The nicest little country no one goes to

What would you do if you stumbled into an unknown South American country? Let’s say this country is completely devoid of tourists but full of culture and beautiful scenery. I would want to stay forever. Well, that’s not quite true. Paraguay is just too damn hot.

I crossed the border from Argentina three days ago and immediately felt like I was entering a different world. I can’t count how many times I’ve been told, in just three days here, that “time does not pass in Paraguay.” And in a way, that’s true. While the rest of South America modernizes and integrates into the world economy, Paraguay continues to just let things be. This little nation (population around five million) has been ruled by the same political party for over fifty years. Corruption is part of life. The most important industry (unofficially) is the black market. Beautiful statues of Stroessner, the country’s dictator for 35 years, still stand, even though he’s been gone for 18 years.

Elections are scheduled for April. I’ve asked many people what will happen... the answer always is “nothing will change.” And if the opposition party wins? (That might happen: this election will be fairer than previous ones.) “Nothing will change.” Paraguayans seem to believe that their country will remain as it is now for the rest of eternity. They might be right.

But that would be okay with me. I love Paraguay. Admittedly, this is an odd country. There is nothing to do except look at nice old churches and try not to die of heat stroke, but I don’t mind. I just walk around and talk with the exceptionally friendly Paraguayans. I eat lots of empenadas. I drink lots of Coke.

After three days here, I have to admit that I agree with the Paraguayans: time does not pass here. Spanish is the official language, but life is conducted in Guaraní--the indigenous language that predates and outlasted the Spaniards. (But almost everyone speaks Spanish, so I do just fine. Curiously, even the European immigrants speak and prefer Guaraní--everywhere else I’ve been, white and mestizo South Americans refuse to speak indigenous languages. Guaraní is an important part of the Paraguayan identity.) People idle on porches, drinking terere, a cold tea. Towns are small and friendly. People know their neighbors invite them over for drinks in the afternoon. Mennonite settlers from Germany have colonized small patches of land to grown watermelon and other crops: it is surprising to see very white people (whiter than me!) selling fruit out of horse-drawn buggies. And they don’t speak Spanish, so one simply points. If it weren’t for the internet cafes and cars, Paraguay could slip back to 1920 and no one would notice.

I am an oddity here: a tourist in Paraguay? “Are you sure, rubio, that you aren’t a Mormon missionary? And you are not from your government?” After I answer those two questions correctly, people are beyond friendly... I am an honored guest. Hotel owners chop prices in half. Waiters sit down to have a beer with me. I am invited to a birthday party tonight: I haven’t met the birthday girl but her uncle insists that this won’t be a problem. 250 people are coming.

Above-mentioned uncle and I met yesterday on a bus: he cried out, “‘¡Extranjero! Ven aca.” (Foreigner! Come here.) Anywhere else in South America, I would be wary of anyone calling me “extranjero,” because it is usually followed by a rhetorical barrage of worlds like “imperialist.” But not in Paraguay. Silvio just wanted to talk. After the obligatory two questions (Mormon? Spy?), we had a wonderful conversation that ended with an invitation to stay the night at his house and to attend the birthday party. I said yes.

Another invitation came my way later that day: a nice old woman invited me to the Baptist church for Sunday evening services. I’ve learned to never turn down and invitation (unless it includes drug smuggling or gun running, and even then, I’ll consider it), so off to the cute little blue church we went. Fascinating experience. I did not feel very close to God, just trapped by a bunch of people waving their hands about and talking to Señor Jesus. But hey, it was an experience.

After escaping from God’s House, I headed to the town’s weekly folklore festival. There was lots of poetry and even more dancing. If I were a cynic, I would describe Paraguayan folk dance as nothing more than balancing a bottle of wine on one’s head while walking around on a stage. But I’m not a cynic, so I’ll say Paraguayan folk dance is an inspired swirl of skirts, the slap of horse whips on the ground, and the rythmic stomp of gauco boots. I know nothing about dancing, but it was pretty cool. And the carefully positioned bottles of wine added... something.

In the middle of this festival, the region’s most famous celebrity showed up. She is about 15 years old, and based on what I understood (most was in Guaraní), is the reigning South American champion in the 3000 meter run for her age group. That is pretty much the biggest thing to happen in Misiones Province since the Spaniards arrived 450 years ago.

