Hiking Around Puerto Varas

Imagine Rotorua. The town is on a lovely lake. Would you call Rotorua a port? I wouldn´t, but in Chile it seems that any settlement by the water can be called Puerto something.

I did walk along the lakefront, but I mainly stayed in Puerto Varas and explored from there.

On Thursday I took a guided trip to Parque Nacional Alerces Andino. The organisation of the tour was a farce of non-communication and mismatched expectations. I was under the clear impression that I was to be picked up from the hostel at 9:00am and returned at 5:00pm. The minibus actually showed up at 9:30. Not because it had been going round hotels and hostels collecting other tourists, though. I was the only one. That explained the steep price tag at 40,000 pesos (US$80).

A rather fat woman collected the cash from me and the van set off with the driver, the lady with the cash and me. The route to the park went through Puerto Montt (a proper port on the sea), where we paused for diesel. 15,000 of the pesos went into the fuel tank and some more into a cubby hole in the dash board. There was then a protracted argument between Senora Fatty and the driver, Enrique, until the lady was delivered to her premises in Pto Montt.

Next, Enrique insisted that the tourists had to pay for the guide´s lunch. It wasn´t expensive, he bought rolls, ham and a bottle of mineral water at a small store, but it was quite unexpected. And when we got to the park I had to pay admission charges for both of us. It was only $2 per person, and admissions are customarily "not included", but previously the guide has been admitted free (or paid out of the trip price). These little extras were beginning to mount up.

Then, on our return, Enrique drove to Pto Montt and refused to go further without an extra 10,000 pesos. This was absurd, since the fare on the local buses is only 700 pesos. He explained that he had only been paid 30,000 pesos (half of which went on fuel), which was his normal fee for starting and finishing in Pto Montt. He was already out of pocket on the morning pickup and refused to do another round trip to Pto Varas gratis. I could see his point of view and, equally, Enrique could understand that I had been promised more than he was prepared to provide.

Eventually he dropped me at the Pto Montt bus terminal and I got one of the micros that leave every 5 minutes for Pto Varas for 700 pesos. At this stage I suspected that Senora Fatty had promised more than was reasonable to secure the booking and her massive 25% commission.

Back at the hostel I related as much of this as my Spanish would allow. Oh yes, was the reply. You paid the Pto Montt fare. From Pto Varas it is 50,000 pesos. And yes, he knew the pickup was at 9:30, not 9:00. Aaargh. If only someone had used some wits, I could have cought a micro to Pto Montt in the morning for 700 pesos and no-one would be feeling aggrieved.

However, Enrique was pushing the boundaries on the lunch. Tourists sometimes chip in for the guide´s lunch, but it is not obligatory.

Aside from all this drama, the visit to the park was delightful. Enrique knew the park well. Whilst the trails were easy to follow, they were ofetn steep and frequently treacherous. Much of the way we were walking on planks or half logs covered in moss or decayed leaves, making them very slippery. I skidded a few times, including one keystone cops routine when both feet slipped, I thrashed wildly and miraculously finished up still on my feet beside the track. Even the guide stumbled and once ended up hugging a tree to stay upright. Enrique related that many gringos get lost on the park when they go tramping by themselves. I´m not averse to a solo hike on easy trails, but on these paths that´s just stupidity.

For a nature guide, Enrique was unreliable about birds. When I asked him which bird we could hear singing he replied that it was a swallow (unlikely) or a thrush (definitely not). And he pointed to a group of birds flying across our field of view as woodpeckers. If those weren´t pigeons I´m a Dutchman. He retrieved some prestige when he motioned me to be quiet and a chucao was ahead of us on the trail. This is a small brown bird with a red chest, not entirely unlike a european robin. It regarded us with a bright eye and hopped down the path to get a better look before disappearing into the undergrowth. He also told me that there were hummingbirds in the forest, which I later confirmed through my binoculars.

But we had really come to see trees and here Enrique seemed to know his stuff. The park is named for Chile´s tallest tree, the alerce. Like NZ´s kauri, it provides wonderful timber. There are houses with alerce shingles over 100 years old and still in excellent condition. Again like the kauri, it was logged aggressively until finally receiving state protection. Unlike the kauri it grows extremely slowly and is not regenerating well.

Fitzroya cupressoides is a relative of the giant sequoia, with similar soft bark and distinctly reddish timber. It grows very straight and rather skinny. Enrique led the way to a very nice stand of these trees and I took lots of photos from various angles.

