Pumpernickel on Tour   … in South America

Have you ever had strawberry jelly for breakfast? And six different types of biscuits to go with butter and homemade jam? Freshly squeezed orange juice as well as whole fruits and bananas in all-you-can-drink-or-eat amounts respectively? Well, if this sounds like your cup of café con leche, then stay at the Hotel La Española in Asunción.

A quick note on paying by credit card in South America – businesses may ask for a surcharge for this convenience. As it would have added 10% to my bill, I thought, good that I had gone to the bank the previous evening, and handed over hard cash instead.

One of the impressively strong chambermaids and the hotel’s factotum, Gustavo, helped me carrying my luggage to the bike. Whilst packing, I had a nice chat and some Maté with Gustavo who could hardly believe that I was travelling through South America on my own…

Then I hurled myself into the thick of the inner-city traffic, making my way to the Plaza de Héroes for a photo of the Pantheon of the Heroes in daylight. While I was standing by the side of the road, several car drivers stopped and asked if they could take a picture of me! There are not a lot of motorcycle travellers coming through Asunción, I suppose…

Somehow I seem to be attracted by old trucks…

Finally I got to the president’s palace and pulled over to take a picture. Immediately one of the armed guards appeared and told me to get moving again – no vehicle is allowed to stop in the security zone.

Mmm, do I look like the typical terrorist carrying a rocket launcher in her saddle bags? Can I not just take a touristy photo of this beautiful building? Later I learnt that during the 35-year long dictatorship of General Stoessner even looking at the Palacio de Gobierno was at a time punishable by death. 

Still, slightly miffed I carried on to the next corner, but then Alberto came over and everything was alright. I thanked him again for his time and friendliness, he kept emphasising how impressed he was by my courage to cross the wild Chaco alone (gulp…) and then we had to say ’adios’.

I still looked at some of the capital’s monuments – the Cabildo de Asunción on the Plaza de la Independencia, which served as parliament, city hall and legislative palace in the past and is now a cultural centre and museum. Not sure about the colour scheme, to be honest…

The Memorial of the Marzo Paraguayano

The slums are right next to the government buildings, so that the public servants don’t forget this part of the Paraguayan people when they decide on laws and policies…

Finding my way out of Asunción was relatively easy following the excellent ConoSur mapping software from the Argentinean GPS forum – just the traffic was a bit crazy. It’s the survival of the fittest here or – in this case – of the biggest vehicle: as soon as I left more than 90 centimetres of a safety distance, cars pushed into my lane, colectivos just pulled away from the bus stop as soon as the last passenger’s feet were off the ground – without looking behind, of course; trucks bullied everyone smaller than themselves by simply ploughing their way through the chaos, etc. It really helps to have four sets of eyes…

At the checkpoint before the bridge over the River Paraguay two cops stopped me and started an interrogation. One of them wanted to see my passport, international driving licence and vehicle registration; the other just wanted to know everything about my trip, the bike, the SPOT around my arm and how it all worked. The first officer must have felt a bit left out because he demanded more documents, but then gave up when he couldn’t think of any additional paperwork that a foreign traveller could possibly present. Anyway, I had everything in order – I’m German after all – and in the end he relaxed, started to smile and joined in the conversation.

Then I was on the Ruta 9 – the notorious Trans Chaco. 744 km / 462 miles to go to the Bolivian border.

In the next village I stopped at a service station to buy water. They didn’t have any and also advised strongly against drinking tap water, but the team was eager to help me in some way. The only thing I could think of was to ask if I could lube my chain while I was there and immediately they brought me a little can of oil and a rag and lifted the back of the bike (with all the luggage!) to make it easier.

In the meantime I answered loads of questions and an elderly gentleman told me about the history of the region, which was populated mainly in the second half of the 19th century during the construction of the Paraguayan railway. The descendants of the many migrant workers from France, England, Germany, Italy and other countries still live in the area and create an interesting multicultural mix.

The Gran Chaco is a vast plain – sparsely populated, hot and semi-arid. The Ruta 9 stretches to the horizon (of course, it’s cheaper to build a straight road – even the old Romans knew that already…), bushes and palm trees dot the countryside with a few small-holdings and cattle thrown in between. The tarmac was fresh and the riding not particularly exciting, but I was aware that the conditions would change the further I got away from Asunción and so I just enjoyed what I had at the moment.

