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.