I had to leave the Gran Chaco. Mentally I was eager to stay, but physically I would collapse if my body had to endure one more mosquito bite. I couldn’t properly leave the house, any house, without turning black immediately due to a cloak of attacking blood-suckers instantly wrapped around me. Highly inconvenient.                           

I decided to head to the country’s capital with my trusted budget travel technique, hitchhiking. One minor sideshow though: I was on a desolate ranch in the middle of bloody nowhere and the Ruta 9 leading to Asunción was still miles away. The farmer had told me there would be plenty of cars on the dirt road though, which sounded hopeful… and unrealistic. For 45 minutes I walked with both backpacks through the entirely windstill landscapes of the bug-infiltrated Chaco, the sun making the sweat drip off my chin, within seconds wiping off my highly necessary sunscreen and insect repellent. It doesn’t matter if you’re a woman or the ugliest man alive, if no car passes your hitchhike success is equally 0.0%. Luckily, if you do belong to the first category, the first arriving car will at least always stop.        

A dedicated Mennonite pastor, expressing his astonishment of my disinterest in marrying, having offspring or at least visit church, dropped me off at the supermarket where I stocked up on alimentations and 4 liters of water to make this journey possible. From the center I continued walking to the Trans-Chaco highway, a 20km stretch to the Ruta 9. I noticed my eyebrows had entirely lost their function, salty sweat pouring into my eyes unrestrained. I don’t know what’s up with this region, but the concept of shade doesn’t seem to exist. Luckily all cars have aircon, which I experienced in as many as 3 vehicles, as most country people just needed to go to a farm down the road, but where nevertheless anxious to help out sticky ‘n stinky Dutch chick. The last one was even able to drop me off at the intersection with Concepción, Pozos Colorados, which was halfway my expedition already.   

A lovely leg of my journey. Not every day you can spend 3 hours of your life in the car of a narcotraficker.    

He didn’t have to tell me, I already knew. A normal person just doesn’t know that much about all drugs-routes and market shares of all South American countries, including the exact purchasing, sales and distribution costs per region related to the average degree of corruption. The private little get-together he had with the police along the way, during which I witnessed a generous sneaky bribe exchange through the rear-view mirror, only strengthened my conviction. And well, when I quickly opened the cool boxes on the back seats when he was taking a leak, I was pretty damn sure.        

Not that I really care. That whole “War on Drugs” thing the US came up with (of all countries: the #1 cocaine sales-market) is an illusion anyway. As long as there’s demand there will be production (capitalism in your face), and if you want to sniff your nasal bone away I would say that’s your responsibility as an adult consumer. It’s not that you can pretend you didn’t know filling your nose with a gram of chemicals isn’t bad for you, just like you can kind of guess that smoldering your lungs with a pack of tobacco a day or sticking your genitals into a street prostitute without protection isn’t all that healthy. Just legalize everything and let Darwin do the rest (George Carlin).   

Emiliano and I had great conversations and with his driving speed of 140 km/h over the terribly maintained highway he saved me heaps of travel time. Lovely chap. I didn’t even start hitchhiking again, I was just walking away from the crossing where he left me when a pickup-truck already stopped to ask me where I was going. Paraguayans are just really excited about tourists as they hardly have any. Gladly they took me to Asunción, I could jump straight into the open cargo box.         

Rather primitive, for sure, but with a fist class view of Paraguay’s spectacular country side. You need to learn how to appreciate these things. I had to get off at the village just before, as transporting people in this manner is very understandably illegal, even here. So I took a bus for a few cents to conclude the trip, hugging the 18 people pushing directly into me. There was a sticker at the entrance stating that a maximum of 14 people were allowed to stand in the corridor, but in the reality that was about 12 times as much. Breathing was optional, let’s conclude with that. What amused me is that still, without practically being able to move, people where helping themselves to yet another cup of terere served in a goat hoof, travelling with a giant thermos clamped under their armpit to fuel their addiction.         

With the help of the oh so friendly locals, who altruistically lend me their phones and walked me to wherever I needed to be, I quickly reached the apartment of Couchsurfer Nestor* (pseudonym). We initially really hit it off, or so it seemed, both talking a lot without really listening. You see, it’s quite annoying if there’s a person in the conversation who likes to hear himself all the time without giving the other space to speak. It’s even more annoying if the other also likes to talk a lot and as a solution just squeezes in as many words as possible in every breathing pause. That was us I guess, equally guilty… and a good insight into my own weakness.  I immediately noticed his second weakness too: women, or ‘sexual intercourse’ to be more precise. Nothing wrong with that, it’s rather amusing to listen to his stories about the endless line of ladies in his life, an amount that reached (according to his own estimations) the 3 digits many years ago. It even became some kind of game over the days, asking as quickly as possible during every of his thousands stories that always include a woman: “did you sleep with her?”… the answer always being “yes, just once, maybe twice”. Now I of course don’t know how truthful such reports are, but fact is that it was impossible to communicate with this man without flirtation. Every comment had to be supplemented by a sensual touch, every look was deep in the eyes and apparently in his world it’s normal to give people (=women=me) massages when they’re sleeping, under the flag of ‘friendship’ and ‘sharing’ (you mean sharing body fluids?). Awkward. Great if this is accepted in his culture, in mine it’s not.     

