suggzy

Paraguay, a bridge to Brazil, and coffee on a tiny plane

Yes, well, that all took rather too long, now didn’t it? Life, friends. Life. Back to the UK, some fruitless job interviews (one of them back In the Desert), two periods of consultancy, running around in a Christmassy fashion, and all the while painting stuff brown, then subsequently blue for my wife, in the freezing cold (more on that sometime – painting stuff and me is an odd mixture). Oh, and growing what I was previously calling a ‘Festive Beard’, which has now become a 2019 Special Beard (the itchy period being fully over). I finally grew a beard (like my Dad at a similar age) in 2005. As I recall, I started doing so the day after my girlfriend at the time (Sarah the First – remember her?) almost succeeded in helping me decapitate myself whilst shaving. That’s another note of something to tell you that I need to make. We’ve already covered the time she banged an empty wine bottle into my face, of course.

Another birthday has passed (I am now nearer to fifty than forty, and getting closer thereto with every strike of this keyboard). Whilst we await the future professional developments (being on the dole is officially No Fun At All, so I am currently attempting to wheedle my way back into temporary employment at the University of Nottingham), it’s back to doing some blogging. Perhaps more out of hope than anything else, I have committed myself to attempting to put a piece together for every month of this year. So, 11 more after this one. This is part of a raft of other New Year’s Resolutions:

• Read 20 books (closing in on two, just now);
• Run/walk 700 miles (I am on a paltry 78, oh dear of dear);
• Give to charity on a monthly basis (all present and correct); and
• Expand my cooking repertoire (nothing on this yet, but I am dieting vigorously, so that’s a good replacement for now)

Digressions, as ever. If I recall correctly, we had just endured the heart-stopper of a moment that was the cancellation (non-existence, indeed) of my flight from Santiago to Asunción? As has been documented, I punted on an alternative, worked off some of the rage in a burst of administrative activity and eventually hauled myself upstairs to check in. My energy was restored by a full packet of Halls Soothers (painkilling and sugar rushing), from the souvenirs stall.

And so, after six hours at the airport – we did indeed fly to Asunción. Happily this was a quiet affair – my headphones clamped to my nut, I even slept awhile. On arrival at Asuncion I was charmed by the Arrivals Hall in miniature. It’s tiny, and you can see pretty much every working part of the place – right down to the blokes through the hatch launching your luggage onto a conveyor shorter than that at a sushi restaurant.

First job was a quiet word about the day I had had with the staff at Amazonas desk. The young man with sufficiently decent English deputed to talk to me was so thoroughly nice I didn’t have it in me to shout, bawl and act out the anger of earlier in the day. Instead we went through the details of the matter and I was provided with 23469438 links on various website to use. By the time I got back to the UK, just eight weeks later, I was back in funds. They were okay as an airline (and funny, at times, as we are about to see), but I would advise caution. They have a certain monopoly over some routes, and others have read what I felt compelled to write on Trip Advisor (ugh, etc.) and have come forward with much the same complaints.

Anyway, that was soon behind me, and in front of me was a taxi ride. I’d done a bit of reading up about this – taxis being in something of a short supply to and from what is not a busy airport. I was assured that a bit of a monopoly existed off the rank at the airport, and the thing to do was to strike out for the petrol station, conveniently the other side of the muddy, 2857-lane motorway, and jump in a car from there. I did so, as darkness fell.. and got mugged anyway. Initial promises came to nought, as the meter span around at an alarming rate, and I just decided to give up worrying about a bargain in semi-rural Paraguayan fields. However, I was at least blessed with a taxi ride given to me by some manner of distant cousin of Diego Armando Maradona. Four foot ten high, four foot eight wide, and with the wild tufts of middle-aged male hair bursting out through his vestments. He spoke in lively Spanish.. and I did not, but we sussed some stuff out between us. Really, I couldn’t draw my eyes away from the mass of Catholic iconography that framed the windscreen. His battered Ford was a shrine to the Virgin, and whoever the patron saint is of forgetting to turn your lights on, and animatedly sparking-up a ciggie whilst overtaking on corners. You get the drill.

That said, we got there eventually. An enormous hotel suddenly loomed up out of low and battered streets. I was plied with several dozen maps, and carried out an angst-filled discussion about the need for a dawn cab the following day, with rather a careworn young fellow behind the desk, resplendent in one of those little hats that look a bit like a cheesecake, attached with a strap. I resolved to take the matter up with the morning shift, instead, and headed for my room, which boasted a dark chocolate bathroom suite, and cold and cold running water. Like the Argentinian place before it, this was another one of those places that keeps up a fine façade, but that disguises a rather worn and dark heart behind the bedroom door. Not to worry, as I was only going to bunk down for six hours, before getting on a tiny little plane down to the Brazilian border.