My guide seemd to know most of the other trees almost as well. He had a great enthusiasm for taking my picture when we reached points of interest. It´s a shame it wasn´t matched by skill in composing a photo. Never mind, when I get back to NZ I can crop them to just the important bits.

On the return journey he demonstrated the edibility of a plant something like a hairy rhubarb. Peeling away the outer layer reveals a stem less crunchy and more refreshing than celery. I´m sure we shouldn´t have eaten one growing in a national park, but it is a herb that grows abundantly in the region.

I was also surprised that the park ranger had a cat, a young and lively animal that smooched readily when stroked. I´m sure thay are forbidden from NZ´s protected areas.

Friday was organised quite differently. I took a local bus to Petrohue. It dropped me at Los Saltos de Petrohue, i.e. the local waterfalls. They were very watchable waterfalls, with the river splitting into many channels that funneled back into two main falls, with many chutes in the arrangement, lots of white water and plenty of noise. Bridges and fenced paths allow good views of most of the turbulent water and encourage the visitor to take large numbers of photographs. I really wanted to get a picture of the whole network, but that would require a helicopter. There isn´t even a postcard.

There are some other tracks through very picturesque bush. They are safe and easy to follow, so I wandered happily for a couple of hours. Since I was in roughly the same latitude as NZ´s South Island and there is plenty of rain from the prevailing westerlies, the Chilean temperate rainforest is very similar to ours. The Chileans don´t have tree ferns, though. I described them to Enrique on the Thursday and he had never come across a fern with a trunk.

After the waterfalls I had a 6 km hike to downtown Petrohue, which comprises a hotel, a general store, a souvenir stall and a dock where fleets of boats take tourists out on the lake. It is part of a very scenic route into Argentina. You are eventually delivered into Bariloche, where I was about a month ago.

The lake shore here is black sand, no doubt due to the past activity of Osorno Volcano, which dominates one part of the skyline. The morning ten tenths cloud had departed by the time I got to the lake so I was treated to the rare and beautiful sight of the whole of Osorno. It is a perfect volcanic cone, like Mt Fuji or Mt Ngaruhoe, two thirds clothed in dazzlingly white snow. Gorgeous.

There were campsites and plenty of paths through the bush where I ambled, binoculars at the ready. No new species, but I had excellent sightings of several birds, including the tufted tit-tyrant. Truly, I did not make that name up. It is very common, but it is small and active and I generally found it hard to get in focus. When you do see it clearly it has two thin, forward-curling crests.

The bush thins very quickly as you climb up from the lake. Whether this is due to sudden exposure to colder temperatures, fiercer winds or some property of the volcano I cannot guess.

And so back to Pto Varas to download my camera´s memory card for security purposes. I like to have a spare in case of some disaster with the camera. There was just enough time to check email and have a meal before shouldering my big pack and boarding the overnight bus for Valparaiso.

Which is where I am now. I fly to Easter Island tomorrow. Maybe I will have a chance to post from there, maybe not. Keep checking for new posts and keep leaving comments! :-)

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.

Iguacu Falls - Argentine side.

The Iguacu Falls are just one part of a substantial national park that extends across the border to incorporate land in both Argentina and Brazil. It is protecting Atlantic rain forest, which harbours a prodigious diversity of life. Visiting the Falls is not just about one of the world´s most spectacular arrays of cascades, it is an excursion into luxurious forest with plants, insects and vertebrate animals to delight any nature lover.

In fact, I´m going to start off with what I think is my all time best bird photograph, rather than a view of the falling water. This is a plush-crested jay. Even with the maximum magnification that my little camera can manage I had to get pretty close to capture this shot. The blue feathers are, if anything, even more vivid when you meet the real bird than they are in this photograph.

There is a Sheraton Hotel right in the park, but the plebs are accommodated well away from the protected area in Puerto Iguacu. Hostel Iguacu Falls is handy to the bus station and the day I arrived it put on a barbecue. There was more meat than we could eat and somehow my bottle of red wine was empty by the time I turned in rather late. Unsurprisingly, I was not up terribly early the next morning.

Buses leave for the park every half hour. I just missed one, so it was after 10 o´clock when I finally handed over my 40 pesos (Argentina uses the $ symbol to denote pesos. I find this most confusing) and started my tour.

Butterflies were everywhere. The only place I have seen more lepidoptera is by the creek in the jungle near Puerto Maldonado. And these were nearly all large, colourful butterflies. They bounced and fluttered through the air, alighted for a moment on a flower and then danced away.

Because of this reluctance to stay still they were virtually impossible to photograph. This half-in-shadow portrait is the best I could get.

