Paraguay: Never Fern from Heim

Half the window was covered-up so most of the light came from the choir. A maté gourd with its silver straw sat beside the computer monitor and Grieg’s Ave Maris Stella floated over the piles of paper. Moving some file folders off a chair, the customs officer sat us down. In slow, careful Spanish he explained that this border crossing was for Argentinian, Brazilian, Uruguayan and Paraguayan vehicles only. He didn’t have the form for countries outside of that group. Then he told us not to worry, and got on the phone to several people. “Yes,” I heard him say, “They’re from Irlanda, no not Holanda, Irlanda, the one with the border. Yes, they’re Catholics.” He did his best, God love him, but there was nothing that could be done. He did offer to let us in without the permit, and we could return by his same crossing, but really, it was out of the question. We’d just have to get back on the boat, return to Argentina, drive to Asunción and enter Paraguay there. Sigh….

We’d been in the country less than 45 minutes. Though the ferry ride was short, seven passengers, a car and Bolívar, crossing the Paraguay river gave us a thrill no land border could replicate. Everyone except the baby wanted to know where we were from. But it had all been for nothing.  Immigration felt so sorry for us that they told us to drive into town and get a decent meal. It was said in that tone your mother used when you were caught wearing wet clothes, but we couldn’t risk taking Bolívar. We were just finishing our bananas and peanuts at a picnic table overlooking the river when our friend in Customs came running out, waving. Back in his office Grieg had moved off the stage and was replaced by Delibes’ Flower Duet. The maté was still stewing, a sign of the agitation we’d caused its owner, and a young guy in overalls and a woolly hat sat behind the desk. He’d driven in from another office on his motorcycle to help and it was clear from their interactions that he was the senior of the two. Suffice it to say, we left with a permit stamped and signed not once, but twice, and good for ninety days. And that, in a nutshell, before it had even begun, was Paraguay.

The river was silver grey and the walk along its banks wide and quiet. The few people who did drive by honked and waved. On the far side Argentina was barely visible. In the summer people flocked here for their holidays, but nothing was going on now. We stayed in Pilar for three nights, glorying in an ATM that gave us heaps of Guaraníes (7747 to one USD) for low fees, and warm weather. The town had pretty buildings, old with lace balconies and a covering of mould staining their walls. Later, driving to the capital the road was flat and straight, surrounded by apple green pastures, a few cows, drainage ponds and palm trees. Our hotel in Asunción was in a nice area of large, well-tended homes, interrupted every few meters by a run-down repair shop or mechanics left over from 1956. Every side street was paved with cobblestones that’d rattle your teeth and filled with giant puddles whenever it rained. We got many tips on places to visit from a German lawyer who lived in Hohenau, a city in the south, and an Argentinian who’d recently returned from Australia. He’d come home only to find most of his pension disappearing in bank fees as it made its way from Sydney to Buenos Aires, long way round. He was in Paraguay to find a new place to live. He had good reason; expats who move to Paraguay pay no tax on foreign income.

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We left the city for the Chaco, an area covering two thirds of the country, and one of the most sparsely populated regions in South America.  The majority of Paraguay’s indigenous people lived here. The road to Filadelfia was so straight you could take one photo only and apply it to every section of its 460km. Gas stations were so infrequent you didn’t dare pass one up. It had rained hard and once off the road, Bolívar’s tires were squelching through wet, grey mud. Only the pump islands were paved. Further north there were glimpses of indigenous homes between the trees. “Homes” was too nice a word, more small constructions of wooden poles and logs, with straw roofs and tattered black or blue tarps. Every few miles, small shelters by the roadside held huddled families selling I don’t know what. Whatever it was, it was meager, and hanging in white plastic bags. Their impoverished state was all the more shocking on reaching Filadelfia, which could have flown under the Smalltown, USA flag. Feed and convenience stores, charming old cottages housing museums and a brand, new hotel lined the main street. Behind were tidy bungalows with wide porches and luscious gardens, squares of manicured civilization opening on to red earth “Straßen”, all with German names. I wondered who these people were, who owned the biggest agricultural dealerships, and the town’s only large grocery store. But it wasn’t a company at all, it was a colony, and a world away from the huts hidden from the highway by a narrow strip of jungle.

The Chaco has a large population of Mennonites, from both Prussia and Russia. We’d arrived in the Fernheim colony which was the second settlement, founded in 1930. I liked the name, “Far from Home”, especially when you considered the area, when they’d first arrived, was known as the “Green Hell”. Everyone in town it seemed was white and we heard both Spanish and German interchangeably. At the farm where we were staying, the owner’s parents had immigrated from the Ukraine, built the house we were sleeping in and developed the land. In the main room that doubled as the dining room, her husband and daughter worked at a table, elbows-deep in two basins of raw meat from their own cows. Over the course of two days, they mixed, chopped and ground with a hand-grinder. Then they sat stuffing the mince into sausage skins, all the while companionably chatting in German. It was a little off-putting to be so close to so much raw beef during breakfast but we did appreciate it when it reached our dinner plates that evening.  It was very rustic and when our shower produced only scalding (literally) hot water, accompanied by the smell of melting plastic, we decided to move into town. The hotel was barely opened, having only made its deadline because of a long-planned (global) Mennonite family reunion. We met a few, flown in from Kansas, Canada and Brazil. The young hospitality manager explained it all, he himself having just returned home from several years of catering college in Germany. He was so fresh and eager, so glad to be back, it made your heart hurt just to hear him.

