Chiloe Island

In my rush to get the last post finished I omitted to state explicitly that the fjords are very beautiful and taking the cruise was a first class decision. It would have been better if the weather was nicer but you just have to take your chances.

The double T at the end of Puerto Montt is not a typo. The town is named after Manuel Montt, who was president at the time the town was founded. Apparently he could spell his name correctly. There are several Montts sprinkled about Chile´s history, including Manuel´s son, Pedro, who also bacame president and Admiral Jorge, who was more distantly related but nevertheless copped the presidency for a few years between Manuel and Pedro.

Just as I emerged on Monday morning from the Puerto Montt port, a local micro came by with a destination sign that said "Terminal", so I didn´t have to walk to the bus station. Nor did I have to wait long for a bus to Castro. The one I chose turned out to be a long distance bus, probably from Santiago, stopping in Pto Montt on its way to Castro. My posi wasn´t noticeably warm from its previous occupant, but his/her rubbish was still in the seat pocket in front of me.

The journey started slowly, due to the overloaded streets of the rapidly growing port city. Once we were on the open road we passed through pleasant agricultural land on gentle hills. I was particularly struck by what I at first took to be gorse. Now I have examined it closely I see that it has regularly spaced spines, but the new growth is gentle to the touch. However, it grows in the same bushy way to about the same height and celebrates the Chilean spring with a riot of intensely yellow flowers. It also grows as abundantly as gorse does in NZ if it isn´t kept in check. In the part of Chile´s Lakes Region that I have seen to date it lines the roads and sprouts in any fields where it isn´t ruthlessly kept down. In places there are literally acres of hillside covered in its brilliant yellow blossoms.

Chiloe is reached by ferry. There are two companies providing services, one of which was Cruz del Sur, the company whose bus I was riding in. I think the bus drivers take the first vessel regardless of its owner because, although we were ferried by Cruz del Sur, there was another Cruz del Sur bus on the rival´s boat.

The strait is quite wide. The crossing takes half an hour. Passengers were allowed to get off the bus, patronise the tiny cafe and admire the sea. There were lots of birds but I had left my binoculars on the bus hadn´t I. When a seal popped its head up and two penguins flippered by I went back for the bins. This, of course, was the signal for the avian activity to wind down to two very common kelp gulls.

There was one more stop, in Ancud, before we charged on to Castro. The town is famous for houses built on poles over the water called palafitos. This is allegedly so that boats can be tidily moored underneath but I did not see any examples of this. It also has a notable church, Iglesia de San Francisco. It was modelled on a famous church in Europe (I forget which one) but built of timber.

As a pack-toting foreigner I was correctly identified off the bus as a man looking for lodgings. I politely accepted the card but made my way to Hostal Central because Lonely Planet promised me that it would be the most economical deal in town. Lonely Planet was wrong! Instead of US$7 (about 3,500 pesos) the tariff there was 8,000. So I dug out the card and decided to accept the bus depot man´s 6,000 deal. Only there was no answer when I rang the bell. Castro is a very popular summer holiday destination so there was no chance of being stranded, but this was rather frustrating.

A visit to the municipal tourist office secured the most unhelpful map I have ever seen. As I was pondering what to do next a woman asked me if I needed lodging and produced yet another card. She quoted 6,000 including breakfast and a deal was struck with Hostal Don Miguel, where I got a small single room, which was nicer than the expected dormitory.

I tried twice to admire the church, but an unscheduled service was in progress so I chose to be content with peeking through the windows at the back.

Chiloe is famous for curanto, a dish with seafood, meat, potatoes and other goodies served only in huge portions. Traditionally this was cooked in an earth oven, hangi style. Lonely Planet recommeded a particular restaurant. It was wrong again! Curanto was not on the menu. But my consolation fish dish was pretty darn good so I´m not too cross.

Tuesday was set down for a trip to Chiloe´s National Park, on the ocean side of the island. Local micros do the journey a few times every day. The 9:00 am bus from Castro was popular with the tourists, including two very tall and lovely girls who spoke Dutch to each other at the back of the bus.

It took an hour and a half to trundle to the park entrance, where we were relieved of 1,000 pesos each and given an informative leaflet with a map.

The Tepual informative trail was my first destination. It is only about 700 metres long, but I took dozens of photos so it took quite a long time to complete. Tepual forest is very like NZ bush. The tepu itself is not unlike manuka, although its scientific name shows that it is from a different plant family. And there is a nothofagus sp. tree that is a twin to totara.

There weren´t many birds in the bush, but around the park HQ were slender-billed parakeets (TICK) flying fast and noisily in the typical parakeet manner. A small brown bird with a lovely song was finally identified as an elaenia. I hope I have spelled that correctly. I don´t have the field guide with me. There were also sierra finches and siskins. Happy bird watching.

A longer trail led to sand dunes and the beach. In amongst the dunes there were cinnamon-coloured arrayan trees growing, the ones they make such a fuss about near Bariloche in Argentina. I shouldn´t be sarcastic. They are particularly lovely trees and worth making a fuss about.

I squelched across the marshy bits and stood on the beach. A strong wind from the North blew along a firm, sandy beach that could have been Northland´s West coast. Northland is generally warmer, though. I used my binoculars but I couldn´t see Chile´s West-side neighbour, New Zealand.

The end of the trail was a gravel road through farmland. I followed it for a while, looking for the trail to Rio Cole Cole. It was rather soft, deep gravel and hard to walk on. There were no signs, so I turned back to park HQ for directions. Alas, the road was the trail. It would be no fun trudging along that for an hour or so, so I returned to the interpretive trail for another immersion in the mossy, wild bush.

There still weren´t many birds, but one unseen denizen had a song that reminded me strongly of a grey warbler. And this time I saw a woodpecker (TICK).

It had been cloudy with a few light showers, but now the showers became heavier and longer and finally settled into persistent, cold rain. Back at park HQ the Dutch girls were also taking shelter from the elements. Close up, they were both very beautiful but, alas, much too young for me. (Mike Theilmann take note!) They spoke excellent English, of course. My guess that they were internationally famous supermodels was wide of the mark. They were veterinary students getting practical experience overseas. Their particular project was to gather and analyse information in the Osorno area on a virus-borne disease that occurs in Chilean cattle. Most of their class mates had chosen to travel to NZ for this part of their training.

They had heard that the best curanto was found in a village about an hour´s bus ride from Castro. It was tempting to follow them to this delicacy, but I had promised myself that I would write up my blog, so in Castro I bid them farewell.

I hope you have appreciated my discipline in providing that post. Afterwards I scoured the streets of Castro for a restaurant that served curanto and I found one. I can report that the plate was overflowing with 18 mussels, 6 other bivalve shellfish, pork, chicken, a sausage and vegetables. And it was accompanied by a seafood soup. And I ate the lot! Yum!

Now I am back on the mainland in Puerto Varas. I remembered to have my binoculars with me when I ambled round the ferry, so I could at least identify the penguin and the terns this time.

Tomorrow I have booked a tour to see Chile´s biggest trees. I shall be interested to see how they measure up to kauri. Chile´s tourist literature maintains that the alerce is the biggest conifer in the southern hemisphere. So it must be impressive.

Iguacu Falls - Brazilian side

My time to visit the Brazilian shores of Iguacu Falls was severely limited. I had to get back to Puerto Iguazu in Argentina to catch a bus. If I missed it I would be late for the hockey in Rosario.

I though the weather the previous day was disappointing, but my third day at the Falls was much, much wetter. Thunder rumbled and lightening played as I splashed through the puddles to the bus terminal.

Getting a bus to Brazil was easy, but border crossings are notoriously tricky. We stopped at Argentine Immigration. Everyone got off the bus, was processed efficiently and reboarded. Over the bridge and into Brazil. The bus stopped at Brazilian Immigration and only the tourists got off. Goodness knows what the system is for the locals but it doesn´t involve a queue or a questionnaire. And when I emerged as a legal person in Brazil the bus had vanished. No waiting on this side of the river!

A Japanese girl in a blue rain cape looked even more lost than I felt. "What do we do?" "We get the next bus, I suppose." The next bus was, of course, a different company so we had to buy tickets all over again.