There were plenty of birds, too, from the sombrely dressed thrushes to the blue suited swallow tanager (tick).

A visit to the Falls is not for the unfit. Although there is a little train to help you, the important parts of the park are accessible only to pedestrians. Not all the paths will accommodate wheelchairs. Following the recommended route, I walked along the Green Trail. At one point there is a sign warning of dangerous animals. It is just possible that you might meet a jaguar in the early morning, but I suspect the sign is intended more to scare the public into staying on the footpaths.

I was going to scorn the little train, especially when I saw the length of the queue, but I was amazed when the train took all the waiting sightseers in one go, so I finished my very late breakfast and caught the next one.

At the end of the tracks the groups surged off along the walkways behind their guides. They take the visitor over long, thin bridges built from island to island across the river above the falls. On some of the islands there are benches and a family pausing for a snack had attracted the attention of a group of plush-crested jays (tick). There were at least a dozen birds clustering in the branches and on the handrails looking for crumbs, scraps or a handout.

Eventually I dragged myself away from the jays and finished the walk to the Garganta del Diablo or Devil´s Throat. Here the spectator is at the lip of the biggest single waterfall. Professional photographers with stepladders were busy shepherding groups into position and shooing away independent sightseers who might spoil the picture. Eventually they completed their work and the rest of us were able to get near the mass of water pouring over the lip.

Strangers enthusiastically swapped cameras and took photos of the camera owner with the waterfall in the background. As you can see, I should have adjusted the exposure setting before handing over my camera. That´s me in front of the cascade, honest.

Although impressive, this cataract is not as big as the Horseshoe Falls at Niagara. Those who know Niagara will now that there are essentially two falls, each with a single drop. At Iguacu there are dozens of separate falls which, for the most part, reach the bottom in two stages.

Looking along the top of the Falls from the Devil´s Throat lookout.

As you can see, the river reaches the lip along a series of channels









A slightly better photo. I took this one myself using my left hand and cunningly managed to omit the tell-tale left arm and include the waterfalls in the background.

The Falls are famous amongst birders for the swifts that hunt for flying insects in the spray and then dart behind the cascades to roost and even build their nests. I could see them clearly from the lip of the Devil´s Throat, hawking through the mist below me.

Eventually I remembered that there was much more to explore and set off back along the walkway. I saw fish in the river, sheltering in an eddy to avoid taking a one-way trip downstream over the falls. The jays were not the only birds. I watched cormorants and a large heron fishing confidently.

The river above the cataracts is peppered with islands that separate the stream into many channels.

At the end of the walkway was an optional extra - a trip in a rubber boat through the islands above the Falls. There would be, I was promised, lots of wildlife to enjoy.

Our skipper at the oars. If he dropped them there was no emergency propulsion that I could see. But of course they were secure in the rowlocks.

There was a delay while money changed hands and further passengers were recruited, and them we were off. The current was much more modest than I expected after watching the waters rushing over the lip of the Falls, and the oars were applied to get us moving downstream.
A cormorant on a dead branch drew oohs from the other passengers. Had they been walking around with their eyes closed? It cunningly allowed us to get close enough that even I got my camera out and then dived mockingly into the water.

We were taken to within about 100m of the drop. Ahead of us, perched evenly on a line of rocks with almost mathematical exactness, a platoon of cormorants waited for lunch barely 30m from the falls.

Our course was diverted down a side channel. It was very picturesque, but the promised wildlife stayed away. The skipper was moved to apologise for the inconsiderate absence of anything interesting to watch.

A kingfisher did flash its colours at us as it raced to some urgent appointment elsewhere and then, when we were amost tying up at the little wharf that marked journey´s end, the skipper said, "Look, toucans!" OK, he said it in Spanish, but everyone understood. For several agonising seconds I was certain that I was the only one on board who could not see the toucans, but then one of them flapped to the next branch and two birds came into focus.

I particularly wanted to see toco toucans on this trip because they are spectacular birds and because I remember the Guinness advertisements of my childhood that featured toucans. I can report that in reality the beak is even more colourful than the Guinness artists rendered it. HUGE TICK.

The moustachioed skipper backwatered until both birds had flown away and then our waterborne adventure was over.

The next portion of the park I headed for was the "Lower Trail", but not before a bite of lunch. A large bite for preference, since I had missed breakfast. I had just got my molars around the end of a french bread sandwich when I saw some friends. Jane Tait and Sally Nutbeem are stalwarts of the Wessex Witches, one of the Golden Oldies hockey teams. Calling out was not a practical option with my mouth full of sandwich so I rushed out of the cafe and mutely hugged them both in greeting.