The GPS indicated a filling station near Río Negro (km 180 of the Ruta 9) but there was no electricity and so the pumps didn’t work. Mmm, I still had fuel for at least another 110 km / 70 miles and the next services were 72 kilometres away, so it should be ok. Bathroom, two bottles of water, a cold empanada – and off I went again.

After a while the tarmac became patchy and huge potholes opened up, causing the traffic to meander around them. I had already been wondering why those trucks in the distance approached me on my side of the road… The trip counter showed 200 miles when I turned the fuel tap onto reserve. In Pirahú (km 252) they had petrol but not the 95 octane type I needed! My hopes were set on Pozo Colorado, a further 21 kilometres up the road.

Finally! The attendant filled 14.2 litres into my 16 litre-tank… I would still have had my extra can of five litres in the worst case scenario, but there was a lesson to be learnt: when in remote areas in South America – stock up on water and fuel at every opportunity, even if your hydropack and tank are still half full.

It was around 5 pm and I could have looked for accommodation in Pozo Colorado, but the South American Handbook had recommended the Rancho Buffalo Bill another 14 kilometres northwest. At km 283 I stopped in front of the hotel and – in anticipation of a nice shower and a good meal – walked towards the gate.

After a while, an elderly, toothless señor answered the door, but only to inform me that the supply of both water and electricity had been cut off and that, therefore, the Rancho was closed. I could either return to Pozo Colorado or carry on to Fortín Río Verde. Well, I really don’t like turning back and so I rode another 40 kilometres onwards. At this rate, I would possibly make it to Bolivia by midnight…

In Río Verde I found a service station, a restaurant and a few cottages. From the air the place looks like this:

Is there any accommodation around here? I asked at the guys at the pumps. At first, they shook their heads but then one of them pointed to the other side of the road. Over there, the señora rents out a room some times. Well, let’s hope she does so today…

A Guaraní woman opened the door and then called the owner. Yes, she had a bed and if I would like to wait a minute, un ratito, she would prepare the room for me. While Norma was busy, I talked to the fine little lady sitting on the patio. It was actually her house where she was living with her son, his wife and their children; she was 78 years old, with an agile mind but suffering from an illness that made her frail and fall over. Still, she insisted on showing me my room – it was actually a small house –

¡Mi casa!

Inside it was basic but clean.

… and I even had electricity. Otherwise there were no modern amenities such as running water or sanitation on the farm. They had a well but the water had to be heavily chemically treated to make it drinkable. Apart from that, a tanker would come round once a week to provide the village with potable water.

The family didn’t have a shower but Norma heated some water on the wood-stove, handed me a jug, a bowl and soap, and showed me their bathroom where I could have a wash. It seemed like travelling back in time and reminded me of my old student days when I lived in a tiny apartment which only had a toilet but no shower or bath tub. Here, the toilet was actually a pit latrine in the garden.

Standing there in the dimly lit room, relishing the peaceful environment and hugely enjoying the whole experience, I contemplated the living conditions here in the Chaco in comparison to the standard I had become accustomed to in Western Europe. The family didn’t possess any of the technical comforts that appear so indispensable to me and still, they all seemed happy and content with their life.

I was even more amazed when I learnt that Norma had grown up in Asunción, where she had also met her husband Joel. Only when his father died, his mum asked if he would move back to Río Verde to look after her and the house. What a contrast it must have been for Norma and the children to swap life in the modern capital with this remote little village. And the family was relatively well off here in Río Verde: they had a big house, a farm, a shop, the small guest house, Joel had a job in Pozo Colorado and they employed a Guaraní couple to help them.

Norma, Joel and his mother

I was wondering how life must be for the indigenous people around here. Joel actually warned me – I should not leave my bike outside and always lock the door to my room. The Guaraní were so poor that they would steal anything, he said. Due to our own history in Germany I am very sensitive to pejorative comments like this and any racist tendencies but I didn’t know enough about Paraguayan past and present to argue and also couldn’t talk to the Guaraní couple themselves, as they had retired to their room by then.

So I just listened, asked more questions and gratefully accepted Joel’s offer to push my bike into my cottage and then, when it turned out to be too wide to fit through the door, into their own house for the night. Norma asked if I wanted to go to the restaurant or share their dinner with them. Of course, I went for the latter option.

It had been a long day – battling the traffic in Asunción, the police interrogation, the pot holes and the solitude on the Trans Chaco, the hunt for fuel, the friendliness of the people and then all the things I had learnt about life in Río Verde – there was a lot to digest and think about.

What a multifarious experience this journey through Paraguay was. And it wasn’t going to stop there.

