naval base. We hear the same story at the base, with the addition of nearest immigration office being several towns in the reverse direction.

We decide it ought to be relatively easy to bribe our way into Bolivia without the stamp, and ask after how we get further north. We're instructed to see Don Garcia. Farther up the town's main dirt track, we find Don Garcia in a small shop. He's not as intimidating as his name sounds. He wants three hundred US Dollars, for which he'll make a call to summon a boat to get us up river to Bolivian immigration. Unfortunately, Bolivian immigration is at an army base. Neither the hundred-and-fifty dollars nor the opportunity to try and bribe the Bolivian army is appealing to Vincent and I. We're not going to Bolivia today.

Back in town, we're disappointed, but at least back on the boat. Vincent hasn't given up yet and we both agree that back tracking sucks. We start asking around town for other options. A kindly looking old woman running a little restaurant tells of a bus that will arrive tonight and leave tomorrow morning for Filidelfia, (Paraguay.) Vincent is keen, but I insist we check her story with a few more people around town. Three out of four locals are not expecting a bus. But, one at the police station we're pointed back to the old woman. Vincent is keen to trust the old lady. I sense something is awry. I want to trust the old woman, but I don´t. I'm umming and urring. Deep down, I know the right decision is back on the boat. Vincent declares that he's staying, with or without me. If old woman is wrong, we're in Bahia Negra for seven days before the next expected bus or boat. I am explicit that I do not want to be in Bahia Negra for seven days. But, there's no way I can be out-adventured by the Belgian. I suspect that by way of chess, Vincent has gotten to know me too well, and he's going to beat me again. We wave good bye to Nicholas and Delphine and setup camp at a guest house in the tiny village.

The guest house is a family run house with a separate wooden building with three or four rooms. Our room is  one step up from a favela shack. Two walls are made of wooden logs, with material gaps between them, and some large boards which don't entirely cover those gaps. There's two beds with mosquito nets. There's a little frog on the wall. The light fitting is simply a bulb in a plastic bulb socket hanging from the ceiling by two wires. Outside, a few chickens are strutting around with the family dog, and a humming bird is poking at some red flowers. It's rustic, but pleasant.

In the evening, we wander down to a burger shop, from which we can hear all too familiar western pop music pumping from a Friday night discotheque. As we're walking, something flies or falls out of the sky just in front of us. It's a four inch flying cockroach - as impressive as it is disconcerting.

On the way, we've rechecked with the old woman. She's telling us she has called, and the bus is on it´s way. We´re still dubious, having heard surprise from more locals that this bus exists. We decide that either the bus will arrive, or the old woman is crazy. We anxiously watch a rare car or truck pass from the burger stand. Hope is fading. After an hour, we make our way back to the guest house. Just as we leave the stand, I hear another engine coming. I turn without any great expectation, but I see lights that just might just be a bus. A bus emerges from the dark. A wave of relief is complemented by a powerful high five. We're going to get out of this town. That wonderful old woman was right.

As we approach the parked bus, some doubt re-emerges. I know from an Arsenal-Newcastle game - seeing Arsenal four up in the first half, only to finish by almost conceding a fifth - that it's not over until it's over and ten minutes after that. Vincent speaks to the bus driver. The conversation is too long and the tone is all wrong. This bus isn't leaving for seven days and neither are we. Our plans to hit the discotheque like the hammer of Thor are not sounding like much fun any more. That crazy old bitch.

In the early evening, there's a knock on the door of our room. Vincent follows it up. He returns with news that some guy is driving out of here tomorrow and is willing to take us, but for an extortionate fee. We meet the guy. He's a fat, slothful character, and he won't budge on the fee. We don´t like him, but have no choice. We can´t stay here for a week. We agree to ride in the back of his truck for an anticipated ten hours, in the hot sun, paying a hundred-and-fifty buck for the privilege.

Photo: wochenblatt.cc

There's another knock, now a little after Nine. He's not going anymore. That fat bastard.

Baby Drives Me Crazy

In the morning, Vincent tells me that Skinny and Horny got off during the night. Phew. We settle back into passing the time as best we can. It's either reading or chess. I'm not great at chess. Both Vincent and I struggle to maintain the focus or patience to think properly through the length of a full game. Invariably, one of us will do something brutally stupid and lose our queen - much more often than not, it's me. Vincent's favourite phrase quickly becomes "you're fucked".

Nicholas accurately compares the setting to Apocalypse Now. It's a wide, slow flowing river with open lush green flat land to the west, and varying forest to the east. The river isn't thinning out as much as I expected and there are still frequent stops for villages.

Photo: Wikipedia

One such stop is the relatively large town of Fuerte Olimpo. As Vincent and I are walking along the river side on a raised road, we've got our eyes out for Caimans. I think I see something, but continue walking waiting for it to become clear. Perhaps the chess has instilled some healthy competition between the Belgian and I. I want to be the first to find a Caiman. Only as I start hopping down the bank do I ask Vincent "what's that Caiman shaped log over there". In the heat of the moment, I forget everything that Steve Irwin taught me, and the Caiman turns and makes a dash into deeper water. We're both happy to have been close enough to tick another wildlife box. We continue to keep our eyes out, but don't get any more that a couple of vultures.

