The last two days have been a mix of orderly, large agri-business fields of soybeans, canola and corn, and small pueblos. The European settlements are prosperous while other settlements are terribly poor.
On Saturday I passed
a stretch of road with ramshackle wooden shanties and metal and plastic sheet
roofs. These families had nothing. It is one thing to see the humble farm
homes, but another to see people living off the side of the road. The farmland
was fenced off—large, agribusiness with signs identifying seed and fertilizer. Were
they migrant families? If so, why did they have electric hookup and why did
some of them have wells? Some NGOs helping them out? Fucking miserable to see
this. I faked a cheerful oam-pah as I passed and people cheered back. But
jesus, I thought, this is fucking terrible. Fucking awful. One thing to be a
humble farmer but another thing to be a squatter.
I rode in
the heat and no music. 6 water bottles, one of them began a sugary orange juice
which I later diluted. The head and the humidity and the rolling hills were an
intense challenge. Moraline speaks of the ripio—I tell him now: if there were
ripio today I would quit. I’m having enough gear trouble as it is on smooth
road, and the heat murdered me today. And then to see the poverty, jesus Christ
the poverty.
I rolled
into town—my second day of finding sleep in a Paraguayan town—and the cities
are not laid out in a square but are splayed out on either side of the highway.
To find hotels, you take a gamble with the approaching side or you ride through
the center and take the ones at the end. I take the ones at the end, and try to
get one or two streets in. The young man at the counter spoke in fast
Castillian and didn’t want to give me a break. Yes, he won—my Spanish is bad
and my listening comprehension is poor. I hope he feels satisfied that he
proved this.
The price
was 70,00 G, or $17. The room was decently clean but the wastepaper basket in
the toilet had used toilet paper in it. A single sheet lay on the mattress.
Tile floors.
When I
arrived the young man was intrusive and not aware of my wearied state. He
wanted much information of me and even though it was clear my Spanish was weak
he would not slow down or try Portuguese. He took a photo of my bicycle with
his cell phone. He had me pull out my camera to take a picture—he then asked me
if I had a cable to download the photo and I told him it was deep in my bags.
He then told me to sit down to speak to him. He spoke too quickly and I
understood nothing. I pointed to my map and he said more things I didn’t
understand. He asked me if I wanted some water. Finally I was able to take my
bicycle in my room—not before he rode the bike down the hallway, experiencing
the awkwardness of the loaded rig. I imagined Moraline’s knifing this kid’s
throat. “You touch my bike you die.” I showered and hit up the market. Water
and food are of first importance upon arrival—a restaurant later. I picked up
apples, oranges, water, beer, milk, crackers, and orange juice in two trips. A
man—maybe the neighbor, maybe the owner—was far more calmer with me. Perhaps
the son was just a dumb fucking punk with no manners. As I left to get some
dinner the son rode in on his motorcycle and gave me a friendly hello. Maybe
both of us were just too awkward upon meeting, but the main thing is that I am
a paying customer and he is the hotel fella—he’s gotta do a better job in such
an international place like Paraguay.
Speak slow and simple, fella, and you’d be surprise how much Spanish your
customers know.
As I
walked outside on the brown, dirt-covered cobblestone streets, the sun hit me
hard and ate into my already burned arms and face. It was a strong sun, but the
agriculture here loved it. They grow it all—soybeans, corn, canola—and large
agribusiness has taken its roots.
I sat down
at a hamburger stand and ordered a liter of beer, a hamburger, and an empanada.
I had already crushed two small cans of beer in my room. It was fine fast food
and I passed time speaking to the man and woman owners of the joint. They
spotted me at the cyclist who had ridden by earlier and wanted to know about my
travels. They were good and fair people and my bill was 21,000 for the burger,
the liter of beer, and the empanada—just less than 5 bucks in total.
I swung
by the grocery for some erva mate. The Paraguayan erva mate is far superior to
the Brasilian erva mate. It consists of flakes of the leaves of the erva mate
plant rather than a powder of the plant with many particles of stem. The latter
makes it narly impossible to drink in a chimmarao with a bomba. The former
makes it pleasant. In addition, the flavor is markedly richer and greener.