It’s not my style to run away from a man though.         

I’m certainly not a feminist (when it comes to my own 1st-world situation), probably because I already see myself as absolutely equal, and thus I still have to meet the man that can scare me. So I stayed and spent my days sight-seeing, the only moments I had some time to breathe and clear my mind.    

You might not think of Paraguay or Asunción specifically as very interesting, but that’s just because you have never been there.    

If you did you would know it’s an absolutely stunning country, filled with warm and welcoming people and an eternal variety of sights and experiences. Which you can discover as a pioneer, as the phenomenon of tourism is far, far away. What a delight being here!         

I walked to the Costanera first, the road along the Paraguay River where fishermen work along rusty shipwrecks and old farts pass their golden days lurking their satisfying tobacco. If you follow the stream until the outskirts of town you can even see Argentina on the other side! I watched wooden drifting sheds navigate through the mellow waves, spitting out their dark clouds into the polluted air hovering above the capital city.         

I was positively surprised by the density of high-quality street art, an element of urban life that always cheers me up.        

I jaunted to the Plaza de los Desaparecidos, memorizing the ones that got ‘lost’ in a dark part of national history.    

The Palacio de Gobierno (which kind of represents a dark sense of humor, who you think made all those people disappear?) bordering this square apparently used to have some guided tours inside… but no more, I realized when I got escorted out of the building which I sneakily entered via a back door.         

As I couldn’t find the Manzana de la Rivera I continued to the Palacio Legislativo, which appeared to be a giant, almost communist-looking building where I wasn’t allowed to go in.         

Casa de la Independencia then? A small but interesting museum illustrating the Paraguayan independence from their Spanish oppressors. A quite similar history as those of their neighboring countries, but fascinating nevertheless, not the least because they were the first country in South America to win their independence.        

While drinking an average 1,5 liter water per half hour without having to pee once, I indulged in the vibrant street scenes of this city. The photographer in me went crazy, this place has so many authentic scenes of daily life locals wouldn’t even be able to see the beauty in.    

The mind gets numb by routine and familiarization.            

In an attempt to suck up some culture I walked around Teatro Municipal, but the place seemed completely desolated. So instead I walked towards the Plaza de la Independencia, the former ‘Plaza de los Hippies’ where the wild and homeless used to get high, to reach the Museo Cabildo. Where the ‘cabildos’ scattered around South America are generally boring, dusty government buildings, this one surprisingly hosted an antique toys museum and an exposition about the eminent writer Augusto Roa Bastos.         

Upstairs there was another section about Paraguayan immigration, mainly from Germany, Argentina, Brazil, Italy, Spain, France and even Australia and Lebanon… followed by German and Russian Mennonite colonies of which I visited one: Fernheim in Filadelfia. Paraguay is a colorful blend of everything.       

Also in rich and poor… From this richly decorated museum you look out over the slums of Chacaruita.   

I was just chilling in front of the old train station, the oldest one of the continent, when all clouds burst open to wash away the drought. What a delight, the delicious smell of fresh rain, a gift in the heat! I continued my walk undisturbed, it doesn’t really matter if you get soaked by rain or sweat, to reach Museo Etnográfico Andrés Barbero right next to the slums. Whatever you wanted to know about Paraguay’s indigenous tribes, including the Guaraní, Ayoreo, Mbaya and 16 others, here you’ll find every scrap of information in word and image you could possibly lay your hands on.         

I finished my quest at Centro Cultural Salazar, an experimental cinema, theatre and hipster-friendly coffee-with-books-hang-out that also hosted a very strong exhibition questioning the social shortcomings in the country. My favorite place of the day.        

Time to go home, a bit of calm before the storm. On my way back I quickly ascended some avocado and mango trees that are to be found everywhere… because oh yeah, forgot to mention it: food is free in Paraguay, it grows everywhere for anyone to grab. Still don’t want to go there?   

