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.