A partial unpack followed, with the standard, angsty charging of devices that dominates most of the days of my life, and out I went to explore, and to fill my tummy with other than coffee and cough sweets. Dusk photos were taken through the square. Steak #3 was eaten, entertainingly to the backdrop of a very loud religious youth rally. Lots of teenagers dressed all in white, descending upon a church. I suppose it made a change from NHS-type rallies of Chile, but wondered (as a I reached for a toothpick – Paraguayan steak turned out to be a bit gristly) quite why it was that I continued to stumble my way into these things. Protest is everywhere I go, it seems. It wasn’t over, either – more to follow on that.

My digestive walk was pleasing and contemplative, as I pondered having reached the third of my five countries. Asuncion proved, that night, to be a game of two halves. Warmth and kind service, pretty lights, shops, green spaces, and a pleasing an uncomplicated sense of kindness and no threat. But everywhere the tell-tale signs of poverty were on most corners. Street drinkers, and grown men and women bunking down for the night outside as the temperature plunged. All of a sudden a cold brown shower looked a lot less of a problem. Paraguay is one of the poorest countries in the whole continent. That set aside, so far as that was possible, I looked forward to coming back in another 24 hours or so, after the dash to Brazil.

I slept the sleep of a man who’d been up for 20+ hours and had had a few rather testing things to negotiate. All the same, I was up at first crack to head for the airport once again. The taxi booked the night before showed no sign of appearing, but a nice girl sorted that, and a tall, cadaverous, almost dusty man helped me, unnecessarily, with my bag, as another miniature Catholic Church appeared at the forecourt, and fired us off through a backstreet route out to the motorway road. On the radio? What I can only describe as a Paraguayan Wogan – an unfamiliar tongue, but lots of, hesitating, halting, Deep Vowwwwwel Sounds. Soothing, it was, and softened me up for handing over another inch of banknotes on our arrival at the biddy little airport.

Back to the biddy little National Airport. A spot of kiosk breakfast, and onwards to secure the all-important fridge magnet. For a tiny facility, there were shops everywhere, so I planned out a couple of souvenirs for SWK, and had a second coffee whilst grabbing some more charge and WiFi. My flight was bang on time, and so it was only a short while before I strolled across the tarmac for the shortest flight of my life so far. Scheduled in for 30 minutes, down to the South East of the country, to then effect a crossing of the border into Brazil. I clambered up the steps and into the teensiest little plane I have ever been inside. 36 seats (half full at most), a pilot and one crew member. I noticed for the first time that the planes in this neck of the woods do not have a row number 13. I allowed myself to believe that this was nothing to worry about.. and resisted Googling the matter – surely the plane would fly do low I could probably just jump from it to safety, were the worst to happen? In any case, my safety was assured, as I found that 12D was in a position crushed under the bulkhead, next to a positive Goliath of a man. Sort of chap that could have just kicked the plane into the air, were jet power to be a problem. I figured his body might cradle me, pleasingly like an airbag made flesh, in the event of a crash. Also… he was doing a lot of praying, so I also reasoned the Almighty was going to be on our side, what with the whole omnipotence thing.

Two other highlights, as we zoomed upwards, and across the country to Guarani. The first being the lady serving as the crew member. Kept her coat and handbag on for the duration, and just ran a tiny cart up the middle of the plane, handing out a coffee and a bar of chocolate to anyone who wanted one. Remarkable service, on a flight of such short duration.

Ignoring the prospect of coffee burns, or being bodily melded into a South American weight lifter, I went for an aeroplane playlist on the trusted noise-cancelling headphones:

• Steve Miller Band – Jet Airliner;
• John Denver – Leaving On a Jet Plane;
• Bob Mould – The Descent;
• Tom Petty – Learning to Fly; and…

we were smoothly back to the tarmac to the strains of The Orb’s Little Fluffy Clouds (none of which we had gone above). I’d have done more, but 30 minutes (25, in the end) passes quite quickly.

Into Guarani Airport I wandered. A huge white elephant of a place. Big old warehouse of a building, it was, with nothing much else in sight. Notably, there was a place in the airport selling 655615 varieties of chainsaws, drills, angle grinders and whatnot. Rather an oddity – who supplies maiming and murder implements for people about to get onto a plane the size of a matchbox?