The ride to the bus station in Foz de Iguacu seemed very long. The town is not very close to the Falls. Signs were starngely familiar. Portuguese must be similar to Spanish.

At the bus terminal there was an information office where the attendant spoke English. We needed bus 120. Luckily Argentine pesos were accepted. There was nowhere at the teminal to change money. The system was very strange. We had to pay to get on to the "platform", but that included the bus fare. Why bother when every bus has a fare collector? The system on the bus was odd, too. A passenger boards at the front and is admitted to a small area with about 4 seats. To get off they have to pay a fare to the collector and pass through a turnstile into the main part of the bus and exit through the rear door. It seems to make no difference whether you pay as soon as you get on or just before you alight. The turnstile takes up an awful lot of space. It must significantly reduce the carrying capacity of the bus.

Before setting off the driver performed a strange ritual. He scattered sawdust over the steps and the floor of the not-yet-paid area. That makes sense. It is raining and people will be boarding with very wet shoes. He then produced a large bottle of mineral water and poured it all over the sawdust. Why? Please leave a comment.

The bus weaved it´s way around Foz de Iguacu for what seemed like an age before moving purposefully back along the road from the border. We passed so close I could see the immigration building.

On the bus I discovered that, despite being able to interpret many signs around me, I could not understand a word of spoken Portuguese.

The Japanese girl´s name was Ai. Well, it was pronounced "Aye" so I guess that´s how it is spelled in our letters. She also had a deadline to get back to Puerto Iguazu, one even more tight than mine. By the time we had detoured to the airport and finally arrived at the Falls Park it had taken us 2 hours to do little more than cross the river.

The entrance to the Brazilian park is so far from the Falls that there is a bus to take you to the viewing places. The tariff for using the buses is shown separately but it does not conceal the fact that visiting the Brazilian Falls is notably more expensive than going to see the Argentine side.

We rode on past the optional extras to the main viewing path. In Argentina the visitor gets up close and personal with many more cascades, but from Brazil you can get a much better impression of the whole system, particularly the two levels.

Ai´s English was not very fluent and her Spanish almost non-existent, but she was adept at using sign language to coax strangers into taking photos for her.

When Ai chose to have a photo taken with me I quickly handed my camera over as well. Our hoods are down so that our faces are visible. The umbrella on the right confirms that it was still raining.

Ai was first to spot this little snail enjoying the moisture on a handrail.

But Ai didn´t spot the much bigger coati that ambled past her and almost into the ladies´ toilet before vanishing into the undergrowth.

The Devil´s Throat is in Argentina. Brazil does not have a single cascade of comparable size, but there are some pretty substantial falls and cunningly sited walkways to permit close observation.

There are more of the great dusky swifts on the Brazilian side. And they were demonstrating their famous habit of flying behind and even through the curtains of water.

This shows how the birds can take advantage of small breaks in the cascade to dodge behind the water. Some, probably the guy swifts, just zoom straight through the main current to the perches and nests behind the falls.

Ai and I were barely in the park for an hour and a half before hopping on a bus back to the entrance. There we parted, Ai to race back to Argentina and self to make a pilgrimage to an adjacent bird park.

This park is noted in the Lonely Planet guidebook an had received good reviews from travellers I had met along the way. There was no way I was going to miss it. I reckoned I had about an hour before I should line up at the bus stop. Well, maybe an hour and a quarter.

These blue and yellow macaws have their perch at the entrance. They were slack about greeting visitors because, as you can see, some mutual preening was going on.





The common crane is not an American bird, but it makes a delightful picture.





There are several walk-through aviaries. In one of these I was able to photograph a toco toucan. Those I saw in the wild were much too high for a picture.





The birds were is marvellous condition. Clearly they are very well looked after. However, some of the sun conures had been rescued from bird smugglers. The parrot trafficers clip some of the feathers (see this bird´s tail) to persuade the purchaser that they are chicks. Young birds are preferred and presumably command a premium price.

I really wonder at the intelligence of someone who is willing to pay the small fortune these gorgeous yellow parrots can fetch and yet knows so little about birds that they are taken in by this clumsy fraud.

Fortunately the treatment at the bird park has restored the conures well enough that they have started to breed. I believe the mutilated feathers will eventually be moulted and replaced with normal ones.

In the last walk-through aviary there are large numbers of parrots, including several species of macaw. Visitors are warned that they enter at their own risk.

As you can see, this tourist´s pack is being checked for anything edible or shiny.

Naturally I thought this was most amusing and I was still laughing when a similar unidentified parrot perched on my day pack. However it was not so funny when it was chased away and its place taken by a hyacinth macaw, the biggest of the family. Do you know how very big a macaw is when its beak is level with your eye? And it is true that a macaw can crack a brazil nut. Taking aggressive action against this feathered pirate seemed like a poor option.

It decided that the toggles on the drawstrings of my red waterproof looked like a shiny new kind of nut to sample. Another visitor intelligently suggested that I slip out of the day pack but the parrot wouldn´t leave until the toggle was entirely removed. So the garment is now minus one toggle.

Somehow I had the discipline to leave the park after my self-imposed hour and a quarter. It would have been so easy to spend all day there.

The buses back were just as tedious as in the morning. What is wrong with waiting at the Brazilian side of the border, I wonder? But I got back in good time to recover my big pack from the hostel and catch my bus.

Bariloche

The chonologically last instalment, Greetings from Uruguay, had me in Carmelo waiting for the Saturday evening ferry.

The bars were showing soccer. Uruguay was not involved in the rugby world cup, so why would their television devote time to it? I found an Internet cafe that was open and followed the score on the official web site. O woe for NZ.

So it was with shock and a heavy heart that I queued to board the Delta Cat II. This is a modern vessel, but not as rocket propelled as the Buquebus that I left Buenos Aires on. The sun was low, but still in the sky, so we had daylight for the start of the crossing.

The wharf is a few hundred metres up a tributary of the main river, so we started gliding down between tree-lined banks. There was actually nearly half an hour before sunset, motoring between low islands. Some had only grasses and rushes, others had trees. A vast improvement on the featureless water all the way to Colonia del Sacramento. There was enough light to see by for about another 30 minutes and then it got very dark.

There were very few navigation lights that I could see, but the skipper had radar, a chart plotter and plenty of experience so we didn´t hit anything and fetched up in Tigre on time.

This was the third time I had entered Argentina and the first time I had been asked to fill in a customs declaration. I confessed that I was carrying bee products (honey), but the customs officer shooed me through. He didn´t want his evening spoiled by people carrying illegal honey. The same honey had been in my pack on the previous two border crossings, but no-one asked about it.

An information desk in the port building directed me to a nearby B&B, but it was full. The port area had lights and grass and a McDonalds so it was perfectly safe to scout around, but the tourist information office was closed. That´s pretty reasonable for 9:30 on a Saturday night. I reasoned that the train station might have cheap hotels nearby or an information desk so I toddled over there. No hotels and no info desk, but I asked at a snack stall.

The lady on my side of the counter conferred with the serving lass and they agreed on a place but, they said, it was quite far and dangerous to walk. The lady came with me to the taxi stand to make sure the driver knew where to take me. Wasn´t that kind?

The streets didn´t look dangerous to me, but it was a drive of several minutes with many turns. Walking would have meant almost certainly losing the way. I was dropped at a large residencial but, alas, they had no rooms either. There were no rooms in anywhere in Tigre that night I was told. It was now after 10pm. Even if there was another train, it would deposit me in central BA after 11 o´clock. Not a welcome prospect.

The couple running the residencial did know of an expensive hotel in another suburb. What was the alternative - sleeping in the park? They generously telephoned and booked me in and then telephoned for a taxi. It was a long ride and the hotel was not easy to find. Journey´s end was getting on for 11pm.

Hotel del Casco is a boutique hotel and very expensive. However, it had a room free and I graciously accepted the neccesity of luxury. The ensuite bathroom had both a bath and a shower. There was a chocolate on the turned down sheet. I had a long shower and used lots of the shampoo and conditioner. The TV had at least 5 sports channels, but they were all in earnest after-match discussion mode, except one that was broadcasting baseball. I don´t know the game well enough to enjoy watching it, so I stretched out in my king-size bed and fell asleep.