Photo: portalguarani.com, Fuerte Olimpo

The toilets are at the back of the boat. One is a hole in the ground and the other is an unplumbed toilet bowl, which only serves to dress a hole in the ground. As I go to use the tap by those toilets, I find a two foot round plastic washing bowl on the floor. More surprising is the big fat fish, a little over two feet, sitting in that bowl. He's an ugly bastard, but I give him a little stroke and leave him to his fate.

Having heard the toilets described yesterday, I've eaten no more than an apple in the last twenty four hours - it seems that the right motivation can help me control my appetite - but now I think that it's time to eat some of my prepacked sustenance. I pop back to my bunk to pick up something, but find two girls and a baby in the narrow space. I don't want to be involved in any of that so I hold my hunger and leave them to it.

I return ten minutes later. The two girls are gone, but the baby remains - and on my bed. I'm pretty annoyed with that, but I still don't want anything to do with it, so I give it another ten minutes.

Now it's worse. Now I have a crying baby on my bed. I immediately seek help from Vincent and Nicholas, but they offer none and Delphine is elsewhere. I return to the child. Trying to recall what Tom Selleck, Steve Guttenburg and Ted Danson did in the same situation, I pick her up, keeping her away with my fully extended arms, and sit her on the bunk above. I'm pleased that she's no longer on my bed, but she won't stop crying. Even with the door open and the loud crying, no help arrives. I try reasoning with the child, explaining that I don't like the situation any more than she does. I try shouting at her, telling her that she is soft and lacks discipline. I try playing her Enter Sandman. I even try shaking her, like British nanny. Nothing works.

She's reaching out to me as if she wants to be held, but she's dreaming if she thinks she's getting anywhere near me, much less asking for some how of affection. I have little more comprehension of human emotion than the Terminator at the end of Terminator 2: Judgement Day. After three long minutes, a small girl arrives and I pass off the child to her. Once held, it immediately stops crying.

I know now why you cry

Fat Girl

The boat stops every hour or so. It must have almost no draught, because it parks up on the river bank, near enough for a plank to be thrown down for loading and unloading cargo and people. From the boat, I can see the riverside is made up of small quarry rocks. Apparently, it's a concrete production town. The air is full of smoke from five plumes coming from behind a long prison-like wall, atop of which, the silhouettes of some workers stand.

In the afternoon, we stop at another town, Vallemi. The boat will be here for about half an hour, so we take a walk around town. It's a little village with a supermarket shop, a pharmacy and several animal monuments. A couple of locals are making some commotion and throwing rocks. On a further look, they're trying to hit a snake. The locals are satisfied that they've scared the snake off, but we tourists give chase. It's thin green thing, about half a metre long, and it's quick. So quick that we soon lose it in the bushes. Nonetheless, we're happy with our first wild animal spot.

Photo:  globevisions.com

Photo: panoramio.com, Plaza Vallemi

Back on the boat, we're in the common area and kitchen-slash-restaurant, where the two cooks are dolling out rice and some anonymous cubed meat for the dinner service. The light above has attracted tens of moths of various sizes. I get used to them bumping into me and landing, sort of. I prefer to push the bigger boys off, but there's nothing too monstrous.

Competently Spanish speaking Vincent is on the bench talking to a couple of local girls. One of the girls is thin, quiet, and coy. The other girl is not any of those things. The more rotund of the pair is quickly starting to scare both Vincent and I. Something about this girl is exuding aggressively amorous intentions. From the conversation, Vincent confirms to me that is the case. He's holding the conversation, whilst I'm just trying not to make eye contact. But every time I do peak back on the situation, she's looking back at me with eyes like a jungle cat in heat. I think Vincent is on the receiving end of most of the lust, but he's not above trying to push her on me. We somehow escape from the situation, but I don't like the idea being trapped on the boat with that raging sex pest.

Green River

Something feels wrong as I'm walking down the road to the port. I missing something. Where's Skullface? I return to my hotel room, but he's not there. Oh, shit. The last time I explicitly remember seeing him was on the horse and cart yesterday. I don't have time to screw around, so reluctantly continue to the port.

The scene at the port is much as it was yesterday, but today, it's my boat being loaded. I spot another backpacker. Backpackers are easy to spot on account of our wild and unkempt hair styles that wouldn't do in polite society. He is Vincent, a Belgian, and is here on exactly the same principle that I am. I ask him to watch my gear whilst I run back into town to try to find Skullface. I fail. It's a public holiday, so the restaurant I think he may be in is shut. I do find a young French lady, Delphine, who's also taking the Aquidaban upriver.

The Aquidaban is a wooden boat of about fifty metres by ten metres. The foredeck is about ten or fifteen of those fifty, and is packed with cargo from bags upon bags of rice to motorbikes. The remainder of the length is a two level structure. The ground deck has two thin, maybe two foot wide paths on either side. It smells like a market on account of the cargo of fruit, vegetables and spices, as well as miscellaneous odds and ends that run down the centre. On the outside of the path, a bench runs the length of the boat. As I try to pass through the thin corridor, the benches and any other free space are densely packed Paraguayan families. On the top deck, there's a wide central corridor, with a beam from which several hammocks have been set up and are occupied. Flanking the corridor are the eight dormitory style rooms. My room is about six feet wide, with fours beds arranged as bunks eitherside of a space that's just enough for one person to squeeze between. The bunk is perfectly adequate for sleep, but that's all this room is good for.