Matters then got a little odder, as I made some new friends.

Having wrestled self and baggage outside, I got to where a couple of taxis idled, and was about to get involved in some negotiations, when a bright young pair of travelers hailed me from behind, asking if I spoke English. It transpired they were a Polish couple, and had been on the same flight as me (the only flight in an out of the day) and were similarly bound for the border town of Foz, in Brazil, so as to position themselves for a run over to the Iguazu Falls. They were keen to split the cost of a cab, had a smattering of the Spanish I did not (I can’t really get beyond yes, no, hello, thanks, the numbers one to four, and ordering chicken and chips for four), and seemed friendly and legitimate.

Handshakes all ‘round, and we sped from the airport to the very fringes of the country. Turned out they were thoroughly agreeable companions. Well travelled, (Mr Poland had done more countries than me, but I have since overtaken him again), and both of them architects. We jabbered most agreeably, until we arrived into a town called Ciudad Del Este, which sits at one side of the Friendship Bridge, which in turn towers over the Parana River, and allows one to walk into neighbouring Brazil. The town was nuts – amazingly busy – it turns out the place is the premier location for buying knock-off ‘high value’ goods across the whole of South America. The chap driving was so keen to take us all the way to Foz that he pulled off onto a side road, and revealed a set of Brazilian taxi signs from the boot, which he slapped onto the vehicle in readiness. We all felt a bit bad about letting him down, even though the evidence suggested he was perhaps playing a bit fast and loose with Taxi Law (if that’s a thing) but instead paid up and clambered up the hill and onto the bridge.

Bridge HQ, on either side, was more of bureaucratic affair than I had bargained for. Frowning officials, reluctant stamping of passports, and feverish searching of one’s bags. I dropped in behind my younger friends, and just did what they did. I was too tired to finish up at gunpoint again – it happens all too often to me, even when I am on my best behaviour. Up on the bridge itself, it was tremendously windy. I stopped at halfway to take a picture, near the very point where the river divides the neighbours:

As I did so, my phone’s clock blinked forward an hour, as we swapped timezones. Country number four had arrived under my feet. I stepped off the bridge, changed some money, hopped into another cab with my chums, and was soon checking in at my lodgings for the night. It having been a long day already, I dozed awhile, as the Sun went down and the night came up.

Later I made it out onto the street to take in what there was of Foz. Not for the first time, I was assaulted on the way, by depictions of the Christ Child and the Virgin, by way of the hotel’s frighteningly gaudy artwork, on this occasion. Near enough a case for sunglasses inside. I gathered myself on the street, bought a simply fabulous fridge magnet (a VW Camper in the colours of the country) and then strode to the bus station, to settle my mind on the travel arrangements for the events to follow the next day. My daily transgression of the lines of authority followed, as it transpired I had walked into the facility The Wrong Way, and had thus effectively “broken into” (their words, not mine – I’d have preferred “incautiously stumbled into”) the bus station without paying for a fare to somewhere. I pleaded Chronic Englishness, and was sent the long way ‘round, to peruse platforms and timetables from the other side of the barriers. So that told me. All appeared well, and so I dropped into the supermarket for some coffee for my Dad, and a general nose at Brazilian life, before I wandered back down to a restaurant called Gaucho, that I had sussed out online a day or two earlier.

A traditional barbecue place, it was. Buy a ticket, get a plate and pop a few nugatory salad leaves on it, pour a glass of water, and await the attentions of staff circulating with frightening platters, bearing phenomenal chunks of recently grilled, roasted, and charred animals. Once in position, they would then cleave from the joint as much or as little as Sir felt he might manage. I felt like Homer Simpson in that episode where he enters a one-on-one competitive steak-eating competition, and his opponent dies. There was simply Too Much Meat available. One was dizzied and intimidated by the choice. I must say that I fell well short of anything record-breaking. Too long a stay seemed certain to bring about some manner of Porterhouse Blue. I chewed modestly, admired the unceasing efforts of others of unaccountable slim stature, but soon took myself off to my hotel. Even after only minimal cuts, I found myself pendulous of gut, much like a leopard after her one mighty meal of the month. I was slick, full and tired as I rolled onto and into my bed, with dreams to come of my adventures underneath the rainbows – of which we will learn next time.

Back soon, then for a piece of the adventures that followed. Working title: Chasing Waterfalls – Human Bacon in Montevideo.