Next morning I was either the first guest up, or the last. Anyway, I had the breakfast room to myself. I made the most of a first-class breakfast buffet and the best coffee I´ve had in South America. I selected some fruit for later consumption and souvenired the partly used soap and shampoo.

When I checked out it was the first time I had used my credit card for anything but a cash withdrawal since Lima in June. The scarcity of hotel beds in greater Buenos Aires was due to a convention of dermatologists, the clerk explained.

I don´t think many of its monied guests leave Hotel del Casco carrying a pack and walking to the train station. But the rest of the day was plain sailing. The train took me to Retiro station, which is next door to the long-distance bus terminal. I found a convenient overnight bus to Bariloche and bought a ticket. I watched the last 20 minutes of S. Africa vs Fiji in one of the cafeterias and had a satisfying lunch.

There was a moment of confusion when I tried to board the 14:00 hours bus, instead of the 14:05. Well, only the 14:05 was showing on the electronic departure board. But that was quickly resolved and we set off in a bus so modern the upholstery still had a whiff of that ´new vehicle´ smell.

The Via Bariloche cama service has restored the reputation of Argentinian buses. It was very comfortable. There was coffee and a sandwich for afternoon tea and a hot meal with wine for dinner. There was even champagne, but it was served so late I was too tired to want any.

We cruised smoothly over the province of Buenos Aires. I have come across so much flat land in South America. From the top deck of the bus I could see to the horizon in every direction and it was FLAT. There were fences and trees and cows and buildings all on flat, flat land. I even imagined I could see the curvature of the earth. This continued until the daylight failed 6 hours into the journey. As far as I could see it was still flat when I woke to visit the loo in the night.

In the morning we were gently but firmly awakened. And there were scrub-covered hills outside instead of grassy plains. Were we on a different planet? To our left, so I could not see it well, was a slow-moving river. Either that or an immensly long lake. Coffee and breakfast helped to get the brain working properly.

The timing of the wake-up call was just right. By the time breakfast had been served and the empty trays gathered in, there was just enough time to pack up and put my contact lenses in before we drew up in Bariloche bus terminal a quarter of an hour early.

San Carlos de Bariloche is soooo like Queenstown. All that´s missing is jet boating. It is on a lake with tree-clad mountains at the back, a large ski-field nearby and all facilities for tourists, including over-priced restaurants. Many Swiss have settled in the area and it has the additional attraction of chocolate-making. Many shops in the town sell nothing else. One of the more prominent chocolaterias is called Rapa Nui. Why is it named after Easter Island? A Spanish-speaking Austrian at the hostel went in and asked. "No reason."

I stayed at Hostel 1004. The unusual name has a very good reason. It is on the 10th and top floor of an apartment building near the lake in Bariloche. It is apartment 1004. Simple. The views over the lake from the common room are stupendous.

Having got my bearings I set out to enjoy the mountain scenery. A local bus took me along to withing easy walking distance of a national park. I followed a trail through the woods where the heard-but-unseen bird was abundant. Amongst a school party coming the other way I spotted a youth with iPod earphones in each ear. I fear the birdsong was wasted on him.

In the afternoon I took a boat ride on the lake to visit Isla Victoria. The significance of this island was lost on me because I could not understand more than 5% of the commentary. On the Altiplano I usually understood 50% or more of what the Spanish-speaking guides said. Anyway I had an hour to roam this island before we re-embarked and carried on to a special area that is a park in its own right within a national park.

The tree that makes this area so special is the arrayan.

It has lovely cinnamon coloured bark and there is one peninusla where it particularly flourishes. We were only allowed 45 minutes there, but that was ample to go round the walkway and take many photos of the beautiful trees.

That evening the hostel organised a "wine tasting". Everyone bought a bottle of wine, they were all carefully opened and set out on a big table, and then the music was turned up and it was party time! No-one made any tasting notes. I can´t explain why, but the ambience of Hostel 1004 generates a special atmosphere. Conversation flows particularly freely. It is one of the sleeping places I can most heartily recommend.

On Wednesday we all got up a bit late for some reason. Patrick, the Spanish-speaking Austrian, planned to trek around all of Bariloche´s chocolate shops. I opted for a more prosaic walk up Cerro Otto. The tramp was harder than I expected. The last kilometre was through and around patches of snow. This would not have been such an issue if I had remebered to change into my tramping boots, but I set off in sneakers. Silly Bill. However, the views were glorious.

Back in town I elected to cook myself a steak meal in the hostel´s excellent kitchen. The supermarket offered, amongst other labels, wines of the "Aberdeen Angus" brand. I am not making this up. There is a photo of the label in the camera. It was not a premium product, so I selected a bottle of the syrah for about $4. It wasn´t as good as the meat was, but it was better than some of the wines tasted the previous evening.

Today I have moved down the road to El Bolson. It´s a very laid back town and I like it. The craft market today has some interesting stuff, but there`s no room in my pack. However, it provided some interesting snacks for lunch and some very good locally brewed beer.

Oh dear. This reads like I´m becoming an alcoholic. I promise it´s not true, dear readers.

Please leave comments or send emails. It´s good to get feedback.

Uyuni to Tupiza and Enduring Shame with PICS

Travelling from town to town in Bolivia is frequently uncomfortable, seldom on time and sometimes downright unpleasant, but it has not yet been a mundane gap in my life between experiences in one place and adventures in another.

For some reason all the road transport from Uyuni to Tupiza leaves before dawn. At least that´s better than the train, which operates entirely at night and only runs twice a week.

The options were a bus or jeep. I decided on a bus for comfort, and because they leave an hour later. However, the company I chose with a 6am departure then informed me that I should report at 5:30. Ugh.

So I grumbled my way through the cold night to the 11 de Junio office (several bus companies have chosen dates for their names - very odd) just before 5:30. Promptly at 5:50 the vehicle appeared and started loading. But it was a jeep! Well, it was a Toyota Land Cruiser modified for extra passengers. Two lucky souls sat up front and the other 10 of us plus a toddler-on-Mum´s-lap sat in two rows of 5 with just enough room for our knees in the middle. The locals had all brought thick blankets, but we were so tightly packed that they cannot have made much difference to the warmth. However, they did restrict even further the opportunities to rearrange knees and feet.

My "bus", photographed later unloading in Atocha.

I gazed enviously at the real bus outside the other company´s office. It had been there since before I arrived so luggage was stored and passengers seated for a prompt start at 6 o´clock.

We left late. Too bad. But before we had left Uyuni behind my bladder commenced complaining. Oh no. Luxurious buses with toilets are scarce in Bolivia, especially down here in the South. They are unknown on this route. I would never survive the whole journey. Could I save face and suppress nature until the stop in Atocha?

I had relieved myself last thing before I left the hotel. It must be nerves then. Think of something else, Bill. Well I watched the lights of Uyuni disappear; I concentrated on the sun coming up over the mountains far away across the salt desert; I studied the terrain and hoped for some wildlife to distract me, but all to no avail. The more I thought about it, the more urgent my need became. Can I at least hang on until 7 o´clock. An hour after the due time for leaving isn´t so disgraceful, is it? The jeep´s radio was on. I´ll be OK until the end of this song. Arrrrgh.

Eventually I bowed to the inevitable and confessed my need to the driver and my fellow passengers. Oh, disgrace to the whole race of gringos. The driver cheerfully pulled up and half the people in the rear section had to alight to let me out. However, I noticed that many passengers took advantage of the pause to have a pee themselves. That made me feel rather better, and the driver waved away my apology. I guess it must have happened before.

The rest of the journey to Atocha was quite pleasant. The scenery was good, the road not too bad. I was engaged in conversation by the man opposite and had to dig my guide book out of my day pack to show him where NZ is from the map inside the back cover.

We passed a grader. Heavens, this track is actually maintained. However, there were places where our driver could, and did, choose his own path through the tussocks. And in one valley I couldn´t see where the previous vehicles had exited on the other side. The answer was simple - the river bed was the road. Up the gorge we drove and, after a couple of kilometers fetched up in Atocha.