Photo: Globevision

Vincent and I head down to the main deck and meet Delphine, who introduces me to fellow compatriot. Nicholas is travelling with Delphine and is a reassuringly well spoken Englishman of some forty years. The entertainment Nicholas thought to bring was a chessboard. Vincent is keen on a game, and I'm happy to start passing the time. As we setup the small plastic board on the deck and start recalling how to play, acrowd of curious locals form a circle of kibitzers around us.

The views off the foredeck of the wide river, forest and sunset are very agreeable.

Runnin' with the Devil

I wake up to an immediate nasal reminder of where I went to sleep. If I understood the instructions, I need to be by the boat at 0900. On my way to the bus station's taxi rank, I ask a local if he knows where the boat is. He does, and moreover, offers me a ride. The road surface is dirt, and is worn with grooves and bumps. That's all more evident on ther back of this horse and cart.

We arrive at a busy  little hotchpotch port where another boat, the Guarani, is being loaded with fruits, vegetables, beer by trains of men and boys. A guy on the back of a truck stacks the left shoulder of the each loader with two twelve-packs of 355ml beer cans, then the right shoulder with a further three packs. The loaders then march, single file, down to and across a narrow wooden plank onto the old wooden boat.

I eventually discover that my understanding had not been quite right, and that my boat leaves tomorrow. I buy my ticket and head off into Concepcion town centre looking for a hotel. After quickly growing bored of searching, I settle on the pretty enough Victoria hotel, who charge me only 50,000 pesos. This is the same negligible price that I was more than happy to pay for the nasty little prostitute's hovel of last night. That's annoying. I think I'll try to do my accomodation research in advance from now on. I generally don't research much of anything in advance, on account of believing that it detracts from the sense of adventure, but now it's just getting silly.

With some time in a new town, I begin my normal exploring process. I score an excellent meat and egg empanda, I see the park, the Mary and Jesus monument, the market, and various seemingly dead dogs, but who are actually quite alive, and are only too lazy to move in the heat. It's a pleasant, but small town, so the much of the afternoon is spent on a swing in the park, practising a chord change from in Enter Sandman.

In the evening, given little else to do, and a familiar, albeit flat, dirt track, I head out for a run. As I'm passing the statue again, I spot the back gate is open and guarded by a old man. It's possible to climb up to the plinth, and even into the statue itself. As I walk back up to the monuments entrance, I remember the slaughtered indigenous peoples. Whilst I greatly, greatly dislike the evil Catholic organisation, I have little problem enjoying their architecture and art - slave driven or otherwise. An small old man with large ears is incredibly pleased to welcome me in, and more so to learn that I'm a tourist from London.

Magic Carpet Ride

I was planning to leave early this morning, but only get up at 1000, on account of having drunk loads of beer. More often that not, I still enjoy very few morning after consequences from heavy drinking, though I'm not exactly walking on sunshine either.

A couple of nice Scousers have turned up, and I find them watching the Premier League finale - City vs. QPR. I accept that I'm not leaving any time soon and settle down. It's a good thing too. Great game.

I've quartered a taxi fare to the bus terminal with some Americans, out here with the Peace Corps. Anticipating that I'm not going to get a good chance to investigate my clingfilm packet before the border, I gift it to the Corps, who are more than pleased to investigate for me. I gather it's not a particularly intensive volunteer program - mostly 'hanging out', apparently.

After I've got my ticket, I have an hour and a half wait, so I teach a small boy to play the ukulele. I think his name is Axel, and he is seven years old. Young Axl is very keen and learns strumming, fretting and posing quickly. He, in turn, teaches a six year old boy, then proudly performs a show for his mother.

I come off the bus in Concepcion in the dark, with no idea where I'm going to stay, and not fancying walking around in the dark. I ask at a burger stand in front of some kind of dance hall. A man comes out and tells me he has a room for me, for an agreeable fifty thousand pesos - seven pounds sterling. He picks up my bags, and escorts me through the active dance hall, which is actually a badly delapidated garage with a two guys, on keyboard and vocals, performing for a few tables of locals. I know it's not going to be pretty as he walks me between a row of motorbikes and down a dirty hall way. This one is giving the Macedonians a run for their money. It's a box room with a seperated bathroom in the corner. There's a thick smell of mold, which probably on account of the very visible mold on all the walls. One wall has brown stains all across it's length and width, where water has dripped from above. The ceiling and walls have several thick and wide webs, still home to two spiders, blowing about as the ceiling fan fires up. There's a couple of old looking beds, adjacent to each other along two of the walls. The bathroom light doesn't work, but given the way the harsh halogen in the main room shows the horror of it all, I suspect this is probably for the best. Despite all that, I enjoy the best shower I've had in Paraguay.  Most places use pathetic electric showers, with only a small heating element in the shower head itself.

It's a good thing I didn't bring that clingfilm packet. I doubt I'd enjoy to be up all night, vividly flying around this filthy shithole.