It was not terribly startling to find other Golden Oldies at the Falls. Most of the players would have taken the chance to see a bit of Argentina and Iguacu Falls 3 days before the festival began probably appeared on several itineraries.

Once Jane and Sally had got over the shock we sat down and caught up on each other´s news while other Witches came into the cafe for an ice cream.

The lower trail, as its name suggests, gives a different perspective on the falls. And it allows the visitor to see cascades that are not visible from the Devil´s Throat platforms.

A particularly sheer fall named after an Italian, whose name began with B. It´s on the tip of my tongue.

It also gives access to the boat across to Isla San Martin, which is included in the admission fee, and the boats that take thrill-seekers to the base of the falls, which is quite a lot extra.

The lower trail is very shaded, and thus ideal conditions for impatiens sp., more commonly known as "busy lizzie". This bush must have covered at least a square metre of ground.

I followed the trail, stopping often to take yet more photographs, until I arrived at the boarding point for the Isla San Martin boat. Naturally, it was on the island side of the channel.

Patience was rewarded by the boat returning and refusing to let me board. I had just missed the last sailing. Curses and naughty words!

I associate lizards with sunny, warm habitats, but there was a large population of these jokers dodging in and out of the rocks.

However, there was more of the Lower Trail and all of the Upper Trail yet to explore.

There are so many cascades that it is difficult to maintain the enthusiasm. I confess that I was getting to the stage where the waterfalls were almost ho-hum. Luckily there was more wildlife to distract me.

A toucan was perched high on a bare branch. They are such colourful birds that it was still a joy to observe this one sitting there and occasionally opening its beak. I passed my binoculars around for the benefit of those not so thoughtfully prepared for toucan-watching.

Excitement amongst a group of schoolchildren proved to be due to the appearance of a group of capuchin monkeys.

Signs around the park warn against feeding the animals, and they must work becasue no-one was offering tidbits and, even more surprisingly, the monkeys were not begging for handouts.

They were assiduously working through a group of trees for fruits and any yummy leaves. I had a good view of one that had a taste for the growing point of a palm tree. He or she demonstrated a well-practiced technique for pushing apart the central leaves so that the delectable centre could be bitten off.

OK, one last picture of falling water before leaving the park.

Time was indeed running out so I joined the crowd making its way to the exit.

Around the open space, where the souvenir craft stalls offer carvings of toucans in a variety of bright but imaginary colours, the grass is mown short. This highly modified habitat is favoured by the wild guinea pigs. Unlike the popular pets, these are all the same, dark brown colour. They are also noticeably smaller than the domesticated animals.

There were still things to see. I thought these flowers deserved to be recorded.

Visitors to the park are informed that they should get their tickets stamped and thus qualify for half-price admission the following day. I had missed one wildlife trail and the island so it made sense to get the stamp. If I chose not to return nothing would be lost, but if I came back I would be 20 pesos better off.

The buses follow a rigid half-hourly schedule. No extra buses are put on for the closing time rush. And the bus came later than the scheduled time, so I had to wait more than 20 minutes despite timing my appearance at the bus stop well.

Optimistically I showed the driver my ticket from the morning. But no, it was not a return ticket. By charging 4 pesos each way the monopolist bus company must be making a killing. That´s expensive bus travel, even in Argentina.

Dinner that evening was with Jane and Sally. The other Wessex Witches timidly stayed in their hotel´s restaurant, whereas we marched boldly down the road and selected a restaurant 50m away. This meal also featured quantities of Argentinian wine and once again I slept well and late.

Day 2 started off with thunderstorms and heavy rain. Luckily the rain eased a bit as I sipped my breakfast coffee, so I donned my red waterproof and steeled myself to pay another 4 pesos each way on the bus.

By the time I arrived at the park the weather had moderated to showers. I gratefully claimed my discounted admission and went in. The guinea pigs were out on the short grass again, as was this very large iguana.

To complete my visit I wanted to walk the Sendero Macuco, a nature trail, and visit Isla Grande San Martin.

Unfortunately, I chose the same moment to arrive at the trail head as a school party of 40 teenagers. I don´t know about you, but I would not rate 40 teenagers as my companions of choice when out to enjoy the wildlife. So I pretended to study my field guide as they filed onto the trail with one of the teachers explaining sternly that absolute silence was required. Optimist.