"All change" was the message. The driver explained that I had an hour and a half for breakfast before the journey continued to Tupiza. He also gave me directions to the public toilet. How thoughtful.

Breakfast was an even better thought. I had laid in stores and tucked into my bread and cheese hungrily. I retraced the route to the edge of town and photographed a bridge that goes half way across the river and ends in a ramp that descends steeply - onto the river bed. I trust this is an unfinished project.

I pottered through the market, ambled across the tracks at the railway station, and admired the old Cessna that is dispayed at head height in the main square. I think that´s all Atocha has to offer. I lavished 50c on the public loo.

The driver´s estimate expired at 9:50, but the departure time painted on the bus company wall was 10:30. The wall has the correct time. That´s OK, I´m not in a hurry and there is a real bus parked in the terminal with a card in the windscreen that says, "Tupiza". At 10:20 the competitor bus has loaded and ours still hasn´t opened its doors. What´s going on?

At 10:25 the big, comfortable bus drives off empty and its place is taken by yet another modified Land Cruiser. A short and very slight driver stacked our luggage on the roof and, as usual, wrapped it in a tarpaulin against the dust. The other company´s bus pulled out. I believe I see smugness in the faces of the passengers.

Loading "bus" no.2.

This jeep is arranged differently. Behind the driver is a bench seat across the vehicle. At the back is a much smaller cabin in which four passengers sit facing across the jeep. The dispatcher had told me my seat was in the middle row, but attempts to claim this are rebuffed by other passengers. That´s OK, I don´t mind where I sit. Not, that is, until I went to sit in the rear compartment. These seats are much higher for some reason and my head was bent forward under the roof. On a bumpy road this would be risking a broken neck, as well as uncomfortable.

I appealed to the dispatcher and a disagreeable scene ensued. Senora dispatcher explained that she had allocated me to the middle because I am tall. Beside most Bolivians I am a full head nearer the sky. An elderly gentlemen in the cramped seats at the back who had seen me try the seat opposite him chimed in vigorously on my behalf. But the four occupants of the desirable middle row stayed put. I couldn´t follow all the conversation, but there were oft repeated references to having paid. Then the fellow I had chatted to in the previous jeep came over and applied more pressure. Finally a young woman consented to move and I was able to board my ´bus´.

There isn´t too much space for 4 Bolivians across a Land Cruiser, and substituting a full size gringo was a real squash. The ugly and unchivalrous gent on my left had the driver shut his door from the outside. Both doors were locked for safety.

Long after the scheduled time we left Atocha and continued up the river bed. Soon we turned left out of the river and headed off across the hills. A couple seemed to be very proud of their new cassette player. Did the driver have any tapes? Yes, he did but, oh no, they were straight off the play lists of Radio Misery (see "My Inca Trail" in July). Surely the woman with the wailing voice and disastrous love life couldn´t have postponed suicide long enough to record an entire album. But she had. Tapes 2 and 3 were almost as bad.

At least the awful music took my mind off the discomfort. Not only were we crushed like sardines too big for the tin but it was now really hot and I was still dressed for Uyuni at dawn. Maybe if we melted a bit it would ease the crush. Fearful of my bladder´s capacity I took only tiny sips of water.

Down into the valleys and up over the hills we went. We caught and passed the bus, which had to negotiate the hairpin bends with 5- or 7-point turns. In 2 or 3 valleys we saw small mines. I don´t know what they were extracting. Optimistic miners tried to flag us down but they were left for the bus to pick up.

Some typical scenery.

Then the road changed policy and followed the ridge for several kilometers. Not that our driver put his foot down. He was extremely careful and meticulous about sounding his horn when approaching one of the many blind corners. We didn´t meet much traffic. The tally for the entire journey was 2 buses and 4 4WDs.

Suddenly there was a strange noise, as of machinery that wasn´t working properly. The motor was still running, but there seemed to be no power to the wheels. Tiny pulled up and forcibly wiggled his gear levers. This couldn´t have done the trick so he got out and inspected the wheels.

Applying a temporary fix.

The passengers sympathetically got out and took a loo break. I also thankfully removed my sweater.

By tying a rag around one of the rear hubs and selecting the lowest setting on the 4WD gearstick some forward motion was achieved. We limped on until the bus caught up with us. By now the bus had standing room only but most passengers elected to transfer. I was going to folow suit until the lady next to me explained that our wounded chariot was still going to Tupiza and suggested I claim the front seat.

So after luggage was transferred we crawled towards Tupiza with the driver and I in the front and three in comfort across the coveted middle seat.

In the village of Salo we pulled up behind the bus for a meal break. I took some photos, attacked my stores and, now wise to Bolivian bus travel, emptied my bladder just in case.

While waiting for my driver to return from his lunch I noticed a crowd around the bus. The villagers were enjoying the spectacle of the bus driver and loader attempting to change a wheel. One of the front tyres was very flat. I know it´s bad enough trying to loosen the nuts on a car wheel. Removing all ten from the bus wheel was demanding a lot of effort.

Sadly, I didn´t see the end of the exercise because my little transport was ready to leave. At a leisurely pace we drove out of Salo and through a fantastic canyon. I wound down the window and took photos. I was getting a scenic tour as part of my fare.

No further mishaps occurred and we were delivered to Tupiza bus station at 20 past 3. The advertised arrival time had been 1:30, so that wasn´t bad considering all the dramas along the way. The hostal I had selected from the guide book was close by and I was soon settled as the sole occupant of an 8-bed dormitory.

Tupiza is a pleasant little town in the midst of a host of scenic wonders. The recommended way to see them is on horseback. I have selected the 5-hour tour to save my bum from too much agony.

I presume the bus eventually changed its wheel. While I was enjoying my first dinner in Tupiza ´Ugly and Unchivalrous´ walked in with his family. We nodded to each other but did not smile.

Argentine Buses Disappoint

The first disappointment was getting into Argentina. I elected to cross the Parana River from Encarnacion to Posadas, which seemed simple enough.

I caught a bus quickly and it ploughed through the traffic to the Paraguayan customs post. Most of the passengers were locals, who stayed on the bus. Getting my exit stamp was quick and easy but the bus didn´t wait. Luckily the guide book had warned about this so I had all my luggage and my bus ticket with me. I just had to wait half an hour until the next bus from that company.

Getting two thirds of the way ocross the bridge was easy. The last third was a traffic jam that moved painfully slowly. Finally we were able to disembark and everyone went through Argentinian immigration. A charming lady who spoke good English listened to my request to use my NZ passport in Argentina when my Paraguayan stamps were in my UK passport. "Why not?" If only more government officials were this intelligent.

There was a queue for customs that moved at a snail´s pace. Eventually it transpired that this was the wrong queue, but I was not the only one misled by the lack of signs. A new queue formed for those not bringing in commercial goods and somehow I was at the back. Two customs ladies looked thoroughly disinterested, made me unlock and open my big pack and then merely glanced inside it. Maybe they had x-ray vision.

The 2nd bus was long gone and the driver had refused to give me my ticket back. The guide book did not explain that apparently you can hop on any bus from Argentinian Customs to the Posadas bus terminal. The route wound its way all over the city but did eventually end up in the bus terminal with just two passengers left.

And here was the answer to where are all the new buses in S. America. Huge, powerful new vehicles lined up to whisk the travelling public all over Argentina. Just you wait, I thought. One day you will be retired to wreck your suspension on Bolivian highways.

I adjusted my watch to Argentinian time and set about finding a bus to Iguacu. Miraculously there was one leaving in only 15 minutes and I got on it.

Other travellers had painted a rosy picture of Argentine buses, with seats that folded back to become comfortable beds. The better companies were praised for their selection of movies , the quality of the food they provide and the generous provision of alcoholic beverages. Coffee and water are constantly available. Lesser classes of bus are cheaper and deliver correspondingly less luxury.

This bus was "ejecutivo" class, which I now understand to mean that it will stop at any bus stop. Since these are placed along the road at about every 10th tree, this did not make for a high speed journey. There were frequent turns down lanes to little towns and stops along the main highway. Luckily it also meant that hawkers were allowed on the bus in Posadas so I was able to buy sandwiches and a soft drink. No steak meals here. The seats were "semi-cama". This means that they recline, but not to the extant of imitating a bed; just a tad better than economy class seats on a plane.


