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.