Since I turned my binoculars on anything that rustled in the leaves the school party was soon well ahead and could be forgotten. As is so often the case, the heard-but-not-seen bird was much the most common.

Despite my slow progress I actually caught up with a group. This appeared to be a guided birdwatching party. They all had good binoculars and the leader had what looked like a huge, fur-covered microphone. My theory is that it was a device sensitive to the direction of sound and thus able to point precisely at a hidden, singing bird.

However, they did not need technology to see the group of toucans uttering their harsh calls in a dead tree. There were three of them. I suspect two swains were croaking their desire to the same maid.

Shortly after I left the toucans I caught up with the birders again. The leader was saying, "That´s another olivaceous woodcreeper." I followed the line of his binoculars and a dark bird flew away. It was the right size for a woodcreeper, but it could have been almost anything from the glimpse I got. Can I tick olivaceous woodcreeper? I decided that, in all conscience, I could not.

The rain became heavier and more frequent. Seeing details of the birds got harder in the gloom but I squelched on. There´s a waterfall along the trail. As though I needed to see another waterfall. In fact I almost fell over it. The path took me to the top of the fall, where a stream quietly made its way to the edge of a rock and then dropped away.

At the base of the waterfall was a nice pool and around it were 40 teenagers in wet swimsuits. On a sunny day it would have been a lovely spot for a swim and a picnic.

The path continued down and the rain got harder. Near the bottom I met the school party, now in anoraks, on its way back. Despite the rain they were chattering cheerfully. The rain got harder still and I was grateful for a big overhang where 4 other damp trampers were already sheltering. This, I thought, is as far as I go.

When the skies dried up a little I broke my vow just to go on 10 metres and look at the waterfall from the bottom. And then I really did start back. The climb to the top of the fall was certainly nuddy, but it was not as slippery and difficult as I expected.

Back along the trail who did I meet but Jane and Sally once again. They weren´t pursuing me (I should be so lucky) but had the same idea that there could be interesting things to see along the path. And once again the other Witches were following on behind.

There were still bird calls sounding, but it seemed that I wasn´t going to see anything without a furry microphone to help me until I heard a call behind me and turned. After a couple of seconds a bird flew over the trail and perched on a branch above the path. It was facing the other way, but the metallic green back was enough to tell me it was a trogon. Non-birders will not understand the excitement of this. Quetzals are possibly the most dazzling birds of all, and trogons are related to, and something like, a small quetzal.

I almost stopped breathing in my determination to be silent and move to where I could see what kind of trogon it was. It was absorbed in delivering a 4-note song, waiting and singing again. I saw the essential colours even before I saw the bird front on, but eventually I got right in front of a black-throated trogon. The male I could see had a glossy green head, upper breast and back, black face and throat, and golden yellow belly. To see pictures, click here. MEGATICK.

I´m not sure what the few other tourists thought of the tall man staring raptly at a bird. I offered them my binoculars anyway, so that they could see the glowing colours properly. I think I floated back to the main part of the park.

I marched straight to the Lower Trail and the boat to Isla Grande San Martin. Despite its name it´s not a very large island. Once you get to the top of the cliff the paths to the lookout points are not long. Climbing the cliff, despite the steps to help, was hard work. The rock is steep and high.

The first lookout gave a great view of the Devil´s Throat from out in front and lower down. It also allowed a panorama of other cascades and the river below the falls on the Argentine side.

On my way to the upriver end of the island I spotted a black vulture in a tree. I had been aware that there were always a few in the sky above the park, but this was a close-up view.

And then there were two more, and then more. At the end of the path you could hardly see the waterfalls for black vultures perched on rocks and in trees in every direction. There must have been well over a hundred in sight. What did they all feed on? Tourists who miss the last boat back?

Well that wasn´t going to be on this particular day. Back across the island I marched and carefully descended the cliff path to the little beach where the boat delivered and collected.

For those who came prepared the beachette was a popular swimming spot. But I had neither towel nor time for a bathe.

I had booked an "ecological tour" for 4 o´clock. I had to wait for the ferry, cross the river and climb back up the Lower Trail to get to the departure point.

These guys were organised. Everyone wore a safari-suit type uniform. One jeep was for Spanish-speakers and one for those who preferred a commentary in English. Interestingly, the commentary for both vehicles was given by the same individual. Roberto gave us his spiel in English as he drove. Then he stopped at a place that nicely illustrated what he had been talking about. The other jeep pulled up behind us and Roberto walked back and delivered the story all over again but in Spanish.

At an information stop.