Next day: Areguá, a cheap daytrip from the rowdy metropolis. To confirm what was said to me by locals: it is indeed very pretty. But there is also really nothing to do.       

Giant Jesus-statue, anyone?   

In 3 minutes I checked out the art workshop of a man called Guggiari, a V.I.P. (Very Important Paraguayan), who personally came down to greet me and clarify his cutting-edge work.        

Then I walked to the church where there was a cat.         

And then there was a dog, don’t forget about the dog. The remaining 3 hours I stayed here I spent with this homeless animal, which I fed and hydrated and therefore became a new loyal friend. One that doesn’t talk about himself all the time.         

But then my host arrived again, with whom I watched the sunset over the Ypacaral Lake, in the least romantic way possible. Well, it was at least nice he wanted to spend time with me, he got that part of Couchsurfing right.         

Officially Nestor is a language teacher, living for free in the house of the owner of the school on top of receiving a salary, but I never saw him teach. He had so much time on his hands that he ‘cancelled his classes’ to bring me to a place called Tobati where he had some Guaraní friends.    

I wasn’t sure what I was saying ‘yes’ to, but it’s always more adventurous than a ‘no’.    

So while a continuous stream dropped down my spine, forehead and even legs and my brain slowly boiled out of my skull I committed to the 3,5-hours bus drive ‘just outside town’. Right, if I take a 3,5-hours bus in The Netherlands I’m either in Germany, Belgium or Denmark. Worth it though.        

When we finally arrived I found myself in a setting I only know from travel magazines… and my own blog. The lonesome blossoming greenery made me feel I ended up in some pre-historic landscape, dinosaurs tucked away behind the bedrocks. Knowing locals is so much more valuable than knowing what’s inside a Lonely Planet.         

Nestor started hiking into the forest, penetrating deep bushes as no paths or any sign of human presence was to be found. Half an hour later I had drunk all liquid I had taken with me and I was holding myself up at a palm tree, panting in the blazing swelter. The happier I was when I suddenly gazed upon a distant water well. I ran towards it, no questions asked. I did bring my bikini, but I was too hot to even have time to change and jumped straight in with all my clothes on (despite protests of Nestor, who endured a full 45 minutes in advocating the advantages of swimming naked).         

Cooled down and the refreshing water delightfully dripping off me we infiltrated the woods even deeper, until to my surprise we stumbled upon a completely isolated mountain community. Colorful houses appeared behind orange trees, animals walked around freely and tropical-banana-music complemented the first expression. This is where I would spend the night.        

I kind of expected Nestor’s friend to be a middle-aged guy, just like him. The more startled I was when an old lady with an impressive amount of beard hairs and a heart-warming toothless smile opened the door. Well, it wasn’t really a door, just a hole in the house to go in and out. I didn’t play the you-slept-with-her-too-game this time, I was too afraid of the answer.    

After a thrilling rainwater-shower I was ready for the short community tour. The deep loose sand and people sitting outside of their houses listening to loud music, gossiping and eating meat with lots of garlic, made it feel like some bohemian beach town. But no, I was in the middle of some humid mountains. When the temperature went down the warmth of the inhabitants went up even more, invitations for terere being shouted from all ‘street’ corners. Invitations that slowly transformed into marriage proposals once they unraveled my anti-meat nature, as they figured a vegan wife would be really cheap in maintenance and would stay forever thin. I might even consider it, this giant party they have permanently going on here is what they call daily life. Not bad.       

Nestor’s friend and her son   

The more wine we drank, the scarier the stories about El Pombero, a mythical creature of the night, dwelling in the forests. They were all convinced to have personal experiences with this Guaraní tormentor who settles loose cattle, steals eggs and honey and let horses throw off their riders. No one actually got impregnated by this hairy varmint yet, but he does that too! Bastard. In order to appease this creepy figure everyone leaves offerings at their house. And indeed, now I paid attention to it, every residence had left some rum, cigars and honey at the doorstep to gain the favor of the Pombero.      

Source

I stepped over the cigars and lay down in the bed. Which I had to share with Nestor, he pre-arranged that well. So after I slept the entire night with one eye open I joined the family eating chipa for breakfast. They might seem poor, economically, but in fact they own the entire area where we hiked yesterday, including some caves. Was I interested in exploring those, perhaps? Ehm, is that even a question?         

I can still hear the bats squeaking!   

Tobati. Interesting how places you never heard of before will stay in your memory forever. 

If Paraguay would be at least 15 degrees cooler it would be my perfect country.

Until we meet.

www.budgetbucketlist.com

To get a clear idea about the city life of bustling Asunción I recommend to watch the excellent movie “7 Cajas”, recorded in the chaotic market I passed every day.