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.
Monday, 14 May 2012
Sunday, 13 May 2012
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.
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.
Saturday, 12 May 2012
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.
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.
Friday, 11 May 2012
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.
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.
Thursday, 10 May 2012
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.
Wednesday, 9 May 2012
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.
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.
Tuesday, 8 May 2012
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.
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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)