Girls, Girls, Girls

Once again, I've got no real agenda for the day. Caxton have fixed my debit card, so I head out to the market, in search of a mosquito net. On my first trip to Asuncion's Mercado Quatro, I thought I'd circled it and seen it all. This is my third visit and I'm still finding whole new areas. It's a huge labyrinth of fruit, vegetables, clothes, tools, toys - most things, in fact - and my random twists and turns mean I'm usually quite lost, but I've got no better place to be. I stop to watch a butcher carefully butterflying cuts of meat, then I'm drawn over to the pigs heads on hooks in the top corner of the stall. There's a little blood dribbling from the mouth of one head. It's a little unsettling, but I'm compelled to poke his snout. It's soft, cold and wet and a little unsettling. I have a little chat with the butchers son. As with all of my Spanish interactions, I roll through my stock phrases, and occasionally try some new material.

Having secured my mosquito net, I only need a little more reading material, in anticipation of long days on the boat. As I walk past a few magazine stands, featuring National Geographic and Spanish equivalents of the women's drivel that my mother insists to read, the choice becomes obvious - Spanish Playboy. I try to explain to the stand owner that I need it for the articles, but he's sure I'm simply after mujeres sin ropa - as he, I think, tastefully puts it - and offers me various less credible magazines and some outright smut. My previous attempt to learn Bulgarian, by way of Bulgarian Playboy, was unsuccessful, but I left that one on my old coffee table and greatly enjoyed to crack the 'it's for the articles' joke.

By the time the early evening rolls around, I'm not quite satisfied that today has had enough excitement and borders on being a rest day. To at least call it 'practical', I sit down and crank out a sailing CV, with hopes to be back on Santa Maria Australis for the September trip to South Georgia. It's only 2100, and there's only one thing for it. I kick start the beer flow, and am joined by a German biker.

It started innocently enough, but at one in the morning, we're at a rock bar and have joined a group of locals who are are fresh out of the Sepultura gig. At 0400, I'm comfortably drunk for the first time since leaving London. So, to those who suspected I was a dangerous alcoholic, simply because I like to drink every single day, and in the morning whenever possible, shows what you know. As I say my goodbyes to the Paraguayan rockers, one of the guys is so kind as to gift me a little clingfilm packet with a little lump in it. He won't take any money for it, so I thank him, stuff it into pocket and stumble off into the dark.

Bravado

I'm told there's a boat that goes up the Rio Paraguay from Conception, into the Pantanal, to Bahia Negra. I gather the Pantanal is something between a swamp, a river and jungle, and is full of jaguars, anacondas and caimans. It's relatively well touristed, but almost exclusively on the Brazilian side. There's extremely little information about the Paraguayan side, but little information is precisely the motivation I need.

I was also told that I could speak to the guy that runs the boat in English, but as the phone is answered, that transpires not to be the case. If I've understood, and been understood, then I've booked my place on Monday morning.

I'm pretty much done with Asuncion, but Conception doesn't promise a great deal, so I've got to burn a few days before my boat.

Over the past week, my attempts to mail Skullface back to London have twice been foiled. For some reason, delivery companies want to see what I'm sending. In both cases, a peek into my bag of bones is followed by short phone call, then some lateral head shaking. I'm not given any better reason than that it's ''es un craneo'' - it's a skull. I don't see the problem. Nonetheless, I'm confident I'll get him out of here sooner or later, so I'm off to the market to buy packing materials. I figure that if the delivery people don't see exactly what he is, they're more likely to let him fly.

Before I even make it to the UPS office, I find both Skullface and I are grounded. This time on account of my debit card being blocked for no good reason.

With an email waiting in the inbox of Caxton FX in London, I'm off to dinner, joined by an American, Jason, one of the few people in my the hostel. He seems normal enough, but at the table, I find out he's a Dallas, Texas bible basher, and he doesn't drink. Small talk stays small, but pleasant enough, and thankfully, not preachy. For some reason, we're in a pasta restaurant. He's got a bolognaise, and I've got carbonara. He's not reacting well to his, and tells me it's really hot. ''Hotter than any Mexican or Indian I've had'', he says. I can eat hot - certainly hotter than a sober bible basher - so offer to switch.  He offers me the chance to try it before I do, but I explain that that's not necessary. I take a first bite and quickly appreciate the faces he was pulling minutes ago. The chef has been quite unforgiving with chili. It's not comfortable, but I remain the clearer of plates, and I go about my business.

Night Prowler

I'm out in one of Asuncion's satellite towns, on the advice of the hostel's guidebook. After forty-five minutes of searching and asking after a museum that transpires to be in the second of the two towns I'm visiting today, I'm concluding that there's nothing here to see. It's meant to be famous for guitars, harps and jewellery, but my walk along and around the main highstreet turns up none of them.

I stop for an ice cream to at least partially validate my time and bus ticket. I ask the two young girls and their mother where these famous guitars are meant to be. I'm given the name of a shop and pointed in the direction of an arbitrary street corner where bus number twenty would stop. I'm not interested enough in a guitar shop to get on a bus, but for some reason, I don't want the ice cream girls to see me walk away after taking instruction. Whilst I'm waiting, I can see them talking to a guy who's pulled up outside the shop on a motorbike. He spins around, pulls up by me and asks where I'm going. 