Even at this proletarian level of travel there was a coffee and water dispenser. The coffee was pretty good, too, if you like a tablespoon of sugar dissolved in an egg-cupful of black coffee. Oh well.


The countryside sometimes looked the same as Paraguay and sometimes not. I saw plantation forests for the first time on the trip. They were some kind of pine tree. For all I know they were pinus radiata, which is grown so much in NZ. Certainly they were well tended. Pruning was obvious.

There were also fields of bushes, which I took to be yerba, the basis of mate. The plants were at a convenient height for plucking leaves. In amongst this were cattle and a range of crops I could not identify. There was also plenty of bush, but from the height of the bus I could sometimes see that it was only a narrow strip alongside the road.

The road signs notified ever smaller distances to Puerto Iguacu, but the numbers went down so slowly. We were not going to arrive at 6:30 as scheduled. I amused myself by estimating the arrival time, based on assumptions like "we will not leave the main road again". I had settled on 7:30 to 7:45 when the distance to go shrank dramatically. We went from 50-something kms to 30-something to 11 in about 5 minutes. I swear I am not making this up. And we did not fly. I was awake all the time. We actually pulled in to Puerrto Iguazu bus station at about 6:50. I cannot explain it.

Exploring the Iguacu Falls will have a post of its own.

In the hostel the Via Barloche bus company was given a big boost. My informant had been plied with champagne and whisky. This is more like it.

Extensive enquiries failed to find a direct bus to Rosario at a convenient time. The best arrangement I could make was an overnight bus to Santa Fe, from where there should be lots of buses to Rosario, just 2 hours down the road. Via Bariloche was one of the two offices that offered this deal so I booked there, of course.

But the booking clerk invited me to accompany her to the other office with a Santa Fe service to issue the ticket. It wasn´t a Via Bariloche bus. Never mind. It was still cama class, with fold-almost-flat seats. It will be good.

It was a Plus Ultra bus and the seats were great. They are only three across and I had selected the side with a single seat so I had a window view and direct access to the aisle. No climbing over other passengers this time.

We left promptly and I leaned back. This was travelling!

For the start of the journey we were played a selection of music videos. There was no meal immediately, but Argentinians dine late and we left at 7:30pm. There was a paper bag of chocolate bars in the meantime.

By the time the movie started I was hungry, so I dug into my pack. I always carry food. It was a good film, too. Not the usual C-grade action flick. And I do applaud showing an English-language film with Spanish subtitles. I could understand everything in the rather involved plot. By the time the movie ended it was apparent that our paper bag was all that the company was going to supply. I dug deeper into my bread rolls and cheese.

I didn´t sleep as well as I expected. The seat was certainly comfortable enough so I cannot explain it. I could almost lie on my side as on a real bed.

By the time it was fully light we were driving through very flat country. Another former sea bed I guess. There was lots of grazing land here. On one estancia I even saw rheas, the S. American relative of the ostrich. Since they were in a paddock I assume they were domesticated and therefore not a tick.

I breakfasted on treacly coffee and more cheese rolls.

The distances on road signs suggested that we were making good time to Parana, and Santa Fe is just across the river from there. And indeed we pulled into Parana Bus Terminal with a full hour to make Santa Fe on time. People got off. Other people got on. The bus rolled back and changed to forward gear - and stopped. Very slowly the driver edged us forward so that we were not blocking any other buses and switched the engine off. Que pasa?

This nearly new wonder-bus had broken down. It was, of course, a Sunday. If Plus Ultra maintains a workshop in Parana there was no sign of it. The driver and his conductor opened huge doors around the engine and disappeared weilding spanners. They spent a lot of time on their cellphones. Passengers ran into the bus station for sandwiches.

Half an hour after we should have arrived in Santa Fe I started investigating the possibility of another bus. Yes, there was a direct bus to Rosario leaving in half an hour. I don´t suppose the fare was much more from Parana than from Santa Fe. I collected my day pack from inside the bus and requested my big pack from the luggage compartment. At that moment the engine restarted with a roar. The conductor tried to dissuade me, but I had already bought my new ticket.

The San Jose bus was semi-cama but plenty comfortable enough for the two and a half hour run to Rosario. And this conductor came round with snacks, sweets and coffees. No grog though. And the bus didn´t break down.

Rosario was the location of the 2007 Golden Oldies Hockey Festival. I got to the Riviera Hotel and my Hampshire Harlequins team mates at 4pm, with three whole hours to get ready for the welcoming ceremony. Excellent timing.

I have since checked the Via Bariloche web site. They have a "super-cama" service between Buenos Aires and Bariloche. I wonder what extra services you get on that run?

Ruta Uno - complete and illustrated

Yes, Route No.1 translates as Ruta Uno, not Ruta Una. I don`t understand why, but it does.

I have Jenny Spencer, my ex Peace Corps advisor, to thank for setting off down Ruta Uno. I didn`t get to all the places you suggested, Jenny, but to enough to make the trip more than worthwhile.

To make sure of getting off in the right place I was smart enough to select a bus with a large "Vaguaron" sign in the destination window. Only it didn`t finish its trip there, and I had to hop off smartly when I realised the bus was leaving Vaguaron.

Well, it`s not a big town, so I shouldered my pack and marched back towards the centre. Jenny had invited me to enjoy the view from the nearby hill (hills and views therefrom are rare and precious in Paraguay). I looked at the hill and decided that it was too much like hard work to climb with my big pack so I took a photo instead. Here it is.

The main attraction is a colonial church, with a museum for dessert. Only I had not noticed an old church from the bus. Hmm. After a few blocks I asked for directions and turned off the paved road. Two blocks later I still hadn`t seen any sign of the church, but I was being invited to purchase a bite to eat at a tiny cafe. As it was lunch time I agreed that this was a good idea. And where was the church? Oh, it`s two blocks that way.

Lunch finished, a young man invited me to sit in a cooler spot and have a chat. Joel was a journalist, and certainly managed to communicate well with this foreigner. Mostly he was interested in life in NZ and the opportunities to work there. I did my best, but had to refer him to the nearest embassy for detailed information. He was also interested in why someone would come all the way from NZ to visit a church in Vaguaron. A pretty reasonable question.

He assured me that my packs would be safe in the comedor, told me to wait and popped off on his motor bike to deliver his wife and their fairly new baby somewhere. He returned in 10 minutes and it was my turn to be the pillion pasenger.

Joel solved the problem of the hill by finding safe storage for my pack and taking me to the base of the hill. Together we scrambled up and so, Jenny, I did get to admire the view. He also pointed out a roof that, he promised me, belonged to the church.

At the top of the hill.

The South of Paraguay is much greener than the Chaco. There is more obviously farmed land, although there are plenty of patches of bush. Part of the hill had recently burned and Joel bemoaned the terrible number of fires raging in Paraguay. I gather that the Russians have promised to send a fire-fighting plane.

Back down in the village, we motored past the church. One of the reasons I had missed it from the bus was that I had been looking for a conventional stone church with a bell tower. This was a wooden structure and the bell tower was merely a lattice not as high as the main building. We passed on to the museum, located in the house of Dr Francia, Paraguay`s first post-independence dictator. Dr Francia was not a pleasant person. The museum was closed anyway.

The church seemed to be open, so I asked to dismount and see inside. From the moment I produced my camera it became apparent that Joel`s claim to work in television was no idle boast. He had an excellent command of camera angles and the importance of the position of the sun.

There was a nominal charge to enter the church. I have seldom felt I got such good value from visiting a building. Normally I get bored very quickly, but this was different somehow. The walls and supporting pillars were decorated with subdued, natural colours. S. American churches have tended to the garish. There were helpful information boards. They were printed on clear plastic, but Joel and the church guardian found a folder to place behind the plastic and allow me to photograph the information. One day I will copy them into an Internet translation engine and find out what they say.

Despite its modest size, Vaguaron has a one-way system and I now understand the wanderings of the buses. I bid a very fond farewell to Joel, reclaimed my big pack and set off to wait where the buses run. Bursting with local information I successfully hailed the direct bus to Ybycui.