At the
first market I saw a man with terrible deformed bare feet. There is great
poverty here—and a great disparity of wealth and poverty. I expected to see
this in Brasil, and perhaps this is what they speak of in the North of Brasil. I
am cooked by the sun. I am nursing a 200ml flask of aguardiente.
Moraline
asked me which I preferred: wind or rippio. Now it must be wind. Wind is a
physical struggle and it doesn’t destroy gear or ruin one’s ass. Wind is just
hard, like climbing. Yet I remember the wind of Oregon and how I barely moved. The wind of
which Moraline speaks is worse.
---------
Contrasts:
Dick Proenneke, independent, watches out for himself, skilled, lives a long
life, and then the squatters who are totally fucking helpless and clueless,
totally fucking ignoran of everything. They have to have someone else drill
them a well, they do not cut down their own trees and make their own lumber,
they have to have someone jery-rig them electricity, they cannot make or hunt
their own food. I want to say it is the state, but according to some it is the
colonial powers who, using violence, killed away the ancient ways of these
people. Fucking horrible.
--------------
Sunday:
It was a
roasting-hot 35 degrees and brutal sun. The young man’s mother made me “café”
in the morning, but it was hot milk served with bread rolls-delicious and
exactly what I needed. I drank erva mate in the morning and, again, the
Paraguayan version is superior and easy to drink. The riding again consisted of
difficult rolling hills with no shade in the intense sun whatsoever. In 60 or
70 degrees one could hammer these miles—but in the humidity, the sun, and the
heat, one withers. I took to the road at 10 and by 1 I needed a cold drink. I
walked into a small store and saw empenadas and pointed to a carne empanada and
a cola and sat down. As it was served, I spied a buffet in the center of the
establishment. “You have a buffet?” I
asked. Indeed, for 34,000 G—about 10 dollars (on the high end of the Brazilian
spectrum), I could eat. She took away the empanada and I dug into the
buffet—which, on its own was perhaps worth the money. Especially in the heat,
and especially given the poor quality of food I had been eating as of late. But
it was more than a buffet. The young men came by with spits of meat-chicken,
pork, beef. I only accepted small portions, but the grilled meat and the salads
and cola restored me in the shade of the restaurant. A young boy attempted to
attack the Bike Friday three times but each time the Bike Friday was rescued by
the boy’s brothers and sisters. I can only imagine Moraline’s trying to kill
the 2 year old child. German families sat in large numbers eating.
Despite
the rest and the food, the remainder of the ride was difficult and grueling
in the sun. I learned I must apply a second coat of sun block mid-day—a heavy
morning application does no good past 1 in this sun and heat.
The moods
of the cities began to brighten from industry and poverty to agri-business and
prosperity. German towns began to appear and the homes began to improve in
condition.
It
was 4:45 when I finally reach the city of Trinidad,
sunburned and at the cusp of heat stroke. Yet there was nothing. I had seen a
hotel earlier near some 15th century Jesuit ruins, but where was the
city and why did Hector recommend I stay here. After 3 attempts at directions,
I cycled through the cobblestones and was led back to the hotel near the ruins.
On the way women and high school girls danced together in a large ceramic and
concrete barn to folk music.
They
wanted 200,000 G—I had already paid 70,000 for the last two nights, and Hector
had told me he paid 50,000 in the larger cities. I incredulously asked for an
explanation. She said they were the only place in town and this was an historic
location. It was true—the site is important for people who care about Jesuit
ruins, and it is situated in a beautiful and pastoral town and one cannot
complain about the settings. I asked for a cheaper room and she said she had
something for 130,000—still $30, still on the high end of what I would have
paid in Brasil, still almost twice the price of a good room in Paraguay.
Walter—born in Holland, lived in Brasil, Europe, been here for 20 years, hotel for 8. White German
wife. Eats berries from tree every morning. Just had bad moto wreck in Argentina.
Walter’s
compound has food, water, and a bicycle that generates electricity. There are
huge, vast spaces of semi-desert in Paraguay where there are no roads
but only salt flats. The US
has huge underground bases under these salt flats and also has large air
fields. There are areas where your car and cellphone will suddenly stop working
if you try to approach.