Now I'm on the back of a motorbike, speeding along some questionable roads. I'm trying to act casual, with both hands behind me, holding onto the back of the seat, but I've got my eyes on incoming potholes, hoping my amigo, Alberto, has the good sense to go around them. Neither of us has so much as a helmet, and I'm in shorts - not that trousers would keep the road from sanding my knees to the bone in a fall. Alberto is making conversation as we're going, but I'm not in the mood to exert the necessary focus to back and forth right now. I recall my UK basic motorbike training. The instructor, Nem, spent some time warning the group of the inevitable accident we would each have. I most specifically remember his story of working in a garage, and being asked by his boss to check the clutch on a crashed bike. The clutch worked fine, but his boss and the rest of the guys had a good laugh as Nem noticed the finger of the dead rider hanging from it. I gladly hop off, but heartily thank Alberto. 

After exchanging instruments with the shop keeper and noodling around with a harp, I head off to the next town, Capiata. The museum I was looking for is the Museo Mitologico. In the right town, I find it with ease, but it's distinctly closed. It's in little more than a house, so I knock next door. There's no doorbells in Paraguay. I'm given instruction to stand outside the side door of the museum and clap my hands. It feels as ridiculous as it sounds, but it does get me in. The museum proudly features several somewhat amateurishly built models of creatures from Paraguyan myth. As a favourite, I would have to choose Pombero. I understand that he mostly comes out at night, mostly, and is prone to mischevious deeds, but is a nice enough guy, once you get to know him. He reminds me of me. He's narrowly ahead of Yasyyatere, who is the god of napping, and is more prone to stealing children who do not nap, before having their eyes out and leaving them to live feral in the forest. Elsewhere, in the two room museum, I'm pretty sure I've found the Arc of the Covenant.

On the Beach

Another city means another day of wandering with neither purpose nor direction. There are the usual regal, flag-laden buildings, the usual shops, plazas and statues, then there's the favela. The favela appears to run the length of where the city meets the beach, then the river. Rather than the handful of tents, as in Ciudad Del Este, this is a town in itself. Each structure is made up of assorted wooden panels and struts with a corrugated tin roofs - they're entirely reminisent of Mick Dundee's place in Mick's Country. From a vantage point, I watch the beginning of a new shack being hammered together. The folks here are going about their business. I don't know what that business is, but it's not wallowing in self-pity. I spot the city's Club Nautico on the other side of a thin section of favela, and being a seasoned sailor, I pass through for a poke around. The favela sits in a trough of land, between the main city's edge and the beach. On the beach, there's some heavy machinery doing some work - moving or compacting sand or something. As I climb up onto the beach, past a sign marked - Peligro de meurte y accidentes graves - I turn to find much of the backend of the favela is drowning in a wide swamp. Two pairs of goalposts and the ends of sunken rowing boats protrude from some three feet of stagnant, reed lined water. On the way out, I make a turn to walk through a street of the favela, but am promptly picked up by a local with a friendly suggestion to go around.

In the middle of of the afternoon, after browsing the colourful local market maze, I stroll up to the gates of what looks like a park, but with a young police officer guarding it. I ask him if it's public. He tells me: es publico, pero muy peligroso - it's public, but very dangerous. I'm a little confused by that, but continue my stroll, looking out for danger. Farther inside, there's a marching band in practice, a game of a volleyball, and another of football. The most dangerous thing I find is a mean looking bronze bust, the eyes of which have been sprayed red by someone who agrees with me, but unless there's a river of angry viscous pink slime running under the city, I don't see what's so peligroso.

I decided to save a negligible amount of money and cook something today. Earlier, at the supermarket, I'd picked up a lamb chop, an onion and a piece of bread. I'd recalled there was rice, oil and salt at the hostel. From the fridge, I take out and arrange my purchases on the kitchen counter. After a quick spin around, then two more thorough rotations, I discover the hostel doesn't have a cooker of any description. And so, dinner is lamb tartare.

The Rage

As nice as they are, two piles of rubble are enough for me. It's time to head to the capital, Asuncion. I'm late to wake up, so it's 1030 before my bus starts moving. This bus might be the oldest vehicle I've ever been on.

At about 1500, I'm getting pretty uncomfortable. I slept for a while, but now I'm really feeling last night's half chicken working its way through me. Crooksy could tell you all about how the body reacts to protein in great measures - but for your own sake don't get him started. I didn't ask how long the journey was. I'm sat up near the front. Both the bus and my bowels jerk with every change of gear. There are young, old, fatties, and combinations of those all around me. I'd love to bundle one squeaky little turd of a boy out the window. For a few stops, some awfully, awfully obese woman has struggled to force herself into the seat next to me. She can't understand me, so I'm muttering about how much I dislike her and how she's a fat sack of crap, and so on and so forth, at a normal volume, but in the direction of my window. The seat in front of me is reclined, and periodically, the leathery hand of a woman grasping the back of her head rest appears in front of me. It's close enough for me to see the hairs on it. All this and together with my angry intestines make for a deeply painful ride. On the plus side, I've worked out the bulk of Iron Maiden's The Trooper.