I had a lot of strife with this place name. My final understanding is that it is pronounced Ee-bee-kwee. My attempts to master this have caused much hilarity amongst the locals. The bus took me to the village where, my guide book promised me, there was a hotel with a restaurant. My plan was to alight at the plaza, which is normally the community centre. Ybycui fooled me. It has no plaza. This is virtually unique in South America. However, I spotted the hotel and hopped off before the bus could carry me off to unknown parts.

I thought that if I didn´t photograph the hotel´s name no-one would believe me.

There were no lights on, and only one door half open. However my "Hola" produced a senorita from the equally unlit back rooms. Yes, they had a room. I chose the economico as the austere streak in me will always do. I was shown a perfectly acceptable room and the two bathrooms shared by the money-saving guests. I was also shown how to unlock and relock the front door when I wanted to go out or come back in.

The room rate I got was a steal. There was a working air conditioning unit in my room and since I appeared to be the only guest I had two private bathrooms!

Half an hour later I sallied forth to explore. The hotel was now fully locked and it was apparent that the restaurant would not be serving dinner that night. In lieu of a plaza Ybycui has a very long main street. My search for an Internet cafe was unsuccessful, and I drew an equal blank in my quest for a restaurant. I bought precautionary supplies from the supermarket, including a litre of cold beer.

I did find hot food for sale. A small establishment with no signage was barbecuing asaditos (something like kebabs) and hamburgers on the pavement. I suppose 2 hamburgers and a litre of beer is at least plenty of calories.

The next morning brought two unexpected events. The first was a power cut and the second was rain. Thunder rumbled and the rain came straight down. It certainly cooled the air. It didn`t matter that I had no air conditioning or fan.

The restaurant door was half open again. Yes, of course I could have breakfast. And by some miracle water was heated for my coffee before the electricity returned. When would the bus leave for the national park? "10 o`clock, but it won`t run because of the weather. Well, it might."

It didn`t. But by the time I gave up on the bus the rain had eased and I had a plan. I would hitch-hike to the park. I double checked the route and set off. Paraguay has a reputation of being an easy country to hitch-hike in and my experience backs that to the hilt. At least half the vehicles that passed indicated that they were shortly turning aside, which strongly suggested that they would have given a lift if they were going my way. And in less than 10 minutes I had a lift.

It`s a long time since I hitched a ride in the back of a ute and, with the breeze playing around me, I had fresh air all the way to the park.

Admission was a nominal 5,000 Gs ($1.30). First I visited the historical site of Paraguay`s first ironworks. It was based on iron deposits in the neighbourhood. The English language information was both informative and entertaining. The translation was not of the highest standard. For example, the Spanish word cañon can mean both canyon and cannon. You will be uplifted to know that this factory manufactured many canyons. There was no coal available for the high temperatures necessary, so the Paraguayans made "coal from trees". I presume they meant charcoal. It must have been charcoal burning on a huge scale.

The restored part of the ironworks.

The works were sponsored by dictator Carlos Antonio Lopez. He certainly had his darker side, but he did many constructive things for Paraguay. His blind spot was his son, who was mentioned in a previous post. Lopez Jnr initiated the war of the Triple Alliance in which the ironworks was an early casualty, destroyed by alliance troops.

While I lined up my first photo I made the acquaintance of Paraguay`s equivalent to sandflies. Who had forgotten to apply his insect repellent? That remedied, I was off to enjoy the natural history of the park. From the museum to the recreational area was an hour`s walk through the bush. Unlike the Chaco, cactuses were rare and most trees lacked spines. Birds sang in the treetops and, for the most part, stayed hidden. Plump doves foraged on the trail, but usually I only saw cinnamon brown wings as they fluttered out of sight. There were a few butterflies, but of disappointingly dingy colours.

At the recreational area was the first of the waterfalls the park is famous for. They were indeed pleasing to the eye. Something like Whangarei Falls, but barely half the height. Remember that Paraguay is generally very flat and has few waterfalls. The area beside the falls was equipped with a picnic table, which I spread out my lunch on. How thoughtful of the park authorities. It had not rained for some time so I risked taking off my waterproof.

The peace was dashed by the arrival of a high-spirited school party. They greeted me gaily and laughed at their inability to make me understand. Across the river I was quizzed by an anxious teacher. Had I seen three girls? He did not seem relieved that I had seen three girls earlier walking the track toward the museum.

In a grassy area I did see birds. Lots of red-rumped caciques, flashing their bright behinds as they flew and cackled from tree to tree. The visitor centre was a disappointment. It was firmly locked and looked as though it had been for some time.

A photogenic ant.

My worst case plan for returning to the village was to walk, but I still had time to follow the trail to another waterfall. Here the butterflies were more numerous and much more colouful. I even saw a couple of big blue and black morpho butterflies.

The Salta Guarani waterfall was quite a bit higher and well worth the walk.

Proof that I was there.

It was 4 or 5 km back to the park entrance. Optimistically I enquired of the ranger if there might be an afternoon bus. "Walk 4km along the road to (something I didn´t understand) and there will be a bus from there." It was encouraging but after the morning disappointment I wasn´t going to rely on it.

Striding along the highway it dawned on me how incredibly lucky I had been to get a lift all the way to the park, which is the end of the road. However, there were farms so there must be some other traffic. And the school party had a bus waiting to take them back to their homes.

I got a short lift quite quickly and then walked a long time with no passing traffic. I saw nothing that remotely resembled a bus or a place a bus would turn round. A farmer going the other way in a cart drawn by two cattle engaged me in pleasant conversation. He had a brother living in California. Of the 5,000 ha park, 1,000 ha had burned. Today´s rain was very welcome. He, too, promised public transport. There would be a micro at 5 o´clock.

My worst case solution was to walk all the way to Ybycui village so I kept on tramping. Eventually I did get a lift. Once again I travelled in the cargo section of a ute. And a small bus did pass us going towards the park. If I had needed it the afternoon bus was running.

In the evening I dined on asaditos and beer for a change.

I had visited a tiny part of the whole park. The very best waterfall, Salta Cristal, is approached from La Colmena, a settlement famous for being populated by the descendants of Japanese immigrants. Paraguay is a country of many surprises. But getting to La Colmena by public transport was too time consuming.

It was still two buses to get to my next destination on Ruta Uno, San Juan Bautista. It calls itself a ciudad (city) but that´s stretching it. Large village is more like it. I arrived at lunch time, so I first visited a comedor near the bus stop for a barbecued meat meal. When I asked for directions to a hotel or similar I was escorted round to the back and shown a nice little room. It was expensive, but it did feature a modern air conditioning unit and a private bathroom. And I had no evidence yet that there was any alternative, so I took it.

After settling in I sauntered along the main road checking out the birds and taking photos when I realised that across the street was a military installation. Not a good place to be seen using binoculars and a camera! I changed direction and found the plaza, where I watched a nice bird with blue wings and ate ice cream while soaking up the tranquilo atmosphere.

In the night the modern air conditioning unit dripped on me. The pipe for discarding moisture must have been blocked.

Jenny´s most urgent recommendation was a village a little way off Ruta Uno called Santa Maria de Fe. It was a lovely, laid back place. Plus there were monkeys in the plaza. And for anyone planning a trip to Paraguay I echo this endorsement. It is charming. I did remember the women´s collective, Jenny, but the only place I saw with "co-operativa" on the wall was closed.

The plaza is well wooded. At the time I arrived it was monkey-less but a large flock of monk parakeets was noisily building large, untidy nests. At times their shrill gossip was almost deafening. The park keeper (pictured) saw me sitting there and came over for a chat. Communication was limited because I had great trouble understanding his accent, but he companionably shared his terere.

I mentioned the monkeys and he got straight to his feet. He took a few bananas from a bag beside his wheelbarrow and beckoned me to follow. Behind the museum in what looked like private garden he whistled at the trees. And monkeys came to investigate. I had imagined something small like squirrel monkeys or even tamarins but these were big animals. What I took to be the dominant male was all black, while the others were off-white with black faces. They were at least the size of howler monkeys. The older members of the troupe had a thick fringe of fur round their faces, like hillbilly beards. If anyone knows what species they were, please leave a comment or send an email.