As I was sitting there, in the second row, and I realized that I was the only tourist there. And now you say, “‘For good reason. That sounds way boring.” But it wasn’t! It was magical and totally blew my mind. There were little kids doing “A homage to our teacher,” and 300 people watching. Again, this happens every week. At first glance, there isn’t much to see in Paraguay, but if you’re looking, there’s plenty.

A farewell to Bolivia

Oh, Argentina. After two months of dry, cold mountains, I’m now in Salta. Argentina is wet. Argentina is warm. Argentina has trees.

I crossed the border with Bolivia about a week ago. I didn’t really want to leave, but unpredictable political conditions and an increasing number of paros (basically, when people block roads) left me with almost no choice: I knew I had one sure shot to get out of the country and I took it. So I took one last Bolivian bus ride (anyone who has traveled in Bolivia knows what that means) south through a torrential rainstorm to the frontier.

The road was awful, and the bus had probably traveled it every day for a dozen years. The constant bumping and bouncing had rattled all the screws loose. Seats shook. Windows rattled in their frames. Everything in the bus vibrated in a deafening rhythm dictated by road’s ruts. It was louder than the loudest concert I’ve seen. Worse, the windows couldn’t be shut: they would just vibrate open again a minute later. And it was raining... everyone, myself included, kept switching seats looking for a dry one. There were none.

I will miss Bolivia. I will not miss its buses.

The border crossing was easy, and the rain stopped as soon as I stepped out of the immigration office on the Bolivian side. It seemed a fortuitous way to enter Argentina--to the north all I could see were dark thunderheads, but the sky to the south was an optimistic blue. Traveling in Bolivia had been rewarding but difficult... Argentina promised to be much easier.

Despite the threatening sky to the north, I decided to spend my first night in Argentina in my tent, so I walked out of town and set up camp. I ate rice for dinner and went to bed under the stars, which were quickly obscured by clouds. Apparently, Argentina does not require visas for Bolivian storms. It rained a lot, and I was a little nervous (lightening is not reassuring when one is camped on a flat plain), but the tent held, I stayed dry, and those big bolts kept their distance.

I spent a couple days poking around the border area: I did a few nice hikes, one overnight, and decided I was tired of the mountains. The Andes have encompassed every square inch of the territory I’ve explored during the last two months, and for the first time in my life, I want to be somewhere without mountains. So from Salta, I’m going to head east to the Argentine Chaco and eventually to Paraguay: it will be hot. It will be wet. There will be mosquitos the size of baseballs. But there will be no big mountains. I am eager for a change of scenery.

How to describe Salta? It was quite a shock when I arrived two days ago. It is a big modern city, but one with a soul: tree-lined streets, little cafes (no Starbucks), and impossibly beautiful people. (I have never seen so many stupendously attractive people in my life. And other travelers say it just gets better.) People mill about all day long doing, seemingly, nothing except walking through the city’s parks and plazas. I have confronted many minor mysteries on this trip and I have a new one: hundreds of teenagers wander around, in school uniforms, during the school day. Do they not go to school but wear the uniforms? Or is there simply an epidemic of cutting class here? I can’t figure it out.

Argentines are warm and open compared to Bolivians. Traveling alone in Bolivia was challenging because it was difficult to meet the locals... few seemed interested in more than a quick conversation. Here it’s different: I find it much easier to engage Argentines. As I boarded a bus a few days ago, a complete stranger called out, “have a nice trip!” That simply doesn’t happen in Bolivia, but I guess it does in Argentina.

But actually speaking with them is another matter. The accent is very thick and they often don’t understand my Spanish because I don’t pronounce my “ll’’ the way they do. Whenever I hear “¿como?’’ I just repeat myself, but with a false Argentine accent. That usually resolves things.

I splurged and had steak last night... five dollars for a hunk of meat the size of my hand, fingers extended. For a dollar more I had two glasses of good wine. Argentina is pretty incredible. (And yes, I will be a vegetarian again when I get back! But no one should be a vegetarian in Argentina.)

Chow.