I'm glad to be off the bus, and have reacquired the comfort of my guts, but it's not over. Now I've got to find a roof for the night. I know there's hostels in town, and I'd much prefer to use them than a hotel. After a lousy day, it would be very easy to jump in a taxi to whichever hotel the driver likes, but that's not my style - for a start, I'm too much of a cheapskate to spend the money. After finding an internet cafe and sketching myself a pilotage plan of the hostel and surrounding roads - my land version of the sailing method - I power through, and go in search of the promised hostel. When the inevitable fiery rage builds up to melting point, it simply must be doused with beer. The barman knows the hostel, so I can really enjoy the beer. As I'm leaving, I ask him how far it is to the hostel. He steps out with me and points to a doorway about six or seven metres down. Nice beer, though.

Shake, Rattle & Roll

From my new, much more agreeable hotel base, I take a good look around Encarnacion, then head off for the second of three Jesuit missions. That involves a bus back upto yesterday's ticket office, then a motor-rickshaw over twelve kilometres of lush green Paraguyan countryside. Much of the route's track is made up of a very rudimentary cobbling. I find it perfectly amusing to be enjoying the views, whilst being shaken like a tin of paint. Halfway down the route, it occurs to me that I probably don't have my ticket, but it's too late to do anything about it now.

When the shaking and rattling finally subsides, I pay and hobble off. After a thorough search, I accept that don't have my ticket. I walk up to the guy at the gate with a smile and ''Tengo un problema." After some short conversation, he waves me in. I'm the only person here. It's about 1730, and that means the sun is about ready to shut up shop. As I'm wandering around the ruins, each of the big windows and doorways is framing the sunset. Today, the horizon is gold, rolling up into a light blue - I'd probably call it ''Azul'' or something, if had a Dulux colour chart to hand. There's wispy red clouds in the distance, and a few purple ones nearby. With the foreground of the old ruined structure and a line of pillars, this one is special. Dawn and Andy O would be have a field day here, hurrying to configure their kilo of camera to snap at this.

There's a cornfield behind the church. I see the perfect opportunity to reenact that asinine film where those kids are being chased through just such a field by a trucker that they pissed off. It's not as easy as it looks, but I guess you find a way to manage when there's a murderous truck chasing you about all about town.

Broken Stones

I wake up in my questionable hotel room, and in my sleeping bag (for a lack of trust of the hotel's provisions,) and make it onto the 0730 bus to Encarnacion. I've been tempted by some Jesuit mission ruins that have been declared a UNESCO world heritage site, though I'm not sure how much value that title holds - potentially, not unlike the seven-wonders-of-what-ever-suits-us-at-the-time.

Thirty minutes out of Encarnacion, deep in the sticks, behind a little village, is the site of the mission, made up of the ruins of the church and church quarters, and various living quarters around a large square. I'm not 100% on the history, but I'd guess that the Jesuits lived in the former quarters, and the indigenous Guarani lived in the latter quarters. The former looks to include a pool. My presumptuous take is that the Jesuits were the lesser of two evils - the worse evil being the Spanish and Portugese catholics.

When I've seen enough rubble, I head back to the ticket office. I've decided that Paraguay is the land where things are done properly. The ticket office houses a small museum, clean functional toilets, and two computers. The fee for this mission, and two others in the area is a three pounds sterling, and is valid for 72 hours, so you can cover them at gentle pace over three days. Whilst I'm tending to this blog, a couple of local girls, out for a educational sunday evening, tell me there's a 1930 tour when they light up all the ruins. I'm gathering that it's traditional in Paraguay to guide you around something, project a short movie, and light that something up to music. The girls then go so far as to drive me back to town.

A couple of empandas - I forget if I've described empanadas, but if it weren't for the distance, there would be naming rights arguments between all of South America and the peoples of Cornwall - a Quilmes Negra and Apocalypse Now, with Spanish subs, and I'm done for the day. The Quilmes Negra is pretty good, easy drinking - a credit to Argentina.

Eyes of a Panther

Without my heavy load, I'm able to enjoy the chaos of the city. Almost the entire city appears to be devoted to retail. Most of it is electronics, but about a fifth of the stalls are dedicated to selling either jackets or thick blankets. It's over twenty-five degrees out here. I've no idea who's buying that stuff.

At the tourist information, it's explained to me that the city is a duty free zone, and comes narrowly behind Hong Kong. I haven't owned a computer since 2008. I replaced an MP3 player with a record player, the production of which was discontinued in the sixties. And, my phone dates back to the turn of the century. Despite studying computers at university, I have almost no interest in technology. I'd been pushed into buying that camera, and we know what happened to that. I was tempted enough a look at the prices for a phones, watches, and cameras. The Nokia 1616 is about gbp20 here, but my phone and my watch work just fine, and as for the calls for me to buy a camera, fool me once...

Tourist Information also tells me the sight for seeing is the Hydroelectric Dam. My first reaction was to wonder why I would want to use my spare time to see a concrete dam, but on a second though, versus a church, or shopping, a dam suddenly makes sense. Then on a third thought, The falls of Iguazu are all very well, but it's not anything that I can practically relate to. I relate to Playstation and my massively, massively overpowered amplifier. The dam is, in fact, the only logical interest.