A cold front had come in and the drive to Concepción began in heavy rain. After a good start on asphalt, the last 100km was a red dirt road, rutted and of varying levels of disaster. Like us, the big trucks were all over the place, anything to avoid the craters. Concepción was one of those towns the US State Department tells you to avoid. Looking for a restaurant had Bolívar skidding and sliding through deep, rust red puddles of slick mud. Still, as we stood in line in the supermarket later, we agreed it was all part of the rich tapestry of life in Paraguay. It was either that or grab a hold of the cashier and haul her into next week, because she certainly wasn’t getting there on her own. We were on our way to Pedro Juan Caballero which was reached by driving through the Cerro Corá nature reserve. The exciting part was, it had hills! As is often the case, we’d got the wrong end of the Paraguayan stick when in conversation with someone. It’s hard to understand Spanish here, they slide their words together, e.g. “más o menos” comes out like “mahomeno”, and my default expression is the Deer-in-Headlights look. But I digress. There were indeed hills, and dramatic rocks reminiscent of the American West, but the town wasn’t what we were expecting. It was a tax-free shopping zone on the border with Brazil and another one of those with “Transnational criminal elements active and engaged in illicit trafficking of arms, narcotics, and goods”. Wow. And we thought it was just a rundown, shabby stop on the road to the mall. Granted the gloomy weather didn’t help. Looking for a hotel that wasn’t long closed kept us driving until we found ourselves accidentally in Brazil. We checked-in at the only decent looking place and hoped we weren’t expected to announce our presence to any Brazilian authorities.

The epicenter of this unique spot was a roundabout with two tall flags flapping in the wind. When you passed the mall, “Shopping China!”, you were still in Paraguay but on reaching the final curve, you were now in Ponta Porã, Brazil. It was Saturday, and half that country seemed to be pushing carts of toys, big screen TVs and God knows what other consumer goods. We retreated to the hotel and as nowhere was open to eat until 8:00 PM, we sat in bed wrapped in double-layers of fleeces, eating cheese and crackers. At one point Fran turned to me, still in his black beanie, and peered over the top of his glasses. “Well,” he said, “here we are. Livin’ the dream”.

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Apart from the Cerro Corá, driving across the country could never be called dramatic. It was straight and flat, and admittedly boring at times. I exercised my brain by reading the billboards for farm machinery and fertilizer (“Creating Solutions in the United Colonies!”). The whole country was one big farm, some parts cultivated, others still waiting for man to probably destroy them. Everywhere there were giant ant hills, vast palm groves standing tall, and in direct contrast, tree plantations (mostly eucalyptus). My favorite was the spiky Samu’u (bottle) tree. But in spite of the flatness and a tapering off of the headwinds, Bolívar wasn’t running well. Our fuel mileage was down by a consistent third, he was running lean and the change had happened abruptly after his 10,000km service. The Salta mechanic had made some obvious errors, like mis-adjusting the valves, but after communicating with the dealership it transpired that he’d also remapped the fueling system, thinking the bike was a 2022 model. When the dealer abruptly terminated the discussion, we were more concerned than ever. Unfortunately, Paraguay was one country that didn’t have a Royal Enfield dealer, so we returned to Asunción and had a mechanic fix the more glaring problems. The remapping would have to wait for our next country.

While fueling in the Chaco, a nice guy approached us and after some motorcycle banter, invited us to visit him if ever in San Bernardino, an hour’s drive east of Asunción. The road to the Ypacaraí Lake was in lush countryside, with families of all economic backgrounds outside grilling, their front yards disappearing under clouds of blue smoke. In Mauricio’s garden, his wife gave a tour of their fruit trees, and rows of planted pineapple. She picked herbs for their maté and Mauricio ground them in a mortar and pestle. After a tasting of what I discourteously call “swamp in a cup”, we got down to the serious stuff, grilled sausages and meat, for if there’s anything the Paraguayans love more than their maté, it’s their barbeque.

After several days in Encarnación with visits to the Jesuit missions and the Yacyretá dam, we decided it was time to get Bolivar some expert help. Across the Paraná River, the lights of the Argentinian city of Posadas glittered and beckoned. We weren’t ready to return there but with several Royal Enfield dealerships in Buenos Aires, it seemed the best thing to do. And it was only 1,000km away. Usually, the pang of leaving one country gets smothered by the excitement of entering a new one, but saying goodbye to Paraguay felt sadder. It’s a country still unspoiled, especially in terms of tourism. You can’t stand there and pretend to be holding a pyramid, or a medieval castle, in the palm of your hand, because the country’s mostly one big glorious pasture. Unless you’re a Mennonite at a family reunion, or someone looking for a place to live tax-free, there are very few tourists. This is the only country where we never drove past another overlander biker like ourselves.  Here are a people still glad to see you. Here you stop on the side of a road and find yourself with an escort to your hotel, and a social evening with your “rescuers” afterwards. There’s a genuine fondness for visitors which gives us, the outsiders, a feeling of quiet comfort and familiarity that’s impossible to describe. It seemed to me that no matter who you are, or where you’re from, in Paraguay, you’ll never find yourself far from home.

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