My impromptu guide held out a banana and the black male came down and cautiously took it. Who had left his camera behind in the plaza? Silly Bill.

This noble park tender then showed me two wild bees´ nests in the plaza before resuming his duties. The more accessible one he had assued me was populated by bees that did not sting, so I took some photos. Fortunately he was right, because several got in my hair.

Stingless bees at the entrance to their nest.

After absorbing more of the tranquilo atmosphere of this remarkable village I moved on. I would have eaten there, but everywhere was closed, including the comedor. One passing villager said there were buses at 1 and 2 pm. Another said 12:30 and 1:00. In fact, a bus came at about 12:45 and took me into San Ignacio, where I got a very nice lunch of vori vori, a typical Paraguayan dish.

There were flat sections of Ruta Uno, but mostly there was enough irregularity in the land to generate widely spaced contours. The farms passed by the bus window to Encarnacion. Properly this is the end of the highway, but I have counted my visit to Trinidad as part of my Ruta Uno trip.

The chosen day started with rain. Heavy, we mean serious business rain backed up by deep no-nonsense rumbles of thunder. It was like that in Ybycui. It will clear up. And indeed the intensity waned so I hardly got my jacket damp as I jogged over the road to the bus station. But it didn´t stop.

I quickly found a bus to Trinidad. I do not refer, of course, to the Caribbean island, but to Santissima Trinidad del Parana, one of the many Jesuit settlements in the province now called Misiones. I think it was the wrong bus. It was a bus that did not want to get out of the garage that morning. Maybe it didn´t like the rain, but it sulked. It found traffic jams in the town and stopped for ages for no reason. Once out on the open road it grumbled along at a crawl. It was due to go all the way to Ciudad del Este and seemed determined to turn a 4-5 hour journey into an overnighter. It took over 70 minutes to travel the 35km to Trinidad and I pity the passengers going all the way to Ciudad del Este.

The Jesuits set up scores of settlements on either side of the Parana River. They brought Christianity (of course) and significant economic development to the indigenous people. They also organised an army that put an end to slave raids from Brazil. In particular they virtually controlled the yerba trade. This plant is the basis for Paraguay´s tereré and Argentina´s mate, so it is consumed in great quantities. Eventually the Jesuits became so powerful that the Spanish king - Carlos V I think - evicted them from S. America.

The settlements are called reducciones (don´t rely on that spelling) and are now all in ruins. It was a few hundred metres from the bus stop to the site and, whilst the rain had almost stopped, it was unnaturally dark; almost to the level of moonlight. The sequence was classic. There was a flash of lightning, closely followed by a very loud clap of thunder. A few very large, fat raindrops heralded a downpour of impressive dimensions. I wriggled into my waterproof in record time and skeltered to the entrance where the ticket office offered shelter.

For quite a long time the custodian and I gazed in gloomy silence at the rain as the paths became streams. Eventually the rate of the downpour eased enough that I decided to resume my role as tourist and I walked out onto the grass. Miraculously, the ground had absorbed most of the water and my boots hardly squelched at all.

The walls and floors were of stone and brick, so the dimensions of the buildings are very clear. There are no roofs left, so I guess they were built of timber, possibly with some kind of thatch. Stone buildings for the indian workers and their families would have been luxury compared to the indigenous style of residence.

At some stage the original church and cemetry were replaced by new ones, but the "primitive" church is about as well preserved as the newer one.

The bell tower of the first church.

The rain continued to vary in force, with one burst of quite torrential precipitation. Luckily I was near the section where the archaeologists have roofed in a section of cloister and was able to take cover.

There were lovely white flowers growing in the grass. They were fairly delicate and had been badly battered by the rain. I took photos of a couple, but they weren´t focussed correctly.

I was most surprised that visitors were permitted to descend into the crypt. There is nothing there now. I do not understand is how it wasn´t flooded, because the entrance is open to the elements and plenty of rain was able to flow down the steps.

I´m not sure if visitors are supposed to climb to the upper level, but the chain was down and there was no-one watching. This is the altar end of the new church.

In all, I wandered around the site for an hour and a half. I didn´t see a soul. The custodian kept dry in his office and no other tourists braved the weather.

There is another site in nearby Jesus, but my enthusiasm for Jesuit ruins was amply satisfied. Besides, the buses to Jesus run hourly, and waiting for up to 60 minutes, even in a bus shelter, did not appeal.

The bus back to Encarnacion was an optimistic, can-do sort of bus. Water sprayed busily from its wheels as it completed the return journey in three quarters of an hour.

And that really was the end of Ruta Uno, because I crossed the river into Argentina the next morning.

In and Out of Concepcion -now with pictures

Well, I´ve used a fair few travel companies on this adventure so I suppose it had to come eventually. I´ve travelled with NASA. True. The full name of the company was NASA {something} S.A. A Paraguayan subsidiary, no doubt. And I do have photos to prove it. Other pictures will be added to this post shortly.

It was one of the earlier shuttles. Indeed it still showed evidence of 19th century design features. At least the seats were, very slightly, padded. And it got all the way to Concepcion without a puncture. That was probably because it never even approached take-off speed.

The bus terminal was well staked out by waiting carreterias; that´s horse-drawn taxi carts. A youthful driver offered his services at a reasonable price and I right-hoed. I quickly came to doubt my decision. The poor horse was a bony grey and the school-age driver was far too ready to use his whip on the unfortunate beast.

My chosen hotel turned out to be full, but the proprietor directed me to another hotel. "Two blocks and turn right." What I didn´t establish at the outset was that there were another three long blocks after the turn and I foolishly carried my pack suitcase style in the heat. So, all hot and bothered, I applied to the Hotel Imperial. No rooms there either, but I was passed on yet again. A tall young man led me along the street, thankfully only half a block, to a residencial that I would otherwise have overlooked. Yes, they had a room. It was expensive at 50,000 Gs per night but I took it rather than trudge round the town´s dusty streets any more.

It was a good choice. The tariff included a nice breakfast and I was made extremely welcome by Senora Esperanza, who actually spoke a few words of English and German for when my Spanish failed. And the nearby Hotel Imperial provided good, cheap evening meals.

I had gone to Concepcion deliberately to be able to travel by boat on the Rio Paraguay. The ideal would be to go North for a day, where it is wilder and the birdlife more abundant, and then head South to the capital, Asuncion.

So, in the morning I trekked to the port. No ticket office. No posters of schedules. The old man sitting in the shade just inside the port gates was confident, though. The Cacique would leave for Asuncion tomorrow (Sunday) morning at 6:00. At least that tallied with the guide book.

My one source of recent information about Paraguay, Jenny recently retired from the Peace Corps, was adamant. "Whatever time they say, get to the dockside two hours earlier." Oh noooo.
A placid moth hanging out on a Concepcion pavement.

Next call was an optician. One of the arms of my spectacles had come adrift. It´s a common problem and easy to fix if you have the tools, but I couldn´t get the shop to accept any money for the service.

The kindnesses continued. Esperanza had explained that there was a big feria, which normally means holiday but in this case appeared to be something between a fun fair and the Mystery Creek Field Days. Would I like to go? Of course I would. Her friend has a motor bike.

The friend, Abel, was a young man with a ready smile. I bravely smiled back and determined that I would not let on that I am not a happy passenger on a motor bike. Helmets are a big city thing. Concepcion has many bikes and scooters but I never saw a helmet.

In fairness, Abel drove very well and always cornered at low speed so we never leaned over very far. And the road was paved all the way to the showgrounds, which meant we had a smooth ride.

Tractors and 4x4 utes look much the same the world over. There was some moto-cross, if that is the correct name for motor bikes racing round a dirt track with lots of lumps so that they can make their bikes jump.

There is an airborne bike there if you look carefully.

In another arena Abel promised lasso work was going on, but when we got there it was all rather vague. I saw two throws miss and one that landed neatly over the target´s head. But the horseman then simply rode alongside his captive to the exit. No taught ropes and bucking steers here.

Cattle were being shown. The bovines were mostly relaxing in the shade, but I got a few photos, including this brahma bull with several rosettes.

There was indeed a fun fair, but that only got going at night.