The material included little I didn´t know already about forest ecology. I think all of it could be found in NZ. However, it was interesting to learn that they have the same problems with introduced animals and plants.

At least we had a dry tour. The showers had finally stopped. But there was still a lot of cloud and the light was not good. The pictures I took along the trail were consequently rather dark.

This photo of new growth isn´t too bad.

I thought to ask the guide what the vultures fed on. He started by giving me a lecture on the general habits of vultures. "No, what do the vultures in this park feed on?" "Some scientists did a census once. There are a thousand in the park." "And what do these 1,000 birds feed on?" "There are a lot of road kills." And that´s the best I could get. I´m not sure that incautious raccoons are a sufficient and reliable diet but I have no other theory to offer.

This picture of a moth discovered under a leaf came out really well. This amazing insect had a wingspan of fully 15cm (6 inches) and obligingly stayed put despite the whole group from both jeeps poking their cameras up close to get a photo. Yes, it was alive because it turned around at one stage. How dare you suggest that it was a set-up.

You can tell it is a moth rather than a butterfly by the shape of the antennae.

On the drive back, our guide proudly showed off his only example of - a tree fern.

Peninsula Valdez

This won´t be a long post, but I just have to write something about today´s fantastic trip.

I chose an early start tour to be sure that I would have maximum time amongst the wildlife. There are several possible routes, but most of them start with a dash from Puerto Madryn to Puerto Piramides for the whale watching.

You don´t actually need a boat. You can see the whales quite well from the shore. Even in Puerto Madryn you can see them cruising up and down off the beach, just a few hundred metres from the shore. At first glance they look like rocks awash, but rocks seldom move across the bay. There is no question, though, that admiring them is so much better from a boat.

Southern right whales congregate in the area to give birth to their 4,000 kg calves and to get the next generation started. They were called right whales by the early whalers because they were the right whale to hunt. They swim slowly and they float when they are dead, making them easy to catch.

Before we got near the whales the boat rules were explained. If the whale is to the right, all the people on the right stay seated and those to the left may stand. And vice versa. Seemed simple and sensible enough.

Only one tourist boat per whale is the limit, so we had to go out a ways to find an unattended whale. In fact it was a mother and her 2-month old calf. Everyone in the boat immediately stood up to get a better view. At least I was on the side permitted to do so. Mostly the whales just dipped below the surface, letting out noisy exhalations from time to time. But the mother did dive now and then, giving the classic tail wave as she did so.

The small, modest-priced digital camera I have with me is usually OK, but it´s not very prompt to reply to the shutter button. I now have lots of snaps of whales just disappearing below the surface.

After one dive the mother surfaced well away from our boat and we were treated to two ´jumps´. Fantastic.

Finally our skipper gave them a rest and moved over to another awash rock. This turned out to be three whales, one of which seemed to be a calf. One of these animals seemed to stand on its head. Certainly it waved its tail in the air many times for us. And another rolled on its side and cruised around playfully slapping the surface of the sea. I think that we witnessed just about the full set of surface behaviours, and all in brilliant sunshine with hardly any wind and a calm sea. Perfect.

Along the road we saw guanacos, the one member of the llama family that lives away from the mountains, and rheas (tick), which look very similar to their Australian relative, the emu. There were also lots of maras. These are a large rodent that burrows in the dry soil.

The next stop was to admire a colony of elephant seals. To simulate the excitement of an elephant seal family get some water ballooons: 10 or a dozen huge size in black or grey to represent pups, 12 to 14 enormous ones in brown and grey for the females and one humungous brown balloon for the bull. Two-thirds fill them with water. Place the humungous balloon on the beach any which way near the water. Place the others in a bunch all oriented up and down the beach. It doesn´t matter whether it is head or tail towards the water. Sit and watch.

I exaggerate of course, but there was not much action. The males displayed evidence of recent battles and an occasional flipper scooped some beach gravel over the sunbather´s body. Three were actually in the water. A couple of the pups bleated loudly. Their fond mothers were either at sea or too deeply asleep to respond.

There were birds around, including giant petrels (tick), a kind of chocolate-coloured albatross. But the most striking bird was in the scrub at the top of the cliff. The cock long-tailed meadowlark has red all down his chin and front and bold white stripes on his head. The scarlet marking is irregular, as though he´s been hit with cartoon tomatoes. HUGE TICK. The female was much less gaudy.

A little way North there is a small colony of magellanic penguins. You can get so close you could almost pat them. But I won´t get too excited about them because tomorrow I am off to Punta Tombo where there is a colony of 400,000 penguins.