I'm welcomed at the dam and ushered onto a bus tour, with just two other locals and our guide. It's an impressive piece of water and a more impressive piece of concrete. Man, one, Nature, nil.

The next stop is the zoo. I don't really need to see another zoo, but it's nearby the dam, and I've got little else to do. On asking where the zoo was, I'm offered a bus ride to it, so seems rude not to. At the zoo, I join a group following another guide, albeit for a tour in Spanish. I was wrong, this isn't another zoo. It's the best zoo I've ever been to. The animals here understand that it's a show, and they need to be front-centre. There's two types of silly monkey, rats the size of pigs, actual pigs, a big anteater with a funny cartoonesque walk, a turtle riding a crocodile, big beak toucans, and even the good kind of parrots - the ones that you see in the movies. There's a couple of fierce looking panthers that are posing for pictures. Man, two, Nature, nil.

Last year was Paraguay's two-hundredth birthday, and I wander into the zoo-adjacent museum, revamped for the occasion. All the two-hundred year history of the country is translated into English, and somehow made interesting to read. Alas, the story is a familiar one. The indigenious people were having a super time, living sustainably off the fat of the land, free of disease, and generally minding their own business, until those dreadful catholics turned up. As was the case in Tierra Del Fuego, the catholics played out their standard game plan - mass genocide, enslavement of just enough people to squeeze the land dry of anything worth taking, and some complimentary heavy-handed brainwashing. Real bastards, those catholics.

The grande finale today, is back at the dam. Twice a week, they bus a load of locals, and for some reason, just twelve tourists out in front of it, and light it up to music. There's hours to burn before the light show, but rather than leaving me twisting in the wind, there's a local band playing a set peppered with CCR, Sting, and even finding time for the Verve's Bitter Sweet Symphony - who knew that one ever got out of England. The light show isn't a Las Vegas styled affair, but is impressive nonetheless. Finally, the tour guide and one of the drivers offer me a ride back into town.

Throughout, the entire afternoon and evening, noone has asked for a single peso. None of the guides have so much as edged a hand out with some expectation. Paraguay isn't on the standard tourist trail - the Inca trail, the death road, Iguazu, etc. None of the travellers I met had been, nor heard anything about it, but for me, Paraguay is knocking balls out of the park, left, right and centre.

Dirty Livin'

Iguazu is a one-hit wonder town. It's a great hit, like Alannah Myles' Black Velvet,  but a second night here isn't going to yield much excitement. Outside, it's another twenty-five degree celsius day, and there's a pool at the hostel, but after a couple of hours, there's nothing left for me here. The Kiwi's left in the morning, so the team has run it's race.

With little more research than to find the first town in Paraguay, I pack up and move out. Ciudad del Este in Paraguay is a short hop on the bus. As the bus is moving up the main drag, I'm staring out of the window at a scene of absolute chaos. This is hustle and bustle in measures that makes Central London look like Brecon Beacons' town centre. Any pavements are reserved for stalls, and there are people, motorbikes, cars and buses paving the road. In every direction, something is moving and something is making a noise. Noticeably, Paraguay's customs appear to be optional, but I decide it's probably for the best to go back and get a stamp.

Having successfully stamped my passport, I make way back into the carnage with a map marked with the cheapest hotel in town. As with arrival in any new city, I'm in an fierce rage, mostly on account of the extended period traipsing around, stacked with bags, and wellington boots, and a skull, looking like a long game of Buckaroo. Everything worsens the rage - people in my way, cars in my way, the sun, all of it. Though, I know how to relieve the problem, and that time comes. As I find a table to sit down and work through a litre of beer, a family on the table next to me ushers me over. I spend about an hour talking to them in broken Spanish, and as always, ukulele show & tell. As the light is beginning to fade, I ask if the area is dangerous. I get a slightly vexing response, ''mas o menos'', more or less. By the time we're finished, regrettably, it is dark, but there's not much choice other than to search the night for my hotel.

The hotel is the second worst hotel I've ever stayed in, but it's within my threshold for gritty living. I don't mind the holes in the wall. I don't mind the lack of sheets on the bed. I don't mind that there's no hot water. I don't mind the many ariels on the TV, none of which pick up a decent reception. I don't even mind having to step on and dispose of a big cockroach - they really do make a crunch. This is the Ritz, compared to the motel I found in a car park in Macedonia. That one sported a mattress on the floor, a non-functional sink in the corner, a non-functional TV on the draining board by that worthless sink, and no toilet paper, but no toilet seat either. That stuff was all within my threshold too, but in that case, it was the used condom on the bed that pushed me over the edge and into a taxi.

On the way over, I've spotted some action at the football stadium, so I catch the second half of the local team, Club Atlético 3 de Febrero, versus some guys in green. The away team looked better, but it turned out Atlético were sitting on a lead. The forty-strong hardcore of red shirted, constantly singing fans celebrated the win with a disorganised backgarden firework display and more singing.