 

The following morning I woke up before 7 o’clock and found that there was no electricity in the hotel – fortunately both my room and the bathroom had windows, so I could at least see whom I was washing. Breakfast was served in the dark and I was very happy to get a hot café con leche. Ronald and Angela from the hotel told me that the power cut had affected the whole town of Villarrica and would take a few hours to be sorted.

Well, you can get by without electricity, I suppose…

Ronald and Angela helped me carrying the luggage downstairs and waved me goodbye.

The Iglesia de Ybaroty, clearly influenced by medieval European architecture with its Romanesque and Gothic elements, looked great in daylight, too.

At this point, I should mention that neither my Paraguayan map nor the Argentinean mapping on my GPS were particularly brilliant for this area, but heading to the capital Asunción, there should be a cross-country road via Paraguarí instead of having to return to the main, straight and uneventful Ruta 7. I only had to find it.

After a pleasant, albeit not an entirely voluntary sight-seeing tour through Villarrica and asking a few locals for directions, I finally found a promising dirt road leading west and out of town. Even the GPS showed a thin line and so I was optimistic that I was on the right track. But the road soon bent too far south and I so turned off to the right at the next opportunity. Alas, the trail became narrower and narrower and eventually a single-track lane. But I still met friendly greeting people and therefore carried on until I arrived at this “bridge” over a little creek:

Maybe I should also mention that deep inside I am a big chicken, really, and together with the fact that I was still unable to put full pressure onto my left foot there was no way I would be crossing those flimsy planks with my fully loaded DRZ. 

I had already turned the bike round when a young family on a CG Titan 150 arrived. When they found out about my predicament, the driver quickly jumped off, stopped another motorcyclist and, before I could gather enough Spanish to explain why I couldn’t do this myself, they had already pushed the DRZ to the other side.

My saviours – muchísimas gracias!

In the meantime, I had caused a bit of a traffic jam…

… but also the couple you can see at the back stopped and we started chatting if it was wise for me to carry on, as the next stretch of the “road” would be muy feo (very ugly, literally), a bit tricky apparently… Meanwhile, the young family was waiting ahead to show me the best line and so I just had to go. The trail dipped into a steep riverbed which, although relatively dry at this time of the year, was very muddy and rutted. I almost made it through but then the back wheel got stuck. Oh, the embarrassment…

Immediately the second driver was there pushing the DRZ out of the hole – I think, as a thank you for coming to my aid, I roosted him thoroughly. I felt really sorry but didn’t look back and just hung on to the throttle until I reached the end of the track another mile further down. Phew, I was glad that I hadn’t taken the GS for this trip!

After waiting in the next village to apologise to my rescuers, I carried on into what I thought was the right direction but soon met mud, sand and finally a gate to a big ranch – a dead-end. On my way back to the village I saw the young family again and they pointed me into the right direction to Itapé, which lay roughly on my route. How friendly and helpful the Paraguayans are!

The gravel track soon broadened and became really smooth – they will probably pave it in the very near future…

Some “wild life” by the side of the road

In Itapé I bought some water at a filling station and started a conversation with the attendant about travelling, life in Itapé and the road ahead. The latter would end at the river Tibucuary soon, she said, but apparently there were ways to get the bike over by balsa, a Spanish term I was not familiar with at that moment. When I arrived at the banks of the river, it became immediately clear what balsa meant – a raft! Oh no, I have had enough excitement already today, and without even taking a photo, I turned round and went looking for another option.

There was not a hint of a trail along the river…

… but I met a group of Guaraní people on the banks and watched them fishing.

According to them there was no bridge for miles, so I traced back my steps to the main road and took the diversion to Coronel Martínez which meant road works, sticky mud and sand again. Paddling along, I finally reached the village and turned west. I think it was there when I joined a wide tarmac road – of course, neither on my map nor the GPS – leading to Paraguarí.

The road was not completely finished, partially unpaved through the villages and it basically followed the railway line, which has probably seen better days since it was built in 1856…

The countryside became hillier…

… and I finally reached the town of Paraguarí – the cradle of Paraguayan Independence. As it was already a few hours later than originally intended, I didn’t have enough time to appreciate the place where the Paraguayan troops under General Manuel Belgrano defeated the Argentine army in 1811. So I just filled up with fuel and chocolate and continued the 66 km journey to Asunción on the Ruta 1.