The Chaco - Illustrated

If much of this post seems familiar it is because it is taken verbatim from my earlier post, "Back from the Chaco". However, this post does have additions and, more importantly, pictures.

I was in the Parque Nacional Defensores del Chaco towards the end of the dry season so everything was very dry, extremely dusty and decidedly warm.

My guide was Joni (pronounced Johnny) Arnold, who insists his parents were from Germany, despite his English surname. He grew up in a Mennonite community in Eastern Paraguay, and so found it easy to fit in with the Mennonites in Filadelfia. However, he speaks Spanish in preference to German, which is not the norm in Filadelfia. It is very odd to see bilingual signs in the supermarket, with German being the more prominent. Some of the comments below are dependent on my understanding of Joni`s words, which was imperfect. I apologise if any errors have crept in.

Those who worked with me will agree that I am not the best organised person on the planet, but I am way ahead of Joni.

At least he took vehicle preparation seriously. He just wasn´t very good at it. We had two spare tyres and plenty of extra diesel. We also had 20 litres of drinking water, which turned out to be barely enough.

Within an hour we had a flat tyre. OK, that´s bad luck. It can happen to anyone. Joni told me several times that it was 18 months since he last had a flat. But it must have been a rear tyre because the jack wasn´t big enough to lift the front axle so that the wheel was clear of the ground.

I was going to suggest that we lift the jack up on a rock when I realised that there were no rocks. The Chaco is an ancient sea bed and the ground is innocent of stones.

However, we were not far from town and it was hardly any time before a farmer came along. He and Joni chattered away in German while a he-man size hydraulic jack was produced and deployed. The farmer seemed quite pleased that his quite recent investment in this technology was being used. Maybe his wife had disapproved of the purchase.

We drove North to the most remote park in Paraguay. Coming the other way was a wind that was hotter and stronger than any Canterbury Norwester I have experienced. It whipped up the dust to the extent that, on occasion, we couldn`t see to drive.

And when a truck went past it was as though the daylight had been turned off for a couple of moments.

Apart from the ground doves examining the road for goodness knows what sustenance, birds were uncommon. The most obvious were the vultures and caracaras riding the thermals.

The vegetation of the Chaco is dominated by these huge cactus ´trees´.

At least one driver had much worse than a puncture to deal with that day.

Joni examining the wreckage. The driver is on the far right.

This truck had left the road and half-buried itself in the dust. Lots of bits, including the chassis, were bent but miraculously no-one seemed to have been injured. About a dozen men, whom I supposed were passengers, were philosophically lying in the shade waiting for a rescue. Two days later, when we drove back, everything had been cleared away.

Proof that I made it to the remotest park in Paraguay.

At the Park HQ we stopped for lunch. Having eaten I stalked a parakeet and then wandered over to the artifical lake, like the ones all the farmers create for their stock to drink at.

And perched on a twig was the most gorgeous small bird I have ever seen. It had a scarlet head, neck, breast and tummy that gleamed as if it were new that morning. A black stripe extended from the beak to the eyes, like a tiny Lone Ranger mask. This superhero outfit was moderated by tasteful, dark greeny wings. It was a vermillion flycatcher. In Bill Oddie`s Little Black Bird Book he quotes a vulgar birder expression for a really wonderful new bird. I will settle for MEGATICK.

Spring stirring in a Chaco cactus.

There is only one road in the park, to the one campsite, which was infested with other nature lovers, a band of German Jehova`s Witnesses taking a break from pestering the pacifist and rather solemn Mennonites of Filadelfia and Loma Plata. They actually produced copies of Watchtower in English and offered them to me.

However, offer made and declined, they proved to be pleasant and two or three managed simple conversations in English.

For the evening we drove on to the end of the road, a picnic spot at the base of Cerro Leon, the Park`s only hill. One of the drawbacks of driving through the Chaco is that you can`t see much beyond what is at the edge of the road. Most of Paraguay is an old sea bed and very, very flat.

An unidentified plant putting out new leaves in anticipation of the rains, probably still 4-6 weeks away.

There is a track up the hill, which we climbed to enjoy views of the Chaco under a haze. I guess it`s due to the dust. In the rainy season everything is washed clean, the trees sprout new leaves and the impression is quite different.

There is a cabin at the campsite, with beds and mattresses. The generator was not working so we had no light and the fridge was useless. Isn`t it lucky that I carry a torch with spare batteries, eh Joni?