Dinner is in another ex-garage. The meal is predominately meat - asado with rice, some half potato-half, parsnip side dish, and with something that looks like a lime, but tastes more like an orange. It's not gourmet, but as with any predominately meat dish, it's a delight, especially considering the fee is absolutely nominal. The restaurant has a view of the bus station and a favela. The favela is about thirty tents along the roadside. They're built from odd bits and scraps of wood, metal and canvas. Young families are sitting outside their tents, cooking over fires and what-not. It's not the kind of thing to be staring at, so I don't.

Down to the Waterline

We roll into to Iguazu a little before 0800. Apparently, I'm the only one who was able to sleep for any worthwhile length time. And apparently, the movie broke before the undoubtedly thankless ending. Nonetheless, the sleepless motley crew remains determined to hit the Iguazu Falls today.

The waterfalls are on one of these seven-wonders-of-some-arbitrary-subbdivision-the-world lists, and so the Argentineans have plucked a tourist tariff of 130 pesos from the wet air. We're more offended because the price for Argentineans is 50 pesos. Nonetheless, it's an impressive show, and it includes monkeys.

For another deep pocket full of pesos, a tourist RIB takes me under and into one of the thickest fall. The boat must be only a few feet away from filling with water. As it is, it's a heavy shower. Rocket-like streams of pulverised water shoot back up out of the water and up as almost as high as it fell. In the thick of it, it's difficult breath and impossible to see.

Our grand finale is the farthest and most impressive fall. It'd be hopeless to describe the view. Pictures from any angle I could get wouldn't suffice either. It's nice. More importantly, I'm looking for more mischief. Rory tells me that a number of tourists suddenly recoiled as I jumped up to straddle the fence at the edge of an eighty-two metre drop into a mist from which the sprays makes a splashzone of the viewing platform. In a pointless demonstration of my trust of Argentinean construction, I sat on the fence facing inwards, then hooked my feet through a lower horizontal post and hung backwards over the fence by my knees for the upside down view. I'm not sure what compels me to do such blatantly puerile things, but it is strong.

The Road to Hell

The travelling band of two Swiss, two Kiwi's, an American and I have crossed the border by way of ferry across the Rio Uruguay. Argentinan customs were only interested in declaration of live animals, while Uruguay's customs had very few interests at all.

It's mid-afternoon in Concordia and we've set up a camp that we've contructed from the bags containing all our worldly posseions and a park bench. As with any camp or any park bench at mid-afternoon, we set about swigging a litre of beer, trying to pass time until our 1900 overnight bus.

Argentina has a policy, at supermarkets I visited, at least, whereby you can only buy the litre bottles of beer with the exchange of an empty bottle. I cannot find the logic in this. It seems the only way to get started is to buy a bottle in the hostal or a restaurant. Then, you're commited to storage and defense of that empty bottle until you want to buy another. What was wrong with charging a bottle deposit, as is the case elsewhere?

As we make our single file jaunt across town, I'm looking for a McDonalds. I wouldn't normally, but in here in Argentina, I'm given to understand that the Big Mac is held at the fixed price of some years ago. Apparently, it's a piece of government intervention to disguise inflation, as measured by the Big Mac Index. Back at the bank, something like that would need a "workaround" - a term we often used for turning real numbers into the numbers we needed for some arbritrary purpose - and that would irritate me. Out here, I want my deflated Big Mac.

I would admit that the Falklands gave me a determined dislike for Argentina, but they don't do themselves any favours. Given the way the country is run by that mad banshee, I expect it's economy will implode in the next year or two. Then, it'll be cheap, and ripe for the picking.

After that great deal of time eventually passes, we're on the road. The bus is otherwise almost empty. It's perfectly comfortable, until the movie starts. It's an absolutely diabolical chick flick starring Katherine Heigl. I try to escape into sleep, but the whiny, self-righteous voice of this pointless blonde harlet won't let me. In desperation, using a piece of paper with the Thermal Spa advert on it, I scrunch and roll up a pair of ear plugs. Thankfully, sleeping on buses is a speciality of mine.

Twisting by the Pool

It´s a public holiday today, so the hostel´s rag-tag group of travellers and I are all in Salto for the day. Everyone here is going upto the Iguazu Falls. Salto is a border town, but is famed (in Uruguay) for it´s hot springs.

We arrive at the one of the hot spring spas at midday, and that´s where the rest of the day is spent. It´s not hugely exciting, but there´s nothing else to do, so I´m forced to enjoy it. It´s a beautiful sunny day and I´m laying in or around a hot pool. I don´t have to force myself very, very hard. A thought of the possible alternative, my old office, comes to mind. As JJ would put it, yuck. In the afternoon, on a couple of lounge chairs, Jason, an American traveller, and I discuss Pale Ales. I´ve used my knowledge of mathematics and some few pesos to add beer to the equation. It´s not ale, but needs must. I fondly remember enjoying a half of Wychwood Hobgoblin in The Flying Horse at Gatwick Airport. The Flying Horse is a Cask Marque pub. Good to know, eh? Though, the other Wetherspoon´s pub in the Airport, The Beehive, is not.

This is also a chance to even out my Frankenstein tan - whereby it looks like the arms and legs of a low-latitude traveller have been grafted onto the torso of a guy who works in a bank in London.