While we were enjoying a cold drink I noticed that vision in my right eye was blurred. I´d rubbed it so I presumed my contact lens had gone off centre. This is something that happens with contact lenses. I decided that since it wasn´t uncomfortable I would leave it until we got back to sort out. Only Abel had to be seeing perfectly on the motor bike. There is, of course, a tiny possibility that the lens had come right out. As a sop to good practice I scanned the ground with the good eye. And there was a lens-sized circle on the concrete. It cost 500 Gs for admission to the toilet so that I could wash it.

Returning to the town Abel asked if I had seen the cathedral. I confessed I hadn´t, so he made a detour. A very bland building. Think of a cathedral made of Duplo bricks. Next he showed me a plaza I had overlooked and we stopped to have a look at the museum. It´s not worth a long detour, but at least the town remembers some of its sons who served their country, mainly in the Chaco War. The supervising senora was properly thrilled to get a NZ signature in the visitor´s book.

Abel refused all my efforts to contribute to the petrol.

Concepcion on Saturday night was humming. Groups of young people clutching cans of beer clustered round cars with unpleasantly loud sound systems. What a pity. Comcepcion seemed such a nice place.

I determined to be at the port by 5 o´clock. One hour early was all I could face. Esperanza insisted that a 4:30 breakfast was perfectly all right. She would phone for a taxi in the morning. A taxi was a good idea because there would be a lot of drunks around the port. I declined Abel´s offer of a motorbike ride in the pre-dawn.

And at 4:30 the water was boiling for coffee and nice bread rolls were laid out. Abel was up anyway and tried to convince me that the bike would carry both of us and my pack. I declined to try it. I don´t think the pack placed in front of Abel permitted any steering. So he graciously went instead to locate a taxi, since Esperanza´s phone declined to work.

Esperanza photographed before 5am.

The taxi driver was a non-smiler, and drove very slowly. Maybe he was worried about running into drunks. And there were many of last night´s party-goers still up and about. They seemed merry rather than potential assailants, but I´m not sorry I chose the cab. The bar just outside the port gates was still well patronised, and the party animals spread themselves generously across the street. Grumpy tried to extort 30,000 Gs, but Esperanza had warned me that the correct fare was 20,000. Anyway, a young couple were hiring the taxi before I´d even got out. He settled for 20,000.

I lugged my gear into the port, where there seemed to be a lot of slow-motion activity. A helpful bystander pointed out the Cacique; a boat-shaped collection of law wattage lights in the centre of the river heading downstream towards Asuncion. Oh no. After all my dedicated getting up early I´d missed it!

Another boat, the Aquidabán (pictured), was moored tidily. This one, my informat told me, was going North. Ah ha. Maybe I can get the ideal trip including some of the wilder stretches upriver. After a deal of frustrating non-communication I finally determined that this vessel would not be getting back to Asuncion for a week, and I couldn´t afford that much time. "You get the Cacique. It leaves at 7 o´clock." And finally my early morning brain registered that the Cacique was arriving from the North. It had simply been dropping downstream to turn and moor against the current. If I´d listened to the explanation properly I would have known. I understand llengando (arriving) perfectly well.

The Aquidabán had secured the berth at the lump of concrete that passes for a wharf in Concepcion. But the Cacique was prepared. She nosed into the shallows and extended planks across the water into the mud. Passengers and freight wibble-wobbled their way across with care and no accidents.

Walking the Cacique II´s plank.

The passenger cabin was plentifully provided with wooden seats, that I noted were not bolted to the deck. In fact, it was desirable to drag them around so that hammocks could be slung between the seats.

Cacique II, showing some of the hammocks.

As predicted, the Cacique II shipped planks and truly set off downstream at 7:00. The Rio Paraguay is very wide. Even when there are multiple channels it is hundreds of metres from bank to bank. We tended to follow the outside of bends, presumably to extract maximum assistance from the current, so I could usuallu get a decent view of one shore. I was surprised at the lack of birdlife. Where the water was shallow enough for water plants I had expected herons and the odd duck but the only bird I identified was a new species of vulture. I did better than that from the NASA shuttle (2 species of stork, a heron and a roseate spoonbill).

I had a long conversation with Maricel. I think I´ve spelled that correctly. He and his motor bike were going to Puerto Rosario. He was 61, had 4 children (not a lot) and lived in Concepcion. He generously shared his tereré with me. This is almost universally drunk in Paraguay but, so far as I know, in no other country. It is a herbal tea (mate) made from yerba with added spices. It is made with icy cold water and is very refreshing. In Argentina, I´m told, the population is equally devoted to the same herb in hot water. Anyway, I credit the tereré with not needing to drink so much water that day.

Maricel advised renting my hammock early. I wasn´t tired, but I hopped in to try it, of course. And woke up an hour later. Gosh, hammocks are comfortable. This beat buses hands down.

Not all the passengers were such good company. One old chap sat by himself. Every so often he would remove his dentures and flob all over the cabin floor. He only had to stand up and spit out of the window, for goodness´ sake.

We could, of course, wander round the boat, and my head still has several lumps to attest to the lack of headroom.

There were several stops en route. I´m blessed if I can tell how the captain could identify just which bit of mud was the disembarkation point. A young mother asked me to ferry her bag of possessions shore. She was carrying her baby, so how could chivalrous Bill refuse? But a crew member took the child and stepped ashore with the confidence of one who knows the wobble rythyms of the plank. So the mother walked across with only a handbag and Bill bounced along afterwards with the heavy sugar sack.

At one spot it was evidently too shallow to reach the bank. What I thought was a lifeboat was revealed as a lighter instead. The two passengers who needed to leave were rowed ashore while we chugged gently to maintain position against the current.

Night gently fell. From my first day in Paraguay I had seen evidence of many actual or recent fires. In cultivated areas they consume the tinder dry grass, and the trees generally seem to survive with a little scorching. After dark the number and extent of the fires became much more apparent. One was a true forest fire, with trees blazing fiercely. I saw no monsoon buckets or even whack-a-bunny fire beaters. I read subsequently in the newspaper that Paraguay has a major problem with forest fires at the moment. And there are some valiant fire-fighters; I just never saw them.

It´s because of the smoke and the dust that the sun seems so red every morning and evening. And the rainy season is still some weeks away.

Puerto Rosario came and Maricel departed with his motor bike. I settled into my hammock and slept. I woke a couple of times. I actually put my jacket on. It was cool and a breeze played happily through the windows.

The guide book told me to expect a 30 hour journey, but it´s quicker downstream. We docked in Asuncion after 21 hours at 4am. What a wretched time to arrive. There was no rush to disembark, but one guy set off with his sugar sacks on a barrow, so I followed him. There were a couple of men lounging in the port and one fell in beside us. He asked if I wanted a taxi, which indeed I did want. I thought it was odd that there were none waiting. In Concepcion the horse carts were out in force to greet the boat´s arrival.

He led the way down a street past the customs building. Always the taxis were further on. The blocks by the river are described as the place in Asuncion you shouldn´t go late at night. If you think I was uncomfortable about this you are right on the button. I was carrying both my packs and couldn´t run.

Then I recognised the street where my destination hotel was located. "I´ll walk to the hotel. It´s only two blocks." And I thanked my mysterious guide and set off with a purposeful step. Mind you, walking the dockland streets of an unknown city in the wee hours is not a pastime I recommend with or without a strange companion. It was more like 5 blocks in fact, but Hotel Embajador was there. It looked grotty but it´s in Lonely Planet so it must be OK. The entrance was a seedy flight of stairs with a locked gate half way up. "Hola." A voice answered cautiously. I enquired about a room. "No," replied the voice. Maybe they really didn´t have a room free. Maybe it´s just policy not to admit strangers at 4:45am.

I had passed a 3-star hotel on the way. This was no time to worry about cost. It was open and they did have a room. I was safely in Asuncion.

In the morning I hailed a taxi and transferred to LP´s #1 recommendation, Pension da Silva.

In the daylight I followed the route of a recommended walking tour. At one point it overlooked the river. Cacique II had not moved. If I had only asked, I´m sure I could have stayed safe and comfortable in my hammock until morning. Oh well.