There`s no shortage of dead wood around so cooking over an open fire was easy. Sleeping indoors was a hot option. There were just two mattresses left, so we dragged them outside and slept under the stars. The JWs had elegant mosquito nets. Joni didn`t bother with such refinements. We slept unprotected and, since it was so dry, were not bothered by mossies. However, there was fly with a whine that sounded very like a mossie. I`d have preferred a net. The haze meant that only the brightest stars were visible, but I did see bats chasing moths in the light of the fire`s embers.

The palo boracho (drunken tree) is found only in the Chaco. It is not a cactus but it has nonetheless developed a system for storing water during the wet season to tide it over during the dry months. The reservoir is in the trunk, often generating a distinctive bottle-shaped bulge. It is frequently planted around estancias in the Chaco. Other examples were already putting out new growth and I happily watched a turquoise-fronted parrot munching palo boracho shoots.

Another similarity with a cactus is the growth of offensive weapons. The palo boracho´s spikes are not as needle like as a cactus, but they are hard and sharp.

The fruits stay on the tree until the following spring when they burst to reveal small seeds packed in something very like cotton wool. The wool helps to disperse the seeds.

Day 2 was spent entirely in the Park. We farewelled the JWs early and went to explore other trails.

Joni on Day 1, when he wasn´t feeling ill.

Only there aren`t many. There is a another one that goes half way up the hill to a lookout, and one that meanders around on the flat. I walked along this one by myself because Joni was unwell. In fact, he spent most of the day dozing in the ute.

It was interesting, rather than spectacular, walking through the Chaco. Most of the trees were dormant, but I did find new growth and even flowers to photograph. Birds were not numerous, but the variety of species was remarkable. I seldom saw a species twice. Except the vultures.

This nest appeared to be unoccupied, but since I reckoned it was built by wasps or hornets I didn´t knock on the door. I showed it to Joni the next day. He helpfully described it as built by "insects". However, he did tell me that the dark ´sock´ to the left was an old hummingbird´s nest.

After about 50 minutes the trail became rocky and indistinct. Without a guide I had turn back. We returned to the camp for lunch, which was enlivened by the arrival of a family group of blue and yellow tanagers.

We both had a siesta.

The vultures would fly over every so often. I imagined them checking, "Drat, the humans still have water. Look again in 4 hours."

With nowhere new to explore I set off again on the flat track. Sure enough, I saw new species of birds, two types of parrot. On my way back I saw an animal. They generally vanish in the dry season, but this one was poking a white head out of a fallen tree trunk. I stopped and watched through my binoculars as it sniffed and growled. I`m pretty sure I was seen and smelled. But I stayed still and finally, after a number of false starts the white head was followed by a long, brown body and a long, brown tail. It trotted rapidly along its home `roof` directly away from me and vanished into the undergrowth.

Home to the white headed animal.

When he woke up, Joni was a disappointment. He could not recognise the beast from my description, although I`m sure there are not many white headed mammals in the Chaco. The Filadelfia museum finally solved the mystery. It was a tayra, a kind of giant (5kg) stoat.

Somehow the cooking/washing water supply was exhausted. It started out as a huge plastic drum, brim full. What had Joni been doing?

Not a big deal, though, because the campsite has an underground reservoir of rain water captured during the wet season. Joni retied the bucket to the line and dropped it into the reservoir. Heave. And the line came up without the bucket. We never saw the bucket again. I guess it sank.

There was one more vessel, a plastic container with water to flush the toilet. This time I tied it with a proper bowline and was able to draw plenty of water to store in our big drum.

A Chaco flower.

On the final morning Joni was much better. I showed him where the tayra slept and the path was alive with new and exciting birds, only about half of which I could identify from the field guide. One I did identify was the tiniest woodpecker you can imagine. It was smaller than a sparrow.

We set off back towards Park HQ. While Joni signed us out I looked for the vermillion flycatcher again. No luck, but I did see red crested cardinals. These are birds that are dressed in professional grey and white as if they were off to an important business meeting, to which they have added a scarlet jester`s hood. I also saw my first scythebill.

It`s amazing how, once you first identify a bird, they can suddenly be everywhere. We saw many more cardinals as we drove back to Filadelfia. We did finish off the water, but the vultures were disappointed. We lasted back to the town with fantasies of cold beers playing in our heads. And the hotel had a swimming pool. That dip was worth 3 beers!

Joni, having made a small fortune from the trip, invited me to an asado (barbecue) at his house for the evening. He cooked enough meat for about twelve, although it was only he, his wife and me. And there was cold beer.

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.