They really look after their busses here…

La Muy Noble y Leal Ciudad de Nuestra Señora Santa María de la Asunción – the very noble and loyal City of Our Lady Saint Mary of the Assumption – is large, densely developed and busy, as you would expect from a capital where 30% of the Paraguayans live. It’s also not particularly well sign-posted, and so it took me a while until I found the centre and the hotel La Española that had been recommended in the South American Handbook.

The receptionist looked very pretty but didn’t show a great deal of concern for the new guest who was limping up and down the stairs – she left it to a tiny old lady to ask me if I needed help with carrying my luggage. Of course, I declined. The young woman also forgot to mention that I had to switch on the boiler before I could have a hot shower… Never mind, including breakfast, secure parking and en-suite bathroom the hotel only cost me PYG 80,000, that was £11.00 at the time – just £0.70 more than the room in Villarrica – and we were right in the centro of the capital!

Just two blocks further north lay the Plaza de los Héroes, the heart of the historic centre of Asunción. A big marquee sheltered a free art exhibition and I spent a while enjoying local craftsmanship, sculptures and paintings before heading to the Pantéon Nacional de los Héroes, the National Pantheon of the Heroes.

The Ministerio de Hacienda – the Treasury – next to the popular Lido Bar

Talking of finances, the US$ 40.00 exchanged in Ciudad del Este wouldn’t last forever and I had to stock up on cash before entering the Gran Chaco the next day. Although you can pay for fuel with your credit card, I prefer to have some notes and coins in my pocket out in the wilderness. According to my travel guide there was a Lloyds TSB Bank nearby, and I thought I could save some administration fee using their ATM. Nice plan, but I couldn’t find the branch despite exploring the whole adjacent area… In the end I just approached a passer-by – and I couldn’t have made a better decision.

Alberto was a presidential guard off duty, enjoying the mild evening, and he had nothing better to do than giving the foreign tourist a guided tour of the city. During the next two hours I learnt not only that the Lloyds branch had been replaced by HSBC, but also an awful lot about Paraguayan history, a history that is actually very sad and violent. The country has suffered long periods of political instability, dictatorship and devastating wars with its neighbours. During the War of the Triple Alliance against Brazil, Argentina and Uruguay in the 1860’s, more than 80% of the male adult population were killed. Then there was also the Chaco War in the 1930’s with Bolivia over the region of the same name, with a death toll of 56,000 people on the Bolivian side and 36,000 in Paraguay.

I was shocked but also very impressed by Alberto’s wealth of knowledge and his balanced depiction of the country’s past and present problems; he showed me the slums as well as the presidential palace, the seat of the Paraguayan government and his place of work.

The Palacio de los López – the Palace of the López, the name of two of the country’s presidents

Nearby a memorial for the eight young victims who were killed during the events of March 1999 following the assassination of vice president Argaña, known as the Marzo Paraguayano today and considered a victory for popular power and a turning point in Paraguay’s famously Byzantine politics at the end of the 1990’s.

Alberto asked if I wanted to see more of the city but I was in quite a gloomy mood after hearing of all the bloodshed. Also, I would have loved to take Alberto out for dinner to thank him for his time and the valuable history lesson, but in his casual dress – T-shirt, shorts and flip-flops – they wouldn’t let him into a restaurant, he shrugged. What a shame! So we had to say goodbye but I promised to come to the palace the next morning when he would be on duty.

After wandering around the city centre and finding most of the restaurants out of my price range, I finally ended up in the famous Lido Bar – an institution in Asunción in a great location right on the Plaza de los Héroes with loads of character. You sit around a circular bar, order your food from the menu on the wall and get served from the middle. I must have looked a bit lost when I entered the place, because one of the waitresses, Carmiña, took me straight under her wing, recommended a traditional sopa de pescado, a fish soup, when I asked for a local dish and suggested one of the delicious freshly squeezed juices for dessert. Then she passed by every three minutes to see if I was still enjoying myself and the food. It was great.

Fed and watered I then went looking for an internet café to upload more photos, update my blog and write emails to the loved ones at home. The young man at the counter tried out four different computers until he found one that accepted my USB card reader, served me a drink and let me make use of the unusual fast connection until long after midnight. To top it all, he only wanted £0.70 from me and even made me aware that I had given him a 50,000 Guaraní note (£7.00) instead of 5,000. Wow, he could have just taken advantage of that stupid tourist and kept the money – but no…

Completely swept away, I walked back to the hotel and couldn’t believe just how lucky I was to be here in Paraguay and to meet all those lovely people